The Cross and The Sickle

by R. D. Zimmerman

  “Aunt Elizaveta?” she called. “I'm here. It's me. Olga.”

  Olga surveyed the house. Most such private dwellings in the city had been destroyed, replaced with featureless high rises. This house and a few others nearby had survived because of their precarious hillside location.

  “Aunt Elizaveta?” Worried, Olga rapped harder.

  “Yoo-hoo!” cried a voice that, like the house, betrayed its age. “Over here!”

  Walking on two boards laid on the damp earth, Olga went around the side. The house, built right into the hillside, had neither an indoor toilet nor running water, and her aunt stood in the mud next to a decrepit pump.

  “Why, Olga.” Elizaveta let the last of the water dribble into the second bucket and embraced her niece. “My darling, is everything all right?”

  “Of course,” said Olga defensively. “But you shouldn't be doing this—getting two full buckets of water. It's too strenuous. You'll hurt yourself.”

  Elizaveta was undaunted. “It's my exercise.”

  “Can we talk?” Olga stepped through the mud, splattering dirt on her dress, and picked up the buckets. “I have news.”

  Elizaveta's face became a mass of tight tiny wrinkles. “News? I hope nothing happened because of the other night. I still don't know why you had to leave like that… so fast and all. Have you spoken with Bishop Tikhon? Everything will be all right, won't it?”

  Olga struggled to conceal her misgivings. “Yes… everything will be fine.” Mayakovsky's final instructions were to have Elizaveta meet Nick. Bowing her head, she said, “Let's go in. I'll explain everything.”

  They trod silently back to the front of the house. Inside, Olga set the pails of water near the tin sink. Elizaveta took off her dirty shoes and put on her tapochki—slippers. Olga's pair was by the door, as always, ready for any hoped-for visit.

  “Here are your tapochki, Olga,” said Elizaveta, handing the felt slippers to her. “Will you have some cabbage soup and black bread?”

  “No.”

  “Some tea? I'm going to have some.”

  “Thank you, no.” Her blond hair hanging down as she leaned on the counter, Olga took off her shoes. She hated what she had to do and hated herself for doing it. She just wanted it to be over.

  Elizaveta went ahead and lit the kerosene burner for tea. “That poor young man.” She shook her head, clicking her tongue. “He was so confused. I wanted to explain, to tell him everything. I wanted to…”

  “Did you?” Olga looked up sharply. “Tell him anything, I mean?”

  Elizaveta shook her head and her double chin wiggled. “My dear Olga. Trust me, believe me, I didn't. I only told him not to worry and that you'd come to him.” Grinning, hers was a face, softened by time, of love, and compassion. “He seems a nice boy, though. I wish I could get to know him, talk with him. I wonder what the rest of the world is like without communism, if young people in the West believe in God. But I suppose, as you said, it's best not to meet him.”

  Her back to her aunt, Olga gripped the counter and closed her eyes. This was her chance. “Actually, he… he wants…”

  Elizaveta came over, stood on her toes and kissed Olga's neck. “Wants what, dear?”

  Olga pulled away. “Nothing.” She couldn't do it.

  She went to the large window, its thick, old glass deformed by bubbles and curves and ripples. As a child she had spent hours looking out this window trying both to remember and to forget. Down the hill and to the right, Olga could see the very edge of the nunnery.

  “Your father,” began Olga, “was my great-grandfather. My grandfather was your older brother. My mother… your niece.” She rested her hands on the window ledge, which was so worn and bleached from the sun that it resembled driftwood.

  Elizaveta sat at the table, the focal point of the room. “Yes…” She became lost in remembrance of those now dead.

  “After you took me in and I came to live here, I used to touch the house like this. Look.” Olga sensually ran the palms of her open hands in opposite directions along the window sill and, spreading her arms, up each side of the frame. Her hands rejoined at the latch in the middle. “I used to touch the house and the furniture like this and…”

  “For hours on end,” said Elizaveta, nodding her head. “I know. I watched.”

  “Really?” Olga raised her brow in surprise. Had her pain been that obvious? “I'd think of my greatgrandfather, my grandfather, and my mother. I imagined them touching these things in the same places I did and sometimes I even felt them touching back… touching me.”

  Starry-eyed, Elizaveta said, “I can remember your mother standing right where you are. My brother would bring his little girl—your mother…oh, she was so cute!—for a visit and she would throw open those windows and breath in the fresh air and say, ‘Oh, Aunt Elizaveta, isn't it a gorgeous day!”

  The imagery was too strong. “Mama…” said Olga, her head falling against the glass. She couldn't cry, not now, not again. She turned and took several steps forward. “Aunt Elizaveta?”

  “Yes, dear. What is it?”

  “Have I…” Olga put her hand to her mouth and caught her breath. “Have I ever thanked you?”

  The old woman was confused. “What on earth for?”

  She closed her eyes and lowered her head. “For… everything.”

  “My little Olga.” Seated, Elizaveta reached out with open arms. “My darling one, come here.”

  At first hesitant but then glad, Olga came forward. Troubled, she lowered herself to her knees and let her head fall on her aunt's lap. “Aunt Elizaveta, I…”

  “Shhh.” She held her niece's head in one hand and patted her on the back with the other. “Shhh.” She just wanted to ease the young woman's pain.

  “I… I…” began Olga. How could she go through with it all? “Sometimes I feel so…so tortured.”

  “Shhh.” Elizaveta shook her head. “When you get to the other end, you realize that life is too short to trouble yourself so.”

  Olga's eyes filled with tears. She constricted her face into an ugly, tight mass in an attempt to restrain herself. What was happening to her? But she couldn't hold back, she couldn't suck the tears back in. She let loose and sobbed. She let herself drift away.

  “Hmmm… hmmm… ahhh… ahhh… ohhh.” Completely unself-conscious, Elizaveta hummed loudly as she rocked back and forth.

  “I…” Olga's voice was strained and filled with emotion.

  “Hush, my dear. Just let go and relax.”

  Whenever she had had a problem, Elizaveta had always held her like this, rocking and humming quite out of pitch. And again now it was cathartic to let go, to let the tension flow out. To regress.

  “I love you, Aunt Elizaveta.” Olga wrapped her arms around her aunt's legs and hugged her.

  “Oh, not so hard!” said Elizaveta, laughing and sitting forward. “That tickles!”

  “Sorry.” Olga smiled and wiped her eyes.

  Elizaveta took Olga by the shoulders and held her at arm's length. Looking down at her, she was direct and firm. Without fear Elizaveta accepted as natural that any day could be her last. Olga, however, had many more, and she wanted her niece not to have any doubt, any question. She wanted to be absolutely sure that Olga understood.

  Quite lucidly, Elizaveta said, “I love you. I love you, too. More than anything. And I love you for all that you do for me now, if you understand. I mean for all the attention and help you give an old babushka. What on earth would I do without you? You've filled my life with so much happiness, dear Olga.”

  Her aunt couldn't have said anything worse. Olga's eyes swelled red with tears and guilt. “I'm sorry, Aunt Elizaveta, I'm sorry!” There was no way she could go through with it. “I must…”

  Spitting and spattering onto the stove, the water began to boil over with manic energy. Startled, Elizaveta put her hand over her heart and jumped in her seat.

  “Oi!”

  Elizaveta raised herself, groaning, from the chair,
and hobbled to the burner. She turned off the flame and then stood, dismayed, staring at the kettle of steaming water. Scared, she put her hand to her mouth and forgot that Olga was even in the room.

  “Aunt… Elizaveta?” Brushing away her tears with the back of her hand, Olga got up.

  The old woman was at a loss. She shook her head and clenched her arthritic hands. “I can't… can't remember why I boiled the water!” She was frightened. She looked at her niece, begging for help. “I can't remember why I boiled the water.” Her moment of clarity had vanished.

  Olga hurried to Elizaveta and put her arms around her. “It's okay. Come on, sit down” She directed her aunt back to the chair. “Sit down. Don't worry.”

  Her voice shaking with hysteria, Elizaveta said, “But I can't remember, Olga. I can't remember!” She let herself be taken back to the chair.

  “That's it,” said Olga, helping her down. “Just sit. Everything's fine. Good. Just relax like you told me.” She helped her get comfortable, and said, “You didn't, Aunt Elizaveta. You didn't put on the water. I did. I wanted tea so I put on some water.”

  Fully confused, Elizaveta gazed up at Olga. “Really?” She wanted very much to believe.

  “Really.”

  Biting a fingernail, Elizaveta tried to smile. “Oh, yes. Sure. Of course. You… you put on some water. I… I think I'd like some too. Will you make some for me? Tea, that is.”

  Later, as Elizaveta sipped the dark Georgian tea, a schoolgirl grin appeared on her aged and merry face. “So we'll finally meet. I'm so flattered. I'm so happy.”

  “It's best this way.” said Olga. Calmed, she was relieved that she finally understood what needed to be done.

  “I'll finally get to meet Mr. Miller.”

  “So you'll be there?” asked Olga sitting opposite her at the table.

  Elizaveta was shocked. “Be there? I can't wait!”

  “With the documents?”

  She grew blissful. “Yes, with the documents.” Elizaveta noisily drank her tea. “Just think, Olga, the documents—they'll be in the West soon. And then the world will know that real religion has not been wiped out of the U.S.S.R. There will be lots written about the Church of the Catacombs.” She shook her head, not able to believe it. “Two telegrams. That's all. Yet what a stir they'll make! Imagine what will be said when people find out that after all these years there is proof that the Tsar did perish. Real proof. Our telegrams. One… one from the very head of the Soviet government ordering the execution of Tsar Nicholas II and the whole royal family. Absolutely official. Absolutely undeniable.”

  “At last,” said Olga, “the world will get concrete evidence that they are dead.”

  Elizaveta looked up sharply. “Concrete proof that they were murdered! Murdered like my father. And like my father's, their bodies were never found either. Officially there has never been anything conclusive. People surmised that they were killed, but until now the world has never known for sure.” Elizaveta gazed into her cup of tea and drifted back in thought. “And the other telegram, the second one, sent from Ekaterinburg confirming their deaths—the deaths of the Tsar, the Tsaritsa, the Tsarevich, and the girls.”

  Olga had seen the documents only once, when Elizaveta had brought them out to show Bishop Tikhon. All this, thought Olga to herself, for such old documents.

  Such risk. Such danger.

  “It was so long ago,” said Olga.

  Elizaveta shrugged. “Yes, but I remember.” Then she became defensive. “They might make a difference. They might not. In any case, we simply can't let the Soviet government rewrite such important history. It is our duty, Olga, to tell the world what really happened out there in Ekaterinburg and who… who ordered it.” She leaned her head back. “First the Bolsheviks had them hidden, then the Tsarist generals—they kept the documents secret so that their armies would think the Tsar was alive and that there was still reason to fight. And then… then me. But you're right. It has been a long time. I've had them locked away for so many years. It's hard to believe that after all this time the end is here.” Elizaveta became worried. “I just hope people in the West will take notice. Pray, Olga, pray.”

  “Of course.” She would pray that both she and her aunt would survive the next few days.

  “Oh, and I want to invite Bishop Tikhon, he—”

  “No!” interrupted Olga. Very serious, she sat forward. “We cannot invite Bishop Tikhon.”

  Elizaveta was hurt. “But… but why? He's the head of the Church of the Catacombs here in Kiev. He could do a little service. That would be so nice and very appropriate, too.”

  “No.” Olga was absolute. “It just wouldn't be good.” Her dark blue eyes shifted back and forth. “Too many people. I don't want to scare Nick with too many people. Please. Please. Do you understand?”

  She really didn't. “I… I suppose.”

  Olga reached across the table top for her aunt's hand. “I know you'd like to, but we mustn't tell Bishop Tikhon until it's all over.”

  “Oh…” Elizaveta could not conceal her disappointment. “But—”

  “Promise me you won't,” said Olga, squeezing the old woman's hand. “I don't want to frighten Nick and… and I don't want to hurt Bishop Tikhon's feelings either. Really, it'll be easier to explain once it's all over.”

  “Well, if you insist.”

  “I do.”

  “Then I won't,” said Elizaveta, resigning herself to Olga's decision. “I promise I won't tell Bishop Tikhon until it's over if it will make things easier for you and Nick.”

  Olga was relieved. “Thank you.” She patted her aunt's hand. “It will be much better this way.” Olga stood. “I should be going. Is everything all right?”

  “Absolutely. Just imagine. The documents in the West.” She looked fondly at Olga. “And don't worry. Everything has passed. I'm fine. I just get these moments every now and then.” She tapped her head. “It's age, nothing more than age.”

  “You just get some rest.” Perhaps, thought Olga, she'll have one of these fits when she meets Nick. How convenient it would be if Elizaveta didn't remember a thing. “And don't go carrying two buckets of water. You'll hurt yourself.”

  “Now, now…” Elizaveta dismissed the warning. “Just tell me where we'll meet.”

  “I'll get Nick and then we'll meet you at the Church of Saint George. That will be safest.”

  “How nice.” It was in a secret tunnel not far from the Monastery of the Catacombs. “That was our first church, the first one we set up after the Revolution. We even named our group there. The Church of the Catacombs.” Elizaveta frowned, thinking of how the congregation had been declining over the years. Only a dozen or so members were left in Kiev.

  Olga crossed behind her seated aunt. She ran her fingers through Elizaveta's brittle, gray hair. “Goodbye. I'll check with you tomorrow. Just have the documents ready.” She bent and kissed her forehead. “I love you.”

  Elizaveta pulled her niece around and with tea-warmed lips planted a kiss on Olga's cheek. “Don't worry. I don't know why, but I have this feeling that everything will be all right. Just have faith in God.”

  “Yes.” Olga wished she could be optimistic. “I'll have faith.” She took off her slippers and put on her shoes. Standing at the door, Olga said. “You're sure you're fine?”

  Elizaveta nodded defiantly, squinting and smiling.

  “Goodbye, then.”

  Olga shut the weatherbeaten door behind her. From her vantage, she could see the meandering Dneiper River below. Several barges slowly made their way upstream and far in the distance greasy black smoke slithered into the sky.

  Olga began to make her way down the hill. Before, she thought she could do it. Before, they were merely words and promises. Now, however, the realities of the situation were obvious. Yes, she was different from Elizaveta. She had different goals, different realities. Nonetheless, she had never intended to hurt her aunt. Only to spare her. She had rationalized earlier that it would be necessary to
betray her aunt in order to protect her. Tonight, though, Olga had realized how much simpler the matter really was: betrayal was simply betrayal.

  She reached the bottom of the hill, nervous but glad to have regained her sense of what needed to be done. Now it was time to act. Without Mayakovsky's knowledge, she would meet with Nick tomorrow night, introduce him to Elizaveta, and fully explain the situation of the documents. Whether or not he would indeed transport them to the West would be his decision.

  In any case, she would warn him of the Kremlin's intention to arrest him.

  XVIII

  Shivering in the cool night, Yezhov took a deep drag on the cigarette as he checked his watch yet another time. Eleven o'clock. Briefcase at his side, he had been sitting on the bench in the ragged courtyard for over an hour. He nervously tapped his feet in the dusty dirt. When his eyes again returned to the ninth-story apartment, he found that the one light, the same light, remained on.

  It flicked off.

  Yezhov's heart jumped but he did not get up. Zipping his lightweight jacket, he knew it would be best to let things settle for a few minutes. With his hands in his pockets, the cigarette hung from his lip and he puffed slowly on it. When there was nothing left but a stub, he spit it out and ground the butt into the earth. He did not want to hurry into the darkened apartment, however, and he lit another Marlboro. It tasted disgusting, though, and he threw it to the ground. Finally, unable to stand the badgering cold, he grabbed his briefcase and headed in.

  The building's entry was damp and poorly lighted. Straining to see, Yezhov searched the wall, then found and punched the button. Opening, the elevator doors scraped against one another like fingernails being laboriously dragged across a blackboard. He got in and flinched as they repeated their noise with mechanical precision. The lift, with dark green graffiti-ridden walls—Sasha, Yura, and Misha had each scratched their names into the paint ten times—shook and rattled all the way to the ninth floor. Yezhov winced when, to his dismay, his arrival was fully announced by the cry of the opening doors. The dim corridor was empty and quiet, though, and he cautiously made his way to the third door on the right.