The Cross and The Sickle

by R. D. Zimmerman

  He waited for the elevator doors to make their clumsy closing, and took the long, thin key out of his pocket. Holding it up to the light, he made sure it was rightside up, then slipped it into the lock. There wasn't a sound and he placed his other hand on the doorknob. In one surgical-like movement he turned both hands and the door opened as if on command.

  The apartment was black and quiet and lifeless. Nothing. Apparently the occupants were asleep and undisturbed by Yezhov's entrance. He inched the door forward, stepped through, and, with both hands, shut it quietly behind him. He stood still in the darkness. Unable to see a thing, he knew there should be a corridor directly in front of him. He raised his foot, then froze. There was a subtle squeak of wood against wood. Sensing movement other than his own on the parquet floor, he reached for the door. If he hurried, there was still time to get out.

  With a disturbing click, the hall light burst on and Yezhov shielded his eyes.

  “Good evening.”

  It was Sonia, his ex-wife, with her robe tightly wrapped around her. Anticlimactically, Yezhov cast her a disgusted look, took off his coat, tossed it on a hook, and went into the kitchen. He set the briefcase beneath the table and, fumbling for his cigarettes, pulled out a stool and sat down. Hesitant at first, Sonia came in.

  Standing in the doorway of the kitchen, Sonia said, “I waited up for you but it got to be late. I haven't seen you in days.”

  He tossed the pack of American cigarettes out on the table so that she'd know what she'd be missing.

  “I've been eating and drinking with the Americans after work,” said Yezhov, even though he had been making it a point to wander around until he was sure Sonia and her parents were asleep. They were gone to work before he got up in the morning. “Very nice people. Some attractive girls, too. If you know what I mean,” he added with a laugh.

  Looking sickly without all her make-up, Sonia said, “The wedding's set. Two weeks from Saturday.”

  Yezhov eyed her through his glasses and grunted, trying to make it clear that he didn't care.

  “I…” She caught herself. “It's cold out… the first frost will be soon. You look chilled. Want some tea?”

  He nodded indifferently and turned to the window. The other buildings were dark and bleak. Only accordion music and drunken clapping from another apartment broke the stillness. A wedding party, perhaps.

  Sonia kept her distance as she crossed to the small stove. Striking a wooden match and lighting the gas, she quickly looked over her shoulder as if she expected him to strike her.

  Nervously filling the kettle, she said, “Found a place yet?”

  He hesitated, thought better of it, and said, “Of course.” He had not, however, found anything else besides the filthy room a widowed babushka was renting near the center of Kiev.

  “Where?”

  “What business is that of yours?” he snapped.

  “Curious. That's all.”

  Yezhov lit the cigarette. He couldn't stand her and was glad to be leaving.

  “It's in the center of the city, a short walk from work. Very convenient. A room,” he said. “A very large room in an old apartment. Tall ceilings, large windows, balcony. Rather elegant I'd say. And clean. Some babushka is renting out part of her apartment. Used to belong to some member of the nobility.”

  “Oh. Expensive?” Her words were strained.

  “A real treasure and a real steal.”

  Sonia turned to him and at that moment saw his briefcase beneath the table. She knew what was in the case, and, her eyes fixed on it, she said, “I… I—”

  “Oh, really,” he said with disgust. “Don't bother saying anything. Don't even bother with the tea. Let's not make things any more complicated than we have to. Just thank God we don't have any children.”

  “Yes.” Ashamed, she bent her head. He did not know of her three abortions—two while they were married, one after—because she could get no other form of birth control.

  “No children and you're getting married. Lucky me. I don't have to forfeit twenty-five percent of my income for alimony.” He blew a smoke ring. “What a relief. The other fellow's going to have to take care of you now.” He took off his steel-frame glasses and put them on the table.

  Unable to stand it any more, she turned off the gas. “You can get your own damned tea. I want you out. I want you out of here as soon as possible.” Trying to maintain control, she walked briskly out of the kitchen.

  “With great pleasure, Sonia. Don't worry, I'll leave in two or three days. I'd leave tonight but I believe I'm paid up all the way through next week. Or do you owe me? Did we ever settle for the nylons and perfume I got you? Or the jean skirt—you know it goes for two hundred rubles on the street.”

  His words were wasted. She had already hurried into the bathroom and turned on both water faucets. Above the noise, however, he could still hear her sniveling.

  So, he realized, he'd have to take that room the babushka was renting out. It was cramped and unclean, and the woman herself was a haggardly old thing with warts on the right side of her face. But what choice had he? Instead of hunting for another place, it was best for now to concentrate on the exhibit and to just go ahead and take the room. He'd contact the old woman tomorrow and perhaps move in the next day. There'd be time to find a better place on his own later, or if he could get something on one of the Americans, surely he'd be allocated an apartment.

  The bathroom door opened and he heard her shuffle down the hall.

  “I hope you sleep like the dead,” he said full of sarcasm.

  If he were going to gain anything by working at the American exhibition, he had to act. There was no time to waste. Perhaps he could frame the guide from Kansas who had given him the carton of cigarettes. Or maybe he could somehow compromise the guide from Seattle with whom he had exchanged records. Compromise him with narcotics?

  Yezhov shook his head and snuffed out his cigarette. That would never do. Such small stuff. Groping for such small stuff. He could never get the recognition and the compensation he needed out of that.

  Colonel Mayakovsky's warning rang clear. But as long as he was careful, what choice had he? Besides, he was a lieutenant in the KGB and he did have some responsibility, some authority. He was not ignorant by any means, despite the way Mayakovsky treated him—and everyone else.

  Yezhov just had to be slow and cautious and deliberate. In that way if there was anything to report on Miller, he'd certainly get the credit he deserved.

  XIX

  She had long, blond hair. It was thick and flowed profusely from her head, onto her shoulders, and she frequently pulled it back with one hand. Her face was Slavic—a soft, clean complexion, wide cheeks with well-defined features, and a hint of Asian ancestry. Her build was large and sturdy, not fat. Her hips were broad, suggesting a strong maternal nature. And Olga had…

  “Shit,” said Nick, shaking his head as he walked from the guide lounge to the irrigation stand, his mid-afternoon break over.

  He couldn't put her together. The picture of Olga in his mind was getting fuzzy. So obsessed was he with the sight of Olga overcome with fear at Saint Vladimir's that he couldn't quite remember what she looked like. In his memory he couldn't put the specifics together to produce one clear image. He could only recall disjointed highlights. It was as if he had played a videotape of Olga through his mind too many times and now it was worn out, only offering blurred highlights of what used to be there.

  He paused at the gate that opened onto the exhibit floor. She had said that she was going to be working that night. Had she deliberately lied or had something legitimate come up? He cringed as he thought of Masha's warning: “Anyone who truly wants to get to know you also wants you to get to know them—and that includes meeting their friends and family.” Olga, if she had any, had never even mentioned friends in Kiev. Her father was in Lvov—or was that a lie too?—and she had no family members in town except perhaps the great-aunt she had briefly mentioned. So was that her? Was the o
ld woman in church Olga's aunt? If so, why had Olga not introduced him? Why, he asked himself again and again, had she run away from him?

  Nick had a headache, and he didn't want to answer any more questions that afternoon. Pushing open the gate, he breathed in the warm, stale air. He didn't even want to be at the goddamned exhibit. It was so crowded, so cramped. He was sick of it. Though there were fewer than on the weekend, thousands of Russians milled about before him, whispering amongst themselves. There had recently been a slanderous article in Pravda about how only the rich could get educated in America. He thought he might go crazy if he had to explain one more time that there were twelve free grades of school available to all Americans.

  Nick wanted to trust her. He even wanted to take the letter and package to her uncle. But now how could he? How could he ever straighten anything out with Olga? He made his way toward the irrigation stand.

  Across the room he spotted the young Jewish couple who had come the day before and, as indifferently as possible, asked about welders and manicurists in Los Angeles. Nick knew the game only too well and had played along while they asked how many square meters a California apartment had, if the typical family had a color TV, if people were afraid to walk the street at night, if Los Angeles were indeed a good city in which to live. Obviously, they were hoping to get visas to Israel and then, once out of the U.S.S.R., to emigrate to California. They had come again to FARMING U.S.A. to soak up as much information as possible. Nick avoided them and moved on. It was futile. They'd never be prepared for their resettlement in the West.

  He passed the seeder display which plunked down kernel after kernel of corn on a conveyor belt, then crossed under an enormous section of a rotating irrigation machine. There was the typical crowd around the small working sprinkler encased in a plexiglas bubble; people felt the shooting water hit the bubble and grinned in disbelief.

  Nick stepped onto the guide platform, knowing that, if he ever saw her again, he would always doubt her. As things stood now, there was no way he would take the letter to her uncle in New York. Most bothersome, however, was the dawning realization that even if things did get straightened out, it really didn't make any difference. Tossing and turning in his fretful sleep last night, it had occurred to him that after a few short weeks he'd never see Olga again in his life.

  “Molodoi chelovek.” Young man.

  Fuck, said Nick to himself. A short man in his late forties stood peering up at him. His clothing, apparently unimportant to him, was in disarray.

  “Molodoi chelovek, how much does a pair of jeanzie cost in the United States of America?” The man wore thick broken glasses that magnified and disfigured his sleepy eyes.

  Speechless, Nick gawked at the man. What was going on with Olga and why did he have to answer this question for the fiftieth time today?

  The man, adjusting the glasses on his nose, drew closer and in a louder voice said, “I ask you, how much does a pair of jeanzie cost in the United States?”

  Nick opened his mouth. He tried to speak but his throat was parched. Who was the jerk who invented blue jeans, anyway?

  “You speak Russki?’’ The little man squinted in frustration.

  No, thought Nick. I don't. I won't. “Da.”

  “Jeanzie, how…”

  Nick shut his eyes and blurted it out. “Anywhere from eight to twenty dollars. Some fashionable ones cost more.”

  The Russian scratched his head with quick motions and his eyes bugged in disbelief. “That's impossible. Why so cheap?” He lowered his voice as a woman approached. “My son just spent one hundred fifty rubles—well over two hundred dollars—for a pair of jeanzie! Can you imagine, that's almost two month's salary.” He jabbed a finger up under his glasses and scratched his nose. Eying the woman as he spoke, he hesitantly asked, “What about books? Are they hard to get?”

  The woman, with orangish-red hair and a staunch chest that stuck out as a single edifice, positioned herself closer and expressed disdainful interest.

  “Well…” Sensing that the woman was about to go on the attack, Nick went on the offensive. “Books aren't hard to get in America. Actually, it's easier to get Soviet authors in the States than it is here.” Sick of his job and the exhibit, to make his stab at the woman complete, he added, “Authors like Solzhenitsyn are widely available, too.”

  It was more than she could take, and she opened her lipstick-smeared mouth in a tirade. “Who wants to read Solzhenitsyn? Such trash, such lies! He belongs right down there with child pornography.”

  Fully knowing the answer and loathing it, Nick's question was simple. “Have you ever read Solzhenitsyn?”

  Her eyes opened wide. “Well, well, no. I haven't read him because he's such a terrible author and that's why his books aren't sold here. He… he writes such lies and so poorly, too!”

  Nick's entire body tensed. “So you only read what the government censors say are good books, is that it?”

  “Of course. That is their job. That way we don't waste valuable materials, time, and money publishing bad authors.” She smiled proudly. “Our government takes care of us and decides what we should read.”

  Nick didn't care if this woman was an agent sent to provoke him. “That's disgusting. How's there ever going to be peace and friendship in the world if you don't even know what's going on in your own country? I mean, how do you ever expect to really understand what's going on in the U.S.?”

  “Well, well…” She flushed red and became all huffy. “This is all very nice. So you have lots of books and newspapers, and from what the other guides say you have lots of material goods, too—jeanzie, kosmetiki, avtomobili. But when you have so many things and so much freedom,” she said, redirecting the conversation as she saw fit, “you are also free to have poverty, unemployment, discrimination, and so very much more. Can't you see there's no security in so much freedom?”

  Nick slapped his forehead. “I don't believe it.” He wanted to call her a fascist, an insult that would surely land him in deep trouble. Instead, he put his face in his hands and closed his eyes. He couldn't take any more. “Just leave. Just get the hell out of here. What you say is not only terribly wrong, it's terribly dangerous.”

  “Besides, we don't have all the material luxuries because of the war,” she said, batting her eyes and unable to stop herself. “But you clearly can't understand that. Can't you see what a fine country this is? Can't you see that it really is better?” Not granting Nick a chance to respond, the woman turned and indignantly stormed away.

  Furious, Nick called out after her in English: “You fucking redneck commie!” He cut himself off, unable to believe his own words. What was happening to him? Back home he used to eat granola and participate in antinuclear demonstrations.

  Upset, the little Russian man, still standing before Nick, reached out. “Don't, don't,” he said, taking Nick's arm. “It's not worth it. Don't get upset about that woman. Forget her and remember me. Remember me to your countrymen and not that woman. Extend my warm greetings to everyone in America.” He took Nick's hand and shook it, then hurried away.

  “Yeah, but…”

  Nick's attention was still focused on the woman. What would she do: leave the exhibit calmly or write a complaint claiming that Nick had argued with her and insulted the honor of the Great Soviet People?

  No sooner had the little man with thick glasses left than Nick was approached by a group of collective farmers with the first agricultural questions of the day. Wearing dark, bulky clothing, they were sunburnt and their broad muscular bodies were evidence of their physical labor.

  One of them waved his callused hand in the air. “Molodoi chelovek!”

  As Nick looked for the voice, his eyes were caught by that unmistakable head of hair. He caught his breath in relief and nervous anticipation. Olga. She was lingering in the corner

  “It says,” began one of the farm workers, “on that panel over there that only four percent of your population works on the farm. How is that possible? Every
one knows that the United States is a great exporter of food, so how can so few feed so many? Is this some sort of fairy tale?”

  Looking sincere and anxiously hopeful, Olga was smiling just with her eyes. Not coy, she had come to talk, to explain, and this much was clear. Slowly, reluctantly, she turned away and watched the seeder demonstration, then gazed at a television monitor as it showed shots of American wheat fields under irrigation.

  His anger began to subside. She came back, he thought. She'd tell him what the problem was, why she had run away. He hadn't misjudged her after all. At least she cared enough to come back.

  The collective farmers, bursting with questions, closed in on Nick. He was overwhelmed by them, and when he checked back to where Olga had been, she was gone. He became apprehensive. Then he spotted her by the drip irrigation display, her image hazily reflected in one of the mirrored panels. What did she want? What would she say?

  Facts. They wanted cold, hard facts. They wanted to know everything, from the average size of the American farm to the size of an American sow's litter to the frequency of tractor repairs. They interrogated Nick almost without end, and he impatiently answered each question, trying all the time not to lose sight of Olga.

  “I don't know,” said one of the farmers, full of skepticism. “American farmers have much independence but they are so insecure financially. They have to work from sunup to sundown, too, and still the crops might fail. No. No. I'm afraid our collective farmers would never consent to work on an American farm.”

  “Let me assure you,” said Nick, searching for her, “that our farmers would never consent to work on a collective, communal farm. Our farmers are extremely independent and perhaps only more conservative than one other group in America—factory workers.”

  “Factory workers?” said one of them in disbelief. “But how can that be? Everyone knows the working class is the most oppressed under capitalism. Why should they support your government?”