The Cross and The Sickle

by R. D. Zimmerman

  Beneath her headdress, her ears perked and she strained to hear voices as she approached the church. Looking ahead into the dark, however, she was disappointed, unable to see or hear anything. The tunnel she walked led to the side of the underground church and Elizaveta was dismayed not to see the glow of light leaking her way. She stopped to catch her breath when she reached the church's man-made outer wall. Where were Olga and Nick? Shouldn't they be here by now?

  By the light of her torch, she found the latch on the small side door.

  “Olga? Nick?” She opened the door and poked her torch through, holding it high in front of her. “Anyone?”

  There was no response. Disheartened, she stepped into Saint George's ornate interior, furnished entirely with religious artifacts Elizaveta had rescued from the Bolsheviks. She glanced around. Nothing. No one. Only the mournful faces of the icons stared down upon her. Where was her Olga? Had something happened?

  Next to the door were two buckets, one holding three more torches soaking in fuel, the other greasy water. Elizaveta placed the torch she had carried in a holder in the wall, then took one of the other torches and lit it. She crossed to the central column, carved out of rock and decorated with frescoes, and placed this torch in a holder. The Church of Saint George, its low ceilings arched as they bore the weight of millions of tons of earth upon them, came to life. Remarkably preserved in this underground room, the icons and jewels here were priceless. The iconostasis, which Elizaveta had carried piece by piece from a church in 1928, was sheathed in gold and dated “1450, Novgorod.”

  Clothed in her black habit, Elizaveta, the fear of the mad dog still etched on her face, bowed her head and went to the iconostasis. She lifted up the heavy material, threw it upward, and as it filled with air, sunk to her knees. She crossed herself once and, bending forward, placed her hands flat on the floor. Chanting the Lord's Prayer over and over, she kissed the ground, rising and falling with her words.

  XXII

  “You'll understand everything once you meet my aunt,” said Olga, clutching his arm. “I'll explain it all, don't worry. I just don't want to go into it out here on the street… in public. We'll meet Aunt Elizaveta and then the three of us will have dinner together.”

  Nick considered this. “Fair enough.”

  They stood in front of the faded yellow farmers’ market at the intersection of Kreshatik, Shevchenko, and Red Army Streets, and pedestrian traffic was heavy. Nick glanced about anxiously.

  “Come on, let's get out of here before someone recognizes me,” he said.

  Nick wanted to trust her as much as he wanted to find out. Questions, he decided, could wait until the appropriate time. During or after dinner, perhaps.

  As they started off, he added, “But I want you to tell me everything, I want to hear it all.”

  Quite serious, Olga said, “As you wish, Nick.”

  With the issue resolved for the moment, both of them relaxed, equally glad to be together again. He was enthralled and calmed when she took his arm in hers, embracing him briefly as she did so. Serene and silent, Olga led the way from the farmers’ market directly to the main Metro station. From there they took the subway to Heroes-of-the-Arsenal Square, where they hopped on a bus.

  After a short ride, they got off on Citadel Street. Finally away from the crowded streets, subways, and buses, Nick spoke.

  “Olga, where are we meeting your aunt, at her house?” he asked, expressing his worry.

  She motioned ahead as indifferently as possible. “No, at the Monastery of the Catacombs.”

  “What?” Nick slowed.

  Straining to act natural and belie her concerns, Olga said, “That's where we're meeting her, of course.” Seeing that this was not enough, she added, “Nick, she works there.”

  “Oh.” He accepted Olga's words and his skepticism waned.

  Approaching the State Museum of the Monastery of the Catacombs, Nick could see the tall golden onion domes towering high overhead. They came around the corner of the bright whitewashed fortress walls and before them stood the Gate Church of the Trinity. Though the radiant frescoes of its outer walls beckoned out, Nick's eyes remained fixed on the gilded cupola perched brilliantly atop. As they passed through the gate beneath the church, Nick realized that they looked like a nice couple out for a visit to one of Kiev's museums.

  All that remained of what had been one of the richest and most influential religious centers in the Russian Empire were a group of buildings and preserved ruins. Nick and Olga walked along the calm central street, a street which had once been swarming with busy monks who controlled hundreds of thousands of acres and tens of thousands of serfs. On either side were the low, white stone buildings with pitched green roofs. Originally they had housed the monastic cells for the church hierarchy.

  They passed the preserved ruins of the Dormition Cathedral—blown up by the Nazis—and Nick could tell by the slope of the ground that she was leading the way toward the wooded banks of the Dneiper River. Visitors and tourists were gathered in random clumps in this central area, and Nick doubted that they would meet Olga's aunt in so visible a place.

  Olga paused near the base of the Main Bell Tower. It rose in four many-columned tiers, culminating in a massive golden dome some ninety-six meters above. Nick knew the tower well for, perched high on the river's bank, it could be seen for miles.

  “Isn't it odd,” said Olga, craning her neck upward, “to think of all that has taken place on this ground. Monks began this monastery almost a thousand years ago. Then the Soviets came to power and closed it; they said that the monastery had lost the support of the people. The monks and priests who hadn't already fled were killed. Then the Fascist invasion… so much was destroyed. Yet the Revolution was scarcely sixty years ago and the Fascists were here just over thirty years ago. So little time. Our passing is a mere flash. Come,” she said, pulling on him. “We must hurry. We must not be late.”

  “You're sure about this, huh?”

  “Of course,” she said without looking at him. She started forward. “You'll see.”

  “Wait,” said Nick, resisting. “Before we meet your aunt I… I want to say that I was really upset about the other night. Olga, I want to trust you, but something doesn't make sense.”

  She drew close to him. “Nick, I want you to understand and I want everything to make sense.” She embraced him, wrapping her arms around his back and squeezing. “Believe me, Nick. Everything will be clear when you meet my aunt.”

  What could he say? How could he not trust her? It was obvious she wanted to straighten out the situation. And, thinking of the evening ahead of them, he hoped that perhaps they would have some time alone together.

  Past the central complex of buildings and churches was the old print shop. To the side of that, Olga led the way down a narrow cobbled street and through the massive fortress walls. They continued on this deserted street leaving the walled part of the monastery behind. To their left and across a ravine was another group of golden-domed churches, six- and seven-hundred-year-old stone structures clumped together in the woods. They passed a small decrepit stone house, on the stoop of which sat a fat, toothless babushka, wearing a long dress and kerchief and throwing bread crumbs to a clattering of free-running chickens.

  “Xleb! Xleb! Xleb!” Bread, she cried, gumming the words.

  The chickens pecked with frenzy, the woman threw more crumbs, and Nick was sure this was the way this place had looked a hundred years earlier.

  “We're almost there,” said Olga, motioning ahead. “The catacombs.”

  He grimaced. “You've got to be kidding.”

  Trying to belittle his concern, Olga said, “Nick, don't worry. It's just part of the museum.”

  Through the bent and drooping trees Nick could see another group of whitewashed baroque buildings. They were low and massive, detailed and clean, with arched windows and green roofs. The courtyard, obviously quite elegant in its day, was in disarray; a decorated well was crumbling, stone-enc
ased flower beds were little more than overgrown rubble, and vines and bushes had encroached upon everything. There was not another soul about, and the only sound was that of a flock of distant birds.

  They headed for a small building on the left. He assumed this was where Olga's aunt worked, and he envisaged meeting her, being shown around and, over an elaborate mead at the woman's house, learning why Olga and her aunt had been so frightened at Saint Vladimir's.

  Olga waited for Nick to open the thick oak door, and the two of them entered a square room with high ceilings. It was free of furniture except for a wobbly chair on which, next to a smaller door, sat a complacent babushka.

  “Good evening, children,” said the old woman, smiling.

  At last, thought Nick, Olga's aunt. The woman did not rise out of the chair, however, and Olga did not greet her. Instead, the babushka held an open palm toward the door.

  “This way,” the woman muttered.

  Confused, Nick realized that this wasn't Olga's aunt. It did seem, however, as if they had been expected and that Olga and the woman had exchanged a knowing glance. But Nick shrugged this off. He had never been in a Soviet museum that didn't have a bored, motherly old woman seated in each room. He put this out of his mind further when he looked through the door and saw a narrow staircase that curved and twisted down.

  “Olga…” said Nick, pulling back on her arm.

  “Shhh,” she said in a whisper. “It's just the entrance to the catacombs.”

  “You know,” began Nick, noticing that his hands were shaking, “I'm a little claustrophobic. I mean, I don't take too well to small enclosed spaces. Especially…especially if they're underground.”

  “Shhh.”

  “But is it safe?”

  “Of course, don't be silly.”

  She squeezed his hand as she led him down the winding rock stairs.

  Angry at himself, he said, “Why do I always get myself into things I know I shouldn't be involved in?” He bumped his head against the low ceiling. “Ouch!” Irritated, he demanded. “Olga, where in the hell are we going?”

  “You'll see,” she said without stopping.

  The smooth whitewashed walls were uneven and rolling, and naked light bulbs dangled at random along the way. The narrow passage, which was not wide enough for two people to stand side by side, grew cooler as they descended, and Nick shivered. Soon they reached the bottom and Olga, without hesitation, continued, taking Nick by the hand. He cautiously followed, running his free hand along the wall. He tapped his foot and discerned that the flooring was of iron slabs.

  “Why didn't you tell me,” said Nick, sarcastically, “that I was going to get the inside tour of the Monastery of the Catacombs?”

  The initial passage wound on in one direction like a narrow one-way street. Several branches were boarded over and others were bricked shut; clearly only part of the catacombs was open to the public. The tunnel bent sharply to the right, and in this hairpin corner were four carved niches, each of which cradled a short coffin. Nick stopped, a mixture of surprise and revulsion on his face. One plaque read: NIKON THE GREAT. And another: SIMION, BISHOP OF VLADIMIR AND SUZDAL.

  “They've been here since the eleventh and twelfth centuries,” said Olga impatiently. “They'll be here later. You can come back when we have more time.”

  But his attention was caught by a small glass window just beyond the coffins. “What the hell?”

  “Hermits used to isolate themselves in there,” explained Olga. “The entrance was sealed shut, food was passed through the window, and they stayed in there until they died. Their bones are still in there.”

  “That is disgusting,” he said shaking his head.

  “Nick, they're Holy Relics.” She started off. “Come, we must not linger.”

  The catacombs twisted along. They passed several small chambers, a post with chains where insane people were held, and more clusters of sarcophagi. Dug into the wall at one point was a small, ornate refectory. The clean narrow passage continued, periodically marked by boarded and bricked off tunnels.

  Ten minutes later, deep within the catacombs, Nick and Olga reached a large, dark room, faintly illuminated by two bulbs. This was Saint Balaam's Church, the deepest point of the catacombs still open to the public; from here, the passage turned and wound back to the surface. Buried away in the outermost depths of the catacombs, the marble columns, the life-size icons, and the golden Royal Gate had remained untouched for six hundred years.

  Nick was shocked when he saw Olga bow her head and cross herself in front of one of the icons.

  “Olga,” he said with relief, “are you a Believer?”

  Confused, she pulled her hair back behind her head. “Nick, I don't know.”

  Though he was not particularly religious himself, he was comforted. It meant that she was on the other end of the spectrum from the Party.

  “Is that why you were in church?” he asked.

  “In a way, yes. I come from a family that strongly believes in God.” She shook her head, both upset and unsure of herself. “I believe in something, Nick. I'm just not sure it's religion. In a way you could say I'm the strongest believer of them all. Militant even.” She went to the side wall and began groping behind one of the icons.

  He was still trying to digest her words when, startled by her actions, he asked, “Olga, what are you doing? What's going on?”

  She moved the icon aside and an iron knob appeared. She turned it as one would a jar lid, and rusted metal screeched against rusted metal. Something popped loose and a portion of the wall quivered.

  “People have always used the caves of Kiev as a place of shelter and hiding. First from the pagans, then from the Mongols. Later from the tsars, then from the Bolsheviks. Many partisans hid from the Nazis here, too. Likewise, my aunt has used the catacombs as a place of refuge.” Olga pushed against the wall and it creaked. It moved a second time and dust came cascading down. “Help me, please.”

  He was paralyzed.

  “Nick!”

  Reacting to her request without thinking, Nick went to her side and together they pushed on the right side of a row of icons. With a tearing sound, a concealed portion of the wall bent backward from floor to ceiling, forming a false door. Shocked, Nick peered in. The catacombs, rough and unfinished, extended into the unknown darkness. His eyes wide open in disbelief, Nick stepped back.

  “Olga,” he said, gesturing with his hands, “what in the hell's going on? That's not part of the museum and you know it. What are you trying to do, get me sent to Siberia? Jesus Christ, I trusted you and…”

  She paid no attention to him and stepped halfway through the opening. From an inside ledge she took two candles.

  “Here,” she said, handing them to Nick.

  “No. Forget it.” He lifted his hands upward, refusing them. “I want to know what this is all about.”

  She cast him an unpleasant look and searched her purse for a match.

  Nick was fully aware that this was the point of no return, that from now on this venture was no longer an innocent visit to an old woman. Eying the passage through which they had come, he stepped backward. Now was the time to leave.

  Then he heard it. He perked his ears. The sound, projected down the tunnel, was distinct but he didn't want to believe it. Footsteps. Nick could hear distant footsteps on the iron flooring. He was not sure if it was more than one person, but whoever it was wasn't wasting any time.

  “Shit.” He cursed himself for having come this far and, frightened, he said, “Olga, there's someone coming. A tourist or… or…” He didn't even want to think of the possibilities, he just wanted her to get out of the way so they could shut the false door. If they acted quickly they could still avert trouble.

  “Quick, get in.” She found a match and struck it.

  Nick slapped his forehead with his open palm. “You can't be serious!”

  “Get in. Hurry.” She lit the two candles.

  Nick did not move as the sounds grew n
earer. Though they were subtle, and still distant, the steps were direct and fast.

  “Nick,” said Olga, impatiently, “I'm trying to help you. Come on.”

  He backed away. Olga grabbed his arm and squeezed it.

  Desperate, she said, “Listen, Nick, you're already in trouble. Serious trouble. You've been followed everywhere in Kiev. In the other cities they wanted you to know they were watching you, but here you were supposed to be oblivious to it. And you were.”

  “Wh-h-at?” But he could believe her words all too easily.

  The footsteps were growing closer. Olga was as blunt as she could be: “Nick, the KGB is planning to arrest you. I think I know how to get you out of it.”

  “You… you mean…” He looked back down the tunnel.

  “This is your chance to do something, Nick. Help us,” she begged. “You're the only one who can. You're an American, people will look after you, but without your help, we'll disappear.”

  He turned to Olga and he knew what he had to do. “You're right.” This was his chance to go beyond merely saying what was right and wrong.

  He crossed through the false door and he was Olga's accomplice. Whoever it was behind them was not far away. He grabbed the matches and one of the candles from Olga.

  “The door,” he ordered.

  They couldn't leave themselves so exposed. He crammed the matches into his pocket, held the candle in one hand, and together he and Olga shut the metal door. They desperately hurried, bit by bit inching shut the rusty, screeching metal door. The footsteps bore down on them distinctly now, and in slow, careful movements they raced until finally the door was shut. Olga leaned her shoulder up against the door as she struggled to secure the latch.

  “There.” Perspiration forming on her brow, Olga said, “Quickly.”

  She started off, but Nick paused, able to hear the person approaching. Olga grabbed him.

  “Hurry,” she urged. “If we're found here there will be trouble. It's safe farther in.”