The Cross and The Sickle

by R. D. Zimmerman

  He hurried after her, quite a willing partner and determined to get away. Unlike the museum passage, this catacomb tunnel was black and rugged, neither lit nor whitewashed. Each held a candle high in one hand, cupping the flame with the other. Picking through the rubble, they stepped over crumbled rocks that littered their way and avoided craggy areas of the wall that jutted in and out.

  “Nick!” Olga suppressed a scream.

  First she, then he, became entangled in a massive cobweb that spanned the tunnel. Olga pulled globs of it from her mouth and he grabbed it away from his neck. Wispy, hairy cobweb sputtered and burned and shriveled as it touched the flames of their candles. Suddenly Nick hated this confining space lost beneath the earth's surface.

  “Don't worry,” said Olga, seeing the fear in his eyes. “This passage isn't frequently traveled, but it's safe.”

  They came to a junction and passed beneath primitive wooden beams. Olga, apparently having gone this route many times, turned right without hesitation. That tunnel in turn forked, and they headed left. Nick moved too quickly and his candle flickered. He stopped and faint noises reached his ears.

  “What is it?” asked Olga from ahead.

  Nick looked behind them into the absolute darkness. “I thought I heard something.” There it was again. The distant, faint echo of screeching metal.

  “It's right up there,” said Olga, motioning toward some collapsed beams. “The turn off.”

  Nick asked no questions and followed her. When she began to pull an old wooden beam to the side, Nick automatically helped her. The wood was somehow attached near the roof of the cave and the bottom, with little effort, swung freely to the side. A fissure just wide enough for one person appeared. Olga, holding the candle out in front of her, stepped sideways into the crack.

  Nick held the beam. “I've got it.”

  She took no more than two or three steps and was already in a tunnel on the other side.

  “Now you,” said Olga, peering back through the crack at Nick.

  “Crap, I hate this kind of stuff,” he said, focused in the small space. “But…”

  “It's easy,” she said, challenging him. “Just hold the beam with one hand and step in. Then let go of it. The beam's made to swing back into place.”

  He took a deep breath. “What the hell,” he said, shrugging.

  Nick glanced up at Olga on the other side, and slid in. He closed his eyes and felt ragged rock poke into his back, the other wall was only inches before him and he scraped his knuckles against it. He still held the beam with his right hand.

  “Just let go of it,” said Olga. “Good. Now give it a nudge.”

  He did as she said and slowly the force of gravity pulled it back, blocking the exit. His heart pounding, he realized, however, that it had not returned to a completely vertical position. He clawed at it with the tips of his fingers but it wouldn't budge.

  “Olga!”

  Looking over his shoulder, she saw the problem and dismissed it. “That's good enough, Nick. Come on.”

  “If you say so,” he said, just wanting to get out of the crevice.

  Two fast leaps, rock bruising his body, and he was out. He twisted his torso, relieved that there was nothing blocking his movement.

  “Man, oh, man,” said Nick. “I don't know what I'm into, but I'm into it deep.”

  She kissed him on the side of his dirt-smudged face. “It's okay now. There's a church not very far from here.”

  Holding their candles in front of them, they moved cautiously on. This tunnel was both wider and more free of debris than the others. Their pace quickened when they rounded one bend, then another, and a dim light appeared.

  “Olga?” called out the voice of an old woman from up ahead. “Is that you?”

  Smiling, Olga raised her voice and answered, “Yes, Aunt Elizaveta, it's us.”

  “Excellent, my children,” came the response.

  To Nick, Olga said, “We're here.” In an attempt to reassure both Nick and herself, she added, “That was just a tourist back there.”

  “But what if I was followed?”

  “Don't worry. You weren't. That's why we met at the farmers’ market—so that you wouldn't pick up a tail at the hotel.” For his sake she forced herself to relax, and said, “Besides, no one would be able to find us back here.”

  Of a different mind, Nick checked behind them. “Olga, I…”

  “Bats.” She blew out her candle, then Nick's.

  “Yoo-hoo?”

  “We're coming, Aunt Elizaveta.”

  The tunnel began to glow with light from the chamber ahead. An entry appeared, and into this opening stepped an old woman dressed in the heavy black habit of a nun. Although only her happy oval face was left exposed, Nick recognized her as the woman who had been with Olga at Saint Vladimir's.

  “My children!” Clasping a small red box in one hand, she put the other to her face. “Thank God you've come.” Lifting up her gown, she scurried forward into the tunnel and embraced Olga. “Thank God.”

  Olga kissed the woman. “Aunt Elizaveta, this is Nicholas Miller.”

  Elizaveta stood back and admired Nick. “Such a fine young man. My thanks to you, Mr. Miller. My thanks to you. Come, embrace me.” She opened her arms.

  Confused, Nick stepped forward only to find himself enfolded by the woman. She kissed him on each side of the face, squeezed him with surprising strength, rocked a bit, and hummed.

  “Such a fine young man,” she said, gushing. “But let's not stand here in the entry. Come, enter the Church of Saint George.”

  Nick was shocked by the grandeur and elaborateness of this subterranean church. The work was more rich and ornate than any he had seen in Kiev.

  “Do you like it?” asked Elizaveta anxiously, the top of her habit rising up and down with her forehead.

  “I don't believe it. It's incredible.” He stepped farther into the church. With the only light coming from the two burning torches, Nick was awed by the beauty surrounding him. He looked at the old woman in her archaic garb—had he just stepped back two centuries in time? To her, a sly grin on his face, he said, “This isn't part of the museum, is it?”

  Elizaveta laughed. “Oh, no. It's a working church.” She motioned around with an open hand, the black material draping from her arm to the floor. “These are some of the most sacred and gorgeous icons in all of the Ukraine and Russia.” She blushed with her confession. “When the Bolsheviks were destroying them one after the other, we smuggled these icons here for safekeeping.”

  “Olga,” said Nick, “you didn't tell me your aunt was a nun.”

  Nick heard it the instant Olga did. Their moment of peaceful calm passed and they exchanged frightened glances. It was the dull sound of wood scraping rock. The vertical beam that covered the crevice. Someone was moving it.

  “Aunt Elizaveta,” said Olga, trying not to panic, “did you tell Bishop Tikhon.”

  “No,” she said, unsure of what she was being accused of. “You told me not to. I…I promise I didn't.”

  The sound came again, faint and low.

  Elizaveta, unable to hear anything, said, “What? What is it? Olga, is something…?”

  Olga grabbed her aunt by the arm. “I don't know. It may be anything, but we'd better not take any chances. The back way, Aunt Elizaveta, where is it?”

  She hugged the tin box against her chest and wrapped it in the folds of her habit. “That way.” With her head she nodded toward the small entrance through which she had come.

  They all heard the sound of loose pebbles rolling.

  In English, Nick said, “Oh, no.” He prayed for it only to be a bunch of rats. He knew, however, that it wasn't.

  The three of them hurried across the church. Olga took the torch from the central column.

  “In there,” said Elizaveta, pointing to the bucket of water. “Douse it in there. We'll take the other one.”

  Elizaveta took the torch by the door and Olga dropped the other into the wat
er. It hissed, smoked, and steamed.

  “Here,” said Elizaveta, feebly pointing to the wall. “That's the door. Oh… oh… dear Lord, grant us success and safety.” With the tin box in one hand and the torch in the other, she attempted to cross herself.

  Hearing distinct noise from the tunnel behind them, Nick lunged at the door, found the handle, and yanked it open. Elizaveta bent over, ready to exit first.

  “Hurry!” urged Olga, hearing footsteps.

  “Oh, my God,” said Nick.

  He had his hand on Elizaveta's back, nudging her forward as fast as he dared. Olga was crowded behind him. They were all at the door itself when a mighty shout burst forth.

  “Stop!”

  From across the room it was a deep, thundering order that left no choice but to obey. The three of them, still facing the door, froze.

  “Gospodi pomilui!” prayed Elizaveta, voice trembling.

  It was everything that Nick had feared all along. God, how he had gotten into this? They had him. Arrest. And then imprisonment. For how long? Forever.

  “Nick,” whispered Olga, pained. “I'm sorry. Truly I am.”

  He turned around expecting nothing less than a full squadron of militsiya.

  “My God!”

  It was Viktor Yezhov, the tall crowd controller from the exhibit, the one with the steel-framed glasses. His briefcase was thrown on the ground behind him and in one hand he held a stubby candle. In the other hand, pointed at them, was a handgun.

  XXIII

  “Step forward and get away from that door,” ordered Yezhov, waving the gun at them.

  “I…I don't understand.” Elizaveta, hiding the tin box in the folds of her habit, begged for an explanation.

  “Shut up, old woman!” shouted Yezhov, his voice deep and severe. “Now step forward.”

  Olga, holding the flaming torch, moved cautiously away from the door. Nick and Elizaveta inched forward in small steps.

  “What's going on?” demanded Nick, trying to pretend as if he were not afraid. He pointed to the gun. “Put that thing away. We haven't committed any crime or broken any laws.” He felt Elizaveta's withered hand grasp his wrist. “You're going to have to answer to your people as well as my government. I'm an employee of the U.S.—”

  “Yes,” said Yezhov, interrupting. Smiling, he was not intimidated. “An official employee and that is all.”

  His shirt grimy and sweaty, he edged farther into the church. “I have no idea what it is you all are up to down here, but under persuasion, the old woman at the entrance told me that you,” he said, aiming the pistol at Olga, “were connected with some church movement.”

  “Bozhe moi.” My God, said Olga, letting her eyes close. The babushka was part of the Church of the Catacombs, placed at the entrance so that other members could slip into the catacombs. “What did you do to her?”

  Yezhov was snidely indifferent. “Just enough to make her talk and show me where to find you—which she did, although she was a bit noisy. I'm sure she's run far away from the catacombs by now.” He moistened his lips. “Plans have been made for you, Miller, and whatever you are involved in down here will only help matters up top.”

  “Oh, Lord,” moaned Elizaveta. The surface meant that the documents would fall into the hands of the Soviet government and that all would be lost.

  “Nick,” began Olga. “I'm… I'm sorry.” Though there was nothing but pain on her face, her mind was racing ahead and she was thinking of something much different.

  Hot wax from Yezhov's candle splattered onto his wrist. He blew out the flame and tossed the candle to the floor.

  “You,” he said to Olga. “Give me the torch.”

  Her deep eyes perked up. She knew what to do, and glanced to the side for confirmation from Elizaveta. They looked briefly at one another in acknowledgement; this was the type of situation for which they had long ago prepared. Olga raised the torch and stepped forward. Just then Elizaveta began to grow and whirl.

  “Oi, oi…” said Elizaveta, desperately clutching the heavy folds of her gown on her chest. “My heart. Dear God, my heart!”

  Yezhov shifted his attention to Elizaveta, and Olga acted. Her arm recoiling like a heavy spring, she heaved the burning torch at Yezhov with all her strength. Dripping flaming drops of fuel, it spun through the air. Yezhov raised his arms in protection and the torch hit him full force.

  “Run, Nick, run!” cried Olga. “Take my aunt and get out of here!”

  Burning fuel soaked into Yezhov's skin and he cried out in pain. His shirt sleeve smoldered, threatening to catch fire. Battling the torch and the oily substance it smeared upon him, he dropped the gun. At the same moment the torch fell to the floor and the flame went out. In an instant the Church of Saint George was hopelessly black.

  His heart pounding as if it might burst out of his chest, Nick tried to see something, anything. Any second he expected a bullet to go tearing through him. He had never experienced such absolute and intense blackness before. His eyes were wide open, yet he was blind, unable to see even his own arms and legs. And here they were buried beneath the earth's surface.

  “Olga!” he shouted, stretching his hands outward into the void.

  “Get out of here!” she demanded from nowhere. “Take my aunt and go. She has important documents, Nick. You must get her out of here!”

  “Olga!” He couldn't leave her.

  Something grabbed at him and latched on. Nick stifled a scream. It was Elizaveta's rough hand.

  “The documents!” repeated Olga.

  “Yes, yes,” came Elizaveta's excited voice. “She'll stop the man. We've come too far to lose. We've got to save the documents!”

  Rapid steps were converging upon Nick. Something was poking through the air. It was an extended arm, lunging for him. Nick swung his foot back and kicked. His hard shoe sunk into soft flesh, and Yezhov's deep, pained cry was evidence of the damage. He sensed Olga at his side. She apparently struck Yezhov with her fist. Then she turned to Nick and started pushing him away.

  “Go, hurry!”

  He heard her lunge in Yezhov's direction. A frenzied scuffle was evidence that they had connected.

  The noise and turmoil were all around him. Nick didn't know what to do, where to go. Elizaveta pulled on him.

  “We must leave!” cried the old woman.

  “Olga!” What would happen to her? “Olga!”

  “Nick, go! Go!” she screamed as she struggled with Yezhov.

  The old woman pulled on his arm and he began to follow her. His hand in front like a shield, he touched the outlines of several icons. He understood at once what Elizaveta intended: they would escape through the rear entrance. He sensed that she was bending over and he leaned, but not far enough. The dull, cold wall tore into his forehead.

  “Jesus…”

  He braced himself to prevent falling over and, touching his forehead, felt ragged, sticky skin. Elizaveta continued to pull on him and then he was through the door and into a black void beyond. She released him and he heard her shuffle back and shut the door.

  “Miller, come back!” Yezhov's words were muffled by the wall and made impotent by the darkness.

  From within the church Nick could hear the crashing of icons and candelabra. Yezhov started swearing as he struggled. There was a pause as someone fell. Olga cried out. Olga? How could he leave her?

  “Molodoi chelovek,,” whispered Elizaveta. “We must go.” Sensing his hesitation, she said, “Olga can take care of herself.”

  “I'm here.”

  Nick, his arms outstretched, felt the empty air for Elizaveta as he stumbled across the dusty, rocky tunnel floor. He touched the heavy material of her habit and took hold of her arm. She set off at once, Nick at her mercy.

  “Run, Aunt Elizaveta!” cried Olga from inside the church. “Get away!”

  Her voice faded along with the scuffling as Nick and Elizaveta made their way through the black tunnel. Nick held one arm overhead. Grimacing, he turned his face side
ways, fully expecting to collide with a jagged rock. In anticipation of stone and debris, his steps were large and clumsy. He was nothing more than a blind man.

  “Just follow me. I know. I know,” said Elizaveta, reassuringly, her voice coming out of nowhere. “I've spent my whole life down here.” Just then she tripped over a rock. “Oi!”

  Her fingernails ragged, she held his arm as she struggled for balance. She groaned, and he tried—where was she?—to help her. Then, just as he grabbed her, he too stumbled over the rock. She helped him, and once they were sure they were both standing, hurried on. She slowed a moment later and Nick heard the patting of her palm against the tunnel wall.

  “Soon,” she said. “We must be there soon. Ah, yes.”

  Nick reached over and ran his hand along the cold rock. Abruptly it gave way to nothing. A corner. Another passage.

  “Yes, this way. This way,” said Elizaveta. “We must be quick. We have a long way.”

  Her aged hand poked about the empty space until it landed on Nick. With the same fervor she took him and led the way around the turn.

  “Wait,” said Nick, suddenly hopeful. “I forgot. The matches. Olga gave me the matches.”

  “Good,” she gasped.

  His hands shook as he searched his pockets for them. The loss of sight accentuated everything and he sensed the blood pulsing through his body, frantic and somehow disjointed. And now that they were stopped he could hear something more fragile: Elizaveta's desperate, sporadic breathing. Only inches away from him in the interminable darkness, he listened as she dragged the air over her teeth and into her body. Her saliva gurgled as she wheezed.

  Fearful of spilling the matches on the ground, Nick's hands trembled as he lifted the small wooden box from his pocket. He turned the box over and over in his hands, wondering which way was up. Nick felt for the opening, slid open the lid, and plucked out a match.

  With its tip, he searched for the flint. He found the abrasive strip and struck. Nothing. He struck again. Nothing. A third time. The match hissed, sparked, and burst into flame.

  Light. Nick's eyes recoiled from the brightness. The smell of sulphur filled the air and Elizaveta's worn face, wrapped in her black habit, appeared out of the darkness. Her eyes red and wet, her cheeks smudged and sagging, she looked at the flame, squinted, and then glanced at Nick.