The Cross and The Sickle

by R. D. Zimmerman

  Nick reached a fork in the passage. “Help!” he cried. “Anyone, help! I'm lost!”

  No one. He prayed for the police. For the KGB. And he turned left. A craggy tunnel, black ahead, black behind. Would he stumble along for hours, days, and go mad like the creature he had just killed?

  His body beaded with sweat. He had to remember where Elizaveta was. If he couldn't find his way out, he could return to her. Christ, what if she woke while he was gone? She had no light, there was no one near…

  He grabbed at his throat. It, too, was constricting, becoming painfully smaller. He stumbled into another tunnel.

  “Help!”

  Not even an echo. And not one of the Americans knew where he was. They didn't even know about Olga. And now they'd never know. He'd just disappear. Like his throat, the tunnel grew smaller, narrower. He stumbled against the sharp, rocky wall.

  “Please…”

  He turned down another passage. Ten feet later that in turn split. There was no way. No way he'd find his way out. He ran into a stone wall. A dead end.

  Elizaveta. He had to get back to Elizaveta. The flame was burning low and he had to reach her before there was no more light. He spun around, his breathing short and quick. Something was crushing his chest. Something was choking his throat.

  He burst into a run. Which tunnel? Right—no, left. He had to reach Elizaveta while he still had light.

  “Elizaveta!”

  Bitter perspiration dripped into his eyes. It stung like acid. The walls were closer, denser. He ran. The flame struggled for life. Life. He wanted the earth's surface. Kiev. The whole city was above him. Up. But he could not get there. He was lost. Buried alive in the catacombs.

  He ran past an opening. Something tore out at him. A bat. No, a whole mass of bats. He screamed and ducked. But it was not a bat. It was another creature and it grabbed him, took hold of him. Nick screamed and struggled and fought. He dropped the flame and yelled.

  But this thing had him in its grip. Firmly, it would not let go. Nick was spun around. He shut his eyes. Something struck him on one side of the face, the other.

  “Stop it!” demanded a voice. “Stop it!”

  Nick opened his eyes. A large man in a KGB uniform had Nick by either shoulder.

  “I… I…” began Nick.

  “The old woman,” demanded Colonel Mayakovsky. “Where is she?”

  Nick peered into one voidlike tunnel, then into another, “I…I don't know.”

  XXV

  Followed by four men, Colonel Mayakovsky climbed to the apartment building's second floor. It was seven o'clock in the evening and, via the monitoring device attached to their phone, Mayakovsky was aware that Boris and Masha Lupin were just finishing a supper of cabbage soup. He also knew that Masha's parents were still out of town at their dacha and that her grandmother, Baba Genya, had finished listening to the “Voice of America” and left only moments earlier.

  He paused outside the door, the men on the darkened steps behind him. He had made numerous such trips before and he clenched his hand into a solid fist. He raised that fist and brought it down on the apartment door in an unrelenting series of heavy knocks. Again and again, firmly and evenly spaced. The greeting of the KGB, it allowed no option but to open that door.

  There was abrupt movement from within the apartment. A spoon dropped into a nearly empty bowl of soup. Absolute silence followed as the young couple listened for the sound they did not want to hear. Between knocks, a chair scraped against the floor.

  Just then, at the bottom of the staircase below Mayakovsky, a tired woman entered the building. Carrying a string bag of eggs, a glass bottle of milk, and some black bread, she wearily mounted the steps. Hers had been so tiring a day that she did not notice Mayakovsky and his men until she had climbed halfway up to the second floor. Though the men startled her, she understood the situation at once.

  “Oi!” she said under her breath with horror.

  Mayakovsky's harsh glare conveyed it all: this will be you if you are not out of here immediately. Trembling, the woman understood and began backing down.

  “Ex… excuse me,” she was able to say. “Excuse me for interrupting.”

  She turned and hurried down the stairs and out the door, anxious to disassociate herself with the unpleasantness as soon as possible. Through a cracked window, Mayakovsky saw her run across the courtyard. He was sure that she would run—terrorized by the memories of Stalin's days—to a friend's, call her husband to make sure he was all right, and finally be grateful with the bread and milk she did find in the stores and that her family had not been hauled away to prison.

  Mayakovsky resumed his confident knocking. He heard movement, then again nothing. He could guess what had happened. Most likely holding onto one another in fright, the young couple was unsure what to do. Mayakovsky, through experience, knew the simple words which would help them.

  “Open the door!”

  Someone stepped forward and a quivering man's voice spoke out. “Who… who is it?” he asked not wanting to hear the answer.

  “Colonel Mayakovsky of the Committee for State Security.”

  The man whispered all too loudly to his wife: “KGB!”

  “Open the door at once,” ordered Mayakovsky.

  Without further hesitation, the man obeyed and began nervously fumbling with the lock. He opened the door, and Mayakovsky, not seeking permission, walked directly into the apartment. Boris retreated to Masha, and the two of them stood huddled together in the entry to the kitchen.

  Mayakovsky, wordless, strode boldly into the living room, the two small bedrooms, and pushing Boris and Masha aside, into the kitchen. He was satisfied only after he had also inspected the bathroom. He shouted to his men out in the hall.

  “Search it!”

  The four men, rugged and dressed in dark, indistinguishable clothing, stormed in. One went for the kitchen, another the living room, and the other two took the bedrooms. They crudely tore open every drawer, rummaged through every cabinet, inspected every corner. As they sifted through the Lupins’ possessions, it was evident not only that they were after something specific, but that they had done this many times before. Mayakovsky, like a proud landlord, did not lay a hand on anything. He merely surveyed, sure of his authority, while his subordinates did the work. He noticed that Masha was wearing the blue jeans Nick had given her.

  “Take off those pants!” he snapped.

  She edged backward into the kitchen, one hand to her mouth, the other groping for Boris's protection. She shook her head, unable to believe that this was happening to her. Tears filled her eyes and she began to sob.

  “Now! Here!” demanded Mayakovsky, his boyish face glaring with anger.

  Trembling with fear, salty drops of water, black with mascara, rolled down her cheeks. Masha undid the top button of her pants, lowered the zipper halfway, but could go no further.

  “Boris!” she cried.

  Without so much as raising an arm, Mayakovsky took a daring step forward. Automatically, Boris moved in front of his wife, staring at the colonel in challenge. Just then a shelf of pots and pans fell to the floor behind them as one of Mayakovsky's men emptied the kitchen cupboard.

  Retreating slightly, Mayakovsky said to Boris, “Get her something else to put on. Just have her take the jeans off and put them on the table.”

  Boris went into the bedroom only to find another of the men rifling through the wardrobe closet and throwing what was not of interest on the floor. Boris grabbed a skirt from the pile of castaway clothing. Paralyzed with anger he dared not express, Boris stood in the corner of the bedroom until he heard Masha crying. He tore back to the kitchen. Backed up against the wall and naked from the waist down, she held her left hand across her thighs and was wiping tears from her eyes with her right. The Levis jeans were strewn on the table next to the half-finished bowls of cabbage soup. Boris went to her and helped her into the skirt.

  The men began to emerge several minutes later, each one of
them bearing an item from the United States: a second pair of blue jeans, Marlboros, an America Magazine, a Joni Mitchell record, and a brochure from FARMING U.S.A. Mayakovsky inspected all the goods and approved their confiscation.

  “Get your coats,” he said flatly to Masha and Boris.

  “What for?” protested Boris. “We haven't done anything.”

  “Young man,” said Mayakovsky both confident of himself and intolerant of any further delay, “either you get your coats or you don't. Regardless, you will come with us.”

  Boris knew that there was nothing else to it and that for now it would be best to comply. Submissively, he went to the bedroom and sorted through the clothing littered on the floor. With no idea of when they would return and with stories in mind of those who had been arrested and held for months, he picked out a shirt, sweater, and coat for each of them. At least they would be warm. When he returned, Masha was pleading with Mayakovsky.

  “Why?” she begged, motioning dramatically to their ransacked apartment. “Why all this?”

  “Take the things and wait for me in the hall,” said Mayakovsky to his men. When they had obediently filed out, he turned back to Masha and Boris, his tone smooth and calm. “You are being arrested because of your association with the American.”

  “You, you mean…” Boris was afraid to say his name.

  “Yes, because of Nick Miller.” Mayakovsky waited a moment. “He has committed a most serious crime.”

  “Nick?” Masha couldn't believe it. “What could he have done?”

  A subtle smirk appeared on Mayakovsky's face. He was as blunt as he could be. “He shot and killed one of our own Soviet citizens last night.” Mayakovsky was pleased with the effect it had on them. “That's right, he murdered someone. There was a search and we found him in one of the caves near the Monastery of the Catacombs.”

  “No…” Masha shook her head. “No, that's impossible.”

  “Oh, but it's quite true. He's in jail right now.” Almost flippant, Mayakovsky clarified their situation to the point of simplicity. “You are fortunate, though. You have a choice: either testify against him or be charged as his accomplices.” With his hand, he indicated the men in the hallway. “The American goods we have taken—your connection to Miller will have to do with foreign items being sold on the black market.”

  Boris and Masha were so stunned that they could not utter a word of protest. They were helpless and they knew it. There was nowhere to run, no one to turn to for help. No matter the truth, everything would be as Mayakovsky had said.

  “Oh, yes,” said Mayakovsky. “The phone. I almost forgot.”

  He went to the telephone, took it firmly in his hands, and ripped it out of the wall in a single jerk. He neatly coiled the dangling cord in his hand.

  Pleased that all had gone so smoothly, he went to the door and held it open. With a slight smile, he said to Masha and Boris:

  “Well, that's everything. Shall we go?”

  XXVI

  Hands clasped behind his back, Colonel Mayakovsky gazed out the large window from his sixth floor office in the center of Kiev. With high ceilings, it was a spacious office, handsomely appointed with an expansive mahogany desk and a tall leather chair. Two telephones rested squarely on one side of the desk, and each pen and each piece of paper also had its proper place. Adorning the wall behind were two retouched photographs, one of Derzhinsky, the other of Lenin, both in hand-crafted frames.

  In the basement level of the same building, Kiev's KGB headquarters, things were not as pleasant; a lesser quality issue of Lenin's portrait hung there. It was one of the detention areas, and the windowless cell in which Nick Miller was imprisoned provided only a hard bed and cold water. The American had been there for two days now, ever since Colonel Mayakovsky had found the old woman and him deep within the catacombs. Masha and Boris Lupin were in separate cells on the next level down.

  There was a quick rap on the door.

  “Da.”

  Vishnyak, his aide, stepped in. “The agent being sent to the technology fair just arrived, Comrade Colonel.”

  With the events of the past few days so hectic, Mayakovsky was confused. “Technology fair?”

  “Yes,” said Vishnyak, typically well briefed on the colonel's pressing affairs. “The agent from Minsk to be sent to Vienna—for the technology exhibition—he is here.”

  Mayakovsky wasn't interested. “What about—”

  “Lieutenant Yezhov just arrived, too,” said Vishnyak with typical efficiency.

  “Send him in. The other can wait.”

  Bathed in sunlight, Mayakovsky did not turn away from the window. A moment later, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Yezhov enter, wearing a tunic, olive green uniform, and polished black boots.

  “Be seated, Lieutenant.”

  Yezhov chose the most well-padded chair. “You wished to speak to me, Comrade Colonel?”

  Still facing the window, Mayakovsky pensively moved his head up and down. “The past few days have been rather hectic.”

  Adjusting his glasses, Yezhov could not restrain his pride. “There have been many things to see to, many developments.”

  “Yes, there have been.” Mayakovsky examined the quiet street below. “The Kremlin, Lieutenant, is very grateful for the recent turn of events.”

  “Well…” he began with feigned modesty.

  Mayakovsky raised his hand, signaling silence. “They are pleased to have such a significant charge brought against an American and, in particular, against an employee of the United States government. Because he lacks diplomatic immunity, we will be able to bring him to trial. Yes, as you've probably heard, there will be a trial, and it's sure to attract a great deal of attention. International attention. After all, we publicize very few incidents of this nature.” Officially, serious crime did not exist in the U.S.S.R. “As a matter of fact, the story has already made front page news in London, Paris, Tokyo, and in every major American city. Because our own citizens will hear of it on ‘Voice of America’ this evening, we have decided to report the scandal in Pravda either tomorrow or the next day.” Indifferent, he shrugged. “Anyway, it will be substantial propaganda for us: ‘Soviet citizens—beware of contact with persons from the violent capitalistic societies!” Mayakovsky took a deep breath and exhaled. With his back still to Yezhov, he continued. “Not only do we have an American with a most serious charge against him, but we are able to provide concrete proof why our citizens should avoid future contact with foreigners. Undoubtedly, it will also help secure the release of our colleagues imprisoned in Connecticut.”

  “Let us hope so.”

  “As you are aware…” said Mayakovsky, annoyed at the interruption, “our press wishes to paint you the hero. They would like to portray you, I believe, as the daring young KGB lieutenant who tried most desperately to save the life of your comrade citizen. Again, nice propaganda—this time for us. There was even talk of claiming that you knew the dead woman

  … that you were prominent Komsomols together or something.”

  Yezhov flushed with pride and satisfaction.

  Mayakovsky cleared his throat and slowly, deliberately turned around. His face drawn and irritated, his words were measured. “But we both know who killed that woman, don't we?” he said as if he had rehearsed the entire scene a number of times.

  Caught off guard, Yezhov said, “I… I…” There had been nothing but praise ever since he had called Mayakovsky and reported that he had seen Miller shoot the woman.

  “I know it, you know it, and so does the Kremlin,” said Mayakovsky, taking several steps toward Yezhov and unable to restrain his anger any further. “Don't take us for fools, Lieutenant. We were aware of it from the start.” Mayakovsky had had a series of long debates over the telephone on how best to handle the situation. “While the Kremlin is pleased to have such a shocking charge brought against an American, they are rather indifferently disposed toward you and your part in all of this. I, on the other hand, deplore the wh
ole business.” Fury in his eyes, he stared point-blank at Yezhov. “You killed that woman!”

  Yezhov, twisting his hands together, tried not to panic. “So…”

  “Silence!” demanded Mayakovsky. He leaned on his desk toward Yezhov. “The gun was your gun, issued to you and signed for by you. Lieutenant Yezhov, you defied my orders, interfered where you were not supposed to, and committed an act of murder against an innocent victim.”

  He looked up. “Innocent?” said Yezhov, defensively. “She would have killed me!”

  Mayakovsky slammed his fist against his desk; the placid telephones shook. He couldn't bear to look at Yezhov anymore. In an attempt to control his rage, he stormed over to the window. Yezhov still had no idea whom he had killed nor of Olga's connection to Mayakovsky.

  “Lieutenant Viktor Yezhov,” began Mayakovsky, forcing himself to be calm, “I called you here this afternoon to inform you that there will be no story in Pravda regarding you, that you will receive no glory regarding this case, and that you are hereby given a month's leave of absence from your duties here and at the American exhibition. We will inform you when we are in need of your services.”

  “But Colonel Mayakovsky,” protested Yezhov, rising to his feet, “what of Miller's trial? What of the Western journalists? I was there, I was the witness!” Realizing this could be the end of his career, he became desperate. “You'll need help with Miller's interrogation. I can help, Comrade Colonel. Please, you can't do this to me.”

  Gazing out the window, Mayakovsky said, “Of course we can. The Kremlin is very pleased with what has come of all this, but I have no need for an officer who is unable to follow orders. Should we be in need of a witness, we will make one.”

  Yezhov demanded: “Whose decision was this?”

  Disgusted, Mayakovsky said, “That is not your concern.”

  The lieutenant sat down again. He took off his steel-frame glasses and, rubbing his eyes, racked his brain for some sort of leverage. “But… but what about the documents?”