The Cross and The Sickle

by R. D. Zimmerman

  “Olga and I,” he began, “were working together to get you to take some documents to the West.”

  Nick was stunned. “What about her uncle in…in New York?”

  “There is no uncle, nor has there ever been.”

  Nick said, “Are these the same documents that—”

  “Yes, Elizaveta's documents,” said Mayakovsky, bursting with impatience. “Now do as I say. Put these clothes on. We must not waste any more time. I'll explain once we're out of here.”

  That he would be leaving KGB headquarters was encouragement enough. Nick unbuttoned his shirt and threw it to the ground, he kicked off his shoes and dropped his pants. Though he didn't know what it would accomplish, the guise began to make sense. Each article of clothing was fabricated in a Soviet-bloc country. The white cotton shirt was from Rumania, the dark baggy shirt from Poland, and the thick-soled, red-tinged shoes from Moscow's Lenin Shoe and Boot Factory. Once dressed, Nick examined himself in the broken mirror above the sink.

  “My God,” he said, a smirk on his face. “I look like I've lived here all my life. All I need are a few gold teeth.”

  Mayakovsky paid no attention. He picked up Nick's American clothing and deposited it in the trash can, meticulously burying the items beneath day-old trash. When he was satisfied that no one would find them, he washed and dried his hands. He then took a small bundle of papers from his breast pocket and handed it to Nick.

  Predominant was the hardcover Soviet passport. Nick opened it and was shocked to see his own black and white photograph glued into it.

  “Christ, that's me.” He tapped the photo and glanced up. “How did you get my picture?”

  “From your file, of course.”

  Officially embossed and completely filled in, the passport read; Berzinch, Vadim; Nationality, Latvian; City, Minsk. In addition, there was a work book with a detailed employment history written into its pages.

  “You have a slight accent,” said Mayakovsky, “and Baltic accents in Russian most closely resemble American. So you're Latvian, but you've been working as a computer scientist in Minsk for the past six years.”

  Not knowing what he was involved in, but fully aware that this was anything but official, Nick asked, “How dangerous is this?”

  Mayakovsky was blunt. “Very.” He handed Nick the carry-on bag and unlocked the door. “Come on, I'll explain more in the car.”

  Suddenly reluctant to give up his identity as a foreigner, Nick grew angry. “What in the hell is this all about? Where are you taking me?”

  “Let's go,” said Mayakovsky, opening the door. “I picked Elizaveta up at the hospital a few hours ago. We have a quick stop to make at her house.”

  Nick was paralyzed with confusion. “Elizaveta's house? Really, I…”

  Mayakovsky could no longer restrain his temper. “Perhaps I misjudged you, Mr. Miller. I assumed that you would help us with the documents for Olga's sake alone. Otherwise, it seems, she will have died in vain. Then again, maybe we were all wrong about you. Maybe you can't act, even though without your help an achievement of great historical and political value will be totally lost.” Burning with indignation, he said, “Perhaps you would rather stand trial for Olga's murder?”

  Nick wiped the sleep from his eyes, took a deep breath, and said, “Come on, let's get the hell out of here.”

  XXXI

  Disturbed by what he had just witnessed, Yezhov did not move from the secluded corner in the foyer.

  After he had received the phone call, he had hurried to headquarters, unsure what to expect but not expecting anything like what he had just seen. He had somehow hoped to become part of Miller's interrogation and in that manner, at least partially, to regain some of the recognition he felt he deserved. Instead he had walked down the street, the early morning sky charged with yellowish-orange light, and up the granite steps of the KGB’s Kiev headquarters. But just as he entered the building's foyer, only to find it oddly empty, he heard someone quietly making his way down the hall. Suspecting that it could be one of Mayakovsky's people, Yezhov sought cover.

  He then moved with haste behind a large, decorative pillar. But the person who had entered the lobby was not one of Mayakovsky's sergeants, nor even Mayakovsky's aide. It was Mayakovsky himself. And from his secretive spot, Yezhov watched in surprise as the colonel signaled someone and, seconds later, Miller appeared. The two of them then wasted no time in crossing through the lobby and to the rear of the building.

  Mayakovsky's and Miller's steps having just disappeared, Yezhov, still positioned behind the pillar, heard more steps coming from another direction. Yezhov remained motionless. Within the minute, a young guard entered the foyer and returned to his desk. Yezhov spoke when he was sure that the junior officer was alone.

  “Comrade.” Yezhov, his voice threatening, moved into sight.

  The young man, who had thought he was alone, gasped and quickly raised his head.

  “Where were you?” demanded Yezhov. “Why were you not at your post?”

  “Colonel Mayakovsky,” said the young man defensively, “thought there was someone on the second floor who shouldn't be. He sent me to check on it.” He shook his head. “There was no one.”

  Yezhov took a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned his steel-frame glasses. Gazing pensively in the direction that Mayakovsky and Miller had gone, he knew what needed to be done. Should he be wrong, he and his career would be ruined forever. Should his suspicions prove correct, the promotions would be many.

  XXXII

  Kreshatik Street was for the most part empty, its six lanes free of vehicles except for one slow, nearly empty trolley bus and several delivery trucks. The first of the morning's workers were beginning to appear on the sidewalks, and lights were on in both Gastronom Number 21 and Central Milk and Cheese Store.

  Slumped in the passenger seat, Nick tried not to look conspicuous as the black Volga sedan sped along. He felt anything but anonymous in the Soviet bloc clothes and he was certain someone would recognize him.

  “This is the first time I've seen the sun in days.” But he couldn't stand it any longer. “What do you mean you and Olga were in on this together?” He raised his hands. “In on what?” Looking out at the sun and the new day, he shook his head, still unable to believe it. “She's dead. Christ, Olga's dead.”

  His hands firmly on the steering wheel, Mayakovsky did not respond at once. “Yes.” His voice was choked with emotion. Blankly he said, “I knew she couldn't go through with it.”

  “Damn it all, through with what?” demanded Nick. “And after Elizaveta's, then where are we going to—”

  “She couldn't go through with blackmailing you,” said Mayakovsky, interrupting.

  Nick sat up. No, that couldn't be true. Yet… “From the very start?”

  “Yes.” Mayakovsky nodded slowly and deliberately. “That's why she approached you and asked to meet.”

  It was difficult for him to speak. “Are you saying that…” Nick didn't want to believe it. “No. No, it wasn't all a setup.”

  Mayakovsky shifted gears. “It was all part of a much larger plan.” Looking at him out of the corner of his eye, Mayakovsky said, “How much do you know?”

  His mind still on Olga, Nick asked, “About the documents?” He shrugged. “Not much, only what Elizaveta shouted to me. She said they'd prove that the Tsar was killed.”

  “Yes, actually they're telegrams ordering his execution. You'll see them soon enough…” He noticed a light green taxi behind them and his voice trailed away. His eyes on the rear view mirror, Mayakovsky accelerated and said, “I'm part of it… part of the same underground group.” His concentration was focused on the taxi. “We had been looking for a way to get the documents out of the country when I learned of the Kremlin’ s intention to arrest you. You were to be the second American.”

  “Two for two,” said Nick, disgusted. “Only juveniles and governments play like that—we have two Soviet spies in the U.S., they want two Americans her
e.”

  They passed the main Metro station on Kreshatik and Nick's eyes lingered on the familiar plaza. The public space was now empty, however, save for one old woman with a short broom.

  “The Kremlin wanted an even bargaining position.” Mayakovsky turned and reprimanded him, saying, “You made yourself an easy target—you said the right things that provoked the wrong people.” He checked the mirror again. “Our original idea was merely to get you to take a package to Olga's relative in New York. Our hope, of course, was that you wouldn't have known what you were taking. We were going to conceal the papers in the false bottom of a box and you would have sent them to our contact at the Russian Orthodox Monastery in the state of New York. In exchange for this, we would have notified your embassy that you were the next target. We presumed that they would have prevented—one way or another—your arrest.”

  “But the bottom line was blackmail,” stated Nick, bluntly. “Or should I say still is? Look at me,” he said picking at his clothes. “I'm a damn Sov. What are you going to do with me if I cooperate—drive me to the embassy in Moscow? And if I refuse, then what? Will you just shove me out the door and let them pick me up again?”

  Mayakovsky, growing uneasy about the car behind them, reached into his coat pocket. “I trust this will be persuasive.” He handed Nick an Aeroflot plane ticket. “There's a flight to Vienna at nine. With any luck you'll be on it.”

  Nick examined it and was incredulous. “Is this some kind of joke?” he said, holding up the ticket as if it were worthless. “I've got a Sov passport, I'm wearing Sov clothes. Since when can Soviet citizens travel freely? Really, this place is the world's biggest prison camp and you think I'm just going to go and—”

  “Please…” said Mayakovsky, waving a hand at Nick. His attention was fixed on the long bouncing antenna on the taxi lurking somewhere behind them. “Your name is Vadim Berzinch and you are a computer scientist from Minsk. Try to look smart. You're supposed to be one of our top computer people on your way to the technology fair in Vienna.”

  Nick was shocked. He ran his hand through his hair and looked nervously out the window. “My God, but—”

  “It should work. I've sent agents out before and I was to send one to Vienna tomorrow. The passport you have is his passport. I've already phoned the customs officials at the airport and told them that there has been a change of plans. I told them that agent Berzinch, who is a minor master of industrial espionage, was leaving today instead and that they should facilitate his exit. Let's just hope no one finds out until you're over Austrian territory.”

  Working through it in his own mind, Nick fell silent. He had to put things in perspective, and that included being put on trial for Olga's murder. He opened the ticket and noted the flight's destination: Vienna. Nick leaned back, throwing his head over the top of the seat. What choice did he have? After all, it might work.

  “So…” he began, “how much of this did Olga know?”

  “She knew it all,” said Mayakovsky. “But don't confuse the issue. She did care for you. Truly. Yet if that had been all there was to it, she still could have done it,” he said, concentrating on driving the black sedan. “She could have still blackmailed you no matter how much she felt for you. She was, in a word, dedicated.”

  He turned his head toward Mayakovsky. “But?” If he did get out, this would be his last chance to learn the truth.

  “But there was the aspect of Elizaveta, to whom Olga was extremely devoted. You see, Elizaveta didn't know anything of this KGB business or of our intent to blackmail you. Olga insisted that Elizaveta not be told, not only because Olga knew her aunt would disapprove of the whole affair—and possibly not give up the documents—but to protect her aunt should something go wrong. That was Olga's main desire—to shield her aunt.”

  “Which is exactly what she did—to the very end.” Nick recalled the incident at the Church of Saint George and shuddered. “She threw the torch at Yezhov and yelled at us to run… no warning or anything. She just did it.”

  Mayakovsky passed a yellow Icarus bus and crossed onto Komsomol Square. Nick slumped further in his seat, his eye on the Dneipro Hotel to the right, and tried to imagine what things had been like at the exhibit since his arrest. Surely the guides were now asleep in - their hotel rooms.

  Mayakovsky made a broad circle around the ring of photographs in the center of the square. He steered the car toward the road that led down to Podol and suddenly the pavement gave away beneath them. They headed down the steep incline and descended from Kiev's high bluffs to the lower town, the road at the bottom snaking back and forth. As far as Mayakovsky could tell, the taxi was no longer behind them.

  “It was the incident at Saint Vladimir's Cathedral,” volunteered the colonel, “that brought things to a head for Olga. She ran away from you because she knew you were followed. You see, whenever just the two of you met, I called off your tail.” They passed through the center of Podol and crossed Krasnaya Square. “By acting as she did in the cathedral, we knew Olga had lost your trust. It was decided then that you should meet Elizaveta, a member of her family.”

  Nick recognized the advice and sat forward. Angry, he said, “That's exactly what Masha and Boris told me. They're in trouble because of me, aren't they?”

  Mayakovsky nodded indifferently. “Eventually the dust will settle and they'll be fine.” He did not want to upset Nick further by telling him that his friends were already in jail and would likely be there for some time to come.

  Nick could not hide his disgust. He pulled away and leaned up against his door.

  Going on, Mayakovsky said, “Olga was one of the few people whose actions and beliefs were in harmony. She felt it was necessary to get the documents to the West and she justified deceiving you by believing that she was actually helping you—helping you to avoid arrest here.” He turned the car down a side street flanked by low buildings. “When she saw that this wasn't true—that she could do more harm than good—and when the decision was made to involve her aunt, she changed her mind. Her final realization was that she had to be honest both to her aunt and to you, or else it wasn't worth it. There was too much risk involved, otherwise.”

  “Didn't you know this?” said Nick, placing the blame on Mayakovsky. “She's dead. Couldn't you have done something? Didn't you see what she was doing? Maybe she wouldn't have been killed if—”

  “That's right!” shouted Mayakovsky, unable to hide his own guilt. “If only I'd been there, if only I'd have seen what she was doing. But I didn't and she didn't tell me…” He shook his head. “Oh, I was aware that she couldn't go through with it anymore. That much was obvious. I saw it in her face and I was making alternate plans. I just didn't suspect that she would act on her own so quickly. And then Yezhov…” Mayakovsky checked the mirror. The taxi had reappeared in the distance.

  “Olga told me something about her mother,” said Nick. “Do you know anything about it?”

  “Some, not much. She was murdered, that much I know. She also was part of the Church of the Catacombs,” said Mayakovsky. “Olga would never talk about it, but her mother was murdered by the KGB for her religious activities. That's why Olga wanted the documents out.”

  “And that's why Olga was willing to do as much as she did… in retaliation, I suppose.” He understood still more about her. Nick turned to Mayakovsky. “So you're part of it, too. Part of the Church of the Catacombs.”

  Mayakovsky humbly nodded.

  His voice snide, Nick said, “I don't understand how a KGB colonel can be involved with a church.” He shook his head. “So what about you? What's your reason for wanting the documents in the West?”

  “Atheism is one issue, but there is something more disturbing in the U.S.S.R. today.” More concerned about the vehicle behind them than his words to Nick, Mayakovsky's tone lacked sincerity. “People by nature need something to believe in, some ‘opiate’ as Marx said, to relieve the pain. And there exists in the Soviet Union such an opiate: Lenin. Plainly, I fear
that Lenin is becoming a god in his own right—his pictures and quotations are more omnipresent than church materials ever were. You can't escape ‘Uncle Lenin’ here, and I feel something, anything, must be done to discredit him.”

  Nick didn't accept it. “Isn't that a pat answer. Sounds like a nice sermon you've rehearsed a thousand times.”

  Sure of it now, Mayakovsky turned to Nick and sarcastically said, “I'm sorry I can't give you my full attention, but at the moment I'm more concerned about the car that's following us than what you think about me.”

  They parked on the dirt road beneath Elizaveta's house and proceeded by foot up the hill. Mayakovsky led the way and Nick, knowing that they were being observed, felt his stomach twist into a painful knot.

  Under his breath, Nick said, “I can't believe you want them to follow us.” The carry-on bag hung from his shoulder.

  “Of course I do. Better now than lead them to the airport and have them pull you off the plane,” said Mayakovsky without turning around. “It's Yezhov and one or two others, no more. Just don't look back. I don't want them to know that we are aware of them.”

  Digging his feet into the ground, Nick said, “But what if they've notified someone?”

  “I don't think they will have. Not yet, anyway. I doubt they'll do anything until they're sure there's something wrong. They are all subordinates of mine, after all. In any case, no one will look for you at the airport. Now, if only we can elude them…”

  Up ahead was Elizaveta's small wooden house perched on the side of the steep hill. The early morning sun broke through the trees, casting angular beams of white light on the structure. As they neared the house, Mayakovsky reached into his coat and took out a handgun. He then took off the coat of his uniform and draped it over one arm.

  “I won't be needing this anymore,” he said of the coat.

  When they were within a few meters of the house, the front door opened and Elizaveta appeared. Looking pale but healthy, one side of her face was struck by a bolt of sunlight. More accustomed to the dark, she squinted painfully and moved into a shadow. She wore her old house dress, gray with faded roses, and opened her arms to them.