The Cross and The Sickle

by R. D. Zimmerman

  “Nick!” said Elizaveta, the pain of the past few days evident in her face. Then she turned to Mayakovsky, bowed her head, and bent to kiss his hand. “And Bishop Tikhon.”

  XXXIII

  “Bishop?” said Nick, incredulous. “I don't believe it.”

  Unaccustomed to having his authority challenged, Mayakovsky was angered. To Elizaveta, he said, “Better go inside.” Glaring, he turned to Nick. “Spare me your judgments. We haven't much time.”

  The three of them entered the main room of the house. Elizaveta immediately went to the bedroom.

  “I'll get the documents right away,” she said, calling over her shoulder.

  Placing his gun and coat on the table, Mayakovsky went to the side of the window and, with his back against the wall, carefully looked down the hill. The light green taxi was parked down the road beneath a tree.

  “Elizaveta,” he said when she came back in the room, “do you feel strong enough for a quick walk through the catacombs? Unfortunately, we've been followed.”

  She pressed the red tin box against her chest and stopped still. “Oi. Not again. How terrible. When are they going to leave us in peace?” She shook her head. “But I'm…I'm fine. This dress is much cooler.”

  Mayakovsky motioned to Nick for help, and the two of them lifted the heavy wooden table out of the center of the room. Mayakovsky proceeded to the large fireplace, issuing orders one after the other.

  “Elizaveta,” he said, speaking fast, “we need candles, matches, and I need a black cassock. I left one here, didn't I?” His words to Nick were blunt. “You… go to the window. Don't let them see you by any means. Just keep an eye on them and let me know if they start coming. They should be on their way soon. If there's something illicit going on, they'll want to discover it while it's going on, not after.”

  Nick at once crossed to the large window. Through its bubbly glass he spotted the light green taxi and the dull figures of two or three men. He could not, however, stop thinking about the catacombs. He wanted sun, fresh air, and unlimited space. The caves were the last place he wanted to be. He shut his eyes momentarily, only to be overtaken by the memory of Elizaveta's unconscious body and of the mad dog.

  At his side, the old woman said, “Nick?”

  He was startled. “Right here.”

  Hers was a face that had witnessed many births and many deaths, weathered as much by age as by life and its tragedies. With a gentle smile, she handed him the red tin box.

  “The documents are in here,” she said. “They're your charge now and… I have great faith in you. I'll explain more once we're out of the house, but—”

  Accepting them, he said, “If I get out of the country, I'll make sure they get to the right place. And I'll make sure that they get as much publicity as possible. I'll do all I can, I promise.”

  Standing on her toes, she reached up and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, dear Nick, for taking the documents. Olga would have been very proud.” She turned away and covered her eyes. She went to a cupboard by the sink, fighting back tears. “Olga, my precious one…” She reached for some candles. “She was so young. I've lived three of her lifetimes… why couldn't it have been me?”

  “Elizaveta,” said Nick, “I…I…” Turning the box over in his hands, he wished he could do more than just take some papers to the West.

  On his hands and knees in the fireplace, Mayakovsky was striking a metal object with his fist. Ashes whirling about, he reached into the back and pulled on some sort of lever. Within the minute a large sheet of iron came loose in his hands. Gritting his teeth, he lifted the covering aside and exposed a hollow space behind.

  “There.” He stood and brushed off his hands. “Anything from the car yet?”

  “No,” said Nick. “They haven't moved at all.” He stepped away from the window and anxiously examined the opening in the back of the fireplace. “Wonderful, more caves…” he muttered.

  “Yes, another entrance.”

  “This city's riddled with holes.” Full of trepidation, Nick unzipped his carry-on bag and set the red tin box inside. “And then what?”

  “We'll detain them,” said Mayakovsky, hoping that it was possible, “until your plane takes off.”

  Elizaveta held up several boxes of wooden matches and four candles. “Here.”

  “Good.” Mayakovsky's mind was racing ahead. “Leave some matches on the table in plain view. Take the rest of them and the candles with you. Now my cassock, Elizaveta, where?”

  The candles bundled under one arm, she went to the bedroom and pulled a long black robe from an ancient trunk. She brought it into the main room and, holding it open at the top, helped Mayakovsky into it. He pulled the garment over his head and worked it all the way on. The robe, full around the legs, reached the ground, concealing all of his clothing except part of his white shirt around the collar. It was a tailored fit and the large man appeared quite at ease in the black cassock.

  “How convenient,” said Nick, gesturing with his hand. “Out of one uniform and into another.”

  Mayakovsky dismissed the remark and turned to Elizaveta. “How many torches are inside?”

  She thought for a moment. “Four.”

  “All right,” he said. “Now you've got the matches and candles. I'll help you in and then you can start off. We'll catch up in five or ten minutes.”

  Lifting his robe, Mayakovsky squatted and stepped into the fireplace. In another movement he was through the opening and into the caves. Reaching his hand out, he helped Elizaveta as she bent over and crawled in.

  “Oi…oi…oi…” she moaned.

  Left alone in the house, Nick nervously moved away from the window. He spotted the two of them, only their legs visible, just inside the caves. There was a burst of flaming light when Mayakovsky lit one of the torches and handed it to Elizaveta. Nick heard them converse, the specific words indiscernible, as Mayakovsky related his plan to Elizaveta. Shortly thereafter Elizaveta started down the rugged tunnel, burning torch in hand, and descended into the depths of the dark catacombs. Mayakovsky re-emerged, his black robe smudged with gray ashes.

  “Any sight of them yet?” he asked.

  “No. None.” Nick could not take his eyes off Mayakovsky. In his uniform only minutes earlier he looked like the perfect KGB colonel. Now, in his long, black cassock, he looked like one of the head monks at an ancient monastery. “How could you claim to be a representative of God and do the work you had to for the KGB?”

  The sunlight entering the room made Mayakovsky squint. “Don't forget that because of my work I might be able to get you out of the country.”

  “Yeah, but… we're talking integrity.”

  “No, survival. The KGB has had their own infiltrators in the Church of the Catacombs, so why shouldn't we have our own moles in the KGB?” He reached for the gun and slipped it under his robe. “We are criminals by Soviet law and outcasts from the official Soviet-sanctioned Russian Orthodox Church. To protect my congregation, many years ago I decided to enter the heart of the enemy's camp. Frankly, I never expected to have such a ‘successful’ career in the KGB. It seemed to have almost happened on its own… I just never stopped it.” He made sure the matches were in plain view on the table.

  Nick forgot about the car below. Checking the window, he said in a nervous voice, “They're getting out. Three of them.”

  Mayakovsky motioned toward the caves. “Go on, get in. Light one of the torches and wait for me.”

  Nick scratched his unshaven face. “I suppose I don't have any choice.”

  “No, you don't.” He handed him some matches. “Goon.”

  Nick crossed the room, took a deep breath, and crawled into the fireplace. Holding the carry-on bag to prevent its dragging through the ashes, he edged his feet along, then stepped through the opening and into the caves. The familiar cool dampness surrounded him. He found the bucket and took the heavy wooden torch. Striking a match against the rocky wall, he lit the torch and it burst into a black, oil
y flame.

  “Are you set?” called Mayakovsky.

  Examining the tunnel, Nick said, “As ready as I'll ever be.”

  Nick got down on his knees and watched through the opening as Mayakovsky, his cassock flowing to the ground, stepped out the front door of the house. Caught in the bright morning sunlight, he cupped his eyes, spotted the three men, and then hurried back in the house. He left the door wide open behind him and ducked into the fireplace.

  “I didn't want to leave any doubt in their minds,” said Mayakovsky, a contemptuous grin on his face. “They shouldn't be too far behind us.”

  The carry-on bag looped over his shoulder, the flaming torch in the other hand, Nick said, “Listen, I don't want to get lost down here a second time. I hope you know the way.” Nick adjusted the collar of his dark Polish suit.

  “We won't get lost, they…” He checked back in the house. “Quickly, now. We must go.”

  “Into the caves and then what?”

  “There's another way out. You can get a taxi and you should just make your flight.”

  Leaving one in the bucket, Mayakovsky took the third torch and stashed it in a small crevice.

  “We can do with one,” he said, “and that's all I want them to have, too.”

  Mayakovsky set off, leading the way through a narrow tunnel with sharp, jagged walls. He was slow at first, not wanting to get too far ahead of Yezhov. The passage veered left and suddenly began to head downward. Nick carried the torch, holding it high, and took large steps down the inclined path. It began to twist, to wind itself deeper and deeper into the caves of Kiev. Mayakovsky paused at one point, disturbed not to hear anything. Then it came, a series of footsteps.

  “Good.” He reached down, picked up a handful of rocks, and threw them noisily to the ground. “They shouldn't have too much trouble. This passage is fairly simple.”

  “So maybe I'll make it to the airport,” said Nick, glancing behind them. “But what's going to happen to Elizaveta and you?”

  Taking Nick by the arm and urging him on, Mayakovsky said, “Part of the catacombs have been discovered, but not all. Together Elizaveta and I will be withdrawing from this world.”

  Nick was shocked. “You can't be serious.”

  “I most certainly am.” He strained to hear if the others were still following. “Before the Revolution, monks lived for decades at a time without surfacing. And so shall we.”

  “But surely the caves aren't that big.” Nick clambered over a pile of loose rocks. “They'll search the catacombs. You'll never make it.”

  “There are more caves farther down the Dneiper. And if they discover those, then we shall go elsewhere. Siberia is a very large place.”

  The tunnel continued its downward plunge, all the time growing cooler. Suddenly the sounds of the three chasing men caught up with Nick and Mayakovsky. At a junction of passages, fright constricted Nick's throat as a flurry of frenzied noise reverberated all around. Echoes bounced off the walls and shot off the ceilings like a series of ricocheting bullets. It was impossible to tell from which direction the sounds were coming and, the confusion evident on his face, Mayakovsky began to move faster. The torch's flame, leaving a coal black streak on the tunnel's ceiling, sizzled and cracked. The path fell away, precipitously dropping, and in a moment emptied into the enormous Great Hall, its craggy roof soaring high overhead like a demoniac cathedral. Across the broad, shallow lake and on the other side of the vast room was Elizaveta. At such a distance she appeared but a dwarfish figure with a small burning stick, her murky reflection grotesquely stretched out on the lake's still waters.

  Nick and Mayakovsky clambered down the rugged path and to the banks of the lake. Breaking into a run, they hurried toward Elizaveta.

  “They're faster than I expected,” said Mayakovsky, the worry creasing his forehead.

  The torch's flame bending backward, the bag slapping Nick's side, they sprinted to the safety of the other side. His heart racing, Nick glanced over his shoulder. The tunnel behind them began to glow with light.

  “Get rid of your torch,” ordered Mayakovsky.

  “Forget it,” said Nick, unable to escape the memory of being lost in the caves.

  “Damn it!” Mayakovsky grabbed the torch from Nick. “Elizaveta's got hers. Run toward her. After this room we go by candles.”

  Bringing his arm back in one swift movement, Mayakovsky hurled the torch into the lake. A spinning stick of fire, it flew in a long arch through the air until it fell to the lake, hit the water's surface, and went out in a cloud of smoke and steam.

  Mayakovsky reached for the gun in his robe. When they got to Elizaveta, he lit two candles from her torch and handed one of them to Nick.

  “Any problems?” she asked, nervously.

  “Not yet,” said Mayakovsky, his attention focused behind them.

  She took the other candle from him, handed him the torch, and started off. “To the nesting room.”

  Mayakovsky heaved her torch into the lake and the Great Hall darkened, the only light coming from the two candles.

  “I sure as hell hope you know what you're doing,” said Nick.

  Abruptly the noise at the other end of the lake came to a crescendo and the three men, led by Yezhov, stormed into the Great Hall. They carried guns in hand.

  “Mayakovsky?” Yezhov, torch in hand, called in his deep voice. “Come to your senses.”

  To taunt him, Mayakovsky shouted back, “In the Church of the Catacombs I am known as Bishop Tikhon. I would appreciate your so addressing me.”

  Elizaveta scurried into a small tunnel, Nick right behind her. Mayakovsky, his attention focused on the three men, lagged behind. A warning shot was fired, its bullet bursting from Yezhov’ s barrel with a snap of fire, then slapping into the cavern wall above Mayakovsky's head. Mayakovsky pushed Nick into the passage, took cover behind a rock, then fired two shots in return.

  Carrying the candle, Elizaveta scurried through a straight tunnel, its walls smooth and round. Nick chased after her, Mayakovsky catching up after Yezhov had fired a second shot. The passage turned to the right, but was not crossed by any other tunnels or grottos. If by mistake this were a dead end, Nick realized that they would be cornered.

  The frantic running of the three men in pursuit could be heard not far behind.

  “Elizaveta, how far is it?” demanded Mayakovsky. “The nesting room—how far?”

  “Just a ways.” Once again her breathing was becoming strained.

  “Are you all right?” asked Nick, cupping his candle with one hand.

  “Fine,” came her labored response. “And glad that it will be over soon—one way or the other.”

  The tunnel began to decrease in size until they came to a small opening that led into another chamber. Elizaveta stopped at the entry of this next room; the ground in it was covered with a strange dry, brown substance that floated around their feet.

  “Ready?” asked Mayakovsky.

  “Oh, yes,” she said.

  To Nick, Mayakovsky said, “Reach out and hang on to Elizaveta. We are going to pass through a large room and it is imperative that you do not talk and that as little noise as possible is made. We have to put out the candles—Elizaveta will guide us—and then we'll light them on the other side.” He returned the gun to his cassock.

  Nick's attention was caught by the commotion of the three men behind them. “The sooner,” he said, blowing out his candle, “the better.”

  Puckering her lips, Elizaveta blew out hers and the caves became as black as the subterranean depths of the earth could be. Trying not to panic, Nick lunged his arm out and took hold of Elizaveta's arm. Mayakovsky’ s large hand grasped Nick's shoulder and, a line of three blind persons, they made their way through the small opening and into the next cavern.

  Immediately, their feet sank into a warm, slippery, manurelike substance. Inhaling, Nick was overcome by the thick, foul-smelling air. Trying not to lose his balance in the slimy substance that oozed over his sh
oes and up his legs, at the same time he struggled to stifle an urge to both gag and vomit. Hot, moist, ammonia-filled breezes came in undulating waves, and Nick thought he heard something, something high overhead in the fathomless room. He tensed, gripping Elizaveta harder and feeling her brittle bones. A mysterious object seemed to whiz past his ear. Then another, back and forth. Nick forced himself not to scream. A creature chirped to one side, then another. A soft gush of wind folded over him, and Nick guessed what this room was. It was a nesting room full of thousands and thousands of bats. Another two or three of the creatures, their long bony wings cutting through the black air, swooped down. A dozen or so followed, checking out, it seemed, these human intruders. Nick wanted to speak out, to cry out. Only Mayakovsky's tight and obviously frightened grasp on Nick's shoulder kept him quiet. But all around, from every corner, Nick could hear the bats. An endless number of them blanketing the entire ceiling of the enormous chamber and, Nick knew, clinging to the walls in dense clusters. Their occasional high-pitched chirping, their bodies rubbing and ruffling, the musty stank of the guano all about—the presence of the bats could be sensed everywhere.

  The cavern was extensive. When they reached the other side minutes later, Elizaveta began feeling about with her foot for a ledge. Apparently she was not right where she should have been. She continued to tap, carefully and with as little noise as possible, feeling for a smooth ledge that would lead to the passage out of the nesting room. She pulled to the left, then back to the right. Frustrated, she stuck out her hand. By accident she poked right into a mound of sleeping bats and they exploded into terrified flight. Elizaveta's arm recoiled and she shook with the scream that she dared not emit. When she had regained her senses, she pulled farther to the right, and here she found the ledge. With Nick's silent help, she stepped up. He jumped up behind her, anxious to get out of this room, and Mayakovsky followed at once. Above the subtle noises of the bats, however, they could now hear Yezhov and the other two men running through the tunnel. Soon light filled the opening on the other side of the room. Elizaveta had just reached the exit when Yezhov, holding the torch, appeared in the other opening.