Lazar stood, his ears ringing, staring at the plumes of dust, waiting for it to settle. As the cloud thinned it revealed a hole in the wall twice the height of a man and equally wide. The damage made it appear as if a giant had accidentally put the tip of his boot through the church and then apologetically retracted his foot, sparing the rest of the building. Lazar looked up at the golden domes. Everyone around him followed suit, a single question on everyone’s mind: would the towers fall?
Out of the corner of his eye Lazar could see the film crew scrambling to get the cameras rolling, wiping the dust off the lens, abandoning the tripods, desperate to capture the footage. If they missed the collapse, no matter what the excuse, their lives would be on the line. Despite the danger, no one ran away, they remained fixed to the spot, searching for even the slightest movement, a tilt or jolt-a tremble. It seemed as if even the injured were silent in anticipation.
The five domes did not fall, aloof from the petty chaos of the world below. While the church remained standing, scores in the crowd were bleeding, wounded, weeping. As surely as if the sky had clouded over, Lazar sensed the mood change. Doubts surfaced. Had some unearthly power intervened and stopped this crime? Spectators began to leave, a few slowly, then others joined them, more and more, hurrying away. No one wanted to watch anymore. Lazar struggled to suppress a laugh. The crowd had broken apart while the church had survived! He turned to the married couple, hoping to share this moment with them.
The man standing directly behind Lazar was so close they were almost touching. Lazar hadn’t heard him approach. He was smiling but his eyes were cold. He didn’t wear a uniform or show his identity card. However, there was no question that he was State Security, a secret police officer, an agent of the MGB-a deduction possible not through what was present in his appearance but what was absent. To the right and left there were injured people. Yet this man had no interest in them. He’d been planted in the crowd to monitor people’s reactions. And Lazar had failed: he’d been sad when he should’ve been happy and happy when he should’ve been sad.
The man spoke through a thin smile, his dead eyes never moving from Lazar:
– A small setback, an accident, easily fixed. You should stay: perhaps it will still happen today, the demolition. You want to stay, don’t you? You want to see the church fall? It will be quite spectacular.
– Yes.
A careful answer and also the truth, he did want to stay, but no, he didn’t want the church to fall and he certainly wouldn’t say so. The man continued:
– This site is going to become one of the largest indoor swimming pools in the world. So our children can be healthy. It is a good thing, our children being healthy. What is your name?
The most ordinary of questions and yet the most terrifying:
– My name is Lazar.
– What is your occupation?
No longer masquerading as casual conversation, it was now an open interrogation. Subjugation or persecution, being pragmatic or principled-Lazar had to choose. And he did have a choice, unlike many of his brethren who were instantly recognizable. He didn’t have to admit that he was a priest. Vladimir Lvov, former chief procurator of the Holy Synod, had argued that priests need not set themselves apart by their dress and that they may throw off their cassocks, cut their hair, and be changed into ordinary mortals. Lazar agreed. With his trim beard and unremarkable appearance, he could lie to this agent. He could disown his vocation and hope that the lie would protect him. He worked in a shoe factory or he crafted tables-anything but the truth. The agent was waiting.
SAME DAY
In their first weeks together Anisya hadn’t given the matter much thought. Maxim was only twenty-four years old, a graduate of Moscow’s Theological Academy Seminary, closed since 1918 and recently reopened as part of the rehabilitation of religious institutions. She was older than him by six years, married, unattainable, a tantalizing prospect for a young man whom she supposed to have limited, if any, sexual experience. Introspective and shy, Maxim never socialized outside of the church and had few friends or family, at least none that lived in the city. It was unsurprising that he’d developed something of an infatuation. She’d tolerated his lingering stares, perhaps even been flattered by them. But in no way had she encouraged him. He’d misunderstood her silence, inferring permission to continue courting her. It was for that reason that he now felt confident enough to take hold of her hand and say:
– Leave him. Live with me.
She’d been convinced he’d never find the courage to act upon what could only ever be a childish daydream-the two of them running off together. She’d been wrong.
Remarkably, he’d chosen her husband’s church to cross the line from private fantasy into open proposition: the frescoes of disciples, demons, prophets, and angels judged their illicit moves from the shadowy alcoves. Maxim was risking everything he’d trained for, facing certain disgrace and exile from the religious community with no hope of redemption. His earnest, heartfelt plea was so misjudged and absurd that she couldn’t help but react in the worst possible way. She uttered a short, surprised laugh.
Before he had time to reply the heavy oak door slammed shut. Startled, Anisya turned to see her husband-Lazar-hurrying toward them with such urgency that she could only presume that he’d misconstrued the scene as evidence of her infidelity. She pulled away from Maxim, a sudden movement that only compounded the impression of guilt. But as he drew closer she realized that Lazar, her husband of ten years, was preoccupied with something else. Breathless, he took hold of her hands, hands which only seconds ago had been held by Maxim:
– I was picked out of the crowd. An agent questioned me.
He spoke rapidly, the words tumbling out, their importance brushing aside Maxim’s proposal. She asked:
– Were you followed?
He nodded:
– I hid in Natasha Niurina’s apartment.
– What happened?
– He remained outside. I was forced to leave through the back.
– Will they arrest Natasha and question her?
Lazar raised his hands to his face:
– I panicked. I didn’t know where else to go. I shouldn’t have gone to her.
Anisya took him by the shoulders:
– If the only way they can find us is by arresting Natasha, we have a little time.
Lazar shook his head:
– I told him my name.
She understood. He wouldn’t lie. He wouldn’t compromise his principles, not for her, not for anyone. Principles were more important than their lives. He shouldn’t have attended the demolition: she’d warned him it was an unnecessary risk. The crowd was inevitably going to be monitored and he’d be a conspicuous observer. He’d ignored her, as was his way, always appearing to contemplate her advice but never heeding it. Hadn’t she pleaded with him not to alienate the ecclesiastical authorities? Were they in such a position of strength that they could afford to make enemies of both the State and the Church? But he had no interest in the politics of alliance: he only wanted to speak his mind even if it left him isolated, openly criticizing the new relationship between bishops and politicians. Stubborn, headstrong, he demanded that she support his stance while giving her no say in it. She admired him, a man of integrity. But he did not admire her. She was younger than him and had only been twenty years old when they’d married. He’d been thirty-five. At times she wondered whether he’d married her because being a White Priest, a married priest, taking a monastic vow, was itself a reformist statement. The concept appealed to him, fitting with his liberal, philosophical scheme. She’d always been braced for the moment when the State might cut across their lives. However, now that the moment had come, she felt cheated. She was paying for his opinions, opinions that she’d never been allowed to influence or contribute to.
Lazar put a hand on Maxim’s shoulder:
– It would be better if you returned to the theological seminar and denounced us. Since we’re going to be arrested the denunciation would only serve to distance you from us. Maxim, you’re a young man. No one will think worse of you for leaving.
Coming from Lazar, the offer to run was a loaded proposition. Lazar considered such pragmatic behavior beneath him, suitable for others, weaker men and women. His moral superiority was stifling. Far from offering Maxim a way out, it trapped him.
Anisya interjected, trying to keep her voice friendly:
– Maxim, you must go.
He reacted sharply:
– I want to stay.
Slighted by her earlier laugh, he was stubborn and indignant. Speaking in a double meaning invisible to her husband, she said:
– Please Maxim, forget everything that has happened, you will achieve nothing by staying.
Maxim shook his head:
– I’ve made my decision.
Anisya noticed Lazar smile. There was no doubt her husband was fond of Maxim. He’d taken him under his wing, blind to his protege’s infatuation with her, alert only to the deficiencies in his knowledge of scripture and philosophy. He was pleased with Maxim’s decision to stay, believing that it had something to do with him. Anisya moved closer to Lazar:
– We cannot allow him risk to his life.
– We cannot force him to leave.
– Lazar, this is not his fight.
It was not her fight either.
– He has made it his. I respect that. You must too.
– It is senseless!
In modeling Maxim on himself, the martyr, her husband had chosen to humiliate her and condemn him. Lazar exclaimed:
– Enough! We don’t have time! You wish him to be safe. I do too. But if Maxim wants to stay, he stays.
Lazar hurried toward the stone altar, hastily stripping it bare. Every person connected to his church was in danger. He could do little for his wife or Maxim: they were too closely connected to him. But his congregation, the people who’d confided in him, shared their fears-it was essential their names remain a secret.
With the altar bare, Lazar gripped the side:
– Push!
None the wiser but obedient, Maxim pushed the altar, straining at the weight. The rough stone base scratched across the stone floor, slowly sliding aside and revealing a hole, a hiding place created some twenty years ago during the most intensive attacks on the church. The stone slabs had been removed, exposing earth that had been carefully dug and lined with timber supports to stop it subsiding, creating a space one meter deep, two meters wide. It contained a steel trunk. Lazar reached down and Maxim followed suit, taking the opposite end of the trunk and lifting it out, placing it on the floor, ready to be opened.
Anisya lifted the lid. Maxim crouched beside her, unable to keep the amazement out of his voice:
– Music?
The trunk was filled with handwritten musical scores. Lazar explained:
– The composer attended services here, a young man-not much older than you, a student at the Moscow Conservatory. He came to us one night, terrified that he was about to be arrested. Fearing that his work would be destroyed, he entrusted us with his compositions. Much of his work had been condemned as anti-Soviet.
– Why?
– I don’t know. He didn’t know either. He had nowhere to turn, no family or friends he could trust. So he came to us. We agreed to take possession of his life’s work. Shortly afterward, he disappeared.
Maxim glanced over the notes:
– The music… is it good?
– We haven’t heard it performed. We dare not show it to anyone, or have it played for us. Questions might be asked.
– You have no idea what it sounds like?
– I can’t read music. Neither can my wife. But Maxim, you’re missing the point. My promise of help wasn’t dependent on the merits of his work.
– You’re risking your lives? If it’s worthless…
Lazar corrected him:
– We’re not protecting these papers; we’re protecting their right to survive.
Anisya found her husband’s assuredness infuriating. The young composer in question had come to her, not him. She’d then petitioned Lazar and convinced him to take the music. In the retelling of the story he’d smoothed over his doubts, anxieties-reducing her to nothing more than his passive supporter. She wondered if he was even aware of the adjustments he’d made to the history, automatically elevating his own importance, recentering the story around him.
Lazar picked up the entire collection of unbound sheet music, maybe two hundred pages in total. Included among the music were documents relating to the business of the church and several original icons that had been hidden, replaced with reproductions. He hastily divided the contents into three piles, checking as best he could that complete musical compositions were kept together. The plan was to each smuggle out a more or less equal share. Divided in three, there was a reasonable chance some of the music would survive. The difficulty was finding three separate hiding places, three people who’d be prepared to sacrifice their lives for notes on a page even though they’d never met the composer or heard his music. Lazar knew many in his parish would help. Many were also likely to be under suspicion of some kind. For this task they needed the help of a perfect Soviet, someone whose apartment would never be searched. Such a person, if they existed, would never help them.
Anisya threw out suggestions:
– Martemian Syrtsov.
– Too talkative.
– Artiom Nakhaev.
– He’d agree, take the papers and then panic, lose his nerve, and burn them.
– Niura Dmitrieva.
– She’d say yes but she’d hate us for asking. She wouldn’t sleep. She wouldn’t eat.
In the end, two names-that’s all they could agree upon. Lazar decided to keep one portion of the music hidden in the church, along with the larger icons, returning them to the trunk and pushing the altar back into position. Since Lazar was the most likely to be followed, Anisya and Maxim were to carry their share of the music to the two addresses. They would leave separately. Anisya was ready: