Winter Palace (19 page)

“There is no way to be certain,” Ivona replied. “What is
sure is that the Orthodox church has been a part of the Russian state government for centuries. It was more centrally organized, and it was more controllable than something based in Lvov or Kiev and owing allegiance to a nation that would never again exist, if Stalin had his way.”

Yussef gave his quiet command, and Ivona translated for him. He shook his head, gave a few sharp words in reply. Ivona translated them as, “The Ukrainian church has suffered as the Ukrainian people have suffered. And now the Ukrainian Catholic church and the Russian Orthodox are locked in a very serious struggle. That is all you need to know.” She watched the young man driving, and continued, “The young have little time for discussion. The Communists fed them a lifetime of twisted words, words warped into lies. Now the young wish to act. I cannot fault them for this lack of patience.”

“So Stalin tried to wipe the Ukrainian church off the map,” Jeffrey said, wondering anew how she managed to stay so intact in this heat.

“The Communists tried to extinguish the fire in the hearts of Ukrainians,” Ivona replied. “They sought to crush all that was great. In these many decades, people here have learned to live with the worst. Few can even remember the time when their church was not something hidden in cellars and their faith not practiced in secret. Fewer still know of any great Ukrainian saint or artist or king or poet, because the Soviets sought to erase all memory of their names. This was what it meant to live under Soviet domination. This was the punishment of the innocents.”

****

Bishop Michael Denisov greeted Jeffrey with an appearance that was the only falsehood about him. He looked so gentle, so frail, so helpless in the face of all the turmoil and hardship that surrounded him. He beamed pleasant defenselessness
to all he surveyed, displaying a weakness that Jeffrey sensed was not the least bit real.

“Last year, I am letting my assistant go off for a doctorate,” he said, ushering Jeffrey into a cramped little flat owned by two local church members. Jeffrey showed no emotion as Yussef planted yet another warm pepsi on the table in front of him, then retreated to the sofa beside Ivona. “Can you believe?” the bishop continued. “Who is needing a doctorate here? But, okay, there is no excuse for me, selfishness is not a holy virtue, I have to let him go. And now I am alone.”

His face was aged, yet strangely unlined. His hair was snow-white and so very soft, like his gaze, which blessed everything it touched with humble peace. He moved not with an old man's shuffling gait, but rather like a balloon tethered to an impatient hand, bouncing here and there, attracted to all it saw but returning to its original path with little jerky motions. His English was somewhat mangled, but delightfully so, and his accent strong but understandable.

Jeffrey motioned toward where Ivona translated quietly for Yussef. “You don't look too alone to me.”

“Yes, friends. Thank the God above for friends, no? But I tell you, brother, what we are needing more than all else is priests. First priests, then money. We are drowning in work. Drowning! And my assistant, where is he? Studying for a doctorate in Rome. But the walls, they have all come down. How can I refuse my assistant his lifelong dream?”

“I think you did the right thing,” Jeffrey replied.

“You think yes?” The bishop gave a happy shrug. “Thank you, dear brother. Maybe. Maybe. But what you don't know is my church, it is having no doctorates. Not even the bishops! The apostolic delegate, yes, he is having such a title. But my assistant, he is studying Petrology. You know what is this?”

“No idea at all.”

“No, nor I!” The bishop seemed delighted by the fact. “He will return and I will be having an assistant who is knowing more than his bishop. What do you think of that?”

“I think there are all kinds of wisdom, most of which does not come from books,” Jeffrey replied, liking him. “Where did you learn your English?”

“Oh, dear Jeffrey, life is so full of moments that you don't expect. I am having big experiences in Newark, New Jersey. Big experiences! I was there two years, can you believe that? After I escape from the Ukraine, I am studying for priesthood in Rome. Then I am working in France, always with refugees from our homeland. Many, many people escape. So many. One million flee in 1920 alone, oh, yes, and even with so many difficulties and hardships, still there are people escaping over years, just like me. We are having our own diaspora, just like the Jews into Babylon. Yes, so many tragedies. So, I am sent to the United States for two years, and still my English, it sounds like I am learning last week.”

“Your English is fine.”

The bishop wagged his finger. “Now, now, dear Jeffrey. You must not tell falsehoods, are you not knowing your Bible? Look at Ivona here, never out of the Ukraine since a child, and still she speaks perfect English, does she not?”

“She speaks better English than I do.”

“Oh, no, no, dear, no. There you are, falsehoods, falsehoods. This will not do, brother Jeffrey. We must have truth even in compliments, yes? So. I am without an assistant, and I must use my very poor English to ask help from a brother in Christ, yes?”

“Yes,” Jeffrey agreed, letting his smile loose.

“So. How to explain, how to begin.” The bishop sighed happily. “The Ukrainian Rites Catholic Church is in communion with the Pope, while the Russian Orthodox is not, do you see?”

“I think so.”

“Excellent, excellent.” The bishop beamed his approval. “Ukrainian Catholics are therefore called Uniates, because we are united with other Catholics. But our liturgy, dear Jeffrey,
our services, are very much Byzantine. Uniates, yes. And then there are the Orthodox. Ivona has told you of them?”

“A little.”

“They have many problems, dear Jeffrey. Oh, so many problems. Now they are having Orthodox believers in many cities who want to make a new church, separate from Moscow, separate from Rome, separate from everybody. And not just here. Just like the Soviet states, how they are dividing, right now, right now, this very moment the church is in explosion after explosion. Estonia, Latvia, Belarus, Georgia, Lithuania, everywhere there is problems with nationalism and patriotism and Orthodox faith.”

“And with your own church, if I understood Ivona correctly.”

The gentleman's gaze dimmed. “Ah, dear brother, what problems you cannot imagine. Last year, we had a synod of our bishops. You are knowing this word, synod?”

“A conference,” Jeffrey offered.

“Yes, a conference of bishops. The first true synod in one hundred and one years exactly. The Synod of Lvov, pronounced
Livief
in Ukrainian. Many of my brothers, almost half, they were consecrated in hiding. You see, brother Jeffrey, in 1946 Stalin was outlawing our church. Yes. But many people did not wish to become Orthodox, they are staying to the faith of their fathers, and their fathers' before them.

“Yes. Back thirty generations, this tie to the Ukrainian church. Stalin hated this. Our church was a threat to his one great Soviet state. So our priests and bishops, they only worked in secret. Great danger, dear Jeffrey, such danger you cannot imagine. They gave Masses in cellars and they christened in trucks and they met only in night. Still there were the spies and the informers, and many died. Believers and priests and bishops, many suffered. But many still believed, dear Jeffrey.”

“And now it's all changed.”

“Not changed, my brother. Oh, no, no.
Changing
. All is
still difficult for us. Our churches, take our churches for example. Last year, we are finally receiving our cathedral, the St. George Cathedral here in Lvov, and the archbishop-general, he is now residing there. But the others, oh, Jeffrey, you cannot imagine.”

“I've seen a few,” Jeffrey replied grimly.

“For seventy years they have been stables. They have been warehouses. They have been crematoriums and laboratories and homes for the insane. Whatever the state could do that was bad to God's house, they did. Then in 1991, under glasnost, all the churches are being given back. More than six thousand churches, Jeffrey, can you imagine? Six thousand churches, and most of them in ruins. But this is not the problem, dear brother. No. The problem is who
received
these churches.”

“The Orthodox,” Jeffrey guessed.

The bishop clapped his hands. “Precisely! And do they want to share with us? No! Will they even speak with us? No! So now the Ukrainian government, first it declared independence on August 24, 1991. Then the new parliament, it
ordered
the Russian Orthodox Church to give back our churches. And still, dear brother, still they are doing nothing. But we, dear Jeffrey, we cannot wait! We have people calling to us in the street, begging us for Mass and schools and, oh, they ask for so much, and we have no place, no place! So do you know what we are doing?”

“Taking over the unused churches?” Jeffrey offered.

“If only, dear brother. If only we could. But an unused church, what do you think of a building that was seven hundred years old, and then was a stable, and then was a garage for trucks, and then was left without doors for thirty years?”

“Rubble.”

“No roof, no windows, rain and snow and dirt. Oh, my brother, you cannot imagine how it pains me to go into our churches.” He shook it off. “No, we
share
churches with the Orthodox. And what sharing! We hold Masses at different
times, yes, but our priests, they pass like strangers down different aisles. They do not speak, they do not see each other. And what are we teaching the people who come?”

“Not love, that's for sure.”

“Yes! You understand!” The bishop cast a look back toward Ivona. “So now we decide, we call them brothers. Yes. Now we are having the freedom with the religion, with our faith, so now we must show ourselves as Christians. We begin. We take steps. We are blind to anger. We give in Christ's name and see only that they are Christians. Human, yes, but brothers in our Lord. Only the heart we see. Only the good. And slowly things change. Not with all priests, no, dear brother, not theirs, not ours. But many. We see smiles. We share what we have. We
pray
together.”

He stopped.

“And then?”

“Yes.” Bishop Michael sighed the word. “There must be a then, no? I am here, I am asking for help, so change has come. A bad change.”

“Something was taken,” Jeffrey guessed.

When Ivona had translated for Yussef, the young man rewarded him with an approving look. Bishop Michael nodded. “Of course. You are intelligent man. You are
perceptive
man. But are you honorable? That is what we must know. Because, dear brother Jeffrey, this is a problem of great importance. Oh, so great. Yes, so I must ask, and then I must answer all the others who ask the same question. Is this American honorable?”

Jeffrey found himself with nothing to say.

The bishop nodded from the waist, bobbing back and forward in time to his words. “Yes, you are right, dear brother. There is no answer you can give. Not in words. Just in action. So. Do I trust you or not?” Still giving his gentle body motion, he closed his eyes, waited, then said, “I am thinking yes. So. Yes, dear brother. You are right but not right. Not something was taken, but
things
. Many things.”

“Antiques,” Jeffrey hazarded.

“Treasures,” Bishop Michael corrected, then settled back as to begin a tale. “There is a street in Lvov, dear brother, called Ameryka. It was lined with great houses. People in last century went to the United States, they worked, they came home, and they built great houses with their money. There was a church. A beautiful church. Church of St. Ivana, yes. The Communists, they made the front hall into Party offices and the back into oil storage depot. But you see, dear Jeffrey, it had doors. It had windows. Bad smell from oil, yes, but we could start there. So what we do, we
invite
our Orthodox brothers to come with us. Yes. Come and pray, we say. There are also Orthodox who need priests here. Come and share. And they do, dear Jeffrey. They come. But some people, they do not like this.”

“People in the Orthodox church complained about the two groups working closely together?”

“Their church, our church, government, everywhere there are people who like and not like. Big problems, dear brother. So big. And then, we discover the crypt. No, not discover. You know that word, crypt?”

“Yes.”

“A few know of crypt. Not many. One priest now in Poland, he was told by another priest, who was told—” Bishop Michael waved it aside. “No matter. We know. The church was built on older church. No, not on.”

“The church was erected on the foundations of an earlier church,” Jeffrey offered.

“Exactly, dear brother. You are seeing churches here. Christianity is old here, oh, so very old. The first churches, they used for building wood and the old bricks, and they crumble. With time new churches of stone were built, yes? But the foundations, dear brother, they remain. And crypts, yes, some were old. More than old. Ancient. From the great Kingdom of Kiev. Yes. Before Mongols, before invaders from Asia. Before power moves to Muscovy. Old.”

“And forgotten.” Jeffrey nodded. “A perfect place to hide treasures.”

“Exactly!” The bishop began his nodding motion once more. “So when the Revolution starts, you know, in the twenties, up come the stones, these heavy stones in the floor, up they come, and church treasures from all over Ukraine, those they could bring in time, they are placed inside crypts. Inside coffins. Quickly, quickly, because outside there are fires and riots and battles. Chaos everywhere, dear brother. Churches full, people pray to be taken away. People are searching sky for Christ. With so much chaos, many people are saying
must
be Second Coming. But Christ is not coming, only Communists. Battles are coming closer, and the stones, you know, they were put back and the rings were cut out, so no one could see where was the stairs down.”