Winter Palace (34 page)

She cried as well, trying to lower her head so that he would not see how his tenderness opened her soul. She with a woman's wisdom could, in the moment of their first true confession of spirit, see all that was already gone from her life, all that he and his love was to change, all that she was called to leave behind. That was the price of this adventure called lifelong love.

The next morning she clung to him with bonds that went far beyond the tender caresses, the soft words, the yearning eyes. Her heart held his, filled him with a light and a joy that caused real pain as his own heart grew and expanded to accept her gift. They watched the dawn with eyes sharing an inner light more majestic than the cloud-flecked sky, more glorious than the symphony of bird-song outside their window.

“You can't just treat this as a game,” she said over coffee.

“It's tempting,” he confessed.

“Not anymore,” she went on. “Not when my life is in your hands.”

He reached for her, said the words that seemed ever new no matter how often they were repeated. “I love you, Katya.”

“There is responsibility with that, Jeffrey.”

“I know.”

“If something happened to you, I could not go on.” Her eyes were violet wells into which he plunged and wondered at the depth of love he found there. “I'm not saying that to scare you, but just to make you understand. You have to be careful. For me. You have to take care.”

“I will, Katya.”

She searched his face, found enough reassurance there to taste the smallest smile. “You're too handsome by half, Jeffrey Sinclair. Don't you dare look at another woman until you get back, do you understand?”

“I've already packed my club.”

“I never thought I would fall for a handsome man. Never in my wildest dreams.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“My dreams were always of a man with pretty eyes. I indulged myself that much. Pretty eyes and a good heart. A minister, maybe, or a doctor who spent his free days working with poor children.” She stared up at him and repeated with wonder in her voice, “Never in my wildest dreams.”

“Are you sorry?”

Jeffrey decided hers was the way all smiles should be, beginning at the heart, brimming up through the eyes, finally touching the lips. She said, “Now you're fishing for compliments.”

“A shopkeeper who sells used furniture—”

“A fine young man with the face of some famous explorer,” she corrected, and traced the line of his jaw with one fingernail. “You really do, you know. Full of strength and bravery and courage.”

“Makes up for a heart the size of a lemon, I guess.”

“Stop it, Jeffrey,” she said mildly. “I think that's what frightens me, how you take this strength so much for granted. It makes me worry you might try something foolish, not even thinking it through, just because your strength's never really been tested.”

“You're beginning to get me about half-scared.”

“Good.” Her smile took on a hint of sadness. “You are precious to me, Jeffrey Allen Sinclair. More precious than my own life.”

His eyes burned from the honesty in her words. He leaned forward, tasted her lips, whispered the promise, “I'll be careful, Katya. For you.”

****

Jeffrey stepped off the plane to find Saint Petersburg sweltering under a mustard-yellow sky. The air stank. Each breath burned his nostrils and coated his tongue. While waiting for his suitcase, he overheard another passenger say that the city's garbage dump had been burning out of control for nine days. Because of the drought, there was no water available to put out the fires.

The streets, such as they were, belonged to the pedestrians. Few people could afford cars, fewer still the bribes required to obtain gasoline. Streetcars were jammed, the metros eternally overcrowded and stuffy. Gypsies worked the crowded pedestrian ways, surrounding their chosen victim, wailing in a dozen voices, and pressing cranky babies up to the victim's face, while nimble fingers used the confusion to pick the victim's pocket. Street kids rode buses and trams for kicks, clinging to the rear guide wires that led up to the overhead power cables. They swung by one hand, smoked cigarettes with the other, dangled their bodies over the cars behind, laughing all the way.

Jeffrey watched the street scene from the backseat of a jouncing taxi and nursed a sore neck. Perhaps because of missed sleep or anticipated stress, perhaps because of missing Katya, his back was once again complaining loudly. The taxi driver did not help matters. He drove too fast down potholed streets, slammed on brakes at the last possible moment, raced his motor at stoplights, wove in and out of traffic, used elevated tram tracks like ski jumps, and generally drove like
everyone else. Jeffrey braced himself as best he could and hoped the pain would not worsen.

After dropping his case by the guesthouse, Jeffrey continued on to the Alexander Nevsky Lavra. When he arrived at the monastery's office building, Jeffrey was escorted immediately into Father Anatoli's office.

“I have some information for you,” the priest reported, motioning him toward a seat. “But first it is necessary to explain the background. Earlier this year, the leader of the Ukrainian Rites Church wrote a letter to our Patriarch in Moscow. I suppose you are familiar with the history of the Ukrainian churches?”

“Just the bare bones,” Jeffrey replied.

“In his letter, the Ukrainian wrote and said, let us be brothers in Christ's name. Let us work as one for the salvation of our Russian and Ukrainian brothers and sisters. It was a glorious moment for people within the church who feel as I do. Glorious.

“Patriarch Alexis did not wish to reply with words, but rather with deeds. He ordered the Metropolitan of Kiev, the head of the Orthodox church in the Ukraine, to accept the offer and to return the Ukrainian churches that were given to the Orthodox after Stalin's infamous synod of 1946.” His expression turned bleak. “You can guess what happened.”

“The Metropolitan refused.”

“Exactly. Patriarch Alexis used this refusal as an opportunity to convene the first synod of all Russian Orthodox bishops in over ninety years. Evidence was brought against the Metropolitan of Kiev and others who had been raised up within the church hierarchy under pressure of the former regime.”

“The Metropolitan of Kiev worked for the KGB?”

Father Anatoli nodded. “This we knew for a fact. And now that the KGB no longer held the reins of earthly power, he worked for the new Ukrainian government. For
the Communists turned capitalists. At any rate, the synod stripped the Metropolitan of his titles.”

“Something in your face tells me the story didn't end there,” Jeffrey observed.

“Indeed not. The man replied by breaking the Ukrainian Orthodox church away from Moscow.”

“Trouble,” Jeffrey offered.

“Chaos and danger. Our priests within the Ukraine who condemn this action are now beginning to disappear. He has the backing of the Ukrainian government, you see, who wish to have the religious ties as well as the political ties to Moscow broken.” The priest looked infinitely weary. “It is a problem like that of the Communists all over again.”

“The Consul General mentioned the church's tie to the KGB,” Jeffrey said. “It amazes me that they could infiltrate the church's hierarchy to such an extent.”

“It is indeed so easy to judge the ways of others,” Anatoli replied coolly.

“I'm not judging anybody,” Jeffrey countered. “I just don't understand.”

He examined Jeffrey closely. “Very well, I shall explain. There can be no question that many of the clergy worked closely with the KGB. Not just from our church, but
every
church allowed to operate within the former Soviet Union, including the Protestants. The question we face today is, when did the necessary contact with the Communist authorities become collaboration and betrayal? In some cases, it is almost impossible to determine. In others, there is no doubt.”

“Like with the Metropolitan of Kiev,” Jeffrey offered.

“Exactly,” Anatoli agreed. “You see, under the Communist system,
every
priest and
every
Protestant minister required government permission to preach, to organize a parish, and to hold church office.”

“Did you also have to have permission to enter the priesthood?” Jeffrey asked.

He hesitated. “Officially, no. In practice, yes. No one could
be admitted to a seminary or theological college without the government's permission. Why? Because it was necessary to apply for travel permits to journey from one city to another. And once there, it was necessary to have a residence permit in order to stay and study.”

“A legal straitjacket,” Jeffrey said.

“In effect,” Father Anatoli confirmed. “In the first year at seminary, all students were then ordered to visit the local KGB official responsible for church activities. He was always a senior officer. The pattern was well known. At this first meeting, he would be quite kind, quite friendly. There would be no threats. He would say, there is of course religious freedom in our country. We in the government are merely anxious to see that the church function in its proper way.

“But, the KGB officer would continue, there are some elements within our society who are opposed to the great Soviet system. They seek to use the church for ulterior motives. It is essential that we identify these people and protect our nation from harm. If you see among the staff or students at the theological college any anti-Soviet attitudes, we would be grateful if you would inform us. Just to ensure that the church functions smoothly, you understand. Such people can do a lot of harm to everyone.”

“It chills the blood,” Jeffrey declared.

“As it did for many students, especially those young ones from small villages who had no way of preparing for this contact,” Anatoli replied. “Now in the second year, the interview would be much tougher. The KGB agent would say, we were looking for your cooperation, but you haven't offered it. This does not bode well for you. It is a dangerous direction to take, and it makes me question your patriotism. Here, I have a list of names. We want you to report back to us in two or three months with any information you might be able to gather on them.”

“And there it starts,” Jeffrey said.

“If you were a person of strong moral character,” Anatoli
continued, “you could get through your four years of training without giving anything of great importance away. But even so, the seeds of distrust and fear were sown among the clergy. There was never any assurance that someone might not inform on you, if ever you were to speak too openly or trust someone too deeply.”

“And those of weaker character?”

“Exactly. Inevitably, among two hundred students or so, there were some who were unstable.”

“Or scared,” Jeffrey added.

“Or who fell into moral difficulty,” Anatoli finished. “The KGB were most eager to use honey traps on any of the weaker priests. This granted them a weapon they could wield against the priest for his entire life. And so a network of spies was established within each seminary class.”

“And once that first step was made, the next step was much easier.”

“The downward path quickly became very steep,” Anatoli agreed. “Among my own classmates there was the saying, give the KGB the first knuckle of your little finger, and they will soon take the entire body, the entire mind, and the entire soul. Once the weaker priests were hooked into the KGB machine, the state used its influence to push forward these people's careers.”

“Through these permits.”

“For a start. No priest or bishop could serve anywhere without first receiving permission to live there. Then, of course, once a person they controlled was in a position of responsibility, the KGB would instruct them as to which priests they should bring in or assign elsewhere.”

“The way you describe it,” Jeffrey said, “it seems amazing that any believers at all were brought into senior positions.”

“It is indeed a miracle,” Anatoli agreed. “A testimony to the power of God that despite these pressures, the majority of priests and bishops remained steadfast in their refusal to compromise their faith and their church.”

“So where does that leave us in regard to the missing treasures?”

His manner turned grim. “Some of those who compromised themselves under the old regime continue to do so today. They have either chosen to do so willingly or have been forced to continue their unholy service. Their masters have simply traded one cloak for another.”

“They told the KGB about the treasure hidden in the Ukrainian church crypt,” Jeffrey said.

“Who in turn sold it elsewhere,” Anatoli finished. “To some group who, in my opinion, has also been responsible for thefts of church treasures and artifacts from museums all over the country.”

“You mean the government is involved in repeated thefts?”

“The government is involved, but not involved. Just as six thousand churches taken from us by the Communists are returned, but
not
returned. The laws offer the bureaucracy room to abuse us.”

“Which they do.”

“Which they have done, and continue to do at every opportunity. This was a favorite Communist trick. Now it is a favorite trick of Communists turned capitalists. The deal is done, but not done. The church property is returned on paper but not in fact. So there is a vacuum. Museums which supposedly have released church artifacts show us directives to return confiscated treasures and icons, but the church has never received them.” He spread his hands in resignation. “We are forced to grasp a double-edged sword by the blade.”

“You believe treasures from your own church have also been stolen in this way?”

“We know, but we have no proof. When we question others about this, we receive no help. The bureaucrats recall the orders of their former Communist masters and shun us. The police pocket the mafia's bribes and offer only words, never action. The museum directors stand under leaking roofs and shrug their lack of concern.”