The Cross and The Sickle

by R. D. Zimmerman

  The small Russian woman tried to step in front of the worker. “But we are a strong people and we have rebuilt.” Changing the topic to a less heated one, she said, “Kiev is a clean city, a green city, don't you think?”

  “Yes, a clean city, a green city,” righteously continued the worker. He put a massive hand on the woman's shoulder and moved her aside. “But it was eighty percent destroyed. The Fascists were right here, can you imagine? Even my own parents were…”

  Nick crossed his arms and the words faded. He glanced around the crowd, and from their wide, emotion-filled eyes, it was obvious that each and every one of them had lost a family member in the war. Because of this he restrained himself from telling them that he felt the real horrors of World War II had been turned into nationalistic propaganda.

  Wanting them to know that he did understand their personal pain, Nick said, “Let me start over. What I meant was only that the war took place here, as you say. That was unfortunate. Extremely unfortunate. The Germans were on this very ground, so naturally you are more familiar with it.” Albeit an honest stance, it was bland, and if the worker pressed him anymore, Nick decided he would ask him who killed more people, Hitler or Stalin?

  “True, true, true,” said the woman, wanting everyone to be friendly.

  The worker was silent, his breath spewing out. Past him, Nick noticed an old white-haired babushka staring at him rather, he thought, affectionately. She stood by the drip irrigation display on the other side of the room and beamed an approving, even admiring, smile when their eyes met. Fiddling with a cross that hung from her neck, the babushka moved her stiff fingers up and down. Was she waving?

  “What about the neutron bomb?” said the persistent worker. “How can a civilized country even consider making such a terrible, awful thing? I mean…”

  Nick covered his eyes and shook his head. It just wasn't worth it. The guy probably was another “agent provocateur” sent to discredit him. Trying to get away from him, Nick moved to the side and gazed out over the heads of the crowd. The babushka was gone. Almost in the same spot stood a tall young woman with a predominant head of thick blond hair. By no means coy, she surveyed him with atypical directness and intensity.

  “I mean,” continued the worker with indignation, “a bomb designed just to kill people? How disgusting!”

  War and peace. Unemployment. Crime in America. The price and availability of any item from an appendectomy to lipstick. The cost of higher education. The number of kernels on the average ear of corn. The questions had been nonstop for six months now and Nick's head began to pound.

  He turned on the man. “Are you trying to tick me off or something? Of course I agree. I think the neutron bomb's disgusting.”

  “You… you…?” The worker, expecting a confrontation, was caught off guard.

  After they had lost a third guide—a KGB agent had romantically approached her and she was consequently ordered home by the CIA—Nick had become the favorite victim. Hecklers found him an easy target, and he had been constantly followed in Dushanbe and Tselinograd, the first two cities visited by the exhibit.

  “Listen, I gotta check one of the displays.” He couldn't get into an argument this early in the day. “There's lots more of the exhibit to see and twenty more guides, too, in case you have any more questions. Just move right along. The dairy parlor's right over there.”

  The worker grumbled and dejectedly turned to go. The crowd mumbled its appreciation to Nick, broke up, and moved on to see what other interesting American items were on display. When most of the crowd was gone, the small woman came up to Nick and took him by the wrist.

  “Thank you for coming,” she quietly said, “and sharing this bright, beautiful exhibit with us. It's like a little piece of America, and you know this is as close as we'll get. Thank you for the information about your country. It's so important that we learn about each other's country and that we as people get to know one another personally.” She looked scornfully after the worker, who had melted into the orange and yellow dairy area. “And don't pay any attention to that one.”

  It was what he needed to hear. “Thank you. I appreciate that. Really.” He hesitated. “It's just that people like that…”

  The woman shut her eyes and nodded. “Of course.” She squeezed Nick's arm and drifted away.

  She was right about the exhibit, though. It was like a Madison Avenue combination of a flashy suburban shopping mall and the Texas State Fair. From the gold carpeting to the orange tentlike canopies covering the entire exhibit, FARMING U.S.A. was as American as anything could possibly be in the Soviet Union. Three bright, sawed-off silos housed slide shows, followed by an array of equipment; a pickup truck, two tractors, a hydrostatic loader, a seeder, and even a country music stand. Just past Nick's irrigation display was a fully equipped dairy parlor with a fake cow—its hide a wild paisley—which in turn adjoined a pig shelter with a whole slew of piglets done in snappy plaid. Elaborate, extensive, designed more with color in mind than agriculture, FARMING U.S.A. was the seventeenth in a series of cultural exchange exhibits to visit the U.S.S.R.

  Nick turned around. A young man from the crowd was lingering next to the lawn sprinkler display. He was proudly sporting a new pair of blue jeans and Nick knew from experience what he wanted. Like many others, this man hadn't come to the exhibit to learn about agriculture or necessarily about the United States.

  “Greetings, friend,” said the Russian stroking his thin beard. “I was wondering”—aware of the dangers, he looked around—“if…” He checked the other side. “If you have any…”

  “No,” said Nick nonchalantly. “I don't have any jeanzie for sale. I have nothing for sale.” He glanced about for the blond woman.

  The Russian grinned, amused that Nick had known what he wanted. “But why? You have so many in America. You can get them again so easily. I'll give you good money.”

  “Hey, what do you think I am? A walking display of Western goods?” Nick scowled. “You've got jeanzie.… What do you need another pair for? What kind are those? American, aren't they?”

  “Oh, absolutely. They're ‘Vrangleri.’ Do you like them? Are they in style now?”

  “Of course they are,” he said impatiently. “You know it's people like you who have taught me materialism isn't a byproduct of capitalism.”

  The Russian shrugged off the criticism. “Jeanzie aren't only fashionable. They're good solid clothing. And I got my pair at great price in Moscow. Only $160. Listen,” he said almost whining, “perhaps you want to meet sometime. Perhaps we could get together. Have you seen Kiev? I know the city well. Have you been to the Monastery of the Catacombs? It's a museum now and the caves are most interesting. We could go there, then to my friend's to hear a little music.”

  For months now people had been asking Nick for foreign goods, from fish-eye camera lenses to mirrored sunglasses to American fashion magazines. He was sick of it.

  “Say,” said Nick, “you're not a farsovchick—a black marketeer—are you?”

  “Sh-h-h!” He put his fingers to his mouth and peered around.

  “Well, are you?” Nick spoke loudly, trying to eliminate any intimacy.

  “No…no…” he said. “Please, friend, that's quite serious… and very dangerous. I just wanted to get a pair of jeanzie for… for my younger brother.”

  “It's dangerous for me, too, you know.”

  “Well, would you like to meet?” persisted the Russian.

  “No, I…”

  One of the Soviet crowd controllers, Viktor Yezhov, was staring at them from across the room. A little over thirty, he had a tall, narrow build, a fair face, chestnut brown hair, and wore square, steel-rimmed glasses from East Germany.

  The Russian turned and eyed him, too. “Is he yours?”

  “No, yours.”

  “Ah-hah.” He fully understood the situation and that his jeans made him stick out.

  The man's confidence dissolved rapidly, and Nick was again amazed at how Russ
ians instantly perceived who the controllers were and what their function at the exhibit was. The naïve American guides, were dumbfounded when they first observed the controllers harassing and checking the internal passports of those visitors who spoke too openly.

  “Well,” said the Russian. “I should be going. After all…”

  “Pleasant, isn't it?” said Nick facetiously.

  “Well… bye.”

  The Russian, as fast as he could, dissolved into the crowd. Nick edged around the corner to see what Yezhov would do. The crowd controller, however, had already slipped into the blue silo where the slide show on American grain was presented.

  Someone spoke from behind.

  “Excuse me.”

  He turned. It was the blond woman, pulling her thick hair behind her head with one hand. In shoes with a pronounced heel, she was a fraction taller than he. She glanced to either side and then looked directly at Nick.

  “My name is Olga.”

  He was intrigued. “I'm Nick.” For once there didn't seem to be any games.

  “It's a pleasure to meet you.” Without hesitation, she said,” I was wondering if you might have some free time after work to meet with me. It's not so comfortable to talk here.”

  His small mouth formed a narrow grin. “I've never had an easier time meeting people than I have in this country.”

  The invitations were so frequent that it was rather like being a movie star. It forced all the guides—and in particular Nick because he had been followed so much—to become rather selective. Yet with this woman his decision was automatic.

  “Sure. I can't tonight, but I can tomorrow.”

  “Good. At seven?” She lowered her eyes only briefly.

  “Where?”

  “Do you know the Metro station on Kreshatik Street?”

  “Yes.”

  “At seven, tomorrow evening. I'll meet you inside, at the top of the escalator.” She betrayed her relief with a small, barely noticeable smile, and then looked to either side. Satisfied that they were not being observed, she extended her hand. “Until our meeting.”

  Impressed, Nick shook her hand. “Goodbye.”

  So quick. So simple. She might want to buy something. She might want to practice English. Or she might merely want to try an American man. But Nick didn't think so.

  “Too direct,” said Nick to himself.

  And while he accepted it as standard that she wanted something, which he would more than likely refuse to provide unless it was something totally innocuous, he guessed that her inevitable request would be out of the ordinary and in any case more interesting than blue jeans.

  He watched her go, her simple cotton print dress shifting rhythmically from side to side as she walked. She paused in the dairy parlor, evidently impressed by the flashing digital lights and the stainless steel tubes shooting every which way. The small International Harvester tractor was next to catch her eye, followed by the Dodge pickup truck, that was totally engulfed by curious Russians. Then, as soon as possible, she was gone.

  She was gone and the warning Mr. Thomas, the exhibit director, had given Nick several months ago returned to trouble him: “Just remember, Nick, the shit's really flying between our two countries right now and you guides are as big as they come without diplomatic immunity.”

  But even as Nick made his way across the crowded exhibit floor and back to the irrigation stand, he wanted to forget the warning. He was tired of being paranoid, of looking for hidden TV cameras and microphones. Problems at the exhibit had peaked almost three months ago, and as Nick was quick to point out, he hadn't been followed once since his arrival in Kiev.

  As he stepped onto the irrigation stand he was overcome with a sense of amusement. When he'd seen KGB agents slither around corners and take shelter in black shadows, he'd envisaged his arrest and imprisonment in a Soviet jail. Or worse. Perhaps being framed as a drug smuggler and banished to Siberia. Or even given the death sentence. How absurd he'd been. An American sentenced to death in the Soviet Union. Impossible. They wouldn't do that for a drug charge. He'd have to do something much more severe—such as commit murder—and that would never happen. Could never happen.

  A murder charge. Nick grinned.

  III

  After he ate a meal of peanut butter and potato chips—rather than wait in food lines, he preferred these hoarded items from the American embassy—Nick came down from his room on the fourth floor of the Dneipro Hotel. As if it were a stolen item, he clutched a box closely against his side, half hiding it underneath his corduroy sports coat. Passing through the hotel lobby, the only sign of life came from the hotel entrance where the short, uniformed doorman stood angrily shouting at two Russian women.

  “Nyet! Nyet! Nyet!” he cried, roughly pushing them back. As soon as he saw Nick, an Amerikanets, he moved aside deferentially.

  “Excuse me,” said Nick.

  Not wanting to attract attention, he ducked and quickly slipped by. Outside on the front steps, he heard the doorman continue his assault on the women.

  “Foreigners only! We don't allow your kind in here!”

  “But we just want to go to the restaurant.”

  “I said, no Soviets!”

  Nick ran his hand through his hair and gazed around from his stance on the hotel steps. Before him lay the Leninist Komsomol Square, a broad traffic circle in the center of which rose the bright red slogan THE TENTH FIVE-YEAR PLAN IS THE PLAN OF QUALITY AND PRODUCTIVITY. This in turn was surrounded by a ring of photographs of somber local Party leaders, awards and medals pinned proudly to their left breasts. Beyond that, on the other side of the street, was the Park of the Glory of the Dneiper Hills overlooking the river, a tinge of early fall color on the tops of a few trees.

  Nick was not concentrating on the view, however. Instead, he was taking note of every person loitering on the sidewalk before him. Satisfied that he'd later be able to recognize the faces, he headed for the pedestrian tunnel that crossed beneath the street.

  Still tightly holding the parcel, he descended step by step into the tunnel and turned right down the long, deserted branch that crossed beneath Komsomol Square. His footsteps reverberated flagrantly off the white-tiled walls. Stealing a glance behind, he spotted a woman with a string bag of green apples and, farther back, a man carrying something wrapped in Pravda. In the distance he saw the shadow of a third figure.

  The tunnel was supported in the center by a series of pillars. At the other end, to the rumble of an unknown number of feet and with his view obstructed by the columns, Nick doubled back. He passed the woman. He passed the man. They went on their own way, however, and Nick's eyes followed them out of the passage.

  “Huh,” he said, perplexed. He shrugged and continued back toward the hotel, eventually walking by a man who, bent over at the waist, was blowing his nose on the sidewalk.

  Instead of taking the left branch, which led back to the Hotel Dneipro, Nick turned right and followed the tunnel beneath Kreshatik Street. As he climbed the stairs out of the tunnel and to the sidewalk, his ears were pierced by the shrieking of three fat babushkas. Scarves on their heads, they stood on the steps selling flowers, and their voices were shrill and vicious as they chastised a drunk man stumbling down the stairs.

  “Aren't you ashamed of yourself?” yelled one.

  “What about your poor wife and children? Who will feed them after you've spent it all on vodka?” cried another.

  When the third pelted the drunk with a lump of dirt, she accidentally hit Nick instead.

  “Hey!” Nick called out, not stopping. He walked beneath the large trees along the sidewalk, making an attempt to casually look in the store windows. A few people stood in Shoe Store while a line extended out of Fruit and Vegetable Store Number 22, where the window was filled with a pile of little green apples.

  He turned left without a warning. He briskly walked up a steep, narrow pedestrian alley, pulling himself along using the railing attached to the side of a building. Halfway up he stopped
and set the cumbersome parcel down. Using one of his standard techniques, he bent over as if to tie his shoe, but instead looked behind in the same motion. A shadow lingered, then disappeared. He picked up the parcel and went on immediately.

  At the top of the hill, breathing heavily, Nick went straight up a connecting street. He looked to his right, over the red tin rooftops, and saw the evening sun flickering lazily on the Dneiper River in the distance. He pivoted abruptly and retraced his steps. Two young women, a young man—all slim and their arms looped snugly in an unbreakable show of friendship and affection—walked by. They stared at Nick's waist and admired his jeans. An anxious and stiff-looking man passed next. He wore an ill-fitting suit and white cotton shirt, and moved on without so much as glancing at Nick. They were, however, none of the faces Nick had noted in front of the hotel.

  He turned right and started down another street. An instant later he heard footsteps in rhythm with his own. He halted. Again he bent over as if to tie his shoe. Seconds later a man moved quickly past. Crouched over, Nick could only focus on a worn briefcase. He stood and saw the back of a man with cropped blond hair who hastily turned at the next corner. The man's steps faded in the distance, and the darkening street was deserted, the gray plastered apartment buildings offering no sign of life. There was no one, not even a single figure out for a stroll. Then, in the distance he heard an engine start. Down the street he spotted a car crawling along the curb.

  Still unsure, Nick knew he must not linger. The light rustling of the leaves overhead was all that caught his attention. He turned right at the first street and immediately threw himself against the cold stone wall. An instant later he peered around the edge of the building. No one, to his relief, came down the street he had just traveled.

  Then he heard it. Steps from behind. He tensed with fear and spun around. Someone was grabbing for him, their fingernails already sinking through his corduroy coat and into his arm.