– 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.
