Beneath them came pagans like the Buddhists, lower yet, of course, the Jews. And at the very bottom were the schismatics, those Russians who dared to seek another path.
Because there was officially only one God and one tsar, one orthodoxy and one Russia, anything different-any splinter group that preached a different liturgy or outlook-was called a sect. Supposedly, there were hundreds of sects scattered all across Siberia. It was only out there, at the back of beyond, that one could escape the government’s reach, build a free life, and nurture any kind of independent thought, let alone a religious one. Sometimes even Siberia wasn’t far enough. If caught, a sectarian could be whipped and lashed; in the old times, it was said, their nostrils were cut off. After Peter the Great had initiated church reforms-he placed the church under his control, encouraged men to shave, and required his subjects to cross themselves with three fingers, not four- the Old Believers broke away from the state church, fleeing all the way through Siberia and, finding themselves still hounded, across the Aleutian Islands to our most distant territory, now owned by the Americans. Other secret sects hadn’t gone so far; they could be found hidden along forgotten rivers and in distant villages. Though no one admitted to membership or even firsthand knowledge, one heard regular whispers of the Skoptsy, who believed in castration as the way to deal with sexual feelings, the Dukhobory, who were known as pacifist “spirit wrestlers,” the Subbotniki, whose religion fell somewhere between Christianity and Judaism and who, it was said, practiced necromancy, the Molokans, who rejected the divinity of the tsar by drinking milk on fast days, and many others. Not long ago I’d heard a group of women talk right in our apartment about whole villages where personal property was condemned as sinful and whose residents lived as one large family. Supposedly, the peasants owned and worked the fields jointly, and both the monarchy and capitalism were condemned. Even more shocking, there were no priests, only people of the people who conducted church services.
But while every Russian knew of the sects and swapped titillating tea-table gossip about them, no one openly admitted to being a sectarian of any kind. That was why I was so struck by Madame Lohktina’s claim of a Khlyst radeniye taking place tonight, right here in the capital. Could it really be made up of a group of princes and dukes, countesses and baronesses? As I followed her through the dark, I probably should have been afraid, but it never crossed my mind. Instead, a strange sense of exhilaration began to seep into me.
As she scurried along, Madame Lokhtina suddenly burst out, saying, “ Nazareth was not unique. No, not unique at all!”
Because no one knew what would set her off, Papa had always told me to avoid her lest she launch into some tirade. But tonight I didn’t care. In fact, I wanted to hear it all, see it all.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I’m talking about the birth, of course. The one there in Nazareth, when God was born a man!” She shook her head as if trying to shake away some evil thoughts. “It didn’t just happen once, you know. It couldn’t.”
Trying to keep her talking, I said, “Of course not.”
“Exactly. The birth-it’s being repeated all the time. Once you submit, once you recognize the power of the Holy Spirit, that’s when it happens. A new Christ is born! A new Christ who can heal the sick and see the future! A new Christ who can save us all on Judgment Day!”
“Yes, I’ve learned that’s one of the principal beliefs of the Khlysty-”
She spun on me like a crazed animal, grabbing me by the arm, her eyes afire. Terrified, she looked behind us for someone, anyone, who might be following us down the deserted street.
“Shh! There are things-names-you must never mention! Never!” She pulled off one of her tattered gloves, pushed up my sleeve, and sank her cracked fingernails into my naked wrist. “Never!”
“Yes.” I winced.
I tried to pull my arm from her painful clasp, but she wouldn’t release me. Indeed, she drew me closer, pressing her lips close to my ear. I cringed as her dank, steamy breath poured against my cold skin and spilled like old tea down my collar.
“Some used to call us the Cod People, but our true name is this.” She checked the street again, to make sure we weren’t being observed, and then pressed her dry, cracked lips right against my ear and whispered, “Khristovshchina,” the Christ faith, “that’s our real name, though you must never speak it.”
“Of course not.”
“It was only the dark ones, the evil priests, who changed our name. They sought to darken us, to blacken us with rumor and innuendo, so others would stay away. And yes, it was the priests who branded us with that name.” As fierce as a drowning person, she pulled me close again. “They called us the Khlysti”-The Whips, the Flagellants. “But they lie! They say terrible things and they say we cut off the breasts of virgins and eat them! The priests lie to protect their positions and keep their gold gowns and pearled hats!”
“Perhaps,” I said, as scared of her as I was of her blasphemous words.
“It is truth!” she nearly screamed.
This time it was I who firmly took hold of her. Latching my arm beneath hers, I tugged her along.
“We must hurry.”
“I tell you the truth. I do!”
“I know, I know. But we’re late and…and someone will notice us if we stand here much longer.”
Madame Lokhtina flinched at the thought and glanced furtively up and down the street, searching the deep night for secret agents.
“Look!” she gasped. “I saw something move, a shadow! Someone’s back there, someone’s following us!”
I looked carefully but saw nothing, only a deserted street. “Come on, we must keep going.”
Finally, she started moving, and as we pressed on she clung to my arm and babbled away, saying, “I will tell you the secret of tonight’s activities, my child. Do you know it? Do you?”
“Well, I-”
“It’s all about cleansing, of ridding yourself of darkness. Just remember, if you have a glass of dirty water there is no way to turn what is foul into clean. Even if you add some pure holy water, the water in the glass will be tainted. Satan is so powerful that only a drop of him can ruin all! So what can you do? You must first empty that glass!”
That made sense, I thought. I myself had never felt so dirty and in need of purification as I did now.
“You must cast away that soiled water, no matter how little or how much is in the glass! And only when you have flung it away, only when you have emptied the vessel, is there cleanliness and innocence, and then-and only then!-is there a sacred place for the freshest water to come in and be stored without contamination.”
“I see,” I replied, understanding not just in my head but in my heart as well.
Arm in arm, we scurried along, two women, one young, with boots crunching in the frost, and one old, her rag-swathed feet sweeping through the snow. When she tugged my arm, we turned right at the next street. A half block later we ducked down a side alley and wound our way through the middle of a block. Emerging on a major thoroughfare, we continued to the left. And so it went for at least a half hour. With a smile on my face, I thought how Papa would lock me up for this, being out so late and walking the dark streets with just another woman. But I didn’t care. It all felt so liberating.
From time to time, Madame Lohktina would growl under her breath, “Christ is ri-i-isen! Chri-i-ist is ri-i-isen! Chri-i-i-i-ist is ri-i-i-isen!” And then, bubbling like a nervous brook from her lips, “Alleluia! Rivers, great rivers! And Christ, the Lord Sabbath! I have fear and love, great love! Help me, give a hand, help me! Alleluiaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”
Suddenly, she jerked me to the right, into an alleyway wide enough for only one person. She stuffed me into this black hole, then peered back out, searching up and down the street. There was no one, of course. The last people I’d seen were several blocks back, a group of wounded soldiers huddled around an open fire.
Smashing me against the wall of the narrow passage, she pressed past me, then snatched me by the hand and pulled me on.
“Bistro!” Quickly, she commanded.
I could barely see, and half stumbled, half ran as I was dragged along. We went around one corner, another. As if we were entering a cave, the passage became smaller and darker with every moment.
“Steps!”
That’s indeed what came next, a waterfall of steep steps I nearly tumbled down and would have, had Madame Lokhtina not caught me and guided me. We turned one last corner, descended one last set of stairs. Finally, the two of us huffing, we stood before a heavy wooden door, against which she rapped once, then thrice, finally twice.
