Alex knew the history that lurked beneath the moment. When Ukraine had been under Soviet rule, the Orthodox Church had been totally subservient to the patriarchate of Moscow, its clergy fully infiltrated by the KGB. Say the wrong thing in confession, and expect to disappear. That had led to the Ukrainian diaspora to set up a rival patriarchate, which had now moved back to Ukraine. There had also been Eastern Rite Catholics, whose churches were given by the Communists to the Russian Orthodox Church. With the collapse of the Soviet Union, the churches enjoyed a new freedom, one that also allowed them to bicker with each other over formerly state-owned property.
The motorcade started again, then slowed as it passed the memorial to Mykhailo Hrushevskyi, first president of Ukraine, where those gathered prayed for the country’s future.
Then the motorcade turned and moved toward St. Sophia’s Cathedral. Alex craned her neck to watch the progress of the parade. Over the shoulders of the men riding in front of her, she first saw the cathedral, Sobor Sviatoyi Sofiyi, one of the city’s best-known landmarks and a centerpiece of the old city’s skyline, and the church complex that surrounded it.
The building, almost a thousand years old, was stunning, an example of Old Kiev architecture, Byzantine motifs, white walls and green or gold turrets, five in total. Each of the turrets were topped by a Christian cross in the three-tiered Orthodox fashion: a crosspiece representing the mocking inscription over Jesus, the cross itself, and a crosspiece pointing upward representing both the piece to which Jesus’s feet were nailed and the hope of salvation.
The tallest turret, a separate tower in the manner of an Italian campanile, was also a bell tower. It rose a hundred feet into the cold blue sky. It was richly embellished with stuccowork, the details of which Alex could see more clearly as they drew closer. The tower, topped by a green turret and a cross, seemed to beckon to the visitors as they approached. Around the main cathedral, within the complex, were a scattered accumulation of former monastery buildings. Miraculously, they remained untouched despite the centuries of warfare that had raged around them, warfare that had reached its peak under Uncle Joe Stalin, who died before his plan to demolish the cathedral and its surroundings could be carried out.
The president’s car stopped right in front of St. Sophia’s.
A phalanx of tall security people surrounded the president as the trailing vehicles also stopped. Everyone moved briskly. Alex knew that another detachment of security people would come together inside the church. She had no idea where Robert was. She only knew he was among the president’s inner circle.
She stepped out of her own van, Federov with her. She wondered what Robert would say to her later if he caught sight of her thuggish companion.
“I know the way,” Federov said, indicating the church. “This will surprise you, but I have been in here.”
“It does surprise me,” she answered.
Alex entered and took a place, standing among the congregation, Federov edging into a pew as he stood beside her. Hundreds were already gathered within the church, an invitation-only event. Any ordinary Ukrainian would have been carefully selected, like a presidential “town meeting” in America. The congregation suddenly applauded the president’s arrival. The president was having a great day pressing the flesh and meeting the people. Too bad none of them could vote in an election.
From where she stood, Alex admired the complex beauty of the church. Much of it made sense to her from the traditional churches she had gone to with her mother as a little girl. She scanned the mosaics and frescos by Byzantine masters that dated back to the eleventh century. Marvelous frescos decorated the walls, pillars, and vaults. The central part of the cathedral was decorated with a large mosaic depicting a praying Virgin Mary, which was about six feet high and consisted of stone and glass plates of various reds, greens, yellows, and blues. Other frescoes depicted the annunciation, various martyrdoms, and familiar scenes from the Holy Bible. The design was endlessly intricate and delicate, as if made by hands guided by angels.
The worshipers remained on their feet. An Orthodox priest presided. The ceremony began as soon as the president arrived at the front. The brief service took place in the front of the church, before a special memorial table, small and freestanding, with an upright crucifix on top. Nearby there were icons of the Theotókos-the Virgin Mary-and the Apostle John. Some members of the faithful had also lit candles, which burned quietly on the table.
Alex scanned the worshipers. She watched Federov. As she watched him, he turned her way and gave her a nod.
Alex turned her attention back to the presiding bishop. He swung a censer with hypnotic precision. The scent crept toward her: sandalwood with pine. She suppressed a vague smile from her past. Whenever someone burned incense in college, it meant they were smoking something funny.
The congregation held candles for the dead. One was passed to Alex. The wax was brittle in her hand, but the flame warm. The congregation remained standing and would do so for the entire ceremony.
A prayer from St. Basil. The priest intoned in Church Slavonic with a fluent English translation running concurrently for the honored guests.
“O Christ our God who art graciously pleased to accept our prayers for those who are imprisoned in Hades… send down thy consolation,” he said in a near chant. “Establish their souls in the mansions of our Redeemer; and graciously guide them into peace and pardon.”
Alex closed her eyes for a moment and took in the sounds and scents. She felt very much at peace with the world around her. The priest continued. “But we who are living will bless thee, and will pray, and offer unto thee propitiatory prayers and sacrifices for their souls.”
Alex opened her eyes, again watched the ceremony carefully. The memorial service had an air of penitence about it. In the Eastern Church, the prayers for the departed had a specific purpose: to pray for the repose of the departed, to comfort the living, and to remind those who remain behind of their own mortality and the brevity of this earthly life.
The priest continued again. “The Holy Sacrifice of Christ, brings great benefits to souls even after death, provided their sins can be pardoned in the life to come. However, the prayer for the dead must not be an excuse for not living a godly life on earth. The Church’s prayer cannot save anyone who does not wish salvation or who never sought it during his lifetime.”
Alex glanced at Federov. He was fidgeting, his eyes darting around. Was he looking out for someone or afraid someone might see him there and wonder if he had gotten religion? Well, no matter. Much as the insides of a church might have done him some good, she also understood why he felt ill at ease. Maybe the mural showing the descent into hell had made him nervous. It should have. She smiled.
There was a final musical interlude, a troparion, a short hymn of one stanza which the congregation sang in Ukrainian. Near the end of the music, members of the congregation either put out their candles or placed them in candle holders on the memorial table. Alex followed along and understood the symbolism. Each candle symbolized an individual soul, which, as it were, each person held in his own hand. She remembered long ago her mother whispering to her in Spanish the meaning. “The extinguishing of the candle is symbolic: every person will have to surrender his soul at the end of his life.”
She had never forgotten.
Moments later, the service ended.
The president was now to quickly lay a wreath on the other side of Shevshenka Park-named for Ukraine’s great poet Tara Shevschenko-from the cathedral. The controversial monument to the victims of Stalin’s “artificial famine” stood there outside the Ukrainian Foreign Ministry.