“‘Have you two sinned?’ The young priest sighed. ‘Well then, I’ll see what I can do.’ In truth, we had only allowed ourselves the briefest of intimacies—a chaste kiss, a quick embrace—but Ilya admitted to me that he was not free of lustful thoughts and that, too, was a sin, if only of a lower order. So we were married, with my brother and his wife as witnesses.”
Galina stretched, her fingers loosely curled, arms resting on the pillow behind her head as if in imitation of her daughter’s sleeping pose. She smiled to herself at having used the same excuse to expedite her own marriage, the stranger on a Yalta street using almost exactly the same words—Have you two sinned?—before accepting their bribe. But her mother did not need to know. “I just can’t imagine you or Papa telling a lie, for any reason,” she said instead.
“Was it really a lie? Perhaps in the strictest sense. It was a bad time, civil war. And he was sick, my Ilya. I was afraid that if we parted, if one of us went on ahead, we might not see each other again. We were in love.” Ksenia put down her knitting to unwind some more yarn for the baby’s sweater.
“But you wouldn’t travel together unless you were married? What difference could that have made to anyone?”
“It made a difference to me. As it was, I suffered over the suggestion of impropriety. I worried that Father Matvei assumed I had lapsed into irreparable sin, like so many others had done.”
“Oh, Mama. Even Mary Magdalene was forgiven, wasn’t she? Besides, you were leaving the area. You wouldn’t see this priest again.”
“So I thought.” Ksenia took up her needles and resumed knitting, the little garment taking shape beneath her fingers. “So I thought.”
“Tell me then, before Katyusha wakes up. I need a nap, too.”
“We had settled in Kislovodsk. The air was pure, the sun warm, the water rich with healing minerals. Your father’s health had improved. Things had settled down somewhat. Life was tolerable. The years of famine and terror were still to come. We found a little house with a garden, fruit trees—plums, cherries, figs. Your brother was nearly two. I was happy. The only thing missing was a church.”
“Then Father Matvei turned up?” Galina prompted, eager to move the story along.
“Yes. A woman told me about a basement meeting place where a priest, newly arrived from the north, held services. I took little Maksim and went. It was such a relief to have him properly baptized!”
“Did the priest remember you?”
“Oh, yes. And Ilya, too. Given a choice, we might have gone to worship elsewhere, but there was nowhere to go.” She paused. “And he was a righteous man, Father Matvei, an attentive shepherd. He took his calling to heart, at a time when practicing it put him in grave danger. There was no mediocrity in the priesthood then, only devoted servants of the Lord or Communist spies. Nothing in between.”
“What did he look like?”
“What a question! He looked like a priest. Thin, with long reddish hair and beard. He did have unusual eyes, gentle and dreamy, as if he saw things closed to the rest of us. When he prayed with us, we felt comforted, uplifted, and safe.”
Something happened, or you wouldn’t be telling me this, Galina thought. She turned on her side, facing her mother, one hand tucked under her cheek. The baby whimpered. “Sha, little one. Sleep,” she whispered, rocking the basket with her other hand.
“After mass a few of us women would stay. Father Matvei talked to us, explaining the finer points of the day’s scripture reading. He was educated; we knew he read Hebrew and Greek and was well versed in the writings of eminent scholars. But he carried his knowledge lightly, giving us lessons we could take with us, to fortify us for the hard times.”
“What lessons?”
“Humility. Charity. Compassion. Love. But also resistance to evil. He admonished us to refrain from kleveta—gossip, renunciation of our neighbors.”
“And that was dangerous! It still is.”
“Yes. One day he approached me after the others had gone. It was my turn to wipe down the icons and sweep the floor.
“‘Ksenia.’ There was something sad and tender about the way he spoke my name; it thrilled and alarmed me. ‘They will come for me soon.’ I put the broom down and looked at him. ‘Surely not. You are a good—’ but he cut me off.
“‘The woman who stands near the door, you have noticed her? She does not sing the Lord’s Prayer with us, and never takes Communion.’
“‘The one who does not cross herself? We thought she was just ignorant of our customs. But she stays for your talks, and asks many questions.’
“He nodded. ‘I am not afraid. I’m doing the work I was meant to do. But before I go…’ He stopped speaking and closed his eyes. I felt a chill of apprehension; I had never seen him so agitated. When he opened his eyes, they seemed to glow with a dark light, like a fire he was struggling to keep under control. We were completely alone in the basement of an empty building. Surely he didn’t think I was, I could be… no.” Ksenia stopped, her face a mask of pain at the vivid recollection.
“Oh, Mama.” Galina said, her eyes wide. “You trusted him. How could he take advantage of you that way? Like a common—”
“Wait,” Ksenia resumed. “Let me finish. I found the strength to challenge him, young as I was. Hadn’t we all been trained to guard our virtue, as girls growing up in Tsarist times? ‘You think I was compromised before my wedding,’ I said, looking right at him. ‘But it is not true. Ilya is an honorable man. I was untouched.’ His already pale face blanched completely, then reddened in mottled patches that bloomed on his cheeks like fever. He raised both hands in denial.
“‘No. No! Your husband spoke in a vague way. He never said… and it was not my place to draw conclusions. It’s just—’ he raked a hand through his hair.
“‘But that is what you did. Draw conclusions.’
“‘Ksenia. I am a man of God, bound by my own marriage vows. But I am still a man. I cherish your presence, admire your beauty.’
“‘I am not beautiful,’ I interrupted. ‘I have never been beautiful. I am plain as a clay pot.’” Ksenia pulled, with a rueful expression, at her thin, cropped hair, now dishwater gray, tucked behind large ears, which framed her round face. It was a face that spoke of Ukrainian peasant roots, with a hint of high cheekbones and a barely noticeable slant to her gray eyes suggesting a mixing, generations ago, with Tatar blood. “My nose is like a potato, my eyes are too close together, my teeth uneven.”
“You look beautiful to me,” Galina protested.
“So he said, too. ‘When I look at you, I see your fortitude and the sweetness of your character, the kindness in your eyes. I see how tenderly you care for little Maksim, how conscientiously you carry your work burden.’
“I shook my head, refusing to accept this embarrassment of praise. ‘We are all strong, we women. We love our children. We do our work.’
“His voice dropped to nearly a whisper. ‘Love is a mystery God has not given us the power to understand. I ask nothing improper of you. I only ask, Ksenia, say t’y to me. Just once.’ I was struck dumb. It was the last thing I could have imagined, the most unlikely request he could have made.
“‘I? To you?’ I finally stammered. ‘Vam?’ I was careful to say, formally, not daring to lapse into the familiar for even a moment. ‘That can never be. Never. You are my confessor, the keeper of my soul. Your ordained hands perform the holy sacraments. You have knowledge and profound understanding of the scriptures that we ordinary people can never achieve.’