“Nyet, nyet, nyet!” came his deep, confident voice.
Almost at once his meaty hand emerged from beneath the gown and grabbed me by the shoulder. With his other hand, he reached for the heavy iron bolt and began sliding it open. In a panic, Madame Lokhtina leaped from the shadows.
“She is his!” she screamed.
The heavy man didn’t care who I was or where I’d come from. All he knew was that I didn’t belong down here, and with great speed and force he proceeded to heave open the door.
“Wait!” screamed Madame Lokhtina. “You don’t understand!”
Of course he understood. I was not one of theirs. And I was not to be admitted, no matter what. As he pulled back the door, another gust of winter chill cascaded inward. Dear God, I thought, as the man grabbed me by the collar and made ready to hurl me out. I was fairly confident I could find my way home, but at this hour of the night I could only hope to do it safely and without incident.
Suddenly a second hooded man appeared out of nowhere, bellowing, “Wait!”
In the snap of a second I was jerked back. Once again the thick door was heaved shut and the iron bolt slammed into place. I turned around and stared at another man in a white hood and flaxen gown, this one not as tall or big as the first. Right behind him stood Madame Lokhtina, whispering in his ear. I heard nothing but one magical word.
“Doche.” Daughter.
Yes, I was indeed his.
The shorter man nodded decisively, stating, “It is permitted!”
A smile on her dirty face, Madame Lokhtina burst forward and grabbed me by the hand. “Come with me, child!”
As I was pulled past the second man, I felt him staring at me from beneath his hood as if he knew me-and I, assuming he was one of my father’s followers, was sure he did. When he nodded distinctly and politely to me, I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d eaten fish soup at our table.
Dragged along by Madame Lokhtina, I followed her down a narrow brick passage lit by an occasional torch. Suddenly she stopped. In the flickering smoky light of one of the torches, she probed a wall with her filthy gnarled hands. When her splintered fingernails came across one particular brick, she nearly glowed with delight.
“Chri-i-ist is ri-i-isen,” she crooned as she pressed on the brick. “Chri-i-ist is RI-I-ISEN!”
Like magic, a hidden door in the wall gave way, opening into a large chamber. Madame Lokhtina grabbed my right hand, squeezed it, and took me through, entering the hidden world of the Khlysty. As my eyes swept from side to side, my body flushed with a weird kind of excitement. Here before me, buried in a lost cellar beneath Petrograd, were some thirty men and women, all dressed in long white gowns of flax and virtually nothing else, no pants, no dresses, no shoes or boots. In the sweet flickering light of beeswax candles, they swayed from side to side as a small choir chanted, “Our hearts are filled with joy, for seeing Christ has risen!”
In reply, Madame Lokhtina beat her chest in a cross and intoned, “Yes, indeed, He has!”
Still clutching my hand, she tugged me across the room. No one seemed to notice us as we traversed the space. Indeed, all the believers were totally focused on one man, thin and bearded, his smile broad and happy, who stood at the front chanting a prayer. He was their leader, I presumed, and the head of this ark or, in the terms of the Khlysty, the local Christ.
“In here,” commanded Madame Lokhtina. “We must remove our clothes and put on holy garments!”
As she pulled me into a small side room lit by a single slim candle, I flushed with worry for the first time. Tossed on the floor were shoes and boots, pants and dresses. Off to one side, hanging from a hook, were a handful of white flaxen gowns. Dear Lord, I’d been only too happy to escape our apartment, but now what? What had I got myself into? All the old stories and rumors came flooding back. What if they were all true? What if the breasts of virgins were lopped off and eaten? What if virgins were pinned down and impregnated by all the men? What if the blood of virgins was drunk?
Bozhe moi, I thought in complete panic, what if I am the only virgin down in this hidden place?
“Get undressed! Hurry, child, they are waiting for you!” pressed Madame Lokhtina.
Waiting for me? In a flash it was perfectly clear: I had no choice, there was no escaping. My hands trembling terribly, I reached slowly for the top buttons of my dress, only to glance over to see Madame Lokhtina frantically undressing. As eager as a debutante to join a mazurka, she dropped her staff, tossed aside her absurd headgear, and started ripping away her dress. A moment later I spied her bony naked body darting around the small chamber. Oh, Lord, help me, I prayed as she clumsily tugged one of the gownlike shirts over her head and spindly neck.
Forgetting about me, Madame Lokhtina rushed from the room. Hearing the choir sing louder, faster, I peered around the corner and into the main chamber. The local Christ was calling and shouting out in great glee.
“Brothers! Sisters! Let us call down God!” he commanded as he lifted both hands to the heavens.
“Oh, Lord the Spirit!” screamed one woman.
“Oh, God the Father!” shouted a man.
“Oh, Holy One!”
“Come to us, Dear One!”
“Present Thyself!”
It was then that I saw not only several of the revelers studying me, their brows creased with disapproval, but also the first hooded man, the heavy one. Sealing the secret door, he turned his angry eyes upon at me. In one brusque movement, he pulled off his hood, revealing a fat, gray, and hairy face that looked none too pleased to see me in my regular clothes.
A deep voice to my side suddenly commanded, “You must cast away your European clothing and garb yourself in sermyaga!”
Gasping, I jumped back. Standing just inches from me was the second hooded man, the shorter one.
Jerking away from him, I replied, “Da, da!”
Retreating to the side room, I knew I had no choice. I had to undress and put on one of their coarse peasant gowns. If I didn’t, they’d know for certain I wasn’t truly one of them-and then what? What would they do to an interloper? Far better that I try somehow to blend in. I huddled in a corner and started to shed my clothes. Oh, God, I thought, fearful that the second hooded man would come in as I undressed, terrified that he would corner and molest me. I now saw what an utter fool I’d been to come here.
Dressed in one of their plain flaxen gowns and shaking from head to toe, I emerged from the side room a few minutes later. Feeling my naked body rub against the loose rough cloth, I felt totally exposed in front of this group of sectarians and clasped my arms tightly across my chest. They wouldn’t attack me, would they? The very idea of sacrificing myself in order to be proclaimed their Bogoroditsa-their Mother of God-was revolting. Surveying the room, I tried to spot Madame Lokhtina, hoping to find shelter in her protection. But when I heard a sob and saw her begin to whirl up at the front, I knew it was useless.
A strong hand grasped me from behind, the fingers sinking into my shoulder. I stifled a scream. It was the second of the hooded men.
His voice hushed, he ordered, “Do not tremble so!”
I tried to pull away but he wouldn’t release me. Tears came to my eyes. Glancing to the front of the room, I saw the local Christ begin to whirl and cross himself. My heart started pounding, for the radeniye had begun. A huge whoop went up from the celebrants, and the choir started chanting faster, louder.
“He will come!” shouted the local Christ as he whirled and whipped himself with a rag.
“We are ready!” shouted a man, jumping forward and starting to spin as well.
The hooded man pressed himself closer, whispering in the din to me, “Do not worry. There’s nothing to be afraid of. You are one of us now, and that is good. We are all one family!”