But when they got to the edge of the cliff, they found the monument to Lucifer gone and the marble pillar lying on the ground broken into three parts. Klim’s heart skipped a beat. Could Pukhov have taken the bust already? A moment later, he realized that the monument had been destroyed by a shell blast and that the satyr had probably fallen over the cliff.
“I hope I don’t end up breaking my neck,” Klim muttered as he clambered down the slope, his feet sliding on the wet grass.
“Can you see it?” Sister Photinia called from above.
The satyr had become lodged in bushes a little farther downhill. The nun went down by the steps and offered Klim a gunny sack. “Put it in here. Let’s drown it in the river and rid Sviyazhsk of this evil pagan spirit once and for all.”
Klim gave a wry smile. Throwing away thirty pounds of solid silver wasn’t the brightest idea he had come across.
“Well, actually, sister, this sculpture belongs to the science museum,” he said off the top of his head. “There was a man in Smolensk Province with horns, and we made a portrait bust of him for scientific purposes. But Trotsky took it and decided to call it Lucifer.”
Sister Photinia crossed herself. “Gracious heavens, what a dreadful thing! I don’t suppose that poor fellow could take his hat off in church without people laughing at him.”
“Let’s bury the sculpture in the sand,” Klim said. “When Trotsky leaves, we’ll dig it up and give it back to the museum.”
They made a shallow pit in the sand on the beach.
“It’s like burying a body,” Sister Photinia whispered. “Anyone passing by will think we’ve killed someone and are getting rid of the evidence.”
Klim smoothed the sand so that there would be no sign of any disturbance and put down a large piece of driftwood to mark the spot where the satyr was buried.
He and Sister Photinia went back up the steps. Over to the west, the sky was ablaze, and artillery fire and rifle shots rang out incessantly. Evidently, there was a fierce battle taking place over by the station.
“I think the Whites have captured the bridge,” Sister Photinia said.
Klim nodded. The unfortunate meeting with Pukhov had turned out to be an unexpected stroke of luck. If it hadn’t been for his former boss, he and Nina could well have been at the station when the Whites had attacked.
Skudra and Pukhov will be looking for me, Klim thought. And if the Reds win this battle, I’ll be accused of desertion.
The best thing would be to make a run for it, hide in the woods, and wait for the Whites to arrive. But how will Nina survive in that overcrowded army hospital without him to help her? Of course, there was Dr. Sablin, but he had so many other things to do that there was no counting on him.
Klim said goodbye to Sister Photinia and went back to the cathedral. On the porch, he met Sablin, who had stepped out for a smoke.
“Where have you been?” the doctor said angrily. “Nina is frantic with worry.”
The nurses had already relit the candles. Klim made his way back to Nina and sat down beside her.
“There’s a big fight going on by the station now, isn’t there?” she asked. “Is that why you took me away?”
“I didn’t know that the Whites were about to attack,” Klim said, exhausted. “That was just a coincidence.”
Each new salvo reverberated under the dome of the cathedral, causing the huge chandeliers to swing from the ceiling, their ancient chains creaking ominously.
“They look like the scales in the ancient Egyptian frescos,” Klim said. “The god Anubis used them to weigh the hearts of the dead and separate the righteous from the sinners. If the dead person’s heart was lighter than a feather, the symbol of truth and justice, then the soul would go to the realm of the dead in peace, but if the heart was heavy with sin, then it would be devoured by a monster.”
17. THE MEANING OF LIFE
Klim was arrested at dawn. The Red soldiers entered the cathedral, kicked him awake, and ordered him to go with them. Nina wanted to run after them, but when she tried to get up, she fainted from the pain.
She came around to find Sister Photinia patting her cheeks. “There, there, my dear. Are you all right?”
Painfully, Nina attempted to sit up. Sunlight was pouring through the cathedral windows, lighting up the stone arches overhead, the enormous, solemn figures of the saints on the frescoes, and the mass of suffering humanity on the floor below.
Nina’s head was spinning. “Where’s Klim?” she asked.
Sister Photinia took off her glasses and wiped them with the hem of her cassock. Her face seemed blank and eyeless to Nina.
“The Whites have been on the march for two days,” the nun said without looking at Nina. “They got tired, and their attack got bogged down. Now, the station and the area around it has been devastated. Half the propaganda train was burned—a shell hit a fuel tank right next to it. So, you were very lucky, my dear, that you got away.”
Weak as she was, Nina felt a cold chill of presentiment. The nun’s face swam before her eyes.
“The Reds survived in the end,” Sister Photinia said. “Although, goodness only knows how they did it. I think they find it hard to believe themselves. After all, the Second Petrograd Regiment—including all the Chinese soldiers—deserted the battlefield. They boarded a steamer reserved for Trotsky, but they didn’t get away in time. They’re all going to be court-martialed.”
“Those scum deserve everything that’s coming to them,” said a soldier next to Nina who had lost an arm. “Good for Comrade Trotsky. He knows what he’s doing.”
There was a ripple of agreement among the wounded soldiers.
“Some of us are out there getting torn to pieces while others are hiding behind women’s skirts.”
“They should be given the choice: face a firing squad or go into battle and put their faith in God. Who knows? Some of them might even come out alive.”
Nina stared at the damaged, angry men around her. It isn’t enough that they have their own troubles, she thought. They want to compound others’ misery too.
For them, Klim was a traitor and a deserter. He had chosen to fight for Nina, not the Red Army, and, therefore, deserved to be executed.
Suddenly, they heard the rumble of carts and the neighing of horses outside. Sablin burst into the cathedral as pale as a ghost, limping hurriedly to the operating area screened off by some makeshift blankets hanging from a rope.
“Nurse!” he cried, putting on his overalls. “There are more wounded outside. We need to sort out where to put them.”
“But where—?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care!”
“Dr. Sablin,” Nina called. “What’s going on?”
A volley of rifle shots came from the street, and Sablin winced. The grumbling voices of the wounded died down, and the only sound that could be heard was a pigeon fluttering high up in the dome.
“Why are you all staring at?” Sablin shouted. “They’re executing deserters. Right here on Kafedralnaya Square.”
Nina bit down on her fist, and Sister Photinia gasped. Another volley of shots rang out. Sablin limped off without looking back.
Another volley came and then another. Sister Photinia stroked Nina’s hand. “You must pray, my dear.”
Nina looked at her wild-eyed. “To whom should I pray? No one is listening to us.”
“The Lord sees everything and helps all those who suffer,” Sister Photinia said in a firm voice. “Do you see that saint with a dog’s head? That is St. Christopher. A very handsome young man he was. He didn’t want the girls to tempt him, so he asked God to make him as ugly as a dog. Miraculously, God granted his wish.”