Tom Smith: The Secret Speech

— Leave him. Live with me.

She’d been convinced he’d never find the courage to act upon what could only ever be a childish daydream — the two of them running off together. She’d been wrong.

Remarkably, he’d chosen her husband’s church to cross the line from private fantasy into open proposition: the frescoes of disciples, demons, prophets, and angels judged their illicit moves from the shadowy alcoves. Maxim was risking everything he’d trained for, facing certain disgrace and exile from the religious community with no hope of redemption. His earnest, heartfelt plea was so misjudged and absurd that she couldn’t help but react in the worst possible way. She uttered a short, surprised laugh.

Before he had time to reply the heavy oak door slammed shut. Startled, Anisya turned to see her husband — Lazar — hurrying toward them with such urgency that she could only presume that he’d misconstrued the scene as evidence of her infidelity. She pulled away from Maxim, a sudden movement that only compounded the impression of guilt. But as he drew closer she realized that Lazar, her husband of ten years, was preoccupied with something else. Breathless, he took hold of her hands, hands which only seconds ago had been held by Maxim:

— I was picked out of the crowd. An agent questioned me.

He spoke rapidly, the words tumbling out, their importance brushing aside Maxim’s proposal. She asked:

— Were you followed?

He nodded:

— I hid in Natasha Niurina’s apartment.

— What happened?

— He remained outside. I was forced to leave through the back.

— Will they arrest Natasha and question her?

Lazar raised his hands to his face:

— I panicked. I didn’t know where else to go. I shouldn’t have gone to her.

Anisya took him by the shoulders:

— If the only way they can find us is by arresting Natasha, we have a little time.

Lazar shook his head:

— I told him my name.

She understood. He wouldn’t lie. He wouldn’t compromise his principles, not for her, not for anyone. Principles were more important than their lives. He shouldn’t have attended the demolition: she’d warned him it was an unnecessary risk. The crowd was inevitably going to be monitored and he’d be a conspicuous observer. He’d ignored her, as was his way, always appearing to contemplate her advice but never heeding it. Hadn’t she pleaded with him not to alienate the ecclesiastical authorities? Were they in such a position of strength that they could afford to make enemies of both the State and the Church? But he had no interest in the politics of alliance: he only wanted to speak his mind even if it left him isolated, openly criticizing the new relationship between bishops and politicians. Stubborn, headstrong, he demanded that she support his stance while giving her no say in it. She admired him, a man of integrity. But he did not admire her. She was younger than him and had only been twenty years old when they’d married. He’d been thirty-five. At times she wondered whether he’d married her because being a White Priest, a married priest, taking a monastic vow, was itself a reformist statement. The concept appealed to him, fitting with his liberal, philosophical scheme. She’d always been braced for the moment when the State might cut across their lives. However, now that the moment had come, she felt cheated. She was paying for his opinions, opinions that she’d never been allowed to influence or contribute to.

Lazar put a hand on Maxim’s shoulder:

— It would be better if you returned to the theological seminar and denounced us. Since we’re going to be arrested the denunciation would only serve to distance you from us. Maxim, you’re a young man. No one will think worse of you for leaving.

Coming from Lazar, the offer to run was a loaded proposition. Lazar considered such pragmatic behavior beneath him, suitable for others, weaker men and women. His moral superiority was stifling. Far from offering Maxim a way out, it trapped him.

Anisya interjected, trying to keep her voice friendly:

— Maxim, you must go.

He reacted sharply:

— I want to stay.

Slighted by her earlier laugh, he was stubborn and indignant. Speaking in a double meaning invisible to her husband, she said:

— Please Maxim, forget everything that has happened, you will achieve nothing by staying.

Maxim shook his head:

— I’ve made my decision.

Anisya noticed Lazar smile. There was no doubt her husband was fond of Maxim. He’d taken him under his wing, blind to his protégé’s infatuation with her, alert only to the deficiencies in his knowledge of scripture and philosophy. He was pleased with Maxim’s decision to stay, believing that it had something to do with him. Anisya moved closer to Lazar:

— We cannot allow him risk to his life.

— We cannot force him to leave.

— Lazar, this is not his fight.

It was not her fight either.

— He has made it his. I respect that. You must too.

— It is senseless!

In modeling Maxim on himself, the martyr, her husband had chosen to humiliate her and condemn him. Lazar exclaimed:

— Enough! We don’t have time! You wish him to be safe. I do too. But if Maxim wants to stay, he stays.

LAZAR HURRIED TOWARD THE STONE ALTAR, hastily stripping it bare. Every person connected to his church was in danger. He could do little for his wife or Maxim: they were too closely connected to him. But his congregation, the people who’d confided in him, shared their fears — it was essential their names remain a secret.

With the altar bare, Lazar gripped the side:

— Push!

None the wiser but obedient, Maxim pushed the altar, straining at the weight. The rough stone base scratched across the stone floor, slowly sliding aside and revealing a hole, a hiding place created some twenty years ago during the most intensive attacks on the church. The stone slabs had been removed, exposing earth that had been carefully dug and lined with timber supports to stop it subsiding, creating a space one meter deep, two meters wide. It contained a steel trunk. Lazar reached down and Maxim followed suit, taking the opposite end of the trunk and lifting it out, placing it on the floor, ready to be opened.

Anisya lifted the lid. Maxim crouched beside her, unable to keep the amazement out of his voice:

— Music?

The trunk was filled with handwritten musical scores. Lazar explained:

— The composer attended services here, a young man — not much older than you, a student at the Moscow Conservatory. He came to us one night, terrified that he was about to be arrested. Fearing that his work would be destroyed, he entrusted us with his compositions. Much of his work had been condemned as anti-Soviet.

— Why?

— I don’t know. He didn’t know either. He had nowhere to turn, no family or friends he could trust. So he came to us. We agreed to take possession of his life’s work. Shortly afterward, he disappeared.

Maxim glanced over the notes:

— The music… is it good?

— We haven’t heard it performed. We dare not show it to anyone, or have it played for us. Questions might be asked.

— You have no idea what it sounds like?

— I can’t read music. Neither can my wife. But Maxim, you’re missing the point. My promise of help wasn’t dependent on the merits of his work.

— You’re risking your lives? If it’s worthless…

Lazar corrected him: