CHAPTER THREE
The onion-shaped blue dome of the Russian Orthodox Church on Scarborough Street in Hartford reflected the golden sunlight from its shiny surface. Its outside walls were yellow, like the walls of the Orthodox Church in my village in Russia. Anchored to the front of the building, hanging prominently over the entrance, was a colossal eight-pointed cross. It did not resemble the Roman Catholic ones that I had seen on other churches in West Hartford. It was unique: a testament to a thousand year old Eastern Church that had shone a light in a dark world since Prince Vladimir had embraced Christianity in Russia. Looking at this building, I felt a connection to my own home. I was glad that I had taken the bus to Hartford this beautiful Sunday morning.
The bells were ringing, announcing the beginning of the morning service. I quickly made my way through the entrance and into the building. I immediately noticed dozens of icons placed strategically at different points in the chapel. Each painting was that of an Orthodox saint, surrounded by lit votive candles. These lights emitted an eerie glow to the inside walls of the church. I gazed up at the ceiling, which curved into the concave shape of a dome. There was an enormous iconographic image of Jesus Christ painted on its surface. I knew this to be Christ as Pontokrater----ruler of all.
I glanced at the front of the chapel. The nave was separated from the holy altar by an iconostasis. The altar itself was covered with candles and holy relics. I took a seat in a wooden pew and crossed myself in the Orthodox fashion. The service began, and a tall man clad in full black robes led the prayers. I noticed that there were more similarities than differences between this church and the one back in my village. It really didn’t matter to me---we all prayed to the same God.
As I prayed, I suddenly noticed a young man who was sitting in the next pew, staring at me. He was blonde and blue-eyed, about eighteen years old. He smiled at me in a friendly manner. I ignored him at first, intent upon saying my prayers. When the service ended, he surprised me my walking over to my pew.
“Hello,” he greeted me in English. “I’ve never seen you here before. My name is Nikita. What’s yours?” he inquired.
I hesitated for a moment. I was a young lady; a stranger to this country, a foreigner. I didn’t believe it wise to trust an unknown young man so soon. But still, we were in church, not some nightclub or bar. And I didn’t want to be rude. “I am being Sonia Godunov,” I introduced myself, sticking out my straight arm to shake his hand. He shook my hand firmly, and to my astonishment, boldly sat down next to me in my pew.
“I am not remembering asking you to sit here,” I tartly remarked.
“I am not remembering needing your permission,” he replied, in a playful, mocking tone of voice. He glanced around the chapel. “So, how do you like our church? Does it meet with your approval?” he inquired.
I raised my eyebrows. “Is not needing my approval,” I responded. There was something about this young man that rubbed me the wrong way. He had a cocky grin; when he smiled it was insincere, and though his eyes were lively and interesting, they suggested arrogance. Nikita placed his hands behind his head, leaning backward as he rudely rested his feet upon the back of the pew in front of us.
“Oh, but it does need your approval,” he contradicted me. “You are from Russia, aren’t you? I can tell from your accent,” he said boastfully.
My face turned red with embarrassment. “You are not big detective solving big mystery,” I retorted. “This is Russian church, is natural Russian girl comes to pray,” I commented.
“Yes,” he said. “You are very authentic. Are you a student? Where are you staying?” he asked.
I thought that he was being too forward. Nikita’s accent was American, despite his Slavic features. He wore a blue cotton shirt, a matching tie, and white trousers. He seemed to never stop smiling---his teeth were very white and straight. Despite his pushiness, I was somewhat disarmed by his friendly manner. Perhaps he was someone who could be trusted. “I am being cook,” I informed him. “I work for family in West Hartford. I want to speak better English, and learn to be chef,” I confided.
Nikita nodded his head. “Yeah…well, anything is possible here in America. Does your host family attend our church?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No, the brothers Pavlovich are being Jews, I believe,” I stated.
Nikita’s eyes seemed to bulge out of his large, blonde head. “Do you mean that you work for that crazy Pavlovich family in West Hartford?” he asked incredulously.
I nodded my head. Without another word, Nikita rushed to the altar, interrupting the priest. He whispered something in his ear, frantically pointing in my direction. The black-robed priest crossed himself and then walked over to where I was still standing in the wooden pew.
“Good morning, child,” he said warmly. “I am Father Nicolai. I welcome you to our Orthodox Church. Nikita tells me that you are from Russia?” he inquired.
“Da,” I replied. “I am from village of Gogol, being near Ukraine. I am hoping to pray here; I am of Orthodox faith,” I informed him.
Father Nikolai nodded his head. He was an older gentleman, perhaps in his sixties. He had a long, snowy-white beard and full mustache. I could have mistaken him for a Russian priest, save for his distinctly American accent. “Of course, child,” he responded with a smile. Then his face became serious. “However,” he said with a frown. “Nikita has informed me that you are staying with the Pavlovich family in West Hartford. If that is the same Pavlovich family that lives on Keeney Avenue, then that concerns me greatly,” he stated gravely.
I searched for Nikita. He was on the other side of the chapel, speaking to an older couple whom I presumed to be his parents. All three of them were staring at me strangely, like I was some sort of freak. I began to nervously pull on my earlobe.
“The Pavlovich family is living on Keeney Avenue,” I admitted. “Are you knowing them personally? They are being very nice to me,” I defended them. “I respond to letter in Russian newspaper, and come here to America to cook for them,” I explained.
Father Nicolai shook his head sadly. “And you such a nice, young girl. Well, I knew their father, Peter Pavlovich quite well. We went to school together. He eventually married a German girl; Catherine was her name. She was the younger sister of Harriet, who is said to live with her nephews,” he said.
“Yes,” I confirmed. “And very nice lady, too,” I defended Harriet.
“Yes, I’m sure,” Father Nicolai agreed. “At any rate, I know something of their family history. Peter’s father came to America sometime after the Russian Revolution. He brought his bride with him, a young Ukrainian lady named Elizabeth. They lived in New York City for some years; they then settled here in Connecticut in the 1930’s. They built that house in West Hartford in 1936, I believe. It was a small, simple Cape, but a very nice home for the Pavlovich family,” he related.
“I lived around the corner from them, on Sylvan Avenue. I used to play with Peter when we were children. I remember his mother; she was delightful, very pleasant and kind. She would bake special Ukrainian eggs, and make us the fruity dish called Kisel,” Father Nicolai said, smiling at the memory. “Yes…she was someone I liked.”
“Was Grandfather Vladimir being around much?” I inquired.
Father Nicolai’s brow wrinkled. A dark look crept into his eyes. “Peter’s father, Vladimir---he was not someone I liked,” he informed me. “As I remember, he was a tall, hulking man, with jet-black hair and a fierce-looking beard. His voice was like a lion’s roar,” he recalled. It was odd. Father Nicolai could have been describing Vladimir’s grandson, Ivan. Except that Ivan was a red lion, not a black one.
“Everyone in the neighborhood was afraid of him,” Father Nicolai continued. “He crushed the spirit of that poor wife of his. Peter was terrified of him, for good reason. Vladimir Pavlovich was cruel; Peter had always wanted a pet. His mother secretly bought a cute little puppy for her son. When Vladimir found out about it, he made Peter kill the puppy with his own hand
s, right in front of the mother. And me,” he added, his eyes betraying the pain of the haunting memory.
“Then, the mother Elizabeth died. Officially, she died of a fever. But a story circulated around West Hartford at the time that she had displeased Vladimir, and that he had subsequently locked her in her room to starve to death. Of course, rumors will always travel like the wind; still, I’ll never forget the look of triumphant malice in that man’s devil eyes as his son killed the puppy,” he said.
“I stopped visiting 69 Keeney Avenue after that,” he remarked. “I remember leaving the house for the last time after Peter’s mom died. The young girl next door warned me not to step on the roses. What a pale thing she was,” he recalled.
“Anyway, Peter seemed to change after his mother’s death. He began to resemble his father more and more. He would bully younger children in school, stealing their money and hurting them physically. By high school, everyone was afraid of him, including his teachers. I stopped being friends with him; he ridiculed both my compassion for others and my faith in God. The Pavlovich family was supposed to be Jewish, yet I don’t remember them ever observing the Jewish holidays. Peter informed me that religion was for fools and weaklings. I don’t think that he even believed in the concept of God,” Father Nicolai crossed himself as he said this. He paused a moment, breathing heavily as he struggled to maintain his composure. Finally, he seemed to recover himself, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief and breathing more evenly.
“Then came the death of Vladimir Pavlovich,” Father Nicolai continued. “Now, I thought that I had been in every corner of that house, playing with Peter. But there was a room upstairs that no one was allowed to enter. It was the private office of the father, Vladimir. I personally thought of it as his secret lair,” he said confidentially. “Fastened over the door of that room was a green-colored clay figure, a three-pointed face of some hideous creature. Casually glancing at it, you would take no notice of the thing. But, I once made the mistake of closely examining it, as I was playing hide-and-seek with Peter. The clay figure looked like a demon from hell---and it seemed to come to life as I stared at it. I screamed in horror, running to rejoin Peter. He laughed at my foolishness, and I soon forgot the incident.”
“But on the day we were to graduate from high school, neighbors reported having heard a violent argument between Peter and his father. I never learned what it was about. What I do know is that Peter reported last seeing his father going into his office room and slamming the door. Strange screams were heard all over the neighborhood. Hordes of locusts descended upon the streets, looking like they wanted a battle. They appeared to have crowns of gold, and human faces. Their teeth looked like lions, their wings sounded like horses. And their tails stung like scorpions,” he related.
Father Nicolai looked around nervously, as if fearful of being watched. Then he resumed. “The sky seemed to become dark; the sun appeared black, and people thought that the moon was dripping with blood. A rumbling noise could be heard from the Pavlovich house, like that of an earthquake. Drops of ice hit its roof, looking like stars that had fallen from the sky. The police came, and Peter told them that his father was locked in his room upstairs. They broke down the door, finding…” his voice trailed off.
“What?” I asked with morbid fascination.
“Nothing,” Father Nicolai said. “The room was empty. They could find no evidence of any foul play. Vladimir disappeared; he was never seen again. However, one of the policemen happened to glance at the green clay figurehead that was mounted over the door. It appeared to him like a man writhing in agony. The policeman didn’t know why, but he somehow felt that it was Vladimir’s face. The officer looked at Peter, who nodded his head and smiled. When the policeman looked back at the door, the clay figure was quite still and ordinary. This story floated around West Hartford for quite some time,” he remarked.
“Peter was cleared of any wrong doing. He inherited the house and continued to live there. No one in the neighborhood would dare speak to him, yet things were quiet and normal for many years. I became a Russian Orthodox priest, as my babushka always wanted, and pushed these somber memories from my mind,” he confided.
Father Nicolai seemed drained by the effort of telling his story. Dark circles appeared around his eyes. He rubbed his temples vigorously, and shook his gray head, as if to awaken it. Then, he smiled a weak smile and patted my arm lightly. “Perhaps I should not have told you these things,” he said softly. “It is you who are supposed to confess to me, not vice-versa. I have not considered these events for many years. But I felt it my duty to warn you. Peter and Vladimir are long gone, but the bad apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” he said, wrinkling his brow with concern.
We were interrupted by the entrance of a second priest. He whispered something into the ear of Father Nicolai, who nodded his head and got to his feet. “I am unfortunately called away on pressing matters,” he apologized. “But perhaps we can speak again. Will you be here next Sunday?” he asked.
I stood up from the pew, and nodded my head. “Of course; I am being here every Sunday,” I promised.
Father Nicolai held my hand warmly before walking off with the second priest. I heard whispers around my pew; I nervously wondered if the other churchgoers were talking about me. Nikita suddenly reappeared, with a friendly, cheerful smile. He seemed very eager to gather some information.
“Well, I see Father Nicolai has been enlightening you about that weird Pavlovich family,” he said. “You know, Sonia, I really like you. I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to you in that crazy house,” he said with a smile and a devilish twinkle in his eye.
I looked at him coldly. “You are not knowing Sonia Godunov well enough to like her,” I informed him angrily. “And what Father Nicolai tells me is none your concern,” I said bluntly. I grabbed my coat and started to walk quickly toward the exit. Nikita rushed to keep up with me.
“Wait,” he begged. He ran to my side. “I didn’t mean anything earlier. I bank on first impressions; that is all,” he smiled.
I didn’t smile back. “First impressions of you not so good,” I told him. I tried to escape the conversation by walking out the front door of the church, but Nikita followed me outside. The bright sunlight hit our faces with striking force, especially after having been in the shadows of the chapel. We both rubbed our eyes from the glare,
“Sonia, I’m serious,” Nikita said imploringly. “You are really cute. I like your blonde hair, your short stubby nose, and your sexy accent. Are you seeing anyone? He asked boldly.
For some reason, I thought of Alexander at that moment. But that was ridiculous, so I pushed the image of him from my mind. I shook my head violently. “Nyet, I am not having time for this,” I told him emphatically. “I must be best cook I can, and learn the better English. That is all I am having time for,” I declared.
Nikita nodded his head with sadness. I suddenly felt guilty for having been so unfriendly. “I hope that I can talk to you next Sunday,” he said hopefully. “We’re not on Facebook, but can I friend you?” he asked, holding out his hand.
I smiled warmly. I shook his hand. “I not ignore you, da, just friends,” I replied. I waved goodbye to Nikita and hurried down the sidewalk toward the bus stop.
I had to run to catch my bus. The driver gave me a disapproving stare, but still opened the door to let me on. I paid my fare and found a seat, next to a heavy-set Asian woman with two shopping bags. I smiled as I sat down next to her; she grunted as she reluctantly moved over to make room. A child was screaming somewhere behind us, as his mother told him to be quiet. I glanced down, and noticed that I was still clutching a bible from the pew in the church. I promised myself that I would return it the next Sunday.
I took another look at the bible in my hands. The cover was black; it was very dirty and well-worn from use. I noticed that someone had left a marker inside of it. I opened the book, turning the yellowed pages until I came to the marker. It was in Revelatio
n. There were two passages highlighted, to my surprise. I read the first to myself:
“He came from the earth, with two horns like a lamb, but he spoke like a dragon. He makes fire come from heaven. He will cause all to receive a mark on their foreheads. The number of the beast is 666,” it read.
I shuddered and quickly looked up. There was a man sitting across the aisle from me. He was short and plump, middle-aged with rosy cheeks and a neatly-trimmed gray mustache. It seemed too small for his chubby face, as did his tiny eyes. The man was smiling as he nodded in the direction of my bible. His beady eyes reminded me of a hungry wolf prowling the snowy forests of Russia. I glanced down at the open book. The second passage was also highlighted:
“The one who believes in me though he should die, yet shall he live; the one who lives and believes in Me shall never die,” it read.
I closed the bible and held it tight to my chest, over my heart. It was suddenly dark in the bus, and I was afraid. I pulled on my earlobe, secretly wishing that my brother Sasha were there to help me. I wished for this during the long bus ride home to 69 Keeney Avenue.