Excerpt
Her friend Paul would, of course, be in Chopyk’s senior group since his language ability was excellent. Ted and David would be with Chopyk, along with Otto, the German student, on an exchange program from Mannheim University. To her surprise, Chopyk had put Lona on his list. The two appeared to be getting along famously. He had also taken the exchange student from Carleton University, Ingrid Schneider. She seems interesting and is the only one besides me who’s studying Soviet literature. She felt resentful that Chopyk had only six students to manage while she had nine but chided herself—Come on, Jen, work with him. Don’t let him spoil it for you.
After loading film into her camera, she walked the hotel halls to the sixth floor snack counter. But this morning, no listless attendant stood behind the counter as she had done the previous evening, ready to mete out the bottles of yogurt-like kefir, sticky cakes and tea. Perhaps she would open up soon. Jennifer took a seat at one of the metal tables and gazed out the window. If she had been on the opposite side of the building, she would have seen the Kremlin walls, but this view gave onto some obscure side streets. At the far end of one street she could see the outline of a small church, four onion domes surrounding a fifth larger one. Practically in the shadow of the Kremlin, she thought, and probably unused. Tomorrow the group would visit Novodevichy, one of the few “working” churches in Moscow. Suddenly she decided not to wait for that experience.
Within minutes Jennifer was on the street to get a closer look, camera in hand, calling out a good morning to the elderly women who were sweeping the sidewalks. The little church was unpainted. The walls were crumbling, the windows bricked up. Quietly and with reverence she entered the courtyard. If there was ever a graveyard here, it was paved over long ago. In one corner was the exposed edge of a heap of rubble, food containers and broken bottles. She caught a glimpse of someone—just a wisp of apron and full skirt—vanishing behind the church. She darted ahead and saw an old woman, bag in hand, who looked back like a startled deer. The woman took in the western clothing and camera in a glance then turned and ran. Jennifer snapped a photo. She’s been picking in the garbage heap, she thought. And they tell us there are no poor people here.
Libros Libertad 