“Don’t expect change from a priest”
(Folk Proverb)
The deafening sound of shattering glass tore through the winter night. Such a quiet night, the kind only found in a village far from the city. Cold and dark. Where any sound, like the signals from the Mayak radio station, carries like thunder for many kilometers.
- Fire, you’re on fire! Quickly, save yourselves!
Awakened abruptly, both the mother and her two daughters thought war had broken out. What else could people expect in 1934, when the authorities constantly reminded them that enemies were all around, even within ourselves? Moreover, a completely unfamiliar man in a military uniform was already climbing in through the window.
He tried to open the door to the room, but flames burst in immediately. With a strong hand, miraculously maintaining his composure, the man shut it. In that single moment, the heat hit their faces as if they had looked into a lit furnace—or even into hell itself.
There was only one way left for escape. Nearly the entire wooden house was engulfed in flames. Both girls were thrown out into the snow through the broken window. They had just a few minutes to try to save anything. Their mother, Alexandra Andreyevna, took what was most valuable to her: she grabbed the money hidden for a rainy day and, without thinking, tucked it into her nightgown. She also grabbed from the wall the last remaining item from her previous life—a pair of antique Bure master clocks. A masterpiece from a true craftsman, inherited from her family. She threw them into the snow out the window before her. Nothing else could be saved.
The neighbors came running to the cries and noise. There was absolutely nothing they could do. The men began to throw snow and pour water on the nearby houses to stop the fire from spreading. They started to pull apart the charred logs. The children, who ended up in a meter-deep snowdrift in their night clothes, were wrapped in blankets brought by the neighbors. Alexandra Andreyevna stood nearby, watching the scene with complete detachment.
The clocks lying on the back wall had stopped. The exhausted pendulum lay inside behind the intricate glass. Time had ceased.
She had no strength to do anything at that moment. Another segment of her life had gone to ashes, burned down with the house. This wasn’t the first tragedy in her life, and whatever she did always ended similarly, if not the same way.
She was born a few years before the start of the 20th century. Not just anywhere, but in a rather poor yet not ruined family in Moscow, on Tverskaya-Yamskaya. She had to work from childhood. As a little girl, Alexandra looked after the children of wealthy parents. She survived all three revolutions, and as a simple, ordinary person, did not participate in any of them. Maybe because she understood from a young age that everything happening around was a struggle between some for money and power.
Later, textbooks would describe the battle for Moscow between the Bolsheviks and everyone else as “heroic.” Alexandra Andreyevna, then still young Alexandra, spent the last revolution in a basement. It was very frightening, and shots were fired from all sides.
The political life of the country was like a stormy sky torn by lightning. Earth-shaking thunderclaps—they were somewhere up there. Only occasionally did tongues of heavenly fire burn something or someone. But all the events occurred in a different dimension. Only agitators of various religious and other factions would later scare people with divine punishment, trying to drag them into their endless struggle for a place in the sun.
She received the highest education available at the time—four classes. And she worked as an ordinary seamstress in a factory. But the country awaited great changes. She left Moscow for the village forever. Because there was absolutely nothing to eat in the city. She moved to this village simply to survive.
Alexandra got married. She had her first daughter and buried her husband, who died of pneumonia. Her life was shattered. But as a simple person, she found the strength to rebuild her happiness a second time.
Her second husband was a NEPman by the class concept that had formed by the end of the twenties. He ran a tea house on the road from Moscow. And he was lucky—he too died. Before the state decided to do away with people like him. As one historian put it, the authorities treated NEPmen like piglets on a farm: let them grow, then slaughter them. But he died earlier. And left Alexandra Andreyevna with another daughter and a small house. Everything else was lost to debts after his death.
Alexandra Andreyevna no longer sought her fate. She went to work on the collective farm. They accepted her without any questions because she was a single mother with two children—truly village poor. Gradually, working from dawn to dusk, she settled in, accepted her fate. She even got a cow and chickens. And she raised her two daughters.
Very soon, she, who had come from the city and was considered educated by local standards, was noticed and first made a brigade leader on the collective farm, and then the chairman of the village council. But she didn’t work there long—she didn’t want to participate in the new party and government venture. Across the village, the dispossession was in full swing. Whole families were loaded onto carts and, with whatever they managed to take on one horse (the one they didn’t mind giving up, the worst one, meaning the one the collective farm didn’t mind), were sent to build Novokuznetsk. History is silent on who managed to reach the goal—apparently no one. The authorities were building Bolshevik socialism. The most humane social system in the world.
But Alexandra Andreevna refused to join their party. She left her position and went to work at the crossing, manually opening the barrier for passing vehicles. In those days, this was done by hand. At least this job paid something, in actual money rather than a bag of food calculated by labor days in the collective farm.
The clock hung on the wall, measuring time. It seemed like a boat in a pond, marking time with its oar – the pendulum. Politics changed. New decrees from above kept coming. The clock had nothing to do with all this: neither with the ostentatious joy of great achievements nor with the fear of the future. It measured eternity, filling the house with its remarkable chimes each hour, reminding of the transience of everything and everyone on earth.
And now this life was destroyed. Alexandra Andreevna was left with nothing again: everything she had burned. The house, the cow that provided milk for the children, and the chickens. She stood before the burning house with all she had left: two daughters and the heirloom wall clock. The last thing she had.
“Come to our place, Alexandra,” called a neighbor, “there’s nothing more you can do here. At least we can warm the children.”
She picked up her last treasure — the clock. She shook off the snow and wiped the antique polished wooden case, framed on either side by two carved balusters, with her hem. The glass, behind which was the dial with elegant Roman numerals in gold and the massive pendulum. She listened: surprisingly, it was intact. And once set upright again, it started working.
They spent the rest of the night in the neighbor’s house. With people just as poor as they were. And truly, whom can ordinary people rely on besides each other, on traditional folk solidarity and help in a difficult moment?
If the authorities do extend a helping hand, it’s only for show. But when the real disaster strikes, who will help? Only people like us. Like that man in military uniform who happened to pass by and broke the window. Like the neighbors who took Alexandra Andreevna and her two children into their home and shared the little clothing and food they had.
It remained a mystery how the fire could have started in winter when there are no thunderstorms. There were rumors that it was arson, but Alexandra Andreevna had no enemies. She didn’t participate in the dekulakization — she quit that hateful job as soon as it began. She was a modest twice-widowed woman with two children, who got along with her neighbors. Sometimes she even helped them write something because she was one of the few literate people around.
However, until the end of her days, she could not answer another question: what happened to the money she put in her nightgown? Most likely, it simply fell out and burned with everything else.
“Where should I go now — with two children?”
“Alexandra, go to the church in the morning. Maybe our priest can help you. He’s wise and kind,” advised the neighbor.
Indeed, everything was lost. The house was gone. The money too. There was nothing to eat and no way to get food. But it wasn’t just the two daughters and the clock that Alexandra Andreevna still had. Like any ordinary Russian person, she had faith in God. Who could, who should come to the aid of the suffering and not leave them in trouble. But how can you reach heaven when disaster strikes? For that, there is the church, here on earth, nearby.
In the morning, Alexandra Andreevna dressed in what the neighbors gave her, gathered her children, and went to see the priest. To where the church stood on the highest spot in the village, its golden crosses on the domes reaching up to the sky. So high that even the Bolsheviks couldn’t reach them.
The path was not close. The cold winter sun, as unheated as an old cast-iron iron, pierced through the clouds. The cold wind burned their faces. The snow crunched underfoot. They walked along the unplowed road, occasionally stepping aside to let vehicles and carts pass.
They slowly passed old pre-revolutionary houses. Poor and shabby. Because families with means had long been evicted. The Bolsheviks only nominally acknowledged Darwin’s theory of survival of the fittest. In practice, they did the opposite, destroying the best. And the best people.
She walked past the Ilyins’ house. A dilapidated, unpainted house with two windows and a crooked porch. The whole family — the father, mother, and their eldest son — drank heavily. They said it was out of hopelessness. But has there ever been a person who found a way out in drunkenness? Yet the new government seemed to rely on people like them. The poorer and more ignorant, the better.
In this house lived the Sergeev family. They weren’t dispossessed because they managed to go bankrupt just in time. And in that house lived the Korpenko family. They moved in a couple of years ago, replacing the Sevastianovs, who were exiled to nowhere for being kulaks. Everyone has their own cross to bear. Alexandra Andreevna had her own.
She bore it as best she could. Barely moving in her old, worn-out felt boots, which were at least two sizes too big for her, she walked with her two daughters to the church. Her soul was filled with hope and faith. A faith as strong as a simple person could muster.
The low clouds didn’t just float that day; it seemed they were flying toward her. On one of these clouds, Alexandra Andreevna imagined, was He, her just protector and defender. The Orthodox God, who did not spare His only begotten Son and sent Him to earth to save humanity. And somewhere up there was the Mother of God, protector of all the unfortunate and destitute. She believed that they surely saw her, would definitely hear her prayer. And their representative here on earth, Father Oleg, would not let her and her children starve. He would welcome them, bless them, and help them.
From time to time, the sun broke through the clouds. Or perhaps it was God Himself? An all-powerful source of energy, filling souls, an inexhaustible source of goodness and justice? And God, somewhere up there, shines down on us with His warmth and light. And if you just believe in Him, turn to Him—universal joy and happiness would fill your soul, and life would get better? Of course, any priest would call such an idea of God paganism. But where is the boundary between a specific Church faith in Christ and simple concepts—in the souls of simple people?
Alexandra Andreevna did not know who or where God was. Not that she didn’t know, but she had a very general, popular notion. But she sincerely believed in Him, in His power and might.
So, reciting to herself, and at times out loud, the main prayer—Our Father—she walked the whole way. The Holy Trinity must hear her! Because she asked for daily bread and protection, nothing more. And there was no sin on her for which she should answer before Him. Only the cross, placed on her by God and fate, which she had to bear, traversing her own Golgotha—so small for the universe and humanity, but infinitely great for her and her children.
She entered the church. Everything here was the same as before. Icons, the smell of lamp oil, and burning candles. The altar. Everything familiar for many years. Since the time she first got married here. Baptized her children here.
The main icon came into view. From the golden frame, He, Jesus, looked at her. Sad and kind, capable of love and forgiveness. He gave His life for His disciples and for all who pray to His Father.
To His right was another icon: Saint Mary with the Child in her arms. Her gaze expressed what Alexandra Andreevna so sorely lacked now: hope. And a millennia-old sorrow, as if even then, with a small child in her arms, she knew about the heavy fate that awaited her, the unbearable burden she had to bear.
Candles burned in front of the holy images. Simple, cheap candles, the kind that simple villagers could afford. And only one was expensive and luxurious—apparently placed secretly by someone among the local communist authorities. No longer did money determine the hierarchy of society. It was social status. Proximity to power.
Alexandra Andreevna reached into the pocket of the old, worn-out padded jacket, given to her by one of her neighbors, and took out a few kopecks from the little money she had borrowed. She approached the old woman selling candles at the entrance and bought a few of the cheapest ones. Crossing herself fervently, she placed one for Him and another for the Holy Mother, to whom this church was dedicated.
Then she approached the rectangular table for delivering from sufferings—where candles are placed for the repose of souls. She placed several one after the other—for her parents, for her first and second husbands who had left her. How are they there? Do they remember her, do they see her?
At that moment, she was enveloped in a veil of deep and distant memories. There was their apartment where she lived with her parents. Her father, a tall, strict, and at the same time kind man, worked at the central telegraph office in those years. Her mother, a responsive and warm woman, raised three children—her and her two brothers. And this apartment—with a stove in the corner of the room. That very hearth with a few smoldering logs, which, if she looked deep inside herself, still warmed her soul. And those clocks, which seemed to her, then a little girl, some unreal miracle, the pinnacle of technology and progress—mysterious and incomprehensible.
Every Sunday morning, her father performed a ritual. He would approach the clock and open its carved glass door, secured by a small hook. There, in the right corner, lay a key. With his left hand, her father would stop the pendulum, and with his right hand, insert the key into a special inconspicuous hole on the dial and, counting the turns, wind the clock “to run,” as he said. Then he would move the key to the second hole on the other side and wind it “to chime.” Afterward, he would carefully place the key back and close the door. The winding lasted for a week. And then the whole family would gather to go to church. She would sit on her mother’s lap, and her mother would braid her thick and tight braid. She still remembers the touch of her mother’s hands and those tight movements of the curved comb on the back of her head…
Then the whole family would go outside and walk to the church. It was boring for the little girl there. But still, this environment always brought her a certain peace and tranquility. She dutifully stood through the entire service next to her parents and brothers. And then they would head home. Her mother would prepare lunch for the whole family. Perhaps it was the only day of the week when they could all gather together at the large round dining table. Alexandra Andreevna didn’t know why, but these Sunday lunches with her family were her brightest childhood memories.
When there was an opportunity, her mother would cook chicken. First, it made a wonderful soup. Her mother would make homemade noodles from eggs and flour, boil them in the broth for a few minutes, and then the dish would be served at the table in a large tureen. The extraordinary smell, the aroma of a real, natural dish filled the room. For the second course, of course, there was the same chicken taken from the soup and fried. It was served with some side dish—rice or boiled potatoes.
On such days, her father would put a carafe of vodka on the table and have a few shots during lunch. This made him even kinder and more talkative. He often told the children about his parents and his life.
Of course, they didn’t always have such lunches. The country was ravaged by revolutions, power changed hands. Crises were followed by upturns, and upturns by crises again. Sometimes it seemed that the long-awaited freedom had come. But then they were again replaced by persecutions and repressions. The country swung like a pendulum on a clock, now to the right, now to the left. And they didn’t live richly at all—like an ordinary family of those years. But from childhood—you want to remember only the best… And the best and warmest memories for her were the stove in the corner with the smoldering logs. The comb in the warm and caring hands of her mother, who combed her braid. And the clock on the wall, measuring time—steady and calm. Filling the room with a steady ticking under the swing of the pendulum. And a loud, confident chime every hour.
Alexandra Andreevna returned to reality when the people in the church began to gather around the priest for prayer. After that, Father Oleg delivered a sermon: about tolerance for others and for the authorities, about humility and meekness. And about how the Lord sends us trials. And those who endure them will have eternal life.
After standing through the morning service as expected, she approached the priest. She knew Father Oleg well. He often visited her home. On major church holidays, a whole procession of church servants walked around the village. Simple people treated the monks and the priest with whatever they could. They donated money to them. They believed in God and knew that the church had a hard time under the Bolsheviks. And they also hoped that in a difficult moment—the state would be indifferent, but the priest, as the vicar of the Lord God on earth, just and great, would certainly come to their aid, bless them, and save them and their souls. Who else could help the orphans and the wretched?
With her head humbly lowered and looking at the floor, Alexandra Andreevna approached Father Oleg.
“I have sorrow, Father! My house burned down, my cow burned down, my chickens burned down, I have nothing left. How can I feed my children now? What should I do?”
The priest, dressed in a black cassock with an impressive gold cross on his chest, looked down at her, seemingly even slightly lifting his beard so that its fluffy end momentarily detached from his large, obviously not from hunger swollen belly.
“Alexandra, I know, I saw, you still have the old clock! Sell it to me—and you will have something to live on.”
Alexandra Andreevna said nothing in response. She just took one last look at the church’s interior. As before, He looked at her. Only His gaze seemed completely different. Cold, indifferent, and arrogant, frozen in centuries. No, this man did not die for this—not for the golden frames that separated his face from the surrounding world. And suddenly, Alexandra Andreevna realized that he was not the son of God, but a historical madman who spoke kind words to people—and was killed by them for it. Many good ideas become dead when they are surrounded by golden frames. Many, if not all.
Jesus looked at Alexandra Andreevna completely differently now, not as He had before. In an instant, He transformed from the King of the Jews into a mere mortal, tortured by executioners and power. It was even more absurd that those same forces, which had once killed Him for His dissent, now cloaked themselves in His name, continuing to commit no lesser evils. Even the cleric’s robe symbolized dark forces rather than light ones.
Mary’s gaze had also changed on the icon. Before her was simply a woman, thinking only of her child. A caring mother who gave birth to a son executed for his idea. But she was no longer the protector of the poor and downtrodden. Instead, a sorrowful woman looked at her, shamefully averting her eyes, like someone who cannot help. What did the grand church décor mean to her when she faced simple human suffering and grief?
Alexandra Andreevna took one last look at the congregation. The candles burning around were no longer sacred or uplifting to her, but symbols of backwardness—an endless and insurmountable poverty that had haunted Russia for centuries and was still alive. That twilight of life and the eternal illusion that somewhere above, under the dome, angels flew and God sat, caring about them.
The legend in honor of which this old village church was built now seemed completely different. It is said that the Church of the Intercession was created based on a vision seen by a fool for Christ in Constantinople, where the Virgin Mary covered the gathered people with a shawl taken from her shoulders, which they perceived as a blessing. But the Virgin disappeared, and the covering vanished with her. Similarly, Alexandra Andreevna’s faith had vanished, disappearing into nothingness.
She turned and left, followed by her two daughters, despondent and unhappy. They trudged through the village, wearing clothes handed down by others, along the highway stretching west from Moscow. The bright winter sun shone, but their eyes were downcast because they had never had to beg before. They walked along the snow-covered roadside, stepping aside for passing cars and sleighs.
A strong wind blew at their backs, seeming to drive them away from the place they once considered sacred. The sky gradually clouded over. Perhaps God could no longer see them, or maybe He wasn’t there at all. Or perhaps, after sending the first people to this earth, He simply forgot about them. Maybe He aged and died long ago. It became dark and gloomy. Snow began to fall.
It was unbearable to see the sympathetic looks of the villagers. Of course, everyone knew about the night fire by now. Some had helped them that night. The rest… rumors spread faster than sparks from the ashes in the night sky.
She wandered along the roadside, letting cars pass by. The snow covered her tracks. She was heading toward people.
“How was it, Alexandra? What did our priest say? Did he help you?” asked the neighbor who had taken her in.
“God be his judge. But I won’t go to church anymore,” she replied firmly. And with that, everything was said. The neighbor had enough tact not to ask further questions.
Or maybe she was simply afraid to learn the truth—that God didn’t see them, didn’t care, or didn’t exist at all, and that after death, there was no eternal life in paradise or hellfire. Only emptiness and earthly dust. A cold, frozen grave from fall to spring and damp earth from spring to fall. Nothing, absolutely nothing more.
And only particularly cunning and shameless inventors know how to create, based on this fear, centuries-old myths, and build a paradise for themselves here on earth, here and now, adorning themselves with golden icons and chains.
And then life went on as usual. Alexandra Andreevna begged the authorities for permission to cut down a few trees to start building a new house. Simple Russian men went with her into the forest, felling trees and hauling them to the site of the ashes. Yes, a small woman, a mother of two, carried logs alongside the strong men through meter-high snowdrifts because she had no one else to rely on. No help to expect except from these simple people living nearby in the same village.
The authorities remembered Alexandra Andreevna about a year later, when the new house was almost finished. They allocated her a room in a former manor house, still found in many Russian villages, next to the new master—the supply manager of a Soviet military leader—and his family.
He indeed lived prosperously, leaving for work in Moscow each morning in a car with a chauffeur, leaving his family in the care of servants. In the evenings, when he returned, there were often unheard-of feasts with goose or duck specially kept for him in the yard.
But behind all this bravado in the new master’s eyes was a clear fear. Fear of those to whom he was a loyal servant. Life knows no more arrogant master than a former serf. So his wife occasionally sneaked into the church, secretly from her husband and the state. But the material age and state structure had left their mark on this faith. Just as people went to the store for bread, they went to God for luck and well-being.
However, the Soviet luxury and bourgeoisie of the era did not touch Alexandra Andreevna and her daughters, as they lived in an annex, in a small room with a stove in the middle.
Finally, the construction was complete. The new house was built, and the clock took its rightful place on the wall opposite the entrance.
A few years later, the war began. Trenches were everywhere, and anti-aircraft guns were set up in the garden. Both retreating and advancing soldiers stayed in this house. Alexandra Andreevna and her daughters were lucky—the Germans didn’t reach their village, being stopped earlier. Otherwise, their home would have been burned down again under Stalin’s order to leave scorched earth before Moscow.
The village was frequently bombed because a headquarters was nearby. The whole family hid in the basement. The Germans probably knew about the nearby front headquarters. Only the civilian population was unaware, thinking the hospital was being bombed. That’s always the way in our country—high-ranking officials and commanders pave the way to their achievements and victories over the heads of ordinary people. And the clock continued to chime every hour until victory. Alexandra Andreevna did not sell or trade it for bread, even when there was absolutely nothing to eat at home. It was her only treasure, something she desperately wanted to keep. And she did.
The war ended, and the country gradually returned to normal Soviet life. Then Stalin died, and people were allowed to breathe a little freer. At least, serfdom was abolished, and peasants received passports. More and more villagers moved to the city. Then Brezhnev came to power, lingering like an old clock on the wall for seventeen endless years.
Alexandra Andreevna lived a long life. She had the chance to take care of not only her grandchildren but also her great-grandchildren. Until the very end of her days, she read newspapers and watched the assemblies of the authorities of the time — the congresses — on television. However, she expected nothing from them. Absolutely nothing good. She knew firmly that in this life, you could only rely on yourself. Well, in extreme cases, on someone like herself — on neighbors and close ones.
And so one day, another session of the Politburo was being broadcast on television. Alexandra Andreevna sat on the edge of the old sofa and looked at the elderly statesmen. Probably out of habit, because her long life had taught her: nothing would change from the empty words of the authorities, whoever they might be.
The black-and-white tube TV, Rekord, mumbled through the lips of Leonid Ilyich Brezhnev — a pitiable and not just old, but ancient dictator, living out his last days. He was as solemn as Jesus on the icon in that village church. Only, he was no longer the Son of God but Lenin’s heir. And just as lifeless. Unfortunately, one couldn’t see in color his frame, the golden setting of the new Bolshevik faith — the endless rows of medals covering his chest.
The country was already filled with the air of impending changes. The leaders deserved nothing but ridicule. And although not publicly, somewhere among people, more and more often, jokes were told at home about the new Bolshevik religion and its leaders. Lenin’s representatives on earth. At least once every six months, people whispered that Brezhnev had finally died. But the rumors stubbornly were not confirmed. And he reappeared on television screens.
Life was getting worse. Even the most basic products disappeared from stores. The country was slowly but surely approaching ideological and financial bankruptcy. And Brezhnev kept on living and living. Dragging out his relentlessly passing time as best as he could.
Like all rulers, everything he said was essentially absolutely meaningless. Just like everything the general secretaries, great leaders, and presidents say at their official gatherings. They cannot, do not know how, and their status does not allow them to communicate with ordinary people in normal language. Therefore, the viewers of the state spectacle always have to try to hear something between the lines.
This is what Alexandra Andreevna was doing when her grandson, a high school student, came home from school. A representative of a new generation who had not seen all the horrors of early Bolshevism and Stalinism, who had not experienced the war. One of those who were no longer afraid to call things by their names — at least at home. He came over and asked:
– Grandma, are you watching them again? What new can you see there? You’ve lived a long life. What can he say that’s new to you? You’ve lived under the Tsar, Lenin, Stalin, Khrushchev, and now him. What will change?
– You know, Andrei, I’ve lived for so many years, watched for so many years — and still hope. I’ve become old. Everything hurts. And I have nothing to lose, so I can say whatever I want. Nothing will happen to me anymore. So we watch them, listen to them for so many years, even decades, always hoping that they will understand something… But in reality, they are not needed at all. We would live perfectly fine without them. What did Stalin say — he wagged his tongue, and everyone listened, afraid to say a word. What about that bald Khrushchev waving his hands. And now Brezhnev — he should retire, better take care of his grandchildren.
– Grandma, what do you believe in? Do you believe in God?
– I don’t know, grandson, I don’t know anything. Maybe he exists, maybe he doesn’t.
– But you don’t go to church?
Alexandra Andreevna did not answer. Because she didn’t know what to say. Moreover, even if God existed, he would be anywhere but in the place assigned to him by mortal people. Not in golden shackles.
At that time, the session being broadcast on television ended, and the Soviet anthem began to play. The same one, only with different words. And the elderly men present stood up, straightening up as best they could. Meanwhile, on the wall, the old clock, wound by Alexandra Andreevna’s hand on Sunday morning, continued its relentless counting. It mercilessly measured the time for these old men in the presidium.
Somewhere back there, in the hall, behind the older comrades, there were probably those who, in a few years, would renounce their faith — with the first, if not the third, crow. And someone would go into the power of the new Russia. And someone would sow their thirty pieces of silver and grow the tree of their business — with Komsomol money.
And many of them would change their red faith for the church one. And with the same ostentatious zeal with which they sang along during this bacchanalia, they would cross themselves in public — in the restored temples.
And people would follow them, who, like children, seemingly feel orphaned without some kind of faith. Not all, but those who don’t know and can’t live without a master. And they pay for this — not with the fire of hell or the paradise of heaven, but with movement in an endless circle, like the hands of a clock. But the spring mechanism is wound. And someday the time will come, and the space will break under the thunderous sound of the clock.
Maybe Alexandra Andreevna believed in God to some extent until the end of her days. And when a thunderstorm suddenly began, she would cross herself furiously, as people who have survived a village fire often do. But she drew the main conclusion and never went to church again in her life. Never.
Many years later, when the power in the country changed, one of Alexandra Andreevna’s grandsons built a new brick house on the site of the old village one. And when it was demolished, several old icons were found in the attic. One of them — with cracked glass. It forever remained a mystery how this icon appeared and why it was stored there, in the attic. Like in a hidden corner of consciousness. And where this crack came from.
And Alexandra Andreevna’s clock is intact and working — to this day. They were restored in our time. And they now hang on the wall of one of her grandsons. They are still wound once a week. And the springs, as a hundred years ago, hold the winding. Every hour, the old chime rings out. They keep time. These clocks survived three revolutions, the civil and the great patriotic war. Nicholas II, Lenin, Stalin, Khrushchev, Brezhnev, Andropov, Chernenko, Yeltsin. They will surely outlive all those who remain. Because any power comes and goes. But simple people remain. And these clocks. Maybe they are eternity?
Aleksei Sukhoverkhov (c)
