Open Writing

On Easter Sunday Leon and I attended early afternoon Mass at the nearby Russian Orthodox Church. We were guests of Russian-born Olga and her South African husband, Mike.

The church is magnificent, built in the shape of a cross with a high, domed roof. White walls soar into the sky, bearing six golden onion-domes which gleam in the sunshine. The domes were manufactured and gilded in Moscow, then shipped to South Africa, as no-one here had the necessary skills to create them. On the northern face of the church are glowing portraits of two saints.

Inside, there are no pews – worshippers stand throughout the celebration of Mass. On the gleaming parquet floor lies a cross of crimson carpets, bearing a lectern and icons of saints beneath which are taper-holders, where supplicants place their lit offerings, crossing themselves – right to left – and kissing the saint’s feet. Behind a massive, intricately carved and painted wooden screen is the gold and crimson-decked altar, where a massive, gold-covered bible sits, flanked by huge candles. On plain white walls hang more icons; some, centuries old, painted in gold on silver, were carried to South Africa by members of the Russian aristocracy fleeing the 1917 revolution. These effigies of saints are lit by alternating red and blue candles; close to each is the inevitable tray of taper-holders casting a warm glow on the holy likeness.

The first inkling we had that Mass had begun, was a rich baritone voice chanting in Russian behind the screen. Draped in a heavy crimson and gold cape and wearing a tall flat topped crimson hat, the priest moved into sight in the doorway at the centre of the screen. In counterpoint to the chanting were the sweetly-woven voices of a four-part ladies’ choir, soaring from the gallery above. Music filled the vast space, ringing up into the dome around the glittering chandelier. Occasionally, parts of the Mass were translated into English. Priest and altar-boys processed in front of the altar, either wafting clouds of heavily-scented incense through the sunlit church, or casting shadows in the glow of the massive candles. Members of the congregation ambled nonchalantly through the church, moving from one icon to another, lighting candles, praying, bowing, kissing the feet of the pictured saints.

The majority of the congregation remained in the entrance-hall, chatting, crossing themselves and replying to the priest’s frequent, “Christ is risen,” with, “He is indeed risen!”

After thirty minutes, the music ceased, and the priest moved to the lectern. A cross shone, golden on his chest. For fifteen minutes, he spoke to the congregation in Russian, with occasional sentences in English, and then Mass was over.

People flocked to the hall, where children presented an Easter play. There were all the usual characters: the little girl who sang louder than all the rest – off key; the tiny darling over whom everyone ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’; the little boy who played the part of king with gusto; the young teenager who forgot her words, blushed, lips trembling, then recovered to become the best actress on stage. The audience was filled with young families, mothers cradling whimpering or gurgling infants, trying to keep bored toddlers quiet. The performance was entirely in Russian. As soon as they were changed out of their costumes into jeans and t-shirts, the youngsters rushed around on the lawns, calling and playing in South ‘Efrican’ English!

The hall was cleared of chairs, tables were brought in and everyone was invited to enjoy a gargantuan feast – washed down with Russian Vodka.

It was a delightful, family event, filled with fun and laughter.

Yet, there was a darker side to this glowing and colourful afternoon.

As the food was served, a mother and father encouraged their anorexic daughter to join them for the feast. They touched her with love, hugged her, and kissed her cheek. The teenager waved stick-like arms and muttered angrily; her shoulder-bones and ribs showed, sharp, through her crimson blouse. She became almost hysterical, and pulled away from her parents. Her face a mask of fury, she ran into the cloud-dappled gardens and disappeared.

The Priest announced that, on this special occasion, the bell tower was open to all. He invited members of the congregation to ring the beautiful bells, sending the joyous message of resurrection pealing through the neighbourhood. As we waited in the queue at the bottom of the tower, a commotion broke out above us. A young teenager, halfway up, clung with all his strength to the rungs of the ladder. Two steps below, a man pried those clinging fingers loose, forced the arms to move up to the next rung, lifted the reluctant feet and placed them, fighting every inch of the way, a rung higher. The boy sobbed, face contorted with fear, as he was forced upwards.

Disturbed, we left Olga and Mike to their bell-ringing adventure. It took them a while to reach the bells. Leon and I waited at the end of an avenue of fragrant rose bushes. The bells pealed their message once again, into the early sunset: Olga tugged the ropes, a delighted smile on her lips, Mike standing protectively behind her.

Minutes later, when she left the bell tower Olga seemed anxious. She ran to the priest and pulled him to the door of the tower, talking earnestly. Later she explained to us: “That boy who was forced to climb the ladder is terrified. He’s sitting in a corner refusing to come down, crying, screaming and fighting everyone!” An hour and a half later when we left, the poor boy was still cowering in the corner, surrounded by mother, father and priest.

Few people around us were aware of the heartbreak of these two families, unfolding in the midst of beauty, warmth and joy and after so much spiritual pomp and ceremony.

The shadows of life emphasise the brilliance that surrounds us.

Until next time, ‘here comes Treble’!

by Isabel Bradley © copyright reserved