To Sing Frogs Chapter 30b

Celeste feeding the sparrows at McDonalds near Red Square

The sparrow hopped from the metal chair to the steel mesh of the table, snatched the short piece of French fry, and was gone. We had been luring him closer and closer while we ate our McDonalds lunch and the bird got braver and braver. There was more for him there but when he finally got what he wanted he flew away.

After lunch Celeste and I went to get whatever pictures we could. The gates to Red Square were open with St. Basils and the Kremlin remaining closed until the next day. We were able to walk to the short rise just about mid-way down the square before barricades blocked our progress.

Krasnaya Ploshchad. Red Plaza. It was named not for the color of communism or even in relation to the pigment of surrounding buildings as so many Westerners had believed since the Cold War began. The name stuck long before the evolution of Marxism had advanced to its amoeba stage in some abused peasant’s mind.

It was “Krasnaya” because that is what they called St. Basils. In archaic Russian, the word was interchangeable between the meaningful color and “beautiful.” The dual meaning would have been appropriate before tyrants turned Red ugly. Communism transformed the exact same descriptive place-name for a beautiful church to be the world-feared image of the USSR’s iron fist.

I stood in the center of Beautiful Plaza and felt a far different feeling than had emitted from military presentations in Red Square only two days before. I don’t believe churches have all the answers but it was fulfilling to see a monument dedicated to something greater than governments and military force. I felt the soft heart of Russia beating beneath a cold hard protective shell. I knew I would never see the battle armor again without feeling the warmth of that beating heart. I would miss Russia. I would long for the country like a child clings to a father who drinks just a little too much. Harshness cannot hide the soul from those who know and love its owner.

Workers were still dismantling and hauling away the last of the pipe-frame bleachers. Others were sweeping up the rest of the litter. All other signs of the parade from two days earlier were gone.

I turned in circles, pausing to digitally record images with my camera. I wanted a picture of Celeste smiling with St. Basils in the background. Beautiful church, beautiful girl. My daughter—with the separation from her newest mother—had not smiled much since Sunday. Still, with enough effort I could get a grin lasting for a fraction of a second. That wasn’t good enough for a turn-of-the-century digital camera. The delay between the press of the button and the flash proved more than frustrating. After fifteen minutes of attempts I still didn’t have the smile recorded. I finally gave up. Maybe it’s just as well. The little girl’s somber face was a much better record of what the last few weeks had been for her.

 

 

Celeste chattered and jabbered with Amy on the phone that evening. She hadn’t quite gotten down phone usage yet. That was only her second attempt and the first was Monday morning. I had to keep relocating the bottom end of the handset to her mouth and she would scold me for interrupting her conversation. To Amy, Celeste said only one real word in the midst of her jabbering. “Mama!” “Mama!” “Mama!” Her reprimands to me were also filled with unintelligible mumbo-jumbo surrounding multiple uses of one other real word, “Nee!” “Nee!” “Nee!”

 

Amy was as surprised and excited about our early release as I was. She happily agreed to meet us on the curb at the Detroit airport at 10:30 the next night.

 

Go to other sections of To Sing Frogs

Go to John M. Simmons’ blog