It was not her fight either.

— He has made it his. I respect that. You must too.

— It is senseless!

In modeling Maxim on himself, the martyr, her husband had chosen to humiliate her and condemn him. Lazar exclaimed:

— Enough! We don’t have time! You wish him to be safe. I do too. But if Maxim wants to stay, he stays.

* * *

LAZAR HURRIED TOWARD THE STONE ALTAR, hastily stripping it bare. Every person connected to his church was in danger. He could do little for his wife or Maxim: they were too closely connected to him. But his congregation, the people who’d confided in him, shared their fears — it was essential their names remain a secret.

With the altar bare, Lazar gripped the side:

— Push!

None the wiser but obedient, Maxim pushed the altar, straining at the weight. The rough stone base scratched across the stone floor, slowly sliding aside and revealing a hole, a hiding place created some twenty years ago during the most intensive attacks on the church. The stone slabs had been removed, exposing earth that had been carefully dug and lined with timber supports to stop it subsiding, creating a space one meter deep, two meters wide. It contained a steel trunk. Lazar reached down and Maxim followed suit, taking the opposite end of the trunk and lifting it out, placing it on the floor, ready to be opened.

Anisya lifted the lid. Maxim crouched beside her, unable to keep the amazement out of his voice:

— Music?

The trunk was filled with handwritten musical scores. Lazar explained:

— The composer attended services here, a young man — not much older than you, a student at the Moscow Conservatory. He came to us one night, terrified that he was about to be arrested. Fearing that his work would be destroyed, he entrusted us with his compositions. Much of his work had been condemned as anti-Soviet.