HOLY CITY

Timaru Herald, Volume CL, Issue 22043, 16 August 1941, Page 6

HOLY CITY

A Visit To Kiev Churches And Lilac Kiev, which is now under threat of capture by the German Army, is the suoject of the following vivid pen picture by Bruce Lockhart, in his "Memoirs of a British Agent.” Leaving Moscow still bound in the grip of winter, I went to Kiev, the cradle of Russian history and the Holy City of the Orthodox Church. When I woke up after my night in the train I looked out on green fields and delicious white cottages glistening in the warm sunshine. I arrived at about mid-day on Good Friday and spent the afternoon wandering about the town and looking at the churches, of which there are almost as many as in Moscow. Then tired and rather lonely, I went to bed at nine o’clock. The next day I was up betimes. The sun was streaming into my room, and I was determined to make the best use of my temporary freedom. I am an American in my passion for sight-seeing, and I “did” Kiev with all the thoroughness of the typical American tourist. After Moscow, it was a relief to find hills and a real river. The fine weather had brought the whole of the town into the streets, Russians doing their Easter shopping and Jew shopkeepers catering for their needs. For, in spite of its church, Kiev is almost more Jewish than Christian. Everyone seemed to be smiling. The news from the Austrian front, for which Kiev was the base, was still good. Przemysl had fallen only a few weeks before, and in the prevailing optimism I felt happier than I had felt for months. White-roofed Steamboats After luncheon I took a “droschke” and drove to the Vladimir Hill, where I left my driver and climbed up to look at the view. In England or in America private enterprise would have built a hotel or a sanatorium here. The Russians have put up a statue to St. Vladimir, who stands overlooking the Dnieper with a great cross in his hand. The Dnieper itself is a noble river—far more imposing than the Volga and totally unlike any river I had ever seen. After more than three years in a plain without hills and without sea, I found it more soul-satisfying than perhaps I should to-day. Then I drove down to the Suspension Bridge to have a look at the town from the plain. For, strangely enough, while all round the country it was flat as the plain round Moscow. The white-roofed steamboats were already plying on the river. The trees were just coming into bloom. The lilac was out, and by the roadside buttercups were growing in profusion. By its position overlooking the river Kiev reminded me of Quebec, and, if Quebec has perhaps the finer site, the picturesqueness of the Kiev architecture is more than sufficient compensation. The Midnight Service In the evening I went to Saint Sofia to attend the midnight service. In Moscow my visits to the Russian Church had always been on such official occasions as the Emperor's birthday or name-day. Always I had been in uniform and had stood among the elect on a square shut off from more humble worshippers. Here at Kiev I was one of a crowd so dense that several people fainted. In spite of the discomfort, I remained to the end. took part in the procession, and shared in the emotional uplift of the vast congregation of peasants and pilgrims. The pilgrims, pleasantly picturesque at a distance, were assembled in force, them at the famous Kiev Lavra, which and on Easter Monday I went to see with the Troitse-Sergievskl Monastery near Moscow, is the most celebrated holy place in Russia. So warm was the sun that I had to go back and take off my waistcoat. When I arrived at the monastery church a service was going on, and thousands of soldiers were drawn up on the square outside. Pilgrims—bearded old men with limpid eyes and wizened-up old women—were picnicking everywhere. Bones of Forgotten Saints In the church itself I found an aged philosopher in a corner contentedly munching a loaf of black bread. He seemed supremely happy. From the church I went to the catacombs—cold and unimpressive subterranean pas* sages containing the bones of forgotten saints. In front of each coffin was a collecting box by which sat a priest leaned forward over the relics of the dead saint and chanting: "Pray to God for us.” With a shudder, I ascended into the sunshine.