The Gates of Dawn was busy. Svetlana pushed past a large party of Poles and mounted the stairs. A cold wind was blowing in the street and the upper room was warm and thickly scented with incense. She bent before the Madonna, not raising her eyes to the beautiful image. She was bustled from either side as more worshippers attempted to push into the confined space.
‘Przepraszam.’
Excuse me.
‘Move up, there’s no space.’
A sweat broke out on her forehead. She closed her eyes. She clasped her hands. It was too crowded for her to get to her knees.
The bodies and languages swirled around her. Banter, prayers, entreaties. We should have come later. The bus is leaving at five. I prayed last year. The Holy Father was here, I saw him. A miracle. At the window. My son, his leg. It’s so busy. A remarkable experience. He was cured, praise God and the blessed Holy Mother. Przepraszam. Przepraszam.
She steadied herself against the wall. She worked her way through the crowd to the window. Opening the window, she breathed in the cool air deeply. Her head cleared a little. Her breath came easier. She rested her elbows on the sill, holding her head in her hands.
It had been an hour before she had gone out into the street the previous evening. She lay on her bed and listened. Heard the passers-by, the ambulance, the police. The low voices, and then the return of the night’s silence, broken only by the hum of the trolley buses, an occasional car, the shout of a drunk. The papers were scattered across the street. She gathered them carefully. They were ripped and creased and soiled. Some lifted on the wind and danced away, out of her reach. She bundled them up and brought them inside.
‘Are you all right?’
A priest stood behind her. She nodded and turned away from the window. The busload of Poles had left. A few old women remained, on their knees, crossing themselves fervently, muttering beneath their breath, their toothless gums working without pause. She glanced up at the Madonna. Her gown shone in the light of the candles, her crown glittered. She inclined over her folded hands, listening.
‘Forgive me,’ Svetlana whispered. ‘Forgive me. It’s for him. For Misha. You know what it is to give yourself for your son…’