Manhattan, New York, December 12th, 1987
Vasily Bershadensky stood by the penthouse window overlooking Central Park, New York City. Outside a winter storm was brewing, and the sky grew dark with large purple clouds. Down below people moved along the sidewalk while taxis blared their horns, and truck unloaded groceries to high-priced restaurants. Snowflakes, large and heavy, swirled down from the dark grey sky. Soon the sidewalks would be coated white, and all traffic would stop.
Far above on the twenty-second floor, Vasily pressed his forehead to the glass, his hand gripping a report from the private detective. He let the paper fall to the floor.
Now heavy snowflakes mixed with ice streaked the window as the wind whipped between buildings. People below pulled up their collars and hurried on to their destinations. Vasily turned to his bookcase and reached for the old pink ballet slipper with its shredding ribbons that lay upon the shelf with all the awards and plaques he had received in his professional life. He hugged the old shoe to his chest and turned back to the window. Tears came to his eyes as he sank to his knees in sorrow. Outside, the winter storm raged, threatening to bury the city in the next twenty-four hours. He barely noticed.
Across town in Brooklyn, a woman entered St. Jude's Catholic Cathedral, shaking her umbrella and pulling back her wet hood with her free arm. She held a bouquet of roses, now wet and drooping, close to her side.
"Shall I hold those for you?" the priest asked. Without speaking, she handed them over and closed her dripping umbrella. She hung her gray raincoat a hook in the entryway. Then she took back the roses and laid them next to the wall. The priest followed her into the sanctuary. The lights were on because of the winter storm outside. Snow mixed with ice pelted the stained glass windows. Irena glanced up, comparing the snowflakes to the tears on the Madonna. She was close to tears herself.
She heard the priest shuffle behind her. "Confession, my child?"
She considered it. Then, almost in a whisper said, "You've heard it all before, Father. I can't forgive myself."
"God forgives all things, dear. You must only ask. All sins are equal to the Lord."
She smiled weakly at the priest. "I want to light a candle for my son. He's in heaven, you think?"
"Jesus calls all the babes to his loving arms, Irena. Light another candle for the lost one."
Irena looked away. "Only one candle, Father. I have to believe that my son is happy in heaven or I'll go mad. I won't be joining him after all I've done." She turned away to light the one candle. Outside the snow fell in large wet flakes.
The priest listened to the ice hitting the panes. "They say the snow has set in for the next couple of days. It'll make driving dangerous shortly. Will you be visiting the grave after this with those flowers?"
"Green-Wood, Father," She slipped into a pew and knelt. "Pray with me, Father. It was a day just like this one when he was born. He would have been eighteen today."
