


While we stood and watched the service, I saw in my mind’s eye Elena Enescu, after witnessing a brutal murder on the street nearby, running into the chapel for refuge. I imagined the stir she would create, stumbling into the church covered in blood, hysterical, fearing for own life and collapsing at the foot of gold encrusted icon, seeking God’s protection. That same evening I wrote the scene while resting on a bench under shady trees in Marinsky Park.
