A/N: First, I must say that the concept for this story is not mine; it is based off of actual happenings. The pastor at my church has told the basis of this story on Easter Sunday several times, but this last Easter I heard it and thought, "I'd love to write that down, with more detail than can be told orally." So, I've written this (I actually started it after Easter, but just came back and finished it today). Read, review, and God bless!
He Is Risen Indeed
A great cheer went up from the crowd that had gathered at the communist rally as the speaker finished. Though he did not feel like cheering at all, Mikhail joined his voice half-heartedly to the cry that already carried the strength of over ten thousand people. He had a terrible fear, only partly irrational, that if he did not cheer with the crowd, one of the men standing up on the platform would notice, aim their rifle, and that would be the end of him. Though that wouldn't be so bad, he thought. At least I wouldn't have to be here, today, listening to this.
On almost any other day, Mikhail would have put up with listening to the terrible lies told at these rallies. On any other day, he would have merely kept up an interested look, responding to the speakers when necessary but otherwise allowing his mind to wander as they talked of the wonderful benefits of the new system being imposed on the Russian people. Mikhail had yet to see any of these benefits. If anything, everyone seemed to be worse off that they had been before the communist revolution. Only the elite few, those in charge of the nationalization of just about everything, seemed to not notice.
It was so terrible to be here, on this day, because this day was Easter Sunday. It was the first time in sixteen years that Mikhail had not gone to church on Easter. All the members of his family were devout Christians, and they had attended church whenever they could, but were always there for Christmas and Easter. At least, they had always been there, until the instigation of communism in Russia and the distrust of religion that had followed it. On the past Christmas, his family had been forced to worship in private in the small flat that they shared with a couple in their early twenties. And now, on Easter Sunday, they were here. Mikhail was not sure that he could stand it much longer.
The noise of the crowd subsided as a new speaker stepped up behind the podium. Mikhail found himself thinking about what his life had been like before the rise of communism had destroyed his country. He remembered a time when one Christian passing another in the street would greet them with a joyful, "Christ is risen!" The response would be an equally glad, "He is risen indeed!" Mikhail had often been the initiator or recipient of such a greeting. Now, even to think the words could lead to danger. It would surely be death to say them, if the wrong people were listening.
The memories of the past stung painfully; it was all Mikhail could do to keep himself from tears. But he was beginning to get used to having to hide his emotion. Rallies like this one gave him far too much practice in that area. If I act long enough, will it stop being an act? he often thought. If I have to live like this, will there come a day when I'll break? Finally stop trying? He tried to push these bitter thoughts out of his head, but they clung stubbornly, taunting him at every turn.
Mikhail stopped and attempted to concentrate on what the current speaker was saying. Anything, even the bilge they dished out, would be better than being left alone with his doubts. The man behind the podium was speaking passionately about the ideals that communism would eventually uphold, stressing the importance of equality for all. Inwardly, Mikhail wanted to retch. The "all" that communism was providing equality to must be a very elite group indeed. But though the speech enraged him, at least it kept him from his troubled thoughts.
Finally, the speaker finished and backed away from the podium, relinquishing the microphone to the man who was moderating the event.
"We have a special treat for those of you here today," the man said, grinning. Oh, no, Mikhail thought, what next? The man continued. "Today only, you in the audience will be allowed to speak to your fellows about the wonders that communism has brought to our country! Now, who would like a chance to speak?"
Mikhail sighed and returned to his stupor. The following speeches were bound to be even worse than those that had come before. The speakers would be even more passionate in supporting communist ideals in hopes that they would gain positive notice by the government. Fools, Mikhail thought. Any notice is bad notice. Better to stay hidden.
It appeared the moderator was still looking for someone to accept his offer and speak to the crowd. His eyes scanned the group, looking for a volunteer. To Mikhail's terror, the man's gaze seized upon him. "What about you, young man?" the moderator boomed over the microphone. "Come, step up to the platform, don't be shy! This is your chance to speak in front of your fellows!" Mikhail did not know what to do. His mother, sitting beside him, did not dare look at him, but she gave him a nudge that told him to get up. He stood, grabbing his mother's hand and giving it a quick squeeze before making his way to the front of the assembled crowd.
What would he say? Mikhail had no idea. The thought of going up there and lying in front of all of those people was more than he could bear. He knew he wouldn't be able to sound convincing, and the men with rifles still stood ready. Lord, he prayed silently, I don't know what to say. I don't know what to do. Please, help me say what you want me to say, do what you need me to do. You've given me so much. Let me give back.
Mikhail realized that his prayer had taken him to the base of the podium where the moderator was standing, holding the microphone. As the man gave the microphone over to Mikhail, his gaze clearly stated what would happen if he didn't hear what he wanted to hear. Mikhail nodded silently. He understood. The gunmen watched.
With a calmness of motion that surprised even himself, Mikhail climbed the steps up the low platform. He paced to the very center, and looked out at the crowd of people. There were so many faces he recognized, whether from school or around the neighborhood he had lived in or from church. Seeing the other Christians he knew in the crowd strengthened his resolve. They understood persecution, just as he did. They believed in a Lord worth living and dying for, just as he did.
Mikhail cleared his throat. Taking a deep breath and projecting his voice so that all could hear, he cried joyously into the microphone, "Christ is risen!"
The burst of the rifles going off, the thud as the boy's body hit the floor, and his family's shocked sobs were drowned out completely by the emotional response of the crowd:
"He is risen indeed!"