ow. Armfuls of love from

RUTH.

_July 5, 1915._

_Darlingest Mother and Dad:--_

We have been in Kiev several days. Our passports have been handed in to
the police station to be viseed and put in order for our return trip to
Bucharest. They say a human being in Russia is made of body and
passport.

Kiev is full of color. It is framed in green trees that hide the
ugliness of modern buildings and seem to lift the gold and silver domes
of the churches up into the air. And how many churches there are! Kiev
is in truth a holy city. Late afternoon, when the sun shines through the
dust of the day and envelops the city in golden powder; when the gold
and silver domes of the churches float up over the tree-tops like
unsubstantial, gleaming bubbles, and the bells fill the air with lovely,
mellow sounds,--then I can truly say I have felt more deeply religious
than ever before in my life. Yet, suddenly, I see the woman who climbs
Institutska Oulitza every evening on her knees. She is dressed in black,
and deeply veiled, and every evening she climbs the hill on her knees.
At first I thought she was a cripple, but, on arriving at the top of the
hill, she rose to her feet and walked away.

"What is she doing?" I asked Marie.

"Oh, a penance, probably, that the Church has imposed on her."

And then the churches and their domes grow almost hateful to me. I think
of the Russian peasants with their foreheads in the dust, and the
greasy, long-haired priests I see on the streets.

Yet I don't know--perhaps the priests don't really matter. After all,
there must be something in the people's hearts--a belief--an idealism--a
faith in God that keeps them loving Russia, dreaming for her, and able
to dream again after they've seen their dreams trampled on. No, the
priests and their autocracy don't matter. The people believe, and that's
the important thing.

We went out yesterday afternoon to the Lavra--the stronghold of Black
Russia. It is a monastery on the edge of the town, overlooking the
Dnieper and flanked with battlemented walls to withstand the attacks of
the infidels in olden times. From all over Russia and the Balkans
pilgrims go there to visit the catacombs, where many church saints are
buried, their bodies miraculously preserved under red and gold
clothes--so the priests say.

The road leading to it passed the barracks, where we saw young recruits
dri