The vaults above me point towards the sky. In an art history class a long time ago we were taught that this was an attempt to reach for the heavens and to glorify God. Gothic, someone named it. The light streaming in through the windows filtered through the coloured glass depicting scenes from the life of Christ. This leaves the large room with a constant red tint. I sit on one of the benches looking at the statues peering down at me from the ceiling above. Three men march up to the nave and stop in the choir, forming a small semi-circle. Two of them start humming as the third pull out a large book, and then they sing. A wave of sound sweep through the cathedral, incredibly emanating from only these three men. Their song stops the people photographing every nook and cranny, they move towards the benches and slowly the activity of the church halts, only the three singers remain standing. As a thundering base rolls down the aisles and fills the transepts, a voice, ever so clear tears us up and elevates us to the ceiling. Here in this small cathedral, locked behind the medieval walls of a fortified hill town this Russian choir present to us lucky few the physical manifestation of the heart wrenching passion concealed in the human spirit.
