Читать книгу Journeys in the Search for the Meaning of Life. A story of those who have found it - Rami Bleckt - Страница 8

The next day, Arthur left his apartment early to buy groceries and deal with some things. Hardly had he gotten out the door when he heard the church bells ringing. At the beginning of the 90s, this was a new, unusual occurrence in Moscow, one to which Muscovites hadn't quite adjusted. He remembered that not far from him was a church that was opened a few years ago, and which now had a large, active membership.

Apparently there was some kind of festival – the closer Arthur got, the larger the crowd of people. Someone was coming out of the church towards him. Several women wore long dresses and scarves which surprised him a bit.

He didn't have any particular attitude about church in general. He would sometimes go in, place a candle, and stay for some of the service. As a child, his great-grandmother had him baptized and she would talk a lot about the orthodox faith. Once in the past he had gone there to pay respects to her. He heard an elderly woman loudly complaining and scolding other people, adding to the gloomy atmosphere hanging over everyone's head, spoiling the impression of his visit. He didn't want to go there ever again.

Various articles in newspapers described how there were virtually no priests who hadn't been connected to Soviet power and not worked for the KGB. That, together with The Gulag Archipelag, had put a nail in the coffin for his belief in them and the church.

* * *

He was just walking, enjoying the beautiful sunny day and the birds' singing. To his surprise, he saw a priest coming his way, rather young, bearded, with long hair, looking fixedly at him. He felt ill at ease from the stare. He tried to avert his glance and sped up his step, but all of a sudden he heard the man calling him by name, "Arthur! Arthur!"

He hadn't imagined that the priest would call him by name. But when he heard him say in a singsong way, "Oh, Art," he knew the man was calling him. He had often been called 'Art' in his first years at the institute. Almost everybody had a nickname of sorts. Arthur stopped; without a doubt he was being addressed. The priest, smiling broadly and warmly, asked him, "Art, don't you recognize me?" And then, all at once he remembered, as if someone had thrown him in a cold shower.

"Zheka?" Arthur asked.

That had been our nickname for Eugene. Zheka came from the Vologda region. His father had been a manager of a large firm there and he had done everything he could to get his son into an institute of higher education in the capital. But his son wasn't very studious and was expelled for fighting and drinking in his second semester. He hadn't left a good impression of himself. Even worse, he was suspected of petty theft among his fellow students, and that had been the lowest thing to do. He wasn't caught in the act, but twice while he had been posted for security duty in the dorm some money and valuables disappeared. They weren't able to prove anything but there hadn't been anyone else on that floor.

All in all, Arthur couldn't call to mind any good impressions he had of Zheka. Looking at him now and trying to smile in return, he felt perturbed and thought to himself, "Good God! If these are the kinds of people that have now entered the church…"

For a fraction of a second, images of the past came to mind. He hesitated, not wanting to have anything to do with this 'holy father', as he was mentally calling Zheka.

They exchanged pleasantries and Arthur asked, "So, how can I call you? Father Eugene, most likely?"

"Oh, come on, stop it," Eugene good-naturedly objected. "Not really, but that doesn't matter right now. I'm just glad to see you. I understand what you are thinking. I'm sure you don't have any good memories of me. I can imagine. Still, I'm glad to see you. If you'd like, we can talk. You know, I'm indebted to you. Once at a lecture you raised a very important question about the meaning of life. Your argument with the teacher deeply influenced me. It had come to my mind again when I was under fire."

Arthur didn't pick up on Zheka's 'under fire' comment. But he did remember bringing up important questions about life and arguing at lectures on philosophical points until the group's party youth leader hinted to him that if he wanted to graduate, he had better stop doing it.

It was uncomfortable to refuse a bit of conversation, but he really didn't want any. Yet something inside of him told him to agree. So, mostly out of politeness, he said, "Sure." They went into a cafe that had recently just opened and sat at a table outside. Arthur gave a quick synopsis of himself – "Ahh, you know, nothing interesting," – and then asked Zheka to tell him about his 'religious transformation. He began talking and Arthur pretended that he was listening, but all the time he was thinking about the end of this chit-chat with the 'holy father'. They ordered some deserts and Zheka, in his quaint Vologda accent, told his story.

The more he talked, the more intriguing he sounded. They spent about three hours talking. Arthur, after coming back home, again returned to his diary to write down (as faithfully as he could recall) what he had heard. He wanted to show it to his future children.

* * *

Zheka explained that he was in Moscow only for a few days and was just passing through. He served in a small parish where there were not enough clergy. The parish membership was increasing and many new churches were opening.

He had come here for church celebrations, meetings, and training. He had a fiancée – a god-fearing, honest, and faithful young woman.

After he was expelled from the institute, his resume, showing his education and work, were very poor. His own father didn't even want to help him, saying, "Go on now; serve in the army. I served; now it's your turn. So, you didn't want to study? The army will help you to learn." And even though his father could've bought his son a way out of serving at all, or set him up in a comfy job somewhere, he did nothing of the sort. He had pretty much soured on his son.

The Spring recruitment round[4] called up Zheka to serve. After his physical test, the Lieutenant-Colonel went up to Zheka and roughly addressed him, "So, you like to fight. You're a hot number, huh? What I'll tell you: let's just send you somewhere you'll get enough fighting and make good use of your talent. Do you want to be in the paratroopers? Not afraid?"

"No."

"Well, then, happy trails and God bless."

He was sent to join the Fergana paratrooper regiment in Turkistan. While they were on the train a few days later, they found out that most likely they would be sent to Afghanistan. In Fergana there was a boot camp and a regiment on active duty in Afghanistan.

Zheka had a terrible feeling about it all because – both in his home town as well as in Moscow – he knew a lot of people who had been wounded or killed, or who had lost someone in Afghanistan.

Newspapers weren't saying much about it, or if they did, they wrote articles of glory, and only people who could read between the lines in Soviet papers understood how badly things were going.