Actually, by this time, my work as a priest had doubled. A group of Lithuanians, who lived in another shantytown behind the Kombinat, had asked me to say Mass for them on Sunday. So every Sunday, I still said my first Mass for the Poles in the barracks down at the old Camp 5, then walked across town to say another for the Lithuanians. I was beginning to have so many requests for baptisms I couldn’t keep up with the number. Depending on what shift I worked, I used to ask Anastasia, the supervisor, for a day off occasionally so I could catch up. She never asked me why I wanted the day off, although I think she knew, but she was usually glad to help me out.
After a while, I became so busy that I had to rotate the places for Sunday Mass. I went to different quarters of town on the different weekends to keep up with the requests, sometimes even taking a taxi up the hill to Medvierskaya to say a second or third Mass. I knew the KGB was watching me, but I didn’t care. As long as I didn’t ask for money, I knew I had at least an arguable case. Certainly they had no grounds for complaints on other scores, especially with my record of citations and certificates at BOF.
It was about this time that I got an answer from my sisters, Helen and Sister Evangeline. They wrote how glad they were to hear from me, and told me I’d been presumed dead. Masses had been said for the repose of my soul in the Society, at my old seminary in Orchard Lake and elsewhere. They enclosed their addresses, and told me that if I needed anything, I had only to ask for it. I read the letter to Viktor and talked it over with him and some others; they encouraged me to write.
Ultimately, I wrote a short note asking for clothes—shoes, socks, shirts, gloves, a whole outfit. I could always use the clothes, of course, but I really wanted to find out if the package would come through. Viktor was rather sanguine, because he used to get packages regularly from Poland. However, as I had learned by experience in Camp 5, it was one thing to write to Poland and another to write to the United States.
These days there was only one prison camp left around Norilsk. The others had been closed down, and the prisoners who had not been liberated had been sent elsewhere. The one remaining camp was solely for political prisoners, and they, in a sense, were quite free. They lived in barracks in the camp, but they came to work in town without guards and mingled freely on the job with others. By 1958, this camp, too, was liquidated, and those who hadn’t completed their sentences were transferred somewhere else. So, one by one, the old prison camps had been dissolved, and the barracks remodeled and turned into homes for workers.
As the camps were closed, though, a lot of the thieves and criminal elements drifted into Norilsk, as they would to any boom town. Many of the crafty ones became speculators, and a rather brisk black market developed in food products and housing. More dangerous, however, were the groups who turned to crimes of violence; robberies and thefts became commonplace, murders almost a daily occurrence. In certain areas of the city, the streets were not only dangerous after dark, they were deadly.
The former camp where many of our Ukrainian “parishioners” lived, for example, was more than half a mile from the nearest bus stop. Their children, especially those in the second shift at school—from 2:00 until 7:00 in the evening—were always in danger along the unlighted streets. Complaints were made to the police, but the way things were going in Norilsk at the moment, the police already had their hands full.
So the Ukrainians formed their own “militia.” Every night, three or four men patroled the worst places and trouble spots around the old camp. If they caught anyone hanging around whom they didn’t know, they killed him on the spot—no questions asked. Then they threw him out in the middle of the road with a sign pinned on his chest, as a warning to other thieves and criminals. It was brutal, but it was effective.
The Ukrainians were organized in other ways, too. They were almost militantly religious. In fact, they clung to religion tenaciously, as a part of their national heritage and tradition. Out in their camp, they held huge weddings and christenings, openly religious. And when one of their leaders died, they organized a mammoth funeral—with a choir of more than 200 and a big cross with flowers and crepe to lead the funeral procession.
From the camp, they walked right through the main streets of town on the way to the cemetery, singing “Sviati Bozie” (Holy God) at the top of their lungs. The cortege walked straight down Oktobrskaya, stopping traffic, with the cross and choir leading the procession, then the men bearing the coffin on their shoulders, followed by huge crowds of mourners. The people on the sidewalks of Oktobrskaya, the main boulevard, were astounded at such a big religious demonstration. Some of them crossed themselves as the coffin passed.
At the cemetery, the Ukrainians chanted the full burial ceremony; then they returned in procession to the dead man’s home to eat a ceremonial meal and pay their traditional respects. Afterward, there was quite an investigation by the KGB to find out who had organized the whole thing. Father Viktor was called out several times, since he was known to work among the Ukrainians. He was severely cross-examined, and threatened by the KGB for what they considered his “subversive activities” and “agitating.”
Viktor, in fact, was worried. He was beginning to wonder if it might not be better for him to leave Norilsk. I asked him to wait just a while longer, since there was still so much good he could do in Norilsk and the risk was worth it.
In the spring of 1956, Ladislas got a telegram from the director whose apartment we were occupying. He said he was about to return home, so I had to start looking for another home. This time, I found a place almost immediately in another little shack-town across Oktobrskaya, thanks to a good friend of Father Viktor, a German mechanic named Hans. Hans had just moved into his superintendent’s apartment on Sebastobolskaya in the new part of town, a modern two-story apartment house. The superintendent was going to Moscow for a while and on his return would have an option, because of his position, on a newly built house. Accordingly, Hans and his wife, Margarita, offered to let me have their little bolok in shantytown, furnished as it was.
I was delighted to get it. It meant that for the first time in almost a year I would be alone. I moved in the next morning. When I had finished moving, I had a few hours to catch a nap before reporting to BOF, so I just stretched out on the bed, clothes and all. It was cold in the room, since Hans had moved out a few days earlier, but I didn’t bother lighting a fire. A few days later, Hans came around to see how I was doing. He found me stretched out on the bed; when he tried to rouse me, it was obvious I had a fever.
Hans immediately notified Father Viktor, who hurried over to help. When he saw how sick I was, Viktor made arrangements with the two Lithuanian sisters who lived next door to him to take care of me. They were the ones who had taken care of the old Greek priest, Father Foma, but his health had become so bad he had finally gone back to live with relatives in the Ukraine. Viktor and Hans helped me to walk the four or five blocks to the cluster of huts where Viktor and the sisters lived. They gave me some aspirin and hot tea, and the next morning I felt much better.
The two sisters, Nina who was fifty-three, and Ludmilla who was thirty-eight, were not married. Their house, though very small, was immaculate; everything was whitewashed, the wall between the kitchen and the main room was freshly painted. Between them, they saw to it that I ate regularly and well, that my clothes were always clean, and that I took a decent care of my health. I soon felt better than I had in years.
About this time, I received my first package from the United States. It was a big box from my sisters containing two suits, two topcoats, two pair of shoes, shirts, socks, and just about everything else in the line of clothing—including a cassock. I already had a complete set of vestments, in all the liturgical colors, made by my parishioners, as well as the other linens needed for Mass. I split up the clothes with Father Viktor, who needed them even more badly than I did. He was delighted to get them, but I was overjoyed; it was proof that packages sent from the U.S.A. would reach me in good condition.
All through that summer and fall, we three priests worked even harder, if possible. The more work we did, the more work there seemed to be. At the beginning of 1957, however, I was called out again by the KGB. They told me point blank this time to stop priestly activities; this was the “last” warning. Viktor and Neron were also warned to stop their “unwarranted activities” among the people. They felt that this was, indeed, the final warning for them. When they came home, they were talking seriously about leaving Norilsk. For a long time that night, we sat around and discussed our future.
At length, quite reluctantly, I agreed that it might be better for Neron and Viktor to leave Norilsk and go to the Ukraine. Many of our Ukrainian “parishioners” had already gone home, and it was obvious from their letters the need was almost equally great there as it was here in Siberia. Viktor and Neron felt it would make more sense for them to return and be of service to the faithful in the Ukraine than to be hampered or even arrested here out of sheer bravado.
Father Neron, accordingly, left shortly afterward. He was to notify Father Viktor upon his arrival in the Ukraine what conditions were like and where to join him. Viktor stayed on to help with the Lenten and Easter observances, which were growing larger every year as more and more people heard about them from friends. After Easter 1957, however, Viktor decided not to wait for a message from Neron, but left immediately for the Ukraine. It was probably the best thing for him, for his health was getting worse and he was developing a bad case of nerves under the constant threat of surveillance.
I was continually on the go now. I had inherited not only Viktor’s chapel, but his congregation as well. On Sundays, I said Mass in the little chapel at eight o’clock in the Oriental rite, then again at ten o’clock in the Latin rite. There were always confessions to be heard before each Mass, baptisms and weddings to be performed after Mass. Whenever I could, I tried to say one of my Sunday Masses at the old Camp 5, or for the Ukrainians in the old camp out behind the Kombinat.
Sunday, as a matter of fact, I was on the go all day after Mass—blessing homes, baptizing infants who were too small to be brought to the chapel, performing weddings, distributing Communion to the sick, and so forth. On weekdays, I said Mass every morning at six o’clock, then, if my shift at BOF permitted it, sang a Panikhida or Molebien (the little office of the Blessed Virgin, a popular devotion) almost every evening.
That summer, Ludmilla and Nina received a letter from relatives begging them to come home to Lithuania. They had been a tremendous help to me in the past three months, keeping the chapel clean, doing the linens, and looking after my personal wants in a way I was much too busy to do. Still, I told them I’d buy the bolok if they wanted to go. They had already received one offer, and it wouldn’t have been fair to ask them simply to donate the bolok to me. On the other hand, I didn’t want to have to move back into Viktor’s bolok and take up space which was now so badly needed in the chapel.
So I went with the two sisters to ZKU, the housing authority, filled out the documents, and had the deed for the bolok made out in my name. Then I helped them pack and saw them off for Lithuania, although I was sorry to see them go. The choirmaster, Ludwig, and his wife invited me to have my meals with them. I was happy to accept their invitation, because it left me just that much more time free to work with the people.
Not long after that, I was approached one day by a small group who asked me, quite hesitantly, what kind of priest I was. I told them I was a Catholic priest, but of the Oriental rite. They themselves were Orthodox, but they had seen me working among the people and they had come to me with a proposal to build an Orthodox church. They were ready to write to Moscow for permission, but they needed a pastor and they wanted me to help. I was almost positive Moscow would never give permission for such a thing, so I told them to write and I would tentatively agree.
Within a few days, the KGB had me on the carpet to ask why I was “agitating the people” after I’d been severely warned. I replied boldly that I wasn’t agitating anybody; the people themselves had come to me and asked me to be their priest. “As long as it’s not against the law,” I said, “I won’t refuse to help anybody. These people knew the law. They were writing to Moscow for permission, so why should I refuse them?”
Then we had a little talk about the difference between the Catholic Church and the Orthodox Church. The KGB suggested that I might write an article for the local newspaper about religion, giving specific information about the Church and church practices. I didn’t know exactly what they were up to. Perhaps they were trying to make it look as if I had somehow separated myself from Rome and was now an independent authority on religious matters; or perhaps they would use the article in some way to make fun of religion and show the young komsomols how strange and superstitious church practices were. In any event, I knew they weren’t up to much good.
So I gave them the titles of a few books they could consult about the Church and church practices, but I said, “I’m not writing any articles.” They ended our little chat with a strong warning to me to cease and desist my religious activities. “We’re not going to warn you any more,” they said, “but you keep it up, and we’ll take whatever measures we feel we must.”
The people, of course, didn’t know anything about all this. Even as I returned from KGB headquarters, I found four or five people waiting patiently for me in front of my bolok—all of them to arrange baptisms. I simply hadn’t the heart to tell them I couldn’t help, by order of the government, so I took their names and addresses down in a notebook. I was working the day shift at BOF that week, so I arranged to visit them next evening, which was a Saturday.
Of the five appointments, three were in different parts of Norilsk, but two were far up into the mountains at Medvierskaya. After work on Saturday, therefore, I immediately finished two of the baptisms in Norilsk, then caught a taxi for the appointment at Medvierskaya. It was starting to snow rather heavily, but I made it on time. After the baptisms there, another family asked me to baptize their child. I apologized to them, but said I still had an appointment in Norilsk. They pleaded with me to come back that night, told me they would pay the taxi fare both ways, and begged until I finally agreed.
On the way down from Medvierskaya, however, the taxi got stuck in the snowstorm and I was two hours late for my appointment in Norilsk. Afterward I started back to Medvierskaya. The taxi driver thought I was crazy and would take me only part way up the mountain. I had to climb the rest of the way on foot. I arrived at the house at 2 A.M., but the family was still waiting up for me. The worst of it all was that this was a Saturday night. It was 5 A.M. before I made it back to Norilsk on foot—just in time to begin hearing confessions for the Sunday Masses.
I was so busy that winter, in fact, that I never lit the stove in my bolok. When I was home at all, I simply plugged in the electric burner and used it both for heating and for what little cooking I did. During this winter, too, my sisters wrote to tell me they had contacted the State Department and that the American Embassy in Moscow would make efforts to get me out of Russia. The idea excited me momentarily, but I hardly gave it much thought. I felt I was destined to spend my life doing what I could for my “flock” here in Russia who, as Our Lord had said, were lying like sheep without a shepherd. Let the KGB do what they “must.” The Lord was my shepherd. He had proven that.
Moreover, just looking at the human side of it, KGB officials had told me more than once, by way of threat or as a tactic of persuasion, that I would never see America again. I was quite ready to believe them. After a previous letter from my sister, Helen, for instance, in which she wrote that she was trying to contact the State Department, I had decided to check on my own citizenship status and apply for an international passport. There were some Chinese and others in Norilsk with such a passport, so I wrote to Krasnoyarsk, the oblast (county) seat.
I didn’t consider myself a Russian citizen, I wrote, but I felt that I was entitled to something more than just the status of a released prisoner
deprived of any civil rights. A few days later, the MVD had called me and asked whether I’d written to Krasnoyarsk concerning a passport. I said I had. “Krasnoyarsk informs us,” the agent said, “that you don’t need an international passport because you’re considered a Russian citizen.”
“On what basis?” I said. “I have no passport, I can’t move freely from one place to another . . .” “Well,” he said, “we can give you a Russian passport.” “I’m not interested in a Russian passport,” I retorted. “If I took a Russian passport, it would be like admitting I was a Russian citizen and I’d lose my American citizenship.” “What difference does that make?” he snapped. “You’re not going back to America anyway!”
I had well believed him then and I could still believe it. Since then, though, some things had changed. Khrushchev had made a speech denouncing Stalin before the 20th Party Congress; a semi-secret letter had been read behind closed doors to all the workers’ organizations and unions in big plants like BOF and others in Norilsk. This had also contained, in part, a denunciation of the “personal cult of Stalin,” and the whole tone of the letter was bright with promises of reforms and better conditions in the future.
Everyone at the meeting knew what was meant by the Stalin regime—the hidden terror, the knock on the door after midnight, police action without trial, etc. By and large, the workers were much encouraged by that letter; even I, hearing it, felt as if a great weight had been lifted. You could sense the change of attitude in the room. In little groups after the meeting, people talked hopefully of a new era, new policies, a new mood. So now, when my sister wrote about the American Embassy’s efforts to get me out of Russia, I felt a momentary excitement. But I had my work and my people to care for, and I soon forgot all about the idea.
With God in Russia Page 32