With God in Russia

by Walter J. Ciszek

  A few days after my sister’s letter had come, however, a militiaman came to my bolok and asked to see my passport. “I have none,” I told him, “all I have is this police I.D.” “Ah, you really ought to have a passport,” he said, “maybe you had better drop down to headquarters and see about it.”

  When I went to MVD headquarters, a day or so later, they began asking a lot of questions and filling out blanks. I suspected immediately that something was up; our meeting was becoming more of an interrogation session than a routine application for a passport. “Why do you insist on being an American?” asked the interrogator. He went on to praise the glories of Communism. “All right,” I said, “look at Norilsk! Is that an example of Communism? The people don’t have any houses, they live in shanties, they have to stand in line for hours to buy food. What sort of life is that?”

  He got angry at that. He accused me of being bitter and of being an agitator. I answered that I wasn’t bitter, just objective; anybody who walked down the street outside could see what I was talking about. The argument became rather vehement and he became quite frank. He told me they knew all about me in Norilsk; they knew my background and my history—they knew I was a spy for the Vatican! “So let’s not have any talk about being objective,” he shouted.

  Eventually, we returned to the matter of the passport. He told me I wouldn’t be able to do anything or go anywhere without a passport, but, of course, the final decision on that would have to be made in Krasnoyarsk. “Now,” he said, “we can give you a temporary document which won’t affect the outcome of your case or your later status; it will, however, permit you to travel and so forth.”

  I didn’t want it. I was afraid that, somehow or other, it would be interpreted as a Russian passport, implying Russian citizenship. And even if the document itself was only for a short term, the very fact that I’d agreed to become a Russian citizen would mean I was no longer an American citizen. Again and again, the militiaman assured me that this document wouldn’t affect my final status. It would simply allow me to travel freely like any Russian citizen, and therefore I would be able to take my case personally to Krasnoyarsk. Finally I agreed, filled out the blanks, and signed the necessary papers. He issued me what is called a Kratkosraczni Pasport (Short-Term Passport).

  When I got home, though, and showed the passport to friends, they laughed. “Well, Wladimir Martinovich,” said one, “they finally got you! That’s a Russian passport and it makes you a Russian citizen. You’ll never get out now!” “That’s not the way they explained it,” I answered, and joined in the laughter. Anyway, I wasn’t particularly worried; I had no plans for going anywhere. There was too much to do in Norilsk, and Lent and Easter were approaching again.

  That Lent of 1958 saw some of the busiest weeks I’ve ever spent as a priest. In previous years, there had been three of us priests, and every year the congregation had grown steadily. In 1957, after Neron left, there had still been Viktor and I; now I was all alone, and there was more work than ever. For Easter is the biggest feast in the Oriental liturgy, and even today the people celebrate it at home with as much pomp and ceremony as they can. On this feast, they say, even nature itself takes on a festive air.

  During Lent, according to the custom, there were no marriages, but I was asked to make frequent visits to the cemetery to chant the Panikhida over the graves, and I spent all my free time hearing confessions and baptizing. On Palm Sunday, I said three Masses with a sermon at each, and announced that the full Holy Week services would be held, beginning Thursday, in the chapel. After the Masses on Palm Sunday, the people crowded around to make arrangements for the blessing of the Easter food.

  This is a wonderful tradition in Russia and the Slavic countries. On Holy Saturday and Easter itself, the people bring baskets of food to the church to be blessed, and the blessing prayers in the Oriental liturgy are beautiful. The baskets are filled with colored eggs, butter, salo (fatback, like bacon), different kinds of stuffed rolls, candies and cakes. But above all there is the pascha, a specially baked cake, rich in eggs, topped with icing, and decorated with candy crosses or Easter figures. It’s the first thing the family eats after the Easter services. The Easter basket is an integral part of the tradition, for in order to properly observe the feast, the people fast very strictly all during Holy Week and abstain from all meat.

  Because I was alone this year and there was so much to do, we had formed a committee of men to organize the blessings of the Easter baskets. In a special notebook, we sketched a map of the city of Norilsk and picked out certain assembly points and set specific times, so that anyone who couldn’t make it to the chapel could meet me there for the blessing of food. When the arrangements were more or less completed, I calculated that I would have to begin at 5 P.M. on Friday, work around the clock, and hope to finish, with luck, in time for the Easter Mass.

  I made arrangements at BOF to be excused from Thursday until the following Wednesday. A friendly doctor signed a certificate stating that I should “rest,” and Anastasia, who knew what was going on, was happy to accept it. Thursday, immediately after the services in chapel, I left for Kayerkhan and again said Mass there. Afterward, I blessed the food which had been gathered in one room of the big barrack (there must have been a carload!), heard confessions for hours, and then visited as many homes as I could, blessing the rooms—another traditional Easter custom.

  All day Friday, back at the chapel, I heard a tremendous number of Easter confessions, as I had every night that week after work. On Friday evening, together with Ludwig, I set out after the Good Friday services to begin my tour of the city. We had to do it all on foot, for the most part, crossing and re-crossing the city to the many little shack-town settlements in out-of-the-way places. Every place I went, there were people waiting—and this even in the middle of the night or the long cold hours of early morning. It was a lot of walking, and the weather was still bitterly cold.

  Ludwig and I got back to the chapel Saturday morning in time for services at 6 A.M. Many of the people had been there overnight in order to get a place before the altar for this long Easter Vigil service. Many of them, too, stayed in the chapel after the Saturday services until it was time for the Easter midnight Mass, with nothing to eat all day, so that they could be close to the altar. After the services I started making the rounds again, doubling back to the chapel every few hours to bless the baskets of food which filled my little bolok from wall to wall, a new batch every time.

  None of this could be kept very secret, of course. The crowds were too obvious. The people told me the militia had been to the chapel several times asking for me, but they didn’t interfere with the people or say anything about the baskets of food. Fortunately, I didn’t see the militia that day; our paths never crossed.

  By 11:30 P.M. Saturday, I was back home, but I couldn’t get anywhere near the chapel. Even the corridors and my own bolok were jammed; crowds of people were swarming around outside in the midnight cold. The militia were there, too, but I ignored them. There was barely room to move anywhere, but by twelve o’clock I was vested—I couldn’t lift my arms, so someone had to pull the vestments over my head—and ready for Mass. The altar was covered with flowers and candles, and Ludwig had contacted a famous old choirmaster named Anatoly for the occasion and rounded up a choir of trained voices for him to work with.

  As I began the solemn intonation of the Easter Mass, I thought the chapel would explode with sound. The Easter Mass is a joyous one to begin with, but the enthusiasm of the people that night I shall never forget. Tired as I was after more than forty-eight hours without sleep, hurrying from place to place, I felt suddenly elated and swept along. I forgot about everything but the Mass and the joy of Easter.

  The MVD stayed for the whole service. Anatoly, the old choirmaster, told me later how tense he had been at first for fear we would all be arrested. “But you didn’t look nervous at all,” he said. I wasn’t. Once the Mass started, I paid no attention to the police at all; I was practically
carried out of myself with joy. I gave a little sermon on the joy of Easter, but it was impossible to distribute Communion because no one could move. Communion had to be distributed after Mass.

  The services ended at 3 A.M., but at nine o’clock the next morning I was still distributing Communion to a constant stream of people. I could hear the crowds outside, going home through the Easter dawn, shouting the traditional Easter greeting, “Khristos voskres!” (Christ is risen!), and the joyous answer, “Voistinu voskres!” (Indeed, He is risen!).

  After it was all over, I came back to my room alone and sat down at the little table in my bolok, completely exhausted. Yet I was deeply satisfied; I knew a joy that day I have rarely known. I felt that at last, in God’s own good providence, I was beginning to live my dream of serving His flock in Russia. “And all this,” was the thought that kept flashing through my mind, “all this took place in Russia, in Norilsk!”

  The next thing I knew, Ludwig was shaking me awake. The room was full of people, happy people, repeating over and over, “Khristos voskres! Voistinu voskres!” Everyone was shouting and laughing at once, and they told me to dress up and come along for the celebration. So, late that afternoon, I went to Ludwig’s home for the traditional Easter dinner—the pascha in the center of the table, and the blessed food all around it. There were about eight of us, including Anatoly and his wife. We began the meal by singing the traditional Easter “Tropar!” and then sat down to partake of the pascha, everyone talking at once about the joy of the day.

  The next day, according to the Russian custom, is also a feast day, and so is Easter Tuesday. On those days, I said High Masses for large crowds and sang solemn Vespers every evening for crowds just as large. On Wednesday, I went back to work at BOF. The girls in my shift were all smiles; some of them had even been to the Easter Mass. Every time there was a break in the work, we talked about Easter.

  During one of these breaks, around 10 A.M., one of the girls came hurrying over and said, “Wladimir, you’re wanted in the office.” Her look tipped me off; I knew right away there was trouble. As I entered the supervisor’s office, I was met by two MVD men. One of them, short and stocky, with a small mustache and a badly colored left eye, spoke to me quite abruptly: “Wladimir Martinovich?” “Da,” I said. “You will please change clothes and come with us.” I didn’t have to ask where.

  The agent with the mustache waited for me while I dressed. We drove straight to the new KGB headquarters in the modern part of the city on Sebastobolskaya. There I waited in one of the antechambers for almost half an hour, then the same agent came out again and led me through several rooms into a large office. A big black desk outlined against four windows dominated the room. Standing behind the desk, leaning on his hands and looking at me severely, was a tall handsome official with dark hair and dark eyes, deeply tanned.

  I walked up to the desk, saying nothing. He kept staring at me coldly, then finally said abruptly, “Wladimir Martinovich, your missionary work here in Norilsk is not needed. Do you understand?” “Da.” “You have ten days to leave Norilsk,” he said, “and never think of coming back.” He paused, then began to tap his finger on the desk to underline his next words. “If you attempt to come back, you will be arrested and put into prison. I am in charge of the KGB here, and those are orders.” I said nothing, just looked at him. After another long pause, he said again, quite coldly, “You may leave.”

  I walked out, and the MVD agent who had escorted me from BOF drove me to the government building on Komsomolskaya Ploschad (Komsomol Square) which houses the police headquarters, city hall—and also the jail. But he took me up to his office on the fourth floor and asked me to sit down. “Look,” he said, “you have to be out of the city within ten days. If you have any trouble getting plane tickets, phone me here at this number.” With that he handed me a little slip of paper with a phone number on it. “In two or three days,” he continued, “collect your severance pay and quit your job at BOF.”

  “What about my bolok?” I asked. “I need time to sell it.” “No, you won’t sell it,” he said bluntly, “that belongs to the government. Now, we will check from time to time to see that all this is being done.” He waited for me to object. I said nothing. “Moreover,” he continued, “you are to go to Krasnoyarsk and report to the MVD there. You will live at the Hotel Syever, and you are to do nothing in the way of religious work among the people. In ten days I will personally escort you to the airport.” Again, he waited for me to comment or object. Again, I said nothing. It was afternoon when I left his office, so I went home rather than back to BOF.

  That night, I told Ludwig and some close friends among the parishioners about the “interviews.” They were downcast. Word spread quickly among the faithful that the chapel would soon be closed. At work the next morning, I went immediately to Anastasia Nikolayevna, my supervisor. She was careful not to say anything about the KGB, but she said she was sorry to see me go and would do what she could to help me. She didn’t write “MVD” in my severance record, as she was supposed to, but simply noted that I’d been laid off. It meant I would be able to get a good job at the next place I applied.

  That evening, Ludwig and the other parishioners came over to discuss what to do with the chapel. I wanted to dismantle it and send the vestments and sacred vessels to Father Viktor, since this chapel bolok was still in Viktor’s name. But the people pleaded with me to leave the chapel as it was; at least there would be a place for devotions and meetings of the faithful. I finally agreed. Whatever furniture I had in my own bolok, I gave away to parishioners; I got rid of everything, and moved in with Ludwig and his wife.

  All the while, people were dropping in to visit and say goodbye. Many of them were bitter that government would “take our last priest away from us.” Despite the warning I’d been given at MVD headquarters, I said Mass every day until I left and preached a little sermon to encourage the people. I heard confessions, baptized, visited the sick, and did everything they asked of me in those last few days.

  I tried to purchase an airplane ticket to Krasnoyarsk, but none was available. All the flights, as usual, were sold out. I didn’t make any extra effort to get the ticket; I figured that if they wanted me to leave, they could worry about it. Sure enough, on the eighth day, the MVD agent came looking for me.

  “What about the plane ticket?” he said. “There were none available,” I answered. He frowned, and said with a small edge on his voice, “Why didn’t you phone me?” “Oh, you know all about it,” I replied, “and besides, nobody can get tickets on such short notice.” “Look,” he said, “give me the 460 rubles and you stay put. I’ll bring you the ticket.” Late that afternoon, he was back—with the ticket. There’s no such thing as a full airplane as far as the MVD is concerned. If room has to be made for their purposes, they make room.

  On my last afternoon in Norilsk, I stopped in the post office to tell them to forward my mail. The girl behind the counter suddenly asked, “Is your name Lypinski?” I hesitated. “Why?” I said. “Is it your name?” she insisted. “Yes,” I said, “I have a double name.” “Well,” she said quickly, “then I have some mail for you.” She searched for and finally found two big envelopes from the American Embassy, marked “Special Delivery” and sealed with Embassy stamps.

  They were unopened, but by the date on the postmark they must have been in the Norilsk post office for ten days at least. The girl was extremely apologetic about that, since the envelopes were marked “Special Delivery,” but she asked if I’d sign for them without a formal complaint. I did. When I opened the envelopes outside, I found a document authorizing me to come to the Embassy in Moscow and a letter asking me to attempt to get an exit visa (“Impossible now,” I thought). They asked me to please notify them of the receipt of the letter and where I would apply for the visa.

  I wrote a letter that night from Norilsk to the Embassy, notifying them that I had received the letter and saying that I would apply for my exit visa in Krasnoyarsk. I thought I at
least owed it to my sisters to go through the motions, even though I knew it was futile. And just to be safe, that same evening I went to the offices of the MVD to show the Embassy letter to my friend with the mustache who’d been haunting me.

  He wasn’t impressed. “That’s not our business,” he said. “Take it up with Krasnoyarsk.” He had only one thing on his mind, and he put it quite succinctly: “We’ll be there tomorrow morning to pick you up at ten sharp; you be ready to go!” I left the offices of the MVD and returned to Ludwig’s for a little farewell party, but no one was much in the mood for a party that night.

  The next morning, for the last time in Norilsk, I said Mass at 6 A.M. The little chapel was crowded, and after Mass I distributed Communion and officially said farewell to my parishioners. I went home with Ludwig and his wife for breakfast. It was the 13th of April, 1958, and still bitterly cold. At 10:00 on the dot, a jeep drove up to the entrance of the building. I saw the MVD man get out, and before he could reach the apartment, I went to meet him, luggage in hand. We drove to Lenin Square, then turned left down Oktobrskaya; I looked around sadly for the last time as the city dropped behind.

  This had been “my country” since 1946, as both prisoner and priest, and I was tremendously sorry to be leaving. I thought again of the people I was leaving behind, saddened by the thought that I could do nothing for them any longer but commend them to God. For myself, I had no fear. I put all my trust and my confidence in His divine will. As we headed out into the snow-covered countryside, I repeated over and over again: “Thy will be done.”

  HOUNDED IN KRASNOYARSK

  NADIEZDA (HOPE) AIRPORT, which also serves Dudinka, is almost 25 miles from Norilsk, and the jeep trip took us over an hour. The airport itself is nothing fancy, just an oblong two-story terminal, whitewashed, like so many of the barracks I had built as a prisoner. We could hardly see it against the snow. I took a seat in the waiting room while the MVD agent went into the airline office, because the ticket he’d “purchased” for me wasn’t even for this date. He came back in twenty minutes with a ticket for the next flight to Krasnoyarsk.