With God in Russia

by Walter J. Ciszek

  Then, somehow, he was on Norilsk: “Who do you know there?” It was like a knife at my heart. I was sure he knew who I’d been corresponding with there, and who I had known when I worked there. I rattled off a few names that I was certain he must know. “Yes, yes, I remember them,” he said, and then went on to chronicle other people, activities, times and places and dates, even the money I’d gotten. “We don’t mind, you see. We know you call them stipends and that you didn’t ask for that money. You can see how understanding we are.” (I saw all right. I saw how closely I had been under surveillance all the time!)

  I could feel the muscles under my jaws beginning to work, I was so furious. Then back he went to chatting about the trip to Moscow, Leningrad, and so forth. He told me there was no need to take all my things, that I could travel light. He didn’t see any reason why I couldn’t leave most of my possessions here in Abakan. (Uh-huh!) At length, he seemed to notice that I was angry.

  “What’s the matter, Wladimir Martinovich,” he said, “are you sick?” “No, I’m tired.” “Well, I’m sorry, I really am terribly sorry. I see that it is getting late; I had no idea I’d kept you so long. We really ought to talk more about this, I think, but not tonight. Perhaps I should see you again some other time, and we can talk this over more definitely. I’ll give you a call.”

  In order to “make things easy on me,” Pavlovich arranged that for our next little chat he would simply send me a postcard from headquarters in Krasnoyarsk. That would be an indication that he would be in Abakan the next day at the hotel and would like to see me there. I nodded, and left the room. The more I thought about the interview, the angrier I became. It wasn’t only my own troubles; I thought of all the people he had mentioned who were obviously under surveillance because of me. After all these years, it was starting again!

  When I reached home, there was no one in the house. The stove was burning in the kitchen, but babushka wasn’t there. Remembering Pavlovich’s remark about the addresses, I seized my chance. I went to my room immediately and gathered up all my letters and addresses—anything and everything that would connect me with anyone else—and burned them in the stove. If anything happened to me, at least no one else would be involved.

  Babushka came in then, along with Iosip and Valya. When I hadn’t come home from work, babushka had become worried and hurried over to consult Iosip. They knew something must be wrong, and as soon as they saw me at home they came over immediately. They were so excited and I was so depressed that I couldn’t tell them what had happened. “Well,” I said, “they called me out . . .” “Who?” “The KGB, I guess; I don’t really know. Anyhow, they told me they were going to help me, to do me a favor, perhaps even send me to Moscow—but I could leave my things here!”

  Immediately, that opened the floodgates of speculation. My sisters were already in Moscow; they had been to the Kremlin; they had seen Khrushchev. Perhaps I was going home—no, otherwise I wouldn’t be told to leave my things here. Maybe I was just going to visit with my sisters—then why hadn’t they told me where they were or when I could meet them? I hardly paid any attention, and I barely touched my dinner. I excused myself early and went to bed.

  But I didn’t sleep. That night was one of the worst I spent in Abakan, or even in prison. I couldn’t sleep; I couldn’t breathe. No matter what I tried to do, I kept thinking of Viktor Pavlovich cataloguing again the names of all the people I had helped or worked with. It was like a nightmare, except that I stayed awake.

  At last I made up my mind that the next time I was called out I would make it short and sweet: “Please don’t ask me anything else! I don’t want any favors of you, so don’t ask anything of me. Just don’t bother me!” I didn’t trust them at all. I no more believed that they were out to “help” me than that I was Khrushchev himself. I didn’t want any more meetings, any more names mentioned, any more people spied on. I was sick of the whole business. I decided once and for all to tell them so.

  I went back to work the next day, expecting to be called out at any time. Sofronov, for once, didn’t seem to know what was happening. When he met me at work, he would ask in a general way how things were going, and when I was going to meet my sisters. He assured me I still had permission to take twelve days off. On the other hand, he never mentioned the KGB or my being called out by them. The people at work, for the most part, seemed to connect it all with the visit of my sisters.

  A week went by. I kept waiting for another call. It wasn’t that I worried so much about the KGB, but I was hoping for word of my sisters. I had begun to think that my “interviews” might possibly be a preliminary (to see how I was disposed?) to the visit of my sisters. Still, I hesitated to write to them now, especially if there was still a chance of their visit this fall. I didn’t want to take any chances at all.

  About the middle of the month, I received a postcard from Krasnoyarsk asking me to report the next day for some routine matters concerning my passport. I knew it meant I was to meet Pavlovich the next day at the hotel. Going to the hotel that afternoon, I kept thinking about my decision. I was determined to listen just once more to what they had to say, then tell them bluntly and finally that I wasn’t interested.

  When I reached the hotel, I saw Pavlovich outside again, reading a sign in one of the windows. He greeted me cordially and we went in. Again I was only in work clothes, and I felt a little shabby walking through the lobby of the hotel. When we entered the suite, there was another KGB man standing in the center of the room. Pavlovich introduced him as Aleksandr Mihailovich. I greeted him warmly; now that I had made up my mind, I felt almost in control of the situation. Pavlovich, in fact, commented on my good spirits. I answered that I was feeling fine today.

  When we sat down, Pavlovich again began explaining the whole proposition, including the hazy hints about our doing “favors” for each other. Aleksandr said nothing, I said little. When Viktor finally ran down, he asked me quite cheerfully, “Well, what do you think, Wladimir Martinovich?” I said bluntly: “I don’t believe a word you say!”

  Pavlovich looked like he had been stabbed. “What? Why?” “Because,” I said, “I know you people too well to believe you. You’ve called me out just too many times, made just too many promises. Nothing has ever happened and it won’t happen now.” “But Wladimir Martinovich, you can see how different things are now! We’re not what people think we are anymore, we’re different people altogether.” “I’ll tell you the problem,” I said. “I was in Lubianka five years with the NKVD; they made all kinds of promises. And what did it all mean? Fifteen years in prison and the prison camps! Now, no matter what you say, I can’t shake that feeling. It’s part of me. I just can’t believe you.”

  “No, but times have changed!” Viktor insisted. We sat there in that hotel room for the next three hours, while they tried to tell me that they had changed, and I kept trying to convince them that, even if they had, it was psychologically impossible for me to trust them anymore. At last I stood up. “You can talk all you want about changes. I came in here not trusting you, and I don’t believe you now. There’s nothing you can do to change my feelings, no matter what else you change. Words won’t do it. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.”

  With that, I left. They didn’t stop me. Neither did they say anything about another meeting. So, I felt that, for good or ill, this was the end. At home and at work, whenever anyone asked me about my sisters or the visit to Moscow, I said the same thing: I had finished talking; I had refused to make any deals. After that, I didn’t know what to expect.

  September turned to October and I heard nothing, either from the KGB or from my sisters. I began to get caught up again in the daily routine. Gradually, I stopped thinking about the whole business. After work one Thursday, I went to the store to stock up my larder and prepare for the winter. As I unpacked all the supplies, I jokingly told the babushka that I had enough for three weeks. “Why?” she said. “Maybe you won’t need all this.” I laughed. “It won’t spoil,” I sai
d, “but I think it’s about time to stop wishful thinking.”

  After supper that evening, I sat in the kitchen with the babushka, talking, listening again to stories I had heard fifty times, feeling almost carefree again. Ilyena was resting in the front room and Dmitri was at work. After a while, I took the papers and went to my room. It was about 8 P.M., so I read a little while to relax, then did my spiritual reading and said Mass. After that, I sat down to read again. Suddenly, there was a sharp, loud knock on the kitchen window!

  It was so loud that it startled me. Ilyena jumped up from the couch where she had been resting. Since the house had no door in the front, and the gate to the courtyard was locked after dark, it wasn’t unusual for people to knock on the front window to attract our attention. But there was something so sudden, so commanding—so imperious—about this knock that I was certain it meant trouble.

  It was about 9:30 P.M. I put on my hat and coat, and went out into the courtyard. “Who’s there?” I asked. A man’s voice answered: “Is this where Wladimir Martinovich lives?” For some reason, I hesitated to answer that question, so I asked again instead, “Who is there?” Again he didn’t give a name, but simply asked, “Is Wladimir Martinovich home?” I suspected it was the KGB and I wanted to say, “No, he’s not home, come back some other time.” But I knew that was just postponing the inevitable, so I said, “Yes, I’m home.” “Oh, is that you, Wladimir Martinovich?” “Yes.” “Well, I’ve come to get you.”

  The gate to the courtyard was still locked and I didn’t offer to open it. “I’m tired and I’ve had a hard day at work,” I said. “I don’t want to see anybody.” “Would you please open the gate?” I walked down to the gate and opened it; he began to argue with me. “I have a car right here,” he said, “you won’t have to walk at all. Just come down to the hotel for a talk—I promise you it won’t take long—and I’ll drive you there and back.”

  I wasn’t enthusiastic about the idea, but there was really little I could do. As I left, I called to Ilyena not to lock the gate because I wouldn’t be long. She said nothing. I didn’t tell her where I was going, but I think she guessed. It was a five-minute ride to the hotel, and nothing was said. We again went up to the second floor, but to an entirely new apartment.

  This time there was only one man in the room, Aleksandr Mihailovich. He was quite cordial as he asked me to sit down, and he promised, “I won’t keep you long, because I know it’s late.” I took a seat by the window. “This won’t take long, Wladimir Martinovich, because I just have a few things to tell you. Tomorrow morning, I want you to go to the superintendent at ATK-50 and tell him you want to leave work for good. If he has any objections, have him call this number (he handed me a slip of paper) and ask for Aleksandr Mihailovich. I think you should pay off all your debts, too, because you’ll be going to Moscow. However, I would suggest you take only what you think you’ll need, and leave the rest here. Do you understand?”

  Things were beginning to happen fast. I was a little surprised, but I managed to nod. “Now Monday,” he continued, “buy a plane ticket for Krasnoyarsk and I’ll meet you there. That gives you three days to make whatever arrangements you need, and that should be enough. If you have any questions, however, call this number (he gave me another slip of paper) or this other number in Krasnoyarsk (he pointed out the second number on the slip).” With that he stood up. “I think that’s all I have to say. Do you have any questions?”

  Before I could reply, he went to the sitting room of the suite and came back with a bottle of five-star cognac, two pieces of torte cake, and some chocolate candy. He opened the bottle and filled two water glasses. As he handed me a glass, he said: “An old Russian custom, a drink to seal the bargain.” Then he lifted the glass as if in a toast and said, “Here’s luck to you!” I didn’t ask him why I needed luck; we drank down the cognac and I took a little nibble of the cake.

  He began to refill the glasses as he talked again about “wrapping everything up in three days.” We drank again. I said, “Here’s luck to you!” He filled up the glasses again, we saluted each other without bothering with “luck,” and drained them again. “Well,” he said, “I’m certainly glad things are developing the way they are. I wish you the best of luck.” With that he started to fill the glasses again, but I stopped him. “No, no more for me.”

  I got up and put on my hat and coat. He followed me outside, without a hat or coat. I told him I’d walk home, but he said, “The car is here.” As I got in, he stood on the sidewalk; I noticed, however, that the driver looked at him and he nodded solemnly. My heart sank—the glance and the action looked so familiar—and I only hoped I was wrong. We drove off, while Aleksandr stood on the curb looking after us. Yet we drove right to Dmitri’s, and not a word was said. When I was safely outside the car, I thanked the driver for the ride, stepped in quickly, and locked the gate.

  It was almost 11 P.M. As soon as I came into the house, Ilyena sprang up with a frightened look on her face. “You don’t know what I’ve been going through here,” she said. “I thought they had taken you to prison. After that knock, I just knew there was going to be trouble.” Then, to reassure her, I told her the whole story: I was going to Moscow; I was to quit work, pay my debts, pack only the necessary clothes, and be in Krasnoyarsk on Monday.

  This was Thursday night. Ilyena was excited, and I was a bit excited myself. I couldn’t figure out what it all meant or what I would be doing in Moscow. Aleksandr had told me nothing about that, only that I was going there and that I should be in Krasnoyarsk by Monday.

  The next morning at ATK-50, I had no difficulty with Sofronov about leaving work. Perhaps he had already been informed. People crowded around to congratulate me and wish me luck. “Whatever happens don’t give in,” said Vassily, “and good luck!” Everybody echoed his sentiments. I finally collected my pay about 3 P.M., took a last look around the garage where I’d been awarded an Udarnika citation and made so many friends, and went home.

  Sunday we arranged a little going-away party. There were about fifteen in the party at Dmitri’s house: Iosip and Valya, Dmitri and Ilyena, Professor Dutov, several other close friends, myself as the guest of honor. There were a lot of good wishes, and a lot of toasts to good luck; even the professor, who never drank, took a glass of whiskey in my honor. The babushka, too, drank to my farewell, and she soon began to cry; before dinner was over, she was lying on the couch. When the party was over, I had to help carry her to bed.

  That Sunday evening, for the last time in my room in Dmitri’s house, I said Mass. Despite the fact that I was leaving most of my things here, I couldn’t be sure I’d be back. I said the Mass with a special thanksgiving for my friends here—especially those in the next room watching television—and commended the future to God. After the Mass, I went back in and joined the group around the television set, but there was more talking than TV watching that night.

  The next morning, Monday, October 2nd, everyone at Dmitri’s was up early. I promised that I would write at least a postcard wherever I went, and they promised to forward my belongings wherever I ended up—if it wasn’t Abakan. I intended to catch the bus for the airport about nine, in order to give myself plenty of time, but shortly before that a jeep drove up: the KGB again. Ilyena and the babushka immediately became anxious; they got panicky when the KGB man told me to come along, without any preliminaries or the usual formalities.

  Aleksandr Mihailovich was in the jeep, checking to see if everything was all right and if I had enough money. “Can I see the ticket?” he said. I handed it to him and he looked it over carefully. “Well we’ll have to make a change. You won’t leave for Moscow at 5:00 tonight, but on the Tuesday morning flight at 7:15 so it won’t be dark in Moscow when you arrive.” “Fine,” I said, “then I’ll take the last plane from Abakan tonight, instead of the morning flight.”

  “No, you won’t,” said Aleksandr. “You get the eleven o’clock plane and I’ll meet you in Krasnoyarsk at noon and show you around.” With th
at he got back in the car and drove off. Ilyena and the babushka were relieved when I came back to the house; I explained to them what the interview was all about. By now it was almost 9 A.M., so I told them we’d better go.

  I looked around at everything, wondering if I was seeing it for the last time or would be back. The babushka was crying again. She wouldn’t come with us to the bus stop, but went into the house in tears. Dmitri and Ilyena, Iosip and Valya, walked to the marketplace with me, where there was a bus for the airport every hour. Nobody said much. Professor Dutov was at the bus stop, waiting. When the bus came, I said goodbye to the two families quickly; most of them had tears in their eyes. And so did I. The professor had taken a half day off to see me safely on the beginning of my journey, so he boarded the airport bus with me.

  He came with me, in fact, all the way to the airport ramp, somber and almost in tears. “I wish you the best of luck, Wladimir Martinovich,” he said, “but I’m very sorry to lose you.” I promised again to write, then turned quickly and walked up the ramp into the plane. A few minutes before eleven, the motors started; by eleven, we were taxiing. I caught one last glimpse of the professor through the plane window and waved. As the plane took off, we passed over ATK-50 and the city of Abakan. I swallowed a lump in my throat that had nothing to do with the takeoff, then I sat back filled with memories.

  V.I.P. TREATMENT