With God in Russia

by Walter J. Ciszek

IN FIFTY-FIVE MINUTES, which seemed like five, we were in Krasnoyarsk. As soon as I got off the plane, Aleksandr was waiting for me. He had already made arrangements for a room at the nearby airport hotel, so I checked the bags in the airport and we walked the short distance to the hotel. I signed the register; they gave me my key in exchange for the passport; I pocketed the key quickly lest Aleksandr ask for it.

  “I have things to do,” he said, “so I hope you can keep busy. I know I promised to show you the town, but something has come up. But come back to the airport with me now and I’ll show you how to get your ticket squared away for tomorrow morning. At least that will be out of the way. Then I’ll see you tonight . . .” “I think I may go to a movie,” I broke in. “I’ll try to catch you after work,” he went on, “but if not, I’ll be back tomorrow morning to see you off.”

  At the airport he took my ticket to the counter and soon had it processed. Then we shook hands and he walked away; I watched him to see if he was really going. He got in the car, his chauffeur drove off, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I crossed the street and took a bus down old Stalin Boulevard (now renamed Mira Boulevard) to Gorki Street. There I caught another bus and went up the hill to Nikolayevka and my old parish.

  No one was home at Rosa’s, but I decided to wait. The first one I met was Rosa’s brother on his way home from work, then Rosa herself came. They were amazed and delighted to see me, and wanted to know why I hadn’t written to say I was coming. I told them I was on my way to Moscow, where I guessed—and hoped—I would meet my two sisters. We talked about that for a while, then the old days and the parish. It was very late when Rosa suddenly remembered to prepare supper, and I didn’t get back on the bus until 11:00 P.M. Aleksandr was not at my hotel, nor had he left any message.

  The next morning I was up early so I wouldn’t be late for my seven o’clock flight. The terminal was jammed even at that hour. At the last moment, I decided to send a quick card to everyone in Abakan, telling them I was on my way. There was still no sign of Aleksandr, but he arrived ten minutes before flight time, greeted me, walked to the ramp of the plane with me, and wished me a pleasant goodbye and a good trip. I got on board and watched Aleksandr through the window; he stayed until the plane took off.

  The takeoff seemed awfully swift. By the time I looked out the window, all I could see were clouds far down below. I was a little disappointed, for I had hoped to see some of the country. I closed my eyes and began to pray for a while, then said a rosary; but thoughts kept crowding in upon me and I tried to sort them out. Who would meet me in Moscow, the KGB or my sisters? Perhaps because he was late, Aleksandr hadn’t said a word about Moscow—where I would land, who would meet me, or where I should go. If nobody meets me, I thought, what should I do? Should I try to go to the American Embassy, or would that be too risky? Suddenly, I laughed at myself. After all these years of God’s loving protection, what a time to be worried!

  Just before noon, they served us a meal—in mid-air! There were two small rolls, butter, meat, sauce, fried potatoes, green peas, a small square of some sort of gelatin for dessert, lumps of sugar, a choice of coffee or tea, plus two small mint candies to top off the meal. For more than three years, I had eaten borscht twice a day and was happy to have a piece of bologna with my bread for lunch. Now the young girl put this feast before me while we were racing high over the earth toward Moscow!

  I had hardly finished the meal when the loudspeaker announced we were approaching Vnukova Airport in Moscow. It was about 1:00 P.M. They were remodeling and resurfacing the field when we landed; everything was so torn up that the field didn’t seem particularly impressive, except for the number of airplanes. I walked down the ramp, following the crowd, looking anxiously around. The terminal was very modern, with glass everywhere, but I hardly noticed it, because I kept looking to see if there was someone to meet me. I saw no one, and I didn’t ask.

  I waited for a while, but after fifteen minutes I figured I was on my own. I picked up my baggage and started for the exit. Just then I noticed two men rushing through the waiting room of the terminal, dressed in topcoats, but one of them was without a hat—Viktor Pavlovich! They hurried over to the ramp of the plane from Krasnoyarsk, looked around, saw no one, and began arguing. I couldn’t help smiling. They started to leave then, so I walked over to say hello.

  Viktor wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries, but he introduced me to the other fellow, a Mr. Kuznetsov, who seemed most pleasant. “You go with him, Wladimir Martinovich,” said Viktor, “he’ll take care of you.” (“No doubt!” I thought to myself. “But in what sense?”) Kuznetsov offered to carry my bag; I grabbed it myself. I followed him down the line of taxis until we came to a Volga, standing there with the driver inside and the motor running. “Here we are,” said Kuznetsov.

  Kuznetsov made himself agreeable. He told me that Vnukova Airport was about 25 miles from Moscow, and suggested we see a little bit of the city on our way. Wherever we were going—and Kuznetsov said nothing about that—there wasn’t much I could do about it by worrying, so I tried to relax and enjoy the drive.

  We passed by tall apartment buildings, “skyscrapers” in the Soviet style. I was impressed, because it had been a long time since I had seen anything like that; there was certainly nothing to rival them in Abakan or Krasnoyarsk. We saw Lenin University, a massive place with a whole complex of towering buildings, and Kuznetsov had the driver stop so we could walk around the grounds for a few minutes.

  We drove for a while along the Moscow River, on a broad and beautiful boulevard, then along other streets not quite so wide and broad. Still, there were no roads anywhere in Siberia like those we drove over that morning. For two hours or more, we seemed to just roam around the town. Somehow I began to feel strange as I reflected that I had seen more already in two hours than in my previous five years’ stay in the city of Moscow. Then, I had seen only its prisons and its railroad yards and, just once, its streets lined with bomb rubble. I saw places now I’d heard prisoners in Lubianka talk about, but which had been only names to me then. Lubianka itself I didn’t see, though it still wouldn’t have surprised me. Despite my resolutions to enjoy the ride, I couldn’t help thinking about where I was going.

  Eventually we pulled up at the side entrance of the Moscow Hotel. We walked in, and Kuznetsov went right to the registration desk, where he soon wound up arguing about a room. I gathered they didn’t have quite what he wanted. “You go and inquire,” he said to the girl at last. “You find a room!” She came back a little later and said, “This is the best we can do—a room with a shower.” Kuznetsov turned to me and asked rather apologetically, “Will this do?” I laughed. “Well, I wanted to get you a bath and a sitting room, too,” said Kuznetsov, “but there don’t seem to be any available.”

  I signed the register, turned over my passport, and got my key. We went up in the elevator to the fifth floor; everything was clean and spacious, with wall-to-wall carpeting. When we got to the room, Kuznetsov opened the door like a trained bellhop and said, “Here you are.” Then he proceeded to show me around the room. He showed me the shower—it was leaking. There was a big bed, easy chairs, a sofa, a radio, and even a TV set. Across the street from my window was a ministry building of some sort, and a big boulevard down below.

  Finally, Kuznetsov gave me his phone number and said, “Why don’t you get a nap or a shower, and a meal, and I’ll be back to see you about 5 P.M.” He still said nothing, however, about why I was here or where we might go when he came back at five. When he had gone, I loosened up a little. I decided not to go to bed—frankly, I was too excited—but instead to take a walk and find something to eat.

  I walked out the front door and directly opposite me were the walls of the Kremlin, Red Square, and GUM across from it, and the big basilica and towering cupolas of St. Basil’s. I found it chilly, for I was wearing only a raincoat; but I began to walk along with the crowd. Everywhere I went, though, people seemed to be standing in line, so eventually I went back
to the hotel to eat.

  It was 4:30 by the time I finished the meal, so I hurried back upstairs to my room. I was no sooner in the door than the phone rang. “Where have you been?” said Kuznetsov when I answered. “I’ve been calling you over and over again.” “I was eating.” “Fine,” he said, “meet me in the lobby at five o’clock exactly.” I put down the phone and went in to wash up, with the tingling feeling of anticipation that now, at last, something was about to happen.

  When I met Kuznetsov in the lobby, however, he said, “I bought tickets for the Moscow Dramatic Theater. I thought you would like to go.” “Fine,” I said, after a pause, “let’s go.” Kuznetsov had called for me early so we could walk and see the city, taking our time. We walked along the broad avenues like tourists, and I was surprised at the traffic. At most of the busy intersections there were underpasses for pedestrians, so the traffic flowed steadily.

  Suddenly Kuznetsov said, “Here we are.” I looked around. It seemed to me we were standing in front of an apartment building. There was a playbill, however, which said “Moscow Dramatic Theater. Now Showing: Mary Stuart.” Kuznetsov took me into a little supper club on one of the upper floors where we had a bottle of beer and caviar, then another.

  The buzzer sounded for the curtain, and we went downstairs to the theater on the second floor. I thought the acting was excellent—especially the girl playing Mary Stuart—and the production good. I had a most enjoyable evening, and as we walked back to the hotel I told Kuznetsov so. He seemed genuinely happy to hear it. He didn’t come into the hotel with me, but told me he would call for me at nine o’clock the next morning.

  I went up to my hotel room and sat down to watch television for a while, but my mind wasn’t on it. I kept thinking, “What are they up to? What’s going on? This is all very fine, but why? What is it all about?” All day long, every time I had entered the lobby of the hotel, I’d spent a few moments looking around, hoping to see my sisters. “Perhaps,” I thought, “it was too late for them to arrange anything today; maybe tomorrow, at nine o’clock, I’ll be going to see them.” I took a shower then, and went to bed. After wrestling with the same questions all over again, I finally fell asleep.

  Kuznetsov was at my room at nine on the dot, and asked me how I felt. “I think we ought to go to the Bolshoi tonight,” he said, “I think you’ll enjoy that. Now, let’s go for a walk.” I put on my coat and prepared to follow him, convinced he had something in mind besides a walk and the Bolshoi Theater, and was heading somewhere special. Then, as we walked out the hotel doors, Kuznetsov said, “Let’s go over to the Kremlin.” We walked in through the Spasski Gate, then past Lenin’s Mausoleum with its long lines of people.

  Kuznetsov began to point out all the buildings, the Palace of Congresses, the Palace of Armaments, etc., telling me the history and function of each—but I was listening with only half an ear. The square was crowded with tourists, and I kept looking for some Americans, especially my sisters. No such luck. At last, I told Kuznetsov I’d like to see some of the beautiful old Orthodox Churches in the Kremlin; he didn’t want to go in, but he told me to go ahead.

  I walked through them, hurrying from one to another so Kuznetsov wouldn’t get nervous, but I was delighted to see how well they had been kept up. Only, from time to time, I felt a twinge when I thought that God had been so thoroughly removed from these buildings that they were now just tourist attractions, like some peculiar kind of art museums. Kuznetsov was waiting patiently when I came out. He was a most pleasant companion, intelligent, quiet, and soft-spoken.

  The sun was warm, so we walked around the Kremlin gardens. There weren’t many flowers left in October, but the grounds were well kept and still attractive. “How about lunch?” said Kuznetsov, just after the bells of the Kremlin chimed twelve o’clock. (Those Kremlin bells were an echo to me; I had listened to them for five years. Now I was standing in the sunshine of Red Square, listening to them again.) “Fine,” I said, “I’m hungry.”

  “Well,” said Kuznetsov, “you go where you like and I’ll see you this afternoon about three o’clock. All right?” I nodded and he left me standing in Red Square. I was really beginning to wonder if anything was ever going to happen. I was tempted to try and avoid Kuznetsov for the afternoon, but I didn’t want to miss any appointments which might turn out to be the “purpose” of the trip. If only he would give me some idea of what it was all about!

  When I finished my meal at the hotel, Kuznetsov was waiting in the lobby. “Where have you been?” “In the restaurant; it took me over an hour to get a table for lunch.” “Well, let’s go. The car is here.” Immediately, I thought something was up. Yet we simply drove around the city for a while, while Kuznetsov showed me the sights. My mind was elsewhere. When it became obvious we weren’t going anywhere, I turned again to the riddle. I was living in the best hotel and nothing seemed to be too good for me; yet, pleasant as Kuznetsov was, he was still a chaperone. Why?

  Were they just trying to keep me occupied until my sisters arrived? Had they been delayed? It must have something to do with my sisters; otherwise, why the delay? If we weren’t waiting for something or somebody, why didn’t we just go to the KGB headquarters and get it over with? Eventually, we drove back to the hotel. “I’ll see you at seven,” Kuznetsov said as he let me out of the car.

  I met him in the lobby at seven. He was full of apologies because he hadn’t been able to get tickets to the Bolshoi; we went instead to the Palace of Congresses, the “Glass Palace” as they call it. Everything about it is huge and shiny; there is marble on all the walls, the escalators, everywhere—a real showpiece, including the washrooms. When it’s not being used for Party congresses, the “Glass Palace” is used for entertainments and exhibitions. Tonight there was a concert of folk music.

  We went first of all to the top floor, where there is a huge ballroom. At the moment, the floor was covered with tables of sandwiches, cookies, candies, hot dishes, and drinks of all the various nationalities in the U.S.S.R. Kuznetsov offered to treat me to a real Russian dish: a round, cylindrical bowl full of mushrooms, onions, and peppers in cream sauce a la mode Russe, served with rye bread and a cup of steaming coffee. It was delicious. Afterward, we went into the convention hall itself, a massive place with plush leather seats and an earphone at every place for simultaneous translations.

  The auditorium wasn’t filled, which was not surprising because it’s a monstrous place, and the stage, too, is enormous. There were many in the audience in native dress—Asians and Africans—and behind us, to my surprise, were a group of Americans. My surprise became chagrin, though, as they continued to laugh and talk through the whole performance. I wanted to turn around and tell them to behave, but with Kuznetsov beside me I didn’t even talk to them.

  The program of folk songs and dances in Russian and Georgian I found somewhat monotonous. Kuznetsov himself became bored, and we left the auditorium before the end of the program. Kuznetsov didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get me back to the hotel, but eventually we strolled over there and as he left me at the door he said, “Tomorrow, you wait for me. I’ll get here sometime before noon. There are a few things I have to attend to in the morning.” I walked up to my room more puzzled than ever.

  The next morning I felt cooped up. I looked out the window, paced my room, and went down to walk around the lobby. At last, I wrote some cards to Abakan and Krasnoyarsk. I went back to my room about ten—and the phone was ringing. “Where have you been?” said Kuznetsov. “I’ve been ringing you up constantly.” “I’ve been down in the lobby,” I answered, “I just got tired of sitting around.” “I’m coming right over,” he said, “I’ll give you a call from the lobby.”

  He didn’t call from the lobby, though. The next thing I knew he was at the door of my room. He walked over and sat down on the bed. “I have something to tell you, Wladimir Martinovich,” he said. (“Here it comes,” I thought, “at last!”) “By noon tomorrow, I want you to get rid of all your money except for 9
0 rubles. I don’t care what you do with it, what you buy, how you spend it, but get rid of everything except 90 rubles. Tomorrow, at one o’clock, I will meet you right here, so wait for me.”

  He didn’t say why, or what the money had to do with the reason for my visit to Moscow. Since he wasn’t volunteering any information, I didn’t ask; it’s safer that way. I agreed to get rid of the money and meet him the next day at one o’clock. On that note, he left. I figured I had about twenty-four hours to myself.

  Remembering the signs I had seen in Red Square saying that Lenin’s Mausoleum was only open from 11 A.M. to 2 P.M., I skipped lunch and made a dash for the Kremlin. It was about 11:30, but the line was coiled around for blocks when I got to the end of it. While we walked slowly along the Kremlin wall, I noticed the graves of the famous old Communists buried there—including several Americans—many of them with marble busts and ornaments on top their tombstones. Joseph Stalin is there, under a plain, unadorned, straight slab which carries only his name and the dates of his birth and death. Someone, though, had put a wreath of fresh flowers on his grave.

  As we approached the doors of the mausoleum, I could hear the soldiers softly chanting instructions: “Please bare your heads, no talking, absolutely no picture-taking allowed. Please move quickly, and watch your step.” Once through the doors, we went down a stairway about two flights, turned left along a hallway, then turned right again to enter the round mausoleum. It was dark inside. Everything seemed to be built of black, grayish marble, and the scent of flowers or incense was everywhere.

  The glass cofffin of Vladimir Ilyitch Lenin is above your head as you enter the room. You mount about fourteen or fifteen steps, then walk slowly, but continuously, around a semicircular platform, looking slightly down at the body. Lenin is dressed in dark, if not black, clothes and is illuminated from the waist up by a special spotlight which bathes his face in weak, but very distinct, lighting. His color is marvelous; even his sandy mustache and beard seem alive with a bristling reddish quality, and there is enough light so that colored reflections play in the highly polished marble of the walls.