The people were all hushed as they circled around the coffin to the steps on the other end of the platform and the door leading out of the mausoleum. I said a prayer. “He was a man, after all,” I thought, “and he may be in need of more prayers than he’s getting here.” As I stepped out of the mausoleum, there were photographers and tourists everywhere. There was also a fellow who specialized in pictures of “You at Lenin’s Tomb,” so I had my picture taken in front of the mausoleum. Unfortunately, I later forgot to pick it up.
It was now almost 1:30, and I had 400 rubles with me that I had to get rid of somehow. I headed across Red Square for GUM (Gosudarstvenni Universalni Magazin), Moscow’s famous department store which is open all day until midnight. The GUM building takes up a whole block, and it was jammed. There are three open courtyards, each under a skylight in the roof, surrounded on all sides by balconies (arcades). All the shops open off these arcades—something like a three-story, twelve-sided Rialto. Each section carries a label advertising the goods sold in that department—theoretically, you can get anything at GUM.
I went through the whole store, floor by floor, arcade by arcade, looking at everything. I was shopping for shirts, for one thing. Even here in Moscow, though, I couldn’t get the size I wanted in the quality and color I wanted. Since I had to get rid of all my money, price was no object. Still, I couldn’t get what I wanted. The first thing I bought was a little valise, the best that money could buy. The “best” was a 24-by-36-by-10-inch fiberboard case, covered in brown imitation leather and with bright, shiny steel plates on the four corners for protection. It looked like it might have come from a 1920 American bargain counter.
I also bought some razor blades, the first new blades I was ever able to buy in Russia. Then I bought a pair of brown oxfords; a reversible Czechoslovakian overcoat, checked on the inside and a green pea sort of color on the outside; a watch, Moskva, sixteen jewels; a camera, also Moskva, made in East Germany. I bought some gifts for friends back in Abakan, then a lot of little things like fingernail files, nail clippers, etc., just to get rid of the money. Four times I went through GUM from top to bottom until I was exhausted.
I came out of GUM and saw people going into another store, standing in line. On the Russian principle that wherever you see a line something is for sale, I walked over and got into line. When I got to the store, though, it turned out to be a sale of women’s nylon hosiery. “Oh,” I said, “if I had known that . . .” I started to go but the woman behind me stopped me. “Don’t go,” she said. “Please wait, it isn’t long now and the limit is two pairs to a customer. Please, stay in line and buy two pairs for me.” I told her that I didn’t have much time, but she pleaded until I finally agreed to wait and buy her two pairs at 5 rubles apiece.
I dashed back to GUM. I still had money to get rid of, so I went from top to bottom through the store. Practically everything I wanted was “Nyet” in my size, or in the quality I wanted. I asked, for instance, for cod-liver oil: “Nyet.” I asked the salesgirl where I might get it; she sent me to the Central Drugstore just down the block. I went there: “Nyet.” (And this was in Moscow!) Finally, I returned to the hotel.
Now that I had stopped running, I had time to think. But the more I thought, the more puzzled I became. What was going to happen tomorrow at one o’clock? Where were my sisters? And what did the money have to do with it? If I was going into exile of some sort, why should I buy all these things? Every answer I came up with seemed to have something wrong with it. I finally dropped off to sleep, as puzzled as ever.
A BLESSING FOR RUSSIA
THE NEXT MORNING, by nine o’clock, I was beginning to feel tense. I still had some money, so I went to the hotel restaurant and ordered the best of everything. But I was getting so nervous I couldn’t eat. I went back to my room and began to pack the suitcases. I’d bought so many things that I couldn’t close them. The phone rang; it was Kuznetsov asking if I was in my room. “I’ll be right up,” he said. Kuznetsov asked me how things were going, and I told him I’d done just about everything but I couldn’t close my suitcases. He smiled.
“Before you lock them, do you have any Russian documents?” I told him my passport was downstairs at the registration desk. “Yes, but beside your passport?” We went through the luggage and I dug out my work book, my union card, my identity card, even some of my “certificates” and “diplomas” for outstanding work, including my Udarnika award. He took them all (I didn’t ask why), then helped me close the suitcase and the valise. “Ready?” he said. He looked around the room and said, “Be sure you’re not leaving anything.” I looked around after him and said, “I’m ready.” “Then let’s go,” he said.
He took the valise and I took the suitcase; we caught the elevator to the lobby. I paid my bill and turned in the key in exchange for my passport. Kuznetsov took that. As we walked out on the sidewalk, the Volga pulled up. Kuznetsov put my suitcase and valise in the trunk while I got in. Then he gave the driver some instructions and we started off.
I recognized certain parts of the city as we drove, but I couldn’t figure out where we were going. At length, we pulled into Mezdunarodni Airport—not Vnukova—and drove right up to the terminal. Kuznetsov went in and told us to wait; he was back in a few minutes and asked the driver to pull over to the side. He didn’t get into the car, but walked nervously up and down beside it. Several times, he went into the terminal and came out again. I began to suspect that my sisters were here, or would soon be here.
With that idea, I started to watch the planes arrive, marked with the flags of various nations, looking especially for an American jet. There was a certain amount of commotion when an Italian football team arrived, but I was hardly even distracted from my American flag vigil. The longer we waited, the more nervous Kuznetsov got. “Let’s go into the cafeteria,” he said, “and get some coffee.” The driver and I got out, and went in with him; they had no hot water in the cafeteria, so we came back out.
We stood around the Volga again for a while—the more nervous Kuznetsov got, the more nervous he made me—then he noticed a car racing up the drive to the terminal. Kuznetsov told us to get in the car. He himself got into the driver’s seat and backed our car alongside the other as it slid to a stop. The man in the back seat of the other car didn’t look Russian (he turned out to be Marvin Makinen), but I really didn’t pay much attention at the time. I was looking only for my sisters.
Kuznetsov and I got out of the car. As we did so, he said softly, “Wladimir Martinovich, if you want to stay, you can stay with us. You might have a hard time there.” I was startled, as much by his sympathetic tone (he sounded like a man who was about to lose a friend) as by the words themselves. It struck me as peculiar. I thought for just one minute he might be talking about my going home—but I dismissed the thought.
“If you want to,” Kuznetsov continued when I didn’t answer, “just say so; we can call the whole thing off. And if you go, anytime you want to come back, just let me know.” Again I looked at him, unsure what to answer because I wasn’t sure what he meant. So I said nothing. Meanwhile, the KGB man was getting my suitcases out of the back of the car. Kuznetsov and I walked into the terminal then, and down the corridor to a little office.
There were a group of KGB men already there, smiling among themselves, but they said little to me. One of them, however, told me he had brought in my suitcases. I nodded. Makinen came in and sat down on the bench next to me. I had no idea who he was and we didn’t talk to each other at all. Besides, I was badly confused; I was just beginning to ask myself if it was possible they might be sending me home. My head was spinning, but I refused to accept the answer.
Suddenly Kuznetsov said “Let’s go.” I reached for my suitcases, but he told me not to bother. We walked down a corridor to another room; it was almost 4 P.M. by that time. There were two KGB men there already, smiling, and they asked us to sit down. Makinen sat on a couch, and I sat on a chair. Then two more men entered, not Russians by their looks.
One of them immediately shook hands with Makinen, then turned to me. “Father Ciszek,” he said, “I’m glad to meet you.”
I was startled, then I smiled and thanked him for the greeting. It was the first time in years anyone had addressed me as “Father.” Even in Siberia, those who had known I was a priest never used the term; they called me only “Wladimir Martinovich” or “Djadja Valodga” (Uncle Wally). The man introduced himself as Mr. Kirk from the American Consulate in Moscow; he asked me how I was, then turned to talk briefly again to Makinen. He lit a cigarette, and he seemed nervous.
I couldn’t figure anything out. Kuznetsov was nervous, Kirk was nervous—but about what? Everybody stood around for a moment in silence, as if they were at a wake. Finally, Kuznetsov said, “Well, shall we get it over with?” “Good,” said Kirk, “let’s get it over with.” The two of them shook hands, then Mr. Kirk turned to me. “Father Ciszek, would you come over here?” I went over to the table as Mr. Kirk pulled a paper from his inside coat pocket. “Would you sign this?” He handed me a pen, and I signed; I was so badly confused I hadn’t even the sense to notice what I was signing.
“Now, Father Ciszek,” said Mr. Kirk, “you’re an American citizen.” “Really?” I asked, momentarily stunned. “Yes,” he answered, “you are an American citizen again.” “It’s all a fairy tale,” I mumbled. “Yes, it’s a fairy tale, but a fine fairy tale,” smiled Mr. Kirk, “and it’s true.” It was too sudden. All at once I felt free and loose; it was as if a great weight had suddenly been lifted and the bones in my spine had sprung into shape like elastic. I felt like I ought to sing. Mr. Kirk turned to Makinen; the other American from the Consulate changed my 90 rubles for $100 while Makinen was signing some papers.
Actually, I had 93 rubles in my pocket, so the young American gave me back 3 rubles along with my $100. I met Makinen then and found out who he was. Both of us began talking and congratulating each other, and suddenly everyone in the room was talking and smiling. Waving my 3 rubles, I invited everyone in the room to the airport cafeteria. Kuznetsov and my KGB driver laughed.
We walked down to the cafeteria, talking and laughing and saying the same things over and over again. Everyone ordered tea and I put the 3 rubles on the table with a flourish. They were the last I had, and I wasn’t sorry to see them go. We had hardly begun to drink the tea, though, when a KGB man came running over to the table. “Hurry up,” he said, “don’t miss the plane after all this!” He opened a side door from the cafeteria and we walked out of the terminal onto the airplane ramp.
The plane was a big BOAC jet. The British captain met us at the foot of the steps. “Father Ciszek? Mr. Makinen? Could I see your tickets, please?” My ticket was for first class, Makinen’s for tourist, but the captain led us in through another door and sat us down in a seat together. I looked at Makinen, he looked at me—and we both turned to look out the window.
Mr. Kirk was there, along with Kuznetsov and a group of KGB men. Makinen and I waved to them as the plane taxied, but they didn’t wave back. Suddenly, the plane gathered speed. I blessed myself, then turned to the window as we took off. The plane swung up in a big circle; there were the spires of the Kremlin in the distance! Slowly, carefully, I made the sign of the cross over the land I was leaving.
AFTERWORD
The Sign of the Cross
Spiritual Lessons from With God in Russia
THE FINAL LINE is, for me, the most moving in the entire book: “Slowly, carefully, I made the sign of the cross over the land I was leaving.” In the long line of spiritual memoirs written by American Catholics, there are few more powerful conclusions, and few that so succinctly sum up the book that precedes the last line.
Dorothy Day, the cofounder of the Catholic Worker movement, closes her wonderful memoir The Long Loneliness, first published in 1952, with a simple statement. She is recalling an early conversation with her friend Peter Maurin, and the beginning of their ministry to the poor, which continues in Catholic Worker houses to this day: “It all happened while we sat there talking, and it is still going on.” Here is Dorothy in a nutshell: clear, direct, active. The end of her book shows her still talking, still active, still working.
Thomas Merton, the Trappist monk and mystic, ends his landmark autobiography, The Seven Storey Mountain, published four years earlier, with a prayer: “That you may become the brother of God and learn to know the Christ of the burnt men.” It is a poetic and somewhat mysterious conclusion for his poetic and often mysterious book. Those words would take on even more mystery in 1968, after Merton’s fatal electrocution after a conference in Bangkok, Thailand. In that terrible accident, Merton became united with Christ in a way that strangely mirrored the end of his most famous piece of writing.
But the last line of Walter Ciszek’s With God in Russia not only sums up the work itself; it also astonishes the reader, who is by now accustomed to being astonished by Ciszek’s tale. The Jesuit priest, who has been tortured and imprisoned, beaten, and spied upon for the last twenty-three years, harbors no ill will. Though he has survived the worst deprivations, over the land whose Communist government has brought him such misery he makes the sign of the cross. His reaction to leaving the Soviet Union is not condemnation, but blessing.
A few years after With God in Russia was published, Father Ciszek approached Daniel L. Flaherty, SJ, a Jesuit priest who had assisted him with his writing. Ciszek told his friend that he was ready to write a book. Naturally, Flaherty expressed surprise.
“Wally,” he said, “we just finished your book, and it’s at the publisher.”
Ciszek responded that all along he had hoped to tell not just the saga of his time in the prisons and labor camps, but another story: his spiritual journey. That book is the magnificent He Leadeth Me.
So if you’re looking for a spiritual meditation on the life of Walter Ciszek, SJ, my advice would be to read He Leadeth Me. There Ciszek answers the question that so many asked after he returned: “How did you survive?” His concise answer is, “Divine Providence.” His longer answer is that second book.
But until you read that later work, here are some brief reflections on how one might apply the lessons of With God in Russia to one’s own life.
None of us are going to be incarcerated in a Soviet labor camp, for the simple reason that the Soviet Union has ceased to exist. And although there are many Christians today who suffer persecution (perhaps even some reading this book), for the most part our lives do not involve such brutality. So some readers, although moved and inspired, might put this book down, because they feel unable to connect it to their own lives. They might say, “I’m no hero. I could never do what Ciszek did,” or, “What do my small problems have to do with his?” That, however, would be missing the point of his book, which in fact offers a great deal of wisdom for our daily lives.
Let me, then, offer three areas where this book has most helped me in my spiritual life, and then let me offer a few questions for further reflection.
First of all, Ciszek faces his hardships with grace. With God in Russia is filled with the most profound suffering. At various points in his narrative, Ciszek is hunted, captured, tortured, beaten, interrogated, imprisoned, and nearly starved to death. The Jesuit priest endures long hours in dank jail cells, endless rides on cramped trains, and freezing days and nights in the labor camps. He also faces the mental and emotional strain of not knowing from moment to moment whether he is going to be welcomed or beaten, believed or mistrusted, or even permitted to live. He is tired; his limbs ache from either overwork or beatings; he falls ill; he eats wretched food; he is ill clothed.
Yet he endures these things with grace. This is not to say that Ciszek didn’t occasionally grow angry or weary or sad. Ciszek may be a saint but, like all the saints, he is still human. (And even Jesus showed flashes of anger, grew tired, and felt sadness.) But Ciszek decides to endure the hardships with patience, confident that God is with him, ever attentive to signs of grace, and trusting that he will be able, with
God’s help, to continue. It is God’s grace that enables him to do this, but it is Ciszek who co-operates with this grace.
Notice, too, that Ciszek does not pass along his suffering. In the lives of other people, the hardships described in this book might have been a cause for embitterment or a lashing out in anger or violence against tormentors or fellow prisoners. But Ciszek does not do this. Of course he complains to his friends from time to time, but he does not add to their burdens by, for example, increasing their feelings of hopelessness or despair. In fact, he channels whatever frustration he experiences into service in the form of ministry as a priest, the act of listening, or simply being a friend.
Since entering the Jesuits, I have probably read this book ten times, often while on a retreat. Sometimes, as I sit in bed late at night in a warm room reading about the frigid Siberian winter, I realize that no matter what my small sufferings are, I have a choice. I can either let them make me bitter, or I can meet them with the confidence that God will not abandon me. With God in Russia also encourages me never to pass along the anger that can often be the instinctive response to misfortune. Soviet camp, family kitchen, or crowded office, we can resist passing along bitterness and thereby adding to the suffering of others.
So perhaps you might ask yourself a question: In what part of my life might I be invited to accept hardships with grace?
Second, Father Ciszek does not hold a grudge. In our offices at America magazine there is a famous photo of Father Ciszek. As Thurston Davis, SJ, the editor of America at the time, notes in the original introduction to this book, after Ciszek landed in Idlewild Airport, he made his way to the America House Jesuit community in Manhattan. The black-and-white photo shows him emerging from a 1960s-era car into the sunlight. As Father Davis noted, “In his green raincoat, grey suit, and big-brimmed Russian hat, he looked like the movie version of a stocky little Soviet member of an agricultural mission.” (A letter from President Kennedy thanking James B. Donovan, an intermediary for Father Ciszek’s release, also hangs on the wall in our offices.)
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