At last my curiosity could stand it no longer, and I turned to the man who led me up the stairs.
“Those are the prayer requests,” he explained. “The pastor is putting them into two groups. One is for individual petitions and the other is for visitors from all over the Union who want this congregation to pray for their home churches. You’ll see when the time comes.”
Sure enough, as soon as the second speaker had sat down, the pastor stood up and held the first of the piles high. Then he read off the names of the visiting churches and said, I learned through my interpreter, “Are we glad to have these visitors?”
“Amen!”
“And do we hold them up in our prayers?”
“Amen!”
“And these requests”—he read two or three of the individual notes—“Do we pray for these needs?”
“Amen!”
“Then let us pray.”
And with no further preliminaries that entire congregation of two thousand began to pray aloud simultaneously. From time to time a single voice would rise above the babble of sound, clear and pleading, while the other voices faded to a background hum. Then the tide of sound would swell again, until again an individual rose to express the thoughts of all. It was an experience that stirred me to the depths of my spirit.
After the service it was announced that the pastors would be glad to greet any visitors to the Youth Congress in the vestibule downstairs and to answer their questions. Perhaps a dozen of us accepted the invitation. Questions were fired in quick succession. “Where is the next closest Protestant church?”
“Oh, there are many Protestant churches in Russia. There are others very near.”
“But how near?”
“One hundred and eighty kilometers.”
“Is there religious freedom in Russia?”
“We have complete religious freedom here, yes.”
“How about pastors who have been jailed?”
“We know of no pastors who are in jail, except, perhaps, political subversives.”
And then I asked my question. “How about Bibles—do you have enough Bibles?”
“There are plenty of Bibles, yes.” In proof they passed a copy around the room. “This excellent new edition has just been printed here in Russia.” That was news to me.
“How many copies?”
“Oh, lots. Many copies.”
On and on it went, the questioning and the smooth answers that said nothing. The next day, on the off chance that I might be able to see one of the pastors alone, I made my way back to the church. It was Monday morning, yet even at that day and hour it was a busy place. Then I learned that the church building also served as the central office of the Baptist Union for all of the Soviets.
“I wonder if I can help you?” a voice asked. I turned and recognized the face. It was one of the men who had been on the platform the previous morning and afterward had answered questions. He introduced himself as Ivanhoff and invited me to join him in his private office. I wondered just how I was going to go about challenging his statements of the day before. Perhaps the best way would be to say right away that I had brought Bibles with me and to see what his reaction would be.
“I’ve brought something from the Baptists of Holland to the Baptists of Russia,” I began, placing a package tied in brown paper on his table.
“What do you have there?”
“Bibles.”
“Russian Bibles?”
“From the British and Foreign Bible Society. I have taken the liberty of tearing out the imprint page.”
It seemed to me that he was maintaining his composure with difficulty as he said, “May I please see them?”
So I untied the string and showed him the pitiful little pile of three Bibles that I had been able to bring with me on the train. The problem, as with so many East European Bibles, was the size of each volume. Russian—like Serbian and Ukrainian and Macedonian—is written in Cyrillic script, which produces bulkier books than Latin script. In the same amount of space I could have brought ten or twelve Dutch or English Bibles. But what interested me was the pastor’s reaction to this tiny offering. Clearly he was restraining his eagerness with great effort.
“Did you say these were a gift?”
“Yes.” And then I couldn’t resist teasing him a little. “But you say there is a new Soviet edition. Perhaps there is no need to have brought Bibles.”
“Well . . .” The pastor remembered his talk of the day before. “As a matter of fact, that edition was largely shipped out of the country. To the Brussels Fair, and around, you know.”
“I see.”
Then, leaning forward, he asked another question. “Tell me, my friend, why did you really come to Russia?”
On the tightrope that he was walking it seemed to me that perhaps a scriptural answer would be most tactful. I cast about for a moment and then came up with one.
“Do you remember in the Bible when Joseph was wandering among the Shechemites? One of the Shechemites saw him and asked him a question. Do you remember what it was?”
The pastor thought. “He asked, ‘Whom are you seeking?’”
“And Joseph’s answer?”
“He said, ‘I seek my brethren.’”
“Well that,” I said, “is my answer to your question too.”
18
For Russia with Love
Hans had listened with great interest to these recollections, interrupting occasionally with questions. When I came to the end of them, he offered one of his blunt and faith-filled prayers that we be led to Ivanhoff again, since the contact was now made and a relationship begun.
“I think it’s time for a break, Andy,” he added. “I’d like a cup of coffee.”
“So would I.”
Up ahead was a break in a tall hedgerow, through which we plunged, scarcely noticing that there was already an automobile parked off the road there, its occupants enjoying a picnic lunch.
We pulled to a stop and began to get out our gear. It seemed to me that the Russians in the other car were behaving in a most unfriendly way. They kept glaring in our direction and muttering. The man threw half a cup of tea on the ground, complaining, while the two women began to pile plates, fruit, half-eaten loaves of bread, into a straw basket.
We were still wondering what this was all about when all at once there was a screeching of brakes from the other side of the hedge. Car doors slammed. And suddenly we were confronted by two uniformed police. They stood in the opening in the hedge, hands on hips, glancing quickly over both parties. Then one officer came toward us while the other went over to the Russian car.
“How do you do?” said Hans, smiling brightly at this opportunity to use his Russian.
The officer did not reply, and Hans’s face fell. “He just doesn’t want to be sociable,” said Hans, returning pointedly to his coffee. Knowing Hans, however, I knew that he was praying hard. This man must not begin poking around inside our automobile. Even as we prayed, the officer abruptly left us and walked over to join his companion at the other car. There was an exchange of heated words, a shrug, and then the Russians began to unload their automobile.
We watched for twenty minutes while those poor people took everything that could be removed out of their car and spread it on the ground. Then the officers looked inside the motor, inside the trunk, underneath the car. We knew that somehow we were responsible for the discomfort they were being put to, but we did not know what to do about it. So we just stirred our coffee until it was cold.
After half an hour, when the officers still had not so much as glanced in our direction, we decided it was time to try leaving. So we drank the awful coffee, stowed the little stove away, and made as much noise as we could closing doors and finally starting the engine. Still the officers paid no attention to us. We crept through the hedge and nosed back onto the highway around the police car.
“What was that all about?” said Hans as we were under way.
“I don’t know, unles
s they thought we were smugglers making an exchange there beside the road. Hans, we’ve got to pray for that family, that they don’t get into trouble through our clumsiness. And it’s something to remember when it comes time for us to get rid of our cargo.”
———
The avenues of Moscow were enormous, wide enough to carry ten cars abreast, and they were more heavily traveled than I remembered. We passed the huge GUM store, drove through vast Red Square, passed the Mausoleum, and eventually made our way to the campsite that had been assigned to us. Right away we pitched our igloo-shaped tent and prepared to take out at least a few of our Bibles.
“Don’t look now,” Hans said, “but we’ve got prying eyes.”
Without looking up, I tossed a road map on top of the two Bibles I had taken out. Then casually I glanced around and saw the man. He was wearing a green fatigue uniform and stood a few feet away from the car watching us. I got out our coffeepot, and Hans and I started preparing a rather unwanted cup of coffee. As soon as we had stopped unpacking the Bibles, the prying eyes walked away.
“What do you make of it?” I asked Hans.
“I don’t like it. I wish we could get rid of this cargo.”
We took just one of the Bibles, locked the car, and left the campsite. It was Thursday night: the night of the midweek service at the Baptist church that we had been heading for.
There were about twelve hundred people attending the Thursday night prayer meeting! The form of the service was much the same as the one I had attended two years earlier, but I did not see Ivanhoff either on the platform or in the part of the congregation I could see.
When the meeting was over, Hans and I walked out to the vestibule and began milling about in the crowd. The main purpose of the evening for us was to make contacts to whom we could deliver our supply of Bibles. I edged my way around the big entrance hall, glancing into face after face, asking God to give me as He had so often before, that moment of recognition that, for Christians, can do the work of many years of acquaintance and growing confidence.
And before long I saw him: a thin, balding man in his middle forties standing against a wall and staring into the crowd. I had such a clear directive to speak to him that I almost forgot about Hans. But in a real Christian partnership, one member’s guidance is always submitted to the other’s for correction and confirmation. So I waited until Hans had inched his great bulk over to my side.
“I’ve spotted our man!” he said before I could speak. And out of the hundreds of people in that vestibule, he nodded to the man I too had chosen. Hearts high, we pushed our way to him.
“Kak vi po zhi vayete,” Hans began.
“Kak vi po zhi vayete,” the man answered, instantly alert.
As Hans launched into a description of who we were and where we were from, however, the man’s face grew more and more perplexed. But when Hans came to the word “Dutch,” he burst out laughing. He told us that he himself was German; he was a second-generation immigrant living in Siberia, and his family still spoke German in the home.
Immediately the three of us fell into conversation. And as we talked, Hans and I grew more and more incredulous. For this man was from a little church in Siberia, two thousand miles away, where there were 150 communicants but not a single Bible. One day he had been told in a dream to go to Moscow where he would find a Bible for his church. He resisted the idea at first, he said, for he knew as well as anyone that there were precious few Bibles in Moscow.
And that was the end of his story.
Hans and I looked at each other in disbelief. I gave Hans a nod, and it was his turn to share with our Siberian friend the good news.
“You were told to come eastward for two thousand miles to get a Bible, and we were told to go westward two thousand miles carrying Bibles to churches in Russia. And here we are tonight, recognizing each other the instant we meet.”
And with this, Hans held out the big Russian Bible we had brought along with us. The Siberian was without words. He held the Bible at arm’s length and stared at it, and then at the two of us, and then at the Bible again. All of a sudden the dam burst, and a flow of thank you’s and bear hugs followed until we had drawn a group of onlookers. I was sorry for that; I hadn’t wanted to attract attention. In a whisper I told the fellow the rest of the news, that we had more Bibles, and that if he would meet us there again at ten o’clock the next morning, we would let him have half a dozen to take home.
The Siberian grew suddenly suspicious. “They are free of charge?”
“Of course,” we answered. “This is simply one arm of the Church looking after the needs of another.”
The next morning at nine o’clock Hans posted guard while I again tried to get the Bibles out of their hiding place in the car. I was no more than halfway through when Hans whistled the Dutch national anthem, and I knew that our friend in the green uniform was back. With a sigh I went to work making coffee.
“Coffee’s ready!” I shouted to Hans.
He came over and took an ice cold cup of liquid from my hands. “He’s back?” I asked.
“Just as nosey as yesterday. He’s suspicious about something. How many did you get out?”
“Four.”
“Well, that’ll have to do. Slip them in the flight bags and let’s go.” Owning a Bible for your own personal use was no crime; but commerce in smuggled Bibles was illegal, and it was dangerous to look as if you might be dealing in contraband. So we put just four Bibles into our KLM bags and strolled down the lane to the bus stop. At precisely ten o’clock we walked into the church and sat down on a bench near the door. At 10:30 we were feeling anxious and very conspicuous. And then, at 10:45, a voice spoke at my elbow. “Hello, brother.”
I whirled around. It was not the man from Siberia. It was Ivanhoff, the pastor I had met on my previous visit to Moscow.
“Are you waiting for someone?” asked Ivanhoff.
“I—we—yes. Someone we met here last night.”
Ivanhoff was silent for a moment. Then, “Yes,” he said softly. “That’s what I was afraid of. Your Siberian friend cannot come.”
“What do you mean, cannot come?”
Ivanhoff looked around. “My friends,” he said, “at each service there are secret police. We count on it. They saw you and this man talking, and so he cannot come. He has been ‘spoken’ to. But you have brought something for him?”
I looked at Hans. Could Ivanhoff be trusted? Hans gave a shrug and then a barely perceptible nod.
“Yes,” I said briefly. “Four Bibles. In these bags.”
“Leave them with me; I will see that he gets them.”
Again Hans and I exchanged glances. But we ended by taking the Bibles—wrapped in newspaper—out of the bags and handing them over. Then, asking God for protection, I took a plunge: There seemed to be no other way.
“Is there somewhere we can talk?” I asked.
“Talk?”
“Well, frankly, these aren’t the only Bibles we have.”
Ivanhoff caught his breath. “What do you mean? Just keep your voice low. How many Bibles do you have?”
“Over a hundred.”
“You are joking.”
“They’re in our car at the camp.”
Ivanhoff thought for a moment. Then without a word he led us down a long corridor. When it turned a corner he stopped suddenly, laid the Bibles on the floor, and held out his hands, palms down.
“Do you see those nails?” he said. We stared at fingernails ridged and thickened the way nails become when they have been damaged deep in their roots. “I have spent my time in prison for the faith,” Ivanhoff said. And this was the man who had told the visiting youth delegation that there was no religious persecution in Russia! “I will be frank with you. I cannot go through it again. I cannot help you with those Bibles.”
I felt my heart go out to this man. “I know,” I said. “We do not blame you. Perhaps, though, you know of someone else who might be willing?”
“Mar
kov,” said Ivanhoff. “I will arrange with him to rent an automobile. He will meet you in front of the GUM store at precisely one o’clock.” And then as an afterthought, “But be careful.”
Hans pointed to the little stack of Bibles on the floor. “What about these? Don’t you risk something taking these?”
Ivanhoff smiled, but his eyes remained sad as ever. “Four Bibles,” he said. “That’s not a very serious economic crime. They’re worth four hundred rubles. How long do you go to jail for four hundred rubles? Four months at the most? But a hundred Bibles! That’s worth ten thousand rubles here in Moscow, more in the provinces. Ten thousand rubles worth of pornographic literature! Why, a man could—”
“Pornography?” said both Hans and I together. “What does that have to do with us?”
“Nothing,” said Ivanhoff. “Except that if you are caught, that’s what they’ll accuse you of selling.” And then, as if receiving some sort of signal, he whirled on his heels, snatched the books from the floor, and walked rapidly away, his shoes clicking down the empty corridor as he disappeared from sight.
That afternoon at one o’clock we pulled up in front of the GUM store. A man emerged from a car parked a hundred yards away and strolled by, looking at us cautiously through the window. Then he strolled back again.
“Brother Andrew?”
“You’re Markov,” I said. “Greetings in the Name of the Lord.”
“We’re going to do something very bold,” said Markov, talking rapidly. “We’re going to exchange the Bibles within two minutes of Red Square. No one will ever suspect us in such a location. It’s a stroke of genius.”
Clearly, this brother was more of a genius than I. I didn’t like the sound of it. He led us to a street that was, sure enough, less than two minutes from Red Square. There was a large blind wall running along one side of the street, but houses lined the other. At any window there could be a pair of curious eyes.
“You’d better pray,” I said to Hans as I parked behind Markov’s car.
Hans did pray, aloud, as I got at the Bibles and stowed them an armload at a time into cartons and sacks. Markov opened the rear door to his car, and we made the transfer right out in the open, trip after trip on the busy sidewalk. When we were finished, Markov allowed himself time only for a quick handshake apiece before he was back in his car starting the engine.
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