Delta

by L. Todd Wood

  Something was driving him here. That he knew. He just didn’t know why. The reason was in the back of his mind somewhere but it wouldn’t surface. I’ve been here before. I know where I am going.

  In 1652, Patriarch Nikon of the Russian Orthodox Church in Moscow made a series of changes in liturgy and practices to greater align the Russian Church with the Greek Orthodox or Byzantine Church. The changes were made unilaterally without consultation of the church leadership across Russia. This caused a great schism within Russian society. Many believers could not understand why Russians should copy practices of the Greeks when the Greek Church was now controlled by the Ottomans. Even though the Muslims allowed the Orthodox Church to survive and even thrive as they considered the Orthodox another people of the book, the church was not free, and subject to Ottoman corruption and domination.

  The changes made by the Russian patriarch were relatively minor. They included making the sign of the cross with three fingers instead of the Russian two fingers. They spelled the name of Jesus in a different way. They made changes to the liturgical texts to make them more in-line with the Greek practices. However, these changes were enough to cause a cleavage among the faithful. Many believers of the old Russian Church refused to take part in these new ways and proceeded to form their own ecclesiastical orders away from the Patriarch of Moscow. They were hounded by imperial Russia as well as by the Soviets. They were called the Raskolniki, derived from the Slavic word, raskol, meaning to split with a sharp object. Many were executed, but many escaped and formed communities in Siberia, other parts of Europe, and beyond. There were communities started in the United States and Latin America, even Mongolia. They still existed in modern day. This group of people came to be called the Old Believers. Rafe knew about the Old Believers, from a historical frame of reference. Naturally, being from Ukraine, he had heard of them before, but he understood only from a very limited viewpoint and was not a scholar on the subject.

  Rafe crossed under the busy road via the tunnel connected to the Metro station. The underground channel was filled with merchants hawking their wares. Flower, figurines, and magazines lined the passageway. Two men played the violin with a case open for money in front of them. No break dancing here, thought Rafe. He exited the metro area and started walking slowly down Preobrazhenskaya Ulitza, or street. A quarter mile down the road, he ventured left into a wooded area, the trees were overgrown and reaching into the sidewalk, grabbing at passersby. Something is here, I can feel it. Something shiny glinted high between the tree limbs as the sunlight bounced off the object. It was gold. Soon Rafe came upon an ancient brick wall which was crumbling from disrepair. An ornate octagon tower loomed to the right, its apex decorated by eighteenth century Russian architecture. The gold above him was from the sculpted onion dome which sat atop one of the interior structures. This is it. In the distance he could see religious buildings and rows upon rows of gravestones, their Russian Orthodox crosses reaching above them in various sizes and colors. Rafe followed the wall back to the right and soon entered the compound through the main entrance near the street. He had entered the Preobrazhenskoye Cemetery and monastery on the western side of Moscow, right outside the old city limits.

  The group of buildings that unfolded in front of him were built in disguise in the eighteenth century. The tsar and the Moscow Patriarchy thought they were a plague quarantine area, but in reality they were spiritual center of one sect of the Old Believers, or Bespopovtsy, meaning without priests. They practiced minimalism and led a cloistered life.

  The site consisted of two monasteries, one female and one male, divided by a road that led to the cemetery. For some reason, Rafe felt like he knew where to go and soon was entering the chapel, which was called the Church of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross and located on the grounds. Although there were several denominations, this group of Old Believers never had priests, as their bishops were executed centuries before. So, there were none to ordain new priests. Therefore, they only had chapels, not cathedrals with altars. Many also did not marry or perform other sacraments that a priest had to perform.

  It seemed surreal. The surroundings were familiar. I’ve seen this compound and the grounds before! Rafe shook his head to try to clear his thoughts and make sense of the feelings that were coming over him. What am I supposed to find? I don’t understand what is happening! He continued into the building and stood, taking in all of the art and golden icons adorning the walls. The church was empty as it was during the week and most of the parishioners were at work.

  “Can I help you?” a deep, male voice said from behind him. Rafe turned quickly to face the person speaking to him. He was an elderly man in his eighties with a long, gray beard. He was dressed in religious clothing and seemed to be some kind of religious leader.

  “I, I’m not sure…,” Rafe stammered. “I felt drawn to come here. Like I had some familiarity with place. It’s there, I know it but I can’t place it. It won’t surface in my memory. I think I’m going crazy.”

  “My name is Roman. I am one of the spiritual leaders here in our community. I don’t believe I have seen you before. Are you a believer? Are you one of us?”

  “I really don’t go to church. I...I know I should but I don’t. I think I did when I was a child.”

  “Perhaps someone is trying to tell you you should?” the man laughed heartily. “Have you eaten? I was about to have a late lunch. Would you care to join me?”

  “I’d love to! I’m starving!”

  Rafe followed the man out of the chapel and the short distance to a small room in the monastery. There was a miniscule, wooden table by a single cot. The man proceeded to take food from a small kitchenette and placed it on the table. There was smoked fish, olives, black bread, and cheese. “Help yourself,” the man said as he sat down across from Rafe. The two of them ate silently for several minutes. “You didn’t tell me your name,” said the man.

  “Well people call me Rafe, but it's not my real name. My family was from Ukraine. We immigrated to the West during the Soviet times and my parents gave me a more acceptable name for the U.S.”

  The older man stared at him for a long time, seeming to study his face intently. “So what do you think your name is?”

  “My real name is Alexander.” The man dropped the food he was bringing to his mouth. It spilled down the front of his garment, but he didn’t care. His eyes grew wide. He said nothing for some time.

  “What?” asked Rafe.

  “I used to call you Sasha,” the old man finally replied. ‘I cannot believe you are here. You see, Sasha, I am your father’s brother. I am your uncle.”

  Rafe looked at him incredulously. Then it all came back to him, even the room they were eating in. He remembered the chipped paint on the ceiling, the bars on the windows. He even thought he remembered the old man’s face.

  “I used to live here,” Rafe said unequivocally. “I had forgotten everything. How long ago was it?” he asked.

  “You left with your parents when you were three years old. In those days, the Old Believers, and especially our denomination, were being persecuted greatly by the Soviets. We smuggled you all out one evening. You went south through the Caucasus and eventually to the Black Sea, where you were smuggled onto a ship in Crimea. Your parents were going to start a new community in the United States. However, they left you with a friend in America and came back to Russia. You see, they wanted to also bring over Vladimir. But they never made it back out and were arrested and disappeared. I am sure they are dead now. You see, Sasha, you have a brother.”

  “A brother? I never knew.” However, suddenly long-forgotten images came back to Rafe. Wisps of an image of a face, younger than him by a year, crawling toward him on the wooden floor, dressed in a white garment. A flood of memories washed over him. He felt dizzy. This is why I was drawn here, to this place.

  “I remember now. But I always thought I was from Ukraine!”

  “Yes, you grew up with a Ukrainian family. However, they were
not your parents. But they did teach you Ukrainian and Russian. Your real parents were not married, per our tradition and beliefs, but they did love you very much.”

  Rafe looked again around the small room in wonder. “Why am I here?” he said softly so the man could barely hear.

  “That is a very good question. I never thought I would see you again.”

  “My daughter has been kidnapped.”

  “My God! We will help you all we can! You are safe here. How did this happen?”

  Rafe told Roman the entire story, from Venice to the present. He listened intently with surreal understanding. Rafe felt as if he could trust the man, even though he hadn’t seen him in over forty years and really didn’t know him. But, he felt a connection. He knew what he was telling him was true. He had the flashes of memories which told him so and he had no choice, he had to trust someone.

  The old man looked off into space for some time, lost in thought. Then he spoke. “I know who you need to talk to, in addition to your brother. But you have to hurry, he is not well and is very old. He can help you I am sure. He has had experience with these things, and the stories of the past have been passed down to him. He is now passing them on to your brother, in order to preserve our beliefs and our heritage. For you see, I don’t think this man has much time left on this earth.”

  “Of course!” replied Rafe excitedly. “When can I meet them?”

  “It will be some time, Sasha, as you have to travel. You see, when the persecutions started getting worse under the Soviets, we Raskolniki dispersed to the far corners of the earth. Your brother and the man I speak of live in the far regions of Siberia and have for decades. I have not seen them in forty years.”

  Rafe thought of Clare through the onrush of distant memories from his past. He could see her running toward him, her arms wide open. “Daddee!” she would scream. A tear rolled down his face. “I will go to Siberia then. I have no choice. I have to find my daughter. And now I guess I have to meet my brother.”

  The old man smiled. “I will go with you. I have always wanted to see Siberia. You see, the old dying man is my brother.” Rafe and Roman laughed heartily together as the sun began to set in Moscow.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Rafe and Roman sat in the dining car of the old passenger train as it moved swiftly eastward, baking under the overhead sun, which burned brightly through the windows. It was lunchtime and they were enjoying a fine Russian meal of borsch, greshka (buckwheat) and black bread. They had become fast friends during the eight-hour plane ride and the subsequent four hours they had been on the train. In another hour, they would be getting off the railway and traveling the rest of the distance by truck, another five hours. They were tired but in good spirits. A bottle of cheap vodka sat on the table between them, almost empty. The alcohol had enshrined their friendship and familial ties during the long lunch.

  “Tell me about my parents, the Old Believers,” said Rafe, once they had finished half the bottle.

  “Your mother was a very kind woman. She loved you very much. It broke her heart to leave your brother behind and then you in America. However, she took solace in the fact that at least you were safe. She came back for Vladimir. But then, as I said, your mother and father were arrested. I have been told they were tortured and killed in Lubyanka.”

  “Why didn’t she take him when she left with me?”

  “It was considered too dangerous to have such a young baby, who could cry at any moment. So, she let him grow for a year and then returned, never to be heard from again.”

  “So how did Vladimir get to Siberia?”

  “When the persecution became too intense, a large part of our community decided to move to exile on the eastern Siberian coast. They left one Sunday afternoon and I never saw them again. I have heard that they are happy there. There are not many people in the region, and that is exquisite for an Old Believer. The less people the better. However, their lives are very harsh. The climate is unforgivable. You cannot make a mistake in the winter. It will be your last. Since the Soviet Union is no more, the government has been paying the expenses for expatriates overseas who fled the persecutions to return to Russia and settle in Siberia. It’s a match made in heaven and has been very successful. Tens of thousands of Old Believers have returned to Mother Russia.”

  “Does my brother know I exist?”

  “Yes, he knows. However, he put that hope to the ground decades ago. It will be very interesting to see the two of you together.” Rafe turned to stare out the window of the train, the taiga passing by in a never-ending formless shape. The train rumbled on.

  An hour later, Rafe and Roman left the railway to join a two-car convoy to make the final five-hour drive to Dersu, Siberia. The community was located on a small spit of land that reached its way as far as it could down the Chinese border with Russia, almost to North Korea, a few hundred miles north of Vladivostock. This was where the community of Old Believers had made their homestead. China was only ninety miles to the west. To the east lay the Sea of Japan. Around their compound, there was nothing but winter and the bush.

  Dersu was named after the legendary Siberian hunter who was profiled in the book Dersu Uzala by Russian explorer Vladimir Arsenyev. Dersu was so in touch with nature that he saw plants and animals as equal to humans. He saved the lives of Arsenyev and his crew during a difficult expedition in the early twentieth century in Siberia and is immortalized in Russian folklore.

  Rafe and Roman forded several rivers during the journey. Some they drove through with the vehicles, others they had to cross via a rusting barge. However, despite the rough terrain, five and a half hours later, the vehicles lumbered into Dersu.

  The first thing Rafe noticed was the silence. The village was a collection of dark gray structures made of wood and other natural materials. Stove pipes belched white smoke and surrounded the compound in a strange mist. It was as if the houses weren't really there but hiding behind the gray, moist air. The only sound was the wind rustling through the upturned leaves in the trees. He got out of the truck.

  Peering through the overturned snow fences, Rafe could see no sign of life. “Where are they?” he said to Roman as he turned back to face the truck. Roman shrugged his shoulders but then shouted, "There!"

  He pointed down the makeshift road to a lone figure riding a bicycle out of the woods towards the compound. He had a long, gray beard and wore a Russian cap. His hand was raised in friendship. Rafe watched him approach.

  “Is that Vladimir?” he asked Roman.

  “I believe so but I am not sure,” Roman replied. Rafe walked forward and waved. The man waved back.

  The reunion was somewhat awkward, although happy. Roman felt more emotion than anyone, as he had known the two brothers when they were young. Vladimir had no memory of his distant family. They slowly began to get to know each other as the time wore on.

  An few hours later, they sat inside one of the ramshackle huts that comprised the small community, around an old, scarred, wooden table. Deep grooves from large knives cleaning fish crisscrossed the surface. Rafe and Roman sat across from Vladimir and another man from the village. The two men from Dersu were pensive, and foreboding washed across their faces. The mood had changed and there was no happiness, only tension and fear.

  “Why are you here?” Vladimir asked. Rafe was somewhat taken aback. He had just found his long-lost brother that he didn’t even know he had, and the man was not happy.

  “I’m here to find you and to meet you,” replied Rafe.

  “No, you are not,” said Vladimir and stared into Rafe’s eyes for the truth. “Tell us why you are here.”

  Rafe didn't reply for a long while, staring into Vladimir's eyes. “They have my daughter,” Rafe finally responded after a period of silence. He saw the fear and anxiety cross the Old Believers’ faces. Vladimir turned to Roman.

  “And you brought him here? Do you know what you have done to us?”

  “It was the right thing to do!” replied Roma
n.

  "He is right," said the other man. "We are family." That seemed to calm Vladimir down somewhat.

  “We should show him," Vladimir said.

  “Yes, I agree we should show him," said the other man.

  “And what he is up against,” added Vladimir. “Yes, he should know. It is time.” Vladimir stood and turned to Rafe. He spoke quietly. “Come with us,” he said authoritatively.

  Rafe, Roman, and Vladimir walked out into the evening night. Without any competition, the millions of stars formed a blanket of light above them, twinkling down like diamonds raining down from the heavens. The night was warm and the air was still as death. Rafe marveled at the peace these people had found, so many miles from the rest of human civilization. There is a comfort here, a freedom that is pleasant, even though they don't have material things. They are free, free to be who they want to be, which is all they have ever wanted.

  Night was fully developed now. They walked away from the small community of houses and went into the forest. Each of them carried a large flashlight that now burned bright. The darkness enveloped them as they penetrated the tree line. This is scary, thought Rafe.

  Seemingly reading his mind, Vladimir spoke. "Don't worry, my brother, I've been in these woods at night for decades. There is nothing here that will hurt us, especially with the torches. All of the predators are long gone, since we have announced ourselves to the wilderness. They are more afraid of us than we are of them!" The three men walked on and on for an hour it seemed, the tree canopy growing thicker overhead.

  Suddenly, the stars reappeared as they entered a large, cleared area, which had been hewn from the forest by human hands long ago. Trees now dotted the landscape, which obviously had not been inhabited for some time, decades at least. The forest was reclaiming its ownership. Wooden structures were sprinkled around the open area, their roofs slowly falling in and their walls buckling. Soon Rafe spotted a barbed wire fence, which ran the perimeter of the compound. It too was torn down in spots; only the outline of its maliciousness remained for the astute observer.