Efim is suffering greatly and that has a bad effect on me indirectly. My cruel nocturnal attacks have begun again. I talked to Father Daniel about this. He heard me out very attentively and said that before making any reply he would need to talk to Efim.
Everything he said seemed strange, coming from a monk. He said the monastic path is not for everyone by any means, and possibly only for very few; that he has been burdened by his vows for many years and knows the weight of them. He thought that my expulsion from the convent might possibly serve to redirect me to a different but no less blessed path. What should I make of that?
Efim is busy. For now he is unable to go to Haifa with me, and I am impatient for him to have an opportunity to do so. He has been taken on part-time at the local library cataloguing a small archive and he sits there in raptures. I can’t see him as a computer programmer, let alone a plumber. I have less difficulty seeing myself as a cleaner. I am not afraid of any job, but you will agree that I really had no need to emigrate in order to mop floors. I could have done that equally well in my homeland. I feel very down. The only thing that gladdens me is the sun. In Vilnius it is damp and cold at present but here at least the sun shines, and as a result light enters your soul. But my nights are a trial.
I ask your prayers, dear Valentina Ferdinandovna.
Your former Sister,
Teresa
36. April 1982, Jerusalem
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Father,
Your letter gave me strength and the power of your prayer is something I have long been aware of, since the time Mother Euphrosinia was alive and our elder was still with us. I can say that before your prayers, my child, misfortune has retreated. In the hospital here they took not an X-ray but some other new-fangled photograph and said they had found not cancer but a common garden-variety hernia. It will need an operation, but there is no particular urgency. That is all I was hoping for, that I would not have to go under the knife but just be left to die in peace.
They took me back to Jerusalem, to the Church Mission, in another connection: a visit from the top management. My fate is extraordinary. They rooted out nearly all the descendants of the boyards but for some unknown reason relented with me. Perhaps it was because for two centuries some of the men in my family have gone to serve in the Army, others into the Church, and that in both spheres they attained high rank, so that the people running the Church secretly respect me. Or perhaps sending me from an impoverished nunnery on the periphery to the Holy Land reveals that my illustrious forebears are watching over me. Or am I wrong, Misha?
A little monk, young Fyodor, comes to me claiming your recommendation. Assuredly, he emigrated from Russia some time ago, lived five years at St. Panteleimon Monastery on Mount Athos, then left it and came here. To be safe, I questioned him closely and understood that he really was one of yours and had been with you in Tishkino and knew your close circle and family.
He told me that he left the monastery on Athos of his own volition and complained about his superiors, but I stopped listening. It is because he is young. He is a deacon, loves the service and understands it, so I sent him to the abbot and he allowed him to assist in the service. He has a pleasant voice, but weak. He has a long way to go before he will compare with a real deep bass who can boom out from the pulpit. He does, however, conduct the service competently and meaningfully, Misha my friend, and in these times that is a considerable recommendation. He has a pleasant appearance and looks young, although it seems he is almost forty. Of course, I remember our elder, Father Seraphim, at the same age, before his first imprisonment. He was a country priest but even then his true spiritual stature was evident. This thought came into my head and I was taken aback yet again by how little the years matter. He at 30 was wise and radiant, while others even at 90 lack substance and are lightweight and capable only of making a loud noise.
I have to admit, Father, for me you are still that little Misha who was passed from hand to hand in our catacomb while the service was being conducted. How angelically your mother, Elena, sang, may God rest her soul! Age is not on my side except that it resigns me to my illnesses, and what sort of an illness is a hernia anyway? It brings neither death nor even suffering. It is mere nonsense and bother. How good it is to be thoroughly ill before dying, to be purified and prepared. Otherwise, we may be taken in an instant, without repentance, without absolution of our sins.
You no doubt have all the necessary information about Teresa, whom you sent to me. At first I didn’t take to her, but having now learned more about her circumstances I feel great pity for her. I have not questioned her but it seems to me that she is muddled. Do you see, my friend, even advancing age is not putting me to rights: just as when I was young I was headstrong, so I remain into old age. I always decided for myself whom to love, whom to hate, and now in my dotage I have yet to acquire an even-tempered, benign attitude toward all. To this day I love my own choice and defend it.
I have finished those two icons, the meeting of Mary and Elizabeth and the small John the Baptist. It is all very much ours, local, what we see from our window here. Father Nicodemus gave me his blessing to paint them. I ask you, Father, to bless my painting of a big icon. I have long wanted to paint the Akathist. I have a certain audacious idea, a little artistic. How prettily I imagine it, not quite according to the canon. Will you give me your blessing?
When I was young, Misha, I was very vain and remain so to this day. You wrote that my icons gladden you, that they open windows to the heavenly world, as Father Pavel Florensky said. I am so glad and happy.
Spring is only just beginning, a wonderful time. The apple trees and acacias are blooming and I delight in one branch which peeps in my window. I am on the ground floor now. Because of my frailty I have been moved down from the second, nearer to the earth, which is fine. My little window looks out at the cemetery, and soon from the cemetery I will look at my little window. The last two monastic graves are a mother and daughter. A year ago a crazy Arab stabbed them right in their cell. The two dear graves are side by side. It is a domestic, family scene. The mother was as thick as two planks but had a good heart. Her daughter was brighter but less sincere. I have asked for a place to be reserved beside them for me.
I kiss you, Misha, my dear godson. I remember you always and do not you forget me in your prayers. You are blessed by God.
Give my love to Ninochka and the little ones.
Mother Ioanna
37. June 1982, Tishkino Village
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Dear Mother Ioanna,
Your letter awoke childhood memories from long ago, for I, too, remember resting in your arms, and in those of Marfinka and Maya Kuzminichna, and how the elder spoiled me. It was given to us to witness amazing times and amazing people. I do not weary of giving thanks for all of you, living and departed, into communion with whom the Church brought me from such an early age. In this respect you are richer even than I. How many truly saintly people you knew and what great spiritual accomplishments attended your generation. The present persecutions bear no comparison with those which fell to your lot. Two weeks ago I went after Easter to Zagorsk and walked toward Marfinka’s house. There is a new building there now, a five-story block. My heart sank, for the elder was buried in the cellar of that little house. In those times all this was frightening and amazing, both the fact that he hid from those searching for him for eight years, and that nobody denounced him, and that he celebrated the liturgy in secret in the cellar, and that the people gathered with him in the night as in times long ago, his disciples, mostly old ladies, but they also brought their children with them.