Ioanna
24. 1 August 1992, Jerusalem
L
ETTER FROM
M
OTHER
I
OANNA TO
F
ATHER
M
IKHAIL IN
T
ISHKINO
Congratulations, Mikhail. I received both your letter and the Church Herald. Twenty-five years in the priesthood is not to be sneezed at! Send me a photograph of how you were feted. Did His Holiness really come to you in Tishkino himself? Oh, fear and trembling! As they say, accept praise and calumny with equanimity! Misha, how everything has changed! Who would have thought it! The accursed regime has ended and you are having church awards pinned to your breast! We have read here that the new government is fraternizing with the Church, but I am mistrustful. I have never in my life had any love of authorities. But do not listen to me, I am an old woman. Now it is time for me to boast: I, too, have been feted. Who remembered I do not know, I myself had forgotten, but I, too, have had a round anniversary. I am 90 years old. And what did I start remembering? My birthdays, as I recall them. I remember particularly well when I was nine.
That year we didn’t go to our estate at Gridnevo for the summer because mother had had a difficult time giving birth to my brother, Volodya. She had an operation which she barely survived, and was ill, and our departure was constantly postponed. We went after my Angel Day on 11 July. I remember all the guests. There were not many because everybody had left town, and I was afraid there would not be many presents. We were not spoiled, but that year Mama gave me a French doll with eyes which closed, with locks of hair and wearing a sailor’s costume, with leather boots with a button. We were enjoying the last years of happiness before the war began. Papa was an admiral. You probably did not know that. There, I’m giving way to singing an old woman’s songs, there’s no one to stop me.
Apart from sending greetings, what I wanted to write to you about is your pal Fyodor Krivtsov. He finally found himself an elder and disappeared. There are lucky people like that who are constantly looking for someone to give themselves to. He found some kind of desert dweller, and to this day there are any number of them here of every description: some who fast, some who live up a pillar, healers and miracle workers. Hordes of charlatans and lunatics. A saint is a quiet being, unnoticeable, who sleeps beneath the stairs and dresses inconspicuously. You have to have keen eyes to spot one. But enough. Fyodor came yesterday. In Jerusalem we’ve seen it all before. When I had just arrived here I walked through the Old Town and saw lepers, and people possessed, and dressed in every conceivable way. But Fyodor came and surprised me. He was in a filthy shirt, thin as a rake, his eyes blazing with a mad ardor. He looked above everybody’s heads, his beard down to his belt, his head covered in sores. At least he was wearing a skullcap.
His elder has gone to his rest! Fyodor needed a priest for the funeral rites. I know our Kirill. There’s no way he will drag himself up a mountain, he is stout and gets out of breath. The second, Nicodemus, is sprightly, wiry, and might make it, but he is not here, he’s on Mount Sinai.
I told him to go to the Greeks, they have plenty of priests, but he shook his head. No, the elder was at loggerheads with the Greeks. I told him to go to the Syrians, the Copts. Again he shook his head, they had already refused. At that I thought of Brother Daniel.
There is, I said, a Carmelite monk who never refuses anyone, only he probably won’t suit you. Off poor Fyodor went. Yes, in parting he said that his elder, Abun, was the Bishop of the True Church of Christ, its Patriarch. Is that a large Church, I asked? It used to have three members, Abun, the one before Abun, his teacher, and Fyodor, but now there is only Fyodor left. The rest of us, it seems, are not true. Have you heard of that Church, Misha? I sent him with my blessing to Daniel in Haifa. He will not refuse, I’m sure. He would as lief conduct the rites for a vagabond as for a patriarch. He is one of our inconspicuous people and has lived all his life somewhere under the stairs. I’m talking too much.
The Lord be with you, my dear friend Mishenka.
25. 1992, Jerusalem
T
ELEGRAM FROM
N
ADEZHDA
K
RIVOSHEINA TO
F
ATHER
M
IKHAIL IN
T
ISHKINO
ON 2 AUGUST MOTHER IOANNA SUMAROKOVA DIED IN THE 91ST YEAR OF HER AGE. NADEZHDA KRIVOSHEINA.
26. January 1992, Jerusalem
L
ETTER FROM
R
UVIM
L
AKHISH TO ALL PARTICIPANTS
Dear …….,
The Organizing Committee of the Reunion of Inhabitants of the Emsk Ghetto wishes to report:
1. The Reunion will take place on 9 August this year in the town of Emsk. Agreement has been reached with the town council. In view of the fact that the two hotels in the town (Sunrise and October) can accommodate no more than 60 guests and as of now our list of participants has 82 names (may they all continue in good health!), the council is putting the hostel of the Technical Teacher Training College at our disposal, which can accommodate up to 120.
2. Representatives of international Jewish organizations and of the governments of Russia, Belorussia, Poland, and Germany have been invited to participate in the Reunion. A number have already replied. It is confirmed that German journalists with film crews will attend. Permission to film has not yet been received, but I have already written to the relevant organizations.
3. In reply to an enquiry addressed to the Emsk town council regarding the erection of a memorial to Jews who died in the ghetto, I have been informed that there is already a monument in the town to Soviet soldiers who died during the liberation of Belorussia and that they have no need of another one. It would seem, however, that a monument could be erected in the old Jewish cemetery, which has apparently survived. The money we have collected will be used for that purpose.
4. The municipal authorities will accord us a speech by the current chairman of the town council and an amateur concert.
5. I shall pass on information from time to time in respect of tickets, visas, and transportation but everybody is welcome to write to me with any questions.
Ruvim Lakhish
27. 4 August 1992, Haifa
F
ROM
H
ILDA’S DIARY
We left at four in the morning and after driving for two hours on an empty road rapidly reached the turning for Qumran. The whole journey Daniel was telling me about some new fragment of the Dead Sea scrolls which has just been published. Apparently the archaeologist who discovered this marvel told him about it himself. In Cave No. 4 they discovered a new manuscript from, one hesitates to say it out loud, the first century BC in which the author, writing in the first person, calls himself the Messiah and states that he has endured suffering and sorrow but now has been raised above the angels and is seated on the heavenly throne and closer than all the angels to the Almighty. From the text, one might imagine that it is a letter from the next world for fellow thinkers left behind.
“It occurs to me,” Daniel said, “that today we shall see one of those who has been raised higher than the angels.” I laughed, but then realized he was not joking at all. He told me entirely seriously that he had long ago heard of this elder and all kinds of miracles he performed before suddenly stopping.
At this point we saw a tall figure on the road. At first I thought it was a Bedouin. He was wound around in rags, but then I saw a skullcap on his head. So this was Fyodor. We parked the car and got out. He bowed. Daniel held out his hand to him but he shied away.