The miracle
My grandfather was almost ninety when he became
terminally ill. Until then a very vigorous man,
grandfather was lying in a bed, drying out, terrified of
approaching death. His horror was palpable and I
shamefully avoided him. Nothing could be done: he was
dying of old age. Almost a year passed. When spring
arrived he was brought to his beloved dacha in the hope
that he may perk up. Nothing changed there. Grandfather
now could not eat at all and could barely drink; in late
summer it suddenly came upon me that he must make a
confession and partake communion.
My grandfather was born in the village and was baptized
just as any baby would. He told me that after the 1917
revolution he became a Komsomol activist and even
engaged in some primitive anti-religious activity (like
a loud musical procession of Komsomol members, shouting
quite stupid verses, in parallel to a religious one)
together with other young villagers. He also related to
me some details of the villagers’ piety – their very
personal relationships with St Nicholas and Elijah the
Prophet. When he left his village he lived as an
exemplary Soviet man – one of those from Soviet black
and white movies with Utesov: ever-optimistic,
ever-charming, the heart of company, instantly loved by
everyone. On the surface he seemed to be alien to the
Church. Inside that image was the only person I knew who
has never judged anyone, even those who reported him as
“a Trotskyite” and tried to throw his wife and children
out of their dacha after he was arrested.
I was afraid to talk to him about my idea to bring a
priest but for some reason he easily agreed and even
perked up a bit. My task was to find the priest.
First I went to that village church where I was
baptized. I came there after the Liturgy; a very young
and very handsome priest appeared in the arch smelling
the dark red rose in his hand, he heard me and refused
to come. I do not remember his reasons. All that is left
in my memory is “maybe in a few weeks”. My friend who
was with me was stunned. I was not, all this somehow
passed over me without much impact. Next day I went to
another church near by, this time during the Liturgy.
There were two or three priests there, after the service
I approached the oldest, evidently their chief. I only
began relating to him that my grandfather was dying and
needed to confess and receive communion when he
interrupted me shouting “What?! Could you not organize
it in advance? I will not go anywhere!” Nevertheless I,
already crying, attempted to beg him to come or if not
him then another one, but another one refused as well
and they walked away. I was standing in the middle of
the church; several congregation members tried to
comfort me with the words “Yes, he is difficult –
nothing to do now” but I did not listen to them thinking
about what to do. Suddenly a tall, thin, peasant-like
priest whom I have not noticed before approached me and
said “I will come but I am traveling, I am from Volga
and my train is in a few hours – catch a car”. So I
wiped my tears, caught a taxi and brought the priest to
our dacha.
The priest ordered me to help him with singing the
prayers before the confession. I warned him that I had
no musical ear but he insisted. A minute after I began
singing he interrupted me “no, better be quite, I will
manage”. I was not present during the confession of
course but was called in when grandfather was about to
receive communion. Grandfather looked much more alive.
After the departure of the priest he ate for the first
time in weeks. He lived two more weeks, completely free
from the fear of death contemplating something that he
did not share with us and died peacefully on the day of
Elijah the Prophet, the major feast in his village.
It was clear to me that, although it was a crime, the
refusals of the other priests to come to the dying man
were providential. The one who came and whose name I
unfortunately do not remember was the only one suitable:
decent and from a village somewhere in the depth of
Russia, with that very country make-up of mind which my
grandfather kept beneath his Soviet-icon appearances.
When he died the funeral service was not conducted by
the priest with the red rose but by someone else. The
priest with the rose was removed as I heard later.
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