From Russia With Love

Artem was bound to the hard wooden chair with stiff leather wraps around his hands and feet like a pig trussed up for slaughter. The bare room was stunk of dirt, sweat, and expensive cigarettes. The wind outside the grimy window howling and dashing snow against the glass. An hour ago he was in his flat in Moscow. Now, this. His memories flooded over him in emotional waves.

Plowing through the snow, bundled and wrapped against the bitter Russian winter, Artem made his way to #10 Petrovska Street. The trek made it more difficult on foot with very little light and 8 inches of snow. This was the best time to move and not be noticed. Keeping his head down and dragging an old wagon filled with two loaves of bread, some loose potatoes, three grimy turnips, and a bottle of vodka, he looked like any other Soviet worker on the way home. Once he reached his destination, he pushed open the unlocked door into the apartment building's lobby, snow falling off of him and his wagon leaving cold little piles in the hall. Heading to the door at the far end of the hall, he knocked twice, then twice again. Answering the door was a big bearded bear of a man that squeezed him hard and ushered him into the cramped, warm apartment.

“Artem, come come. Everyone is here. “

He was brought back to reality by the pain of the straps and the stench of the room.

Artem stared at the dirty window and thought of his family. His son Yuri, his mother struggling with diabetes. Why would God put him here? Now. In this place. As the door to the room opened with a metallic clang, he was jarred back to reality.

“So Artem. Let’s talk you and me.” The KGB officer said while grabbing a chair and plopping it in front of Artem.

“Why this. So unimportant yet punishable by sentencing to a gulag. Or worse.”

Clearing his throat and staring straight at the officer, Artem answered: “ You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me. Look around. Neither one of us is going anywhere.”

Ukraine was known as the breadbasket of the USSR and the fields and farms near Kiev were ripe with wheat and barley. As a boy, Artem loved sitting amidst the crop quietly listening to the rustling stalks, amazed at God’s magnificence.

Stalin was still basking in post-war victory and to the outside world, he was a hero. He was a tyrant, a dictator, an evil monster that suppressed any thought or culture that did not fit the communist narrative to the Russian people. Fear was rampant, but in this small corner of the world, Artem’s family seemed to be immune. They lived, loved, and worshipped without a touch of government intervention. Artem was baptized in the Danube as a teenager and schooled in the word of God by his favorite priest, Father Dubcic. Faith was everything to him and he gave his life to God when he was 21. From that point on, he spread the word of God to anyone that would listen. His charismatic personality brought revival to his corner of Ukraine until Stalin’s regime cracked down on all religious activity that was not approved by the state. Artem knew it was time to go and he left for Moscow- a little fish in a big pond, no one caring what he did. Or so he thought.

“We have been watching you. Toddling around the city with your wagon of peasant food. What’s really under those blankets and rags?”

“Just spare clothing, boots, hats, mittens. People have nothing.”

Standing up, the KGB agent picked up the dirty black phone on the wall. “Bring them in”

Moscow in the late 70s was an easy place to do the work and Artem could lose himself in the city.

Finding people to share the word with was easy in a place filled with disgruntled and oppressed workers. A look on the subway, an exchange in the bread line. Artem always kept his ears open to the people’s pain. That’s what got him on the path to the house to house churches, and he built credibility as a people’s preacher sharing the true faith, not the government’s faith. Right at this moment, faith is all he had left.

The storm outside had begun to subside and Artem could hear footsteps of several people heading in his direction. Throwing open the door with a loud boom he saw his worn backpack held by a KGB officer and standing behind him, his mother, dressed in the same KGB uniform like the other two thugs.

“Why do you have these?” the officer inquired, unzipping the bag and pulling out bibles, and tossing them onto the floor. Skidding across the grime, they landed at Artem’s feet.

“Because everyone needs to know the true word of God, not what the state says. Why have you dressed my mother like that?”

Laughing loudly, the KGB agent answered: “Why, because she told us all about your religious adventures and thought it would be nice to have a family reunion before you are sentenced.

“Oh, momma. I thought I could trust you.” Sobbing and snot running down his face, he struggled to continue. “The training with the priest, the secret meetings in town, the baptism. I just don’t understand why. This betrayal cuts my heart in two.” Gathering his composure and finishing, “but I forgive you and so does God.”

Stepping forward his mother begins to speak. “I’m not your mother. She was some German peasant that died when you were born. I tried to show you that being part of the Communist party was the true path, but you would have none of it. Now you find yourself here answering for your preaching.” Turning to the officers, she motioned for them to unstrap him.

“Where is your God now?”

Artem smiled through his tears pointing at his heart. “With me here, always.”