I confess that I started reading Father Alexander Dyachenko’s book “Scholia”, published by the Nikeya publishing house, with the prejudice that the so-called “pastoral literature” has nothing to do with literature itself. It must certainly be stuffed with soulful instructions, ground into crumbs with touching and affectionate suffixes, a kind of “night marshmallow flows through the ether” or marshmallows, a delicacy for the infantile.
Indeed, the first pages of the book justified the fears. Here and there there were “gray-haired men with beer bellies”, “backs like stretched strings” and other small suffix deformed objects. I was especially struck by the “you” address and the promise of mutual friendship. It must be said that such a desire not only significantly reduces the distance between the author and the reader, but instead of the desire to become one of their own, it gives rise to mistrust.
However, by the twelfth page these criticisms were overcome.
Now a few formal observations.
In the composition “Scholia” the author uses the technique of framing the text, a story within a story. Moreover, double and triple framing. This is similar to the principle of a box within a box. The main narrative line, it would seem, belongs to the narrator, played by the archpriest himself Alexander Dyachenko. His life is happening surrounded by many people. Dozens, hundreds appear on the pages - a great galaxy of names, with each of which the main character is connected by a micro or macro plot. But the narrator’s line is actually only a commentary, a scholia to the main compositional core of the story - the diary of Nadezhda Ivanovna Shishova, which, by force of circumstances, turns out to be found and read not only by the narrator, but also by one of the heroes.
The diary is an epic canvas, hundred year history one peasant family, originating in the village of Racheika in Samara region. For each of the chapters of the diary there is an author's scholia, a “commentary in the margins”, which in one way or another correlates with what is happening in the diary. This technique creates a feeling of continuity of what is happening, a semantic retrospective that arises as a result of the simultaneous resolution of many plot lines.
So what is this book about?
About love
About love for those near and far. To relatives and strangers. About the love of wife and husband. ABOUT parental love(the story of a girl Katya, who rebelled in front of her parents and became disabled). “Loving and forgiving is an ability that we have lost.”
Merciful love is indicative in the chapter of the scholia “The Girl in the Window.” Cancer patient Nina is treated in the hospital with the mouse poison cyclophosphamide. The same poison is used to poison cockroaches in the ward. Dehydrated, Nina crawls to the sink to pour water and notices two cockroaches crawling the same way. The three of them crawl to the washstand, the man and the cockroaches. Cockroaches understand that now a person is not dangerous to them, he is in the same position, they move their mustache and ask for help: “Help, man!” Taking the lid from plastic bottle, Nina pours water for the cockroaches: “I understand you guys. Here, drink some water." “Mercy is like the key, even if you showed love to creatures such as cockroaches,” the author summarizes.
About paradise
Not a speculative dream, but a real earthly paradise accompanies man. Memories of the paradise of childhood transform even such a hopeless gambler, a threat to the area, a giant smoker, like Genka Bulygin from the chapter of the scholia “Red Poppies of Issyk-Kul”.
“Sanya, you won’t believe it, whole valleys of poppies! They grow on their own, no one sows them,” Genka knew such words and built long phrases. “You run and crash into them like an icebreaker into an ice floe, and then you swim through the red waves. While you are a boy, they hit you in the face; when you grow up, they hit you on the chest, then only on the arms. You fall on your back, lie and look for a long, long time through the red petals at the sun and the bottomless sky. But there everything is different, there is no evil, there is a different air, different people. They are kind and smile at each other”...
Paradise - in a mountain lake with clear greenish water, in the Tien Shan mountains, in the forests of the foothills, in herds of grazing sheep, in the fish that Genka caught with his father in mountain rivers. No matter what childhood is, a model of heaven is always formulated in it...
About the priesthood
The scholia were written on behalf of the author of the book, priest Alexander Dyachenko. From the text it becomes clear that his homeland is the Belarusian city of Grodno. In his youth, he received the nickname “Sectarian” for reading the New Testament. He became a priest with the blessing of his confessor. And since then he has served as rector of a rural church in a village that has almost merged with the sprawling city.
“A priest, like a doctor, accompanies a person from the moment of birth until the last day. But unlike doctors, we are also concerned about his posthumous existence. After all, the fact that one of those who were nearby has already left the earthly world, in fact, does not change anything. His immortal soul continues to be my responsibility."
Like the doctor, every priest, especially a parish priest, has an “alarm” suitcase.
“It happens that you have to run to a call without hesitation. He put on his cassock, grabbed his bag, and off he went. But the suitcase itself is nothing; what is filled with it is much more important. The main “tool of labor” of any priest is his censer and cross. The censer may be new, from Sofrino, but the cross cannot be. It must necessarily bear witness to an uninterrupted tradition from past centuries to today.”
From chapter to chapter, the author brings out the stories of his parishioners. True stories, in which he himself is mistaken, shows his impulsive, “human” side. In these stories, “the loneliness of a stranger is everyday and imperceptible. He goes to the temple in the hope that they will listen to him there. Approaching the priest, he probably understands that even in the temple his lost son or lost health will not be returned to him. That's not what he's going for. I haven't read Jung, but I have my own scale of human despair. And I know how to help those who come to church. Don't say anything, just be close to him and be silent. The Lord will do the rest."
About death
The theme of death runs through the narrative.
“I love funeral services. The chants seem to me the most beautiful and very touching. There is no despair in them, but there is simultaneously the joy of the human soul returning home and the sadness of loved ones. This parting is temporary: the day will come when we will all meet again, and the words of the chants inspire hope.”
Death as a test affects every hero in one way or another. A cycle of death occurs. Parents are eyewitnesses to the passing of their children. Children witness the death of their parents. Every time death appears differently, every human story has its own death. Sudden or due to negligence (children drowned under ice), protracted from a long illness (“today paradise is filled with cancer patients”), with and without pain. The smell of rotting human flesh (“man smells bad”) in the aurora and snow. The soul in the form of a dove appears more than once at final farewells.
Death today is not the same as before.
Previously, people prepared for death from childhood - the old children in the village played at funerals. They rolled a doll out of a rag and put it in a “mykolnik” (yarn box). The boys carried the dead man, and the girls wailed. The main thing was not to be shy, but to understand that there is only you and the dead man, and no one else.
There was a premonition of death. A man went to the bathhouse, put on a clean shirt, called everyone to say goodbye and lay down under the icons. The soul was preparing to leave earthly life. Now, the author admits, “more souls are being ripped out of us.” Hiding deep lamentations:
My dear brother Kolenka!
We gathered in your room
Not for an honest feast and not for a wedding.
And we came to see you off
On your last journey.
Oh oh…
About the feat of small deeds
Before us is a description of everyday life human lives. Each character in the book is engaged in ordinary routine work, quietly cultivating their garden. In the early hours he goes out to the feat of daily work in order to see his temple in splendor. (So Father Pavel, for example, collects bottles and digs through garbage in order to restore monasteries and churches with the money he accumulates). None of the heroes shirk their task or rise above it. In awareness, recognition of the final task - cultivation of oneself, an important thing occurs - inclusion in everyday meanings. Small everyday meanings that build into a whole and richly filled life.
About the righteous
The feat of small deeds - isn’t this the essence of the righteous? And again about the garden:
“Judge for yourself what our land is for the Lord? Yes, read the same garden as mine. Do you know how much work you need to do for the land to produce a harvest? And what is this hard labor for? Yes, all for the sake of the harvest of the righteous human souls. God is always working. This is His “garden” all year round"! When God's garden stops producing the harvest of the righteous, then the world will end. There is no need to waste such energy on him...”
Speaking about the righteous, we should say more about one of the heroes of “Scholia”, who is Andrei Kuzmich Loginov. It would seem that the biography of the “grandfather” fits well into several pages of the diary of Nadezhda Ivanovna, his granddaughter. However, it is he, the hermit and prayer book, who is the axial core around which the narrative invisibly revolves, in most cases seemingly not directly connected with him. This is what the author is thinking about latently. And, I suppose, it was he, Andrei Loginov, a righteous man and confessor of the Christian faith, who was the impetus for writing “Scholia”.
Dreaming of monasticism since childhood, at the insistence of the confessor of the Sarov Monastery of the Arzamas district, Father Anatoly, Andrei Kuzmich was forced to get married. Having raised his daughter, he digs a hermitage for himself on the edge of the village, where he labors from 1917 to 1928. For three years he lives as a complete recluse, sees no one and does not talk to anyone, but only prays and reads the Holy Scriptures, making 300 bows a day. His wife leaves food for him at his doorstep.
During Stalin's repressions“The hermitage was plundered, the key was broken, the apple trees were cut down, a large cross stood on the road - they cut it down. One party member moved the cell to his yard and turned it into a stable.” However, the grandfather manages to escape - for several years his family hides him in the house from persecution. He survives the Great Patriotic War and reaches the age of sixty-one, in which he dies at the age of eighty-six.
The image of Andrei Kuzmich Loginov appears in the book as the image of a saint, possessing the gift of providence and the talent of consolation. Everyone approached their grandfather for advice, and he gave everyone the necessary teaching, which was based on the indispensable commandment of the Gospel.
“Whoever asked: “Do you believe in God?” – don’t be afraid and boldly answer: “Yes, I believe!” And God will not leave you. If at work you are demoted or even fired, God will not leave you, but will make you even better.” Or: “Never put yourself above others. Learn from everyone. Do everything at work with your soul. Be honest, listen to your bosses, do everything they tell you. But if they begin to demand something illegal, that is at odds with the commandments of Christ, do not do it.”
About historical time
On almost four hundred pages of the book, through different generations one family events Russian history. Dispossession, Holodomor, persecution, security officers, collectivization, repression, war, thaw, stagnation, the dashing nineties... People behave differently. None of them are winners. No one is defeated. Not a single word of condemnation was said, either towards the authorities or about the executioners. Not in the book negative characters. Neither Nadezhda Ivanovna, nor Elder Andrei, nor any other character in the book considers himself an enemy of the existing government. They perceive everything that happens as inevitable, a given, as God’s permission and an opportunity to save themselves and their loved ones.
“Grandfather told us that any power is from God. This is how it should be, and it doesn’t depend on us. Just no matter what power you have, never renounce God. I remember when I was already an adult, my mother taught: if they ask you if there is a God, say that there is.”
“I have always believed in God. I prayed every morning and evening, I prayed when I went to exams or did something responsible. I prayed when I sat down at the table, but always to myself. The cross was worn fastened with a pin to underwear, and before a medical examination or physical education class, she went into the toilet and unhooked.”
Schoolchildren write on the board the names of people who came to church on Easter. Saratov region. Photo: TASS
Through the prism of faith, the country appears patient, merciful and trusting to the point of foolishness. But humility does not mean reconciliation, oblivion of all historical memory:
“Only seventy years have passed, but everyone has already forgotten everything. New country needs new heroes, and now the streets are named after the SS man, monuments are erected in his honor and casts Gold Star Hero. In independent Uzbekistan, they came to their senses and glorified the formidable Tamerlane, who after his raids left pyramids of severed heads. National hero, his portraits are printed on money, monuments are erected. The Mongols praise Genghis Khan, the enlightened French praise Napoleon. And you think: why, forgetting the creators of beauty, poets, thinkers, scientists, doctors, people with enviable persistence continue to glorify Cain?
About eternity
The main core of the “Scholy” narrative is the authentic diary of Nadezhda Ivanovna Shishova, the granddaughter of Andrei Kuzmich Loginov. The reader unfolds the fullness of life's drama associated with the loss of loved ones (first her parents die, then one by one she buries her daughter, husband, grandson). She began writing her memoirs in the late 1990s, “when everyone you loved in this earthly life was already gone. Then you begin to live in anticipation of meeting them there, in eternity. The earthly ceases to excite.”
She dedicates her memories to her little great-grandson Vanechka, who lives abroad. It is likely that Vanechka is a fictitious addressee, but that doesn’t matter. Because it is he who is the point at which the entire birth experience is directed, all historical memory. A point of reflection for each of us. The past, which becomes eternity, and the future, which is already eternity, unite at this point.
“I wrote these memories about our family, about your ancestors, distant and close, especially for you. I don't know what language you speak now. But, Vanechka, I believe that someday you will read my notes about these ordinary people. Know that you have nothing to be ashamed of us. We worked honestly on our land, defended it from enemies, built churches, believed and loved. Remember yourself, my dear grandson. Remember, you are Russian. We love you, Vanechka, and send our bows to you from eternity.”
As a postscript, I will say that the fears associated with “pastoral literature”, formalized in the series of “Spiritual Prose”, turned out to be not that far-fetched - no, and the simplicity in presentation, stylistic and lexical repetitions, all this is in the text. But there is also something in the text that raises the reader’s perception above the expectation of “literature proper”, forces one to take action - to look around oneself and notice others - those who live invisibly nearby. Or, like Grandfather Andrei in a snowstorm, go out onto the porch of a cell in the desert with the “Gift of Valdai” bell and ring it for a long, long time so that the directionless traveler knows the way.
priest (priest) of the Most High God )
To talk about God, Faith and salvation in such a way that one may never even mention Him,
and everything becomes clear to readers, listeners and viewers, and this brings joy to the soul...
I once wanted to save the world, then my diocese, then my village...
And now I remember the words of St. Seraphimushka:
“Save yourself, and thousands around you will be saved”!
So simple, and so unattainable...
Father Alexander Dyachenko(b. 1960) - in the photo below,
Russian man, married, simple, no military
And I answered the Lord my God that I would go to the Goal through suffering...
Priest Alexander Dyachenko,
photo from the deanonymization meeting of a network blogger
Contents of the storybook "Crying angel". Read online!
- Miracles ( Miracles #1: Healing cancer patients) (with the addition of the story "Sacrifice")
- Present (butt trainer)
- New Year ( with added stories: Wake , Image and Eternal Music)
- My universities (10 years on hardware No. 1)
- (with added story)
- Crying angel (with added story)
- Best Love Song (A German found himself married to a Russian - he found Love and Death)
- Kuzmich ( with added story)
- Shreds (full version, including the story of Tamara's meeting with I.V.Stalin )
- Dedication (To God, Ordination-1)
- Intersections (with added story)
- Miracles (Miracles #2: The Smell of the Abyss and a Talking Cat)
- The flesh is one ( Wife priest - how to become a mother? With addition:)
Joke
Be like children (with added story)
In the circle of light (with added story)
Valya, Valentina, what’s wrong with you now...
Crown (Father Paul-3)
love thy neighbour
Climbing
Time doesn't wait (Bogolyubovsky Procession + Grodno-4) (with additional story “I love Grodno” - Grodno-6)
Time has passed!
The all-conquering power of Love
Meeting(with Sergei Fudel) ( with the addition of the story "The Makropoulos Remedy")
Every breath... (with added story)
Heroes and exploits
Gehazi's curse (with added story)
Father Frost (with added micro-story)
Deja vu
Children's prayer (Ordination-3, with added story)
Good deeds
Soulkeeper (O. Victor, special forces father, story No. 1)
For a life
Boomerang Law ( with added story)
Hollywood star
Icon
And the eternal battle... (with added story)
(10 years on hardware No. 2)
From the experience of railway theology
Mason (with added story)
Quasimodo
Princes ( with added story)
Lullaby (Gypsies-3)
Foundation stone(Grodno-1) ( with added story - Grodno-2)
Red poppies of Issyk-Kul
You can't see face to face...
Small man
Metamorphoses
A world where dreams come true
Mirages
Mishka and Marishka
My first teacher (Father Paul-1)
My friend Vitka
Guys (with added story)
In war as in war (O. Victor, special forces father, story No. 6)
Our dreams (with added story)
Don't bow down, little head...
Scampish notes (Bulgaria)
New Year's story
Nostalgia
About two meetings with Father Alexander “in real life”
(Father Paul-2)
(O. Victor, special forces father, story No. 2)
Turn off mobile phones
Fathers and Sons ( with the addition of the story "Grandfather")
Web
First love
Letter to Zoritsa
Letter from childhood (with the addition of the story "The Jewish Question")
Present (about happiness as a gift)
Bow (Grodno-3) (with the addition of the story “Hercules’ Disease” - Grodno-5)
The provision obliges (with the addition of a story - Victor Island, No. 4 and 8)
Epistle to Philemon
(Wolf Messing)
Offer
Overcoming (with the addition of a story - Father Viktor, special forces father, No. 3 and 7)
About Adam
Road checks (with added story)
Clearance ( Ciurlionis)
Radonitsa
The happiest day
Fairy tale
(10 years on hardware No. 3)
Neighbours (Gypsies-1)
Old things (with added story)
Old nags (with added stories and)
Passion-face (Gypsies-2)
Three meetings
Difficult question
Poor
Lesson (Ordination-2)
Feng Shui, or heart stone disease
Chechen syndrome (O. Victor, special forces father, story No. 5)
What to do? (Old Believers)
These eyes are opposite (with added stories and)
I did not participate in the war...
My tongue... my friend?...
Even if you read stories and essays father of Alexander Dyachenko on the Internet (online), it will be a good thing if you buy the corresponding offline publications ( paper books) Father Alexander and give it to all your friends who don’t read anything online (sequentially, first to one, then to another). This is a good thing!
A little about simple stories Russian priest Alexander Dyachenko
Father Alexander is a simple Russian priest with the usual biography of a simple Russian man:
- was born, studied, served, married, worked (working on the "iron" for 10 years),... remained a man.
Father Alexander came to the Christian faith as an adult. He was very “hooked” by Christ. And somehow little by little ( siga-siga - as the Greeks say, because they love such a thorough approach), unnoticed, unexpectedly, he turned out to be a Priest, a Servant of the Lord at His Throne.
Just as unexpectedly, he suddenly became a “spontaneous” writer. I just saw so many significant, providential and wonderful things around me that I began to write down the life observations of a simple Russian person in the “akyn” style. And being a wonderful storyteller and a real Russian person with a mysteriously deep and wide Russian soul, which also knew the Light of Christ in His Church, he began to reveal in his stories a Russian and Christian view of our beautiful life in this world, as a place of Love , labor, sorrows and victories, in order to benefit all people from their humble unworthiness.
Here is the summary from the book "Crying angel" Father Alexander Dyachenko about the same:
Bright, modern and unusually deep stories by Father Alexander fascinate readers from the first lines. What is the author's secret? In truth. In the truth of life. He clearly sees what we have learned not to notice - what causes us inconvenience and troubles our conscience. But here, in the shadow of our attention, there is not only pain and suffering. It is here that there is unspeakable joy that leads us to the Light.A little biography Priest Alexander Dyachenko
“The advantage of a simple worker is a free head!”
At a meeting with readers Father Alexander Dyachenko told us a little about himself, about his path to faith.- The dream of becoming a military sailor did not come true - Father Alexander graduated from the Agricultural Institute in Belarus. Almost 10 years on railway worked as a train compiler, has the highest qualification category. "The main advantage of a simple worker is a free head",” Father Alexander Dyachenko shared his experience. At that time, he was already a believer, and after the “railway stage” of his life he entered the St. Tikhon’s Theological Institute in Moscow, after which he was ordained a priest. Today, Father Alexander Dyachenko already has 11 years of priesthood behind him, a lot of experience in communicating with people, and many stories.
"The truth of life as it is"
Conversation with priest Alexander Dyachenko, blogger and writer
"LiveJournal", LJ alex_the_priest, Father Alexander Dyachenko, who serves in one of the churches in the “distant” Moscow region, is not like ordinary network blogs. Readers in the priest’s notes are attracted and captivated by something that certainly should not be looked for on the Internet - the truth of life as it is, and not as it appears in virtual space or political debates.
Father Alexander became a priest only at the age of 40; as a child he dreamed of being a naval sailor, and graduated from the Agricultural Institute in Belarus. For more than ten years he worked on the railroad as a simple worker. Then he went to study at the Orthodox St. Tikhon's Humanities University, was ordained 11 years ago.
The works of Father Alexander - apt life sketches - are popular on the Internet and are also published in the weekly magazine “My Family”. In 2010, the publishers of Nikeya selected 24 essays from the priest’s LJ and published the collection “The Weeping Angel.” A second book is also being prepared - this time the writer himself will choose the stories that will be included in it. Father Alexander told the Pravoslavie.ru portal about his creativity and plans for the future.
- Judging by your stories in LiveJournal, your path to the priesthood was long and difficult. What was your path to writing? Why did you decide to immediately publish everything on the Internet?
By chance. I must admit, I am not a “technical” person at all. But my children somehow decided that I was too behind the times, and showed me that there is a “Live Journal” on the Internet, where you can write down some notes.
But still, nothing happens by chance in life. I recently turned 50 years old and it’s been 10 years since I became a priest. And I felt the need to draw some conclusions, to somehow comprehend my life. Everyone experiences this crucial moment in life, for some - at 40 years old, for me - at 50, when it’s time to decide what you are. And all this gradually resulted in writing: some memories came, at first I wrote small notes, and then whole stories began to appear. And when the same youth taught me to take the text into LJ “under the cut”, then I could not limit my thoughts...
I recently calculated that I've written about 130 stories over the past two years, which means I've been writing more than once a week during that time. This surprised me - I didn’t expect this from myself; Something, apparently, was moving me, and if, despite the usual lack of time for a priest, I still managed to write something, then it was necessary... Now I plan to take a break until Easter - and then we’ll see. I honestly never know if I'll write the next story or not. If I don’t have a need, a need to tell a story, I’ll drop it all at once.
- All your stories are written in the first person. Are they autobiographical?
Priest Alexander Dyachenko: The events that are described are all real. But as for the form of presentation, writing in the first person was somehow closer to me, I probably can’t do it any other way. After all, I am not a writer, but a village priest.
Some stories are truly biographical, but since this did not all happen to me specifically, I am writing under a pseudonym, but on behalf of the priest. For me, every story is very important, even if it didn’t happen to me personally - after all, we also learn from our parishioners, and throughout our lives...
And at the end of the stories I always specifically write a conclusion (the moral of the essay), such that everything is put in its place. It’s still important to show: look, you can’t go to a red light, but you can go to a green light. My stories are, first and foremost, a sermon...
- Why did you choose such a direct form of entertaining everyday stories for preaching?
Priest Alexander Dyachenko: So that anyone who reads the Internet or opens a book still reads it to the end. So that some simple situation, which he is used to not noticing in ordinary life, would excite him, awaken him a little. And maybe next time, having encountered similar events himself, he will look towards the temple...
Many readers later admitted to me that they began to perceive priests and the Church differently. After all, a priest is often like a monument to people. It is impossible to turn to him, it is scary to approach him. And if they see in my story a living preacher who also feels, worries, who tells them about the secret, then maybe it will be easier for them to come to the realization of the need for a confessor in their life...
I don’t see any specific group of people from the flock in front of me... But I have a lot of hope for the young people, so that they can also understand.
Young people perceive the world differently than people of my generation. They have different habits, a different language. Of course, we will not copy their behavior or expressions in the sermons in the temple. But when preaching in the world, I think you can speak a little of their language!
-Have you had a chance to see the fruits of your missionary message?
Priest Alexander Dyachenko: I didn’t suspect, to be honest, that there would be so many readers. But now there is modern means connections, they write comments to me on the blog, often meaningless, and I also receive letters to the newspaper “My Family”, where my stories are published. It would seem that the newspaper, as they say, is “for housewives”; people read it simple people, busy with everyday life, children, household problems - and from them I was especially happy to receive feedback that the stories made me think about what the Church is and what it is like.
- However, on the Internet, no matter what you write about, you can get comments that are not very favorable...
Father Alexander: Still, the response is important to me. Otherwise I wouldn't be interested in writing...
—Have you ever heard gratitude from your regular parishioners in the church for your writing?
Father Alexander: They, I hope, don’t know that I also write stories - after all, in many ways, the everyday stories I hear from them make me write something down again!
- What if they run out? entertaining stories from life experience, will they be exhausted?
Priest Alexander Dyachenko: Some quite ordinary situations can be very insightful - and then I write them down. I don't write, my main task is priestly. While this is in line with my activities as a priest, I write. I don’t know whether I’ll write another story tomorrow.
It's like an honest conversation with your interlocutor. Often, at a parish after the Liturgy, the community gathers, and over the meal everyone tells something in turn, shares problems, or impressions, or joy - this is the result of sermon after sermon.
- Do you yourself confess to the reader? Does writing strengthen you spiritually?
Priest Alexander Dyachenko: Yes, it turns out that you are opening yourself. If you write while hiding, no one will believe you. Each story carries within itself the presence of a person on whose behalf the story is told. If it’s funny, then the author himself laughs, if it’s sad, then he cries.
For me, my notes are an analysis of myself, an opportunity to sum up some conclusions and tell myself: here you are right, and here you were wrong. Somewhere this is an opportunity to ask for forgiveness from those whom you have offended, but in reality it is no longer possible to ask for forgiveness. Maybe the reader will see how bitter it is later, and will not repeat some of the mistakes that we make every day, or at least think about it. Even if not right away, let him remember years later - and go to church. Although in life it happens differently, because so many people still gather and never come to the temple. And my stories are addressed to them too.
Priest Alexander Dyachenko: Holy Bible. If we don't read it daily, we will end as Christians right away. If we live by our own mind and do not feed ourselves on the Holy Scripture like bread, then all our other books will lose their meaning!
If it’s difficult to read, let him not be too lazy to come to church for classes and conversations about the Holy Scriptures, which, I hope, every parish conducts... If the Reverend Seraphim of Sarov I read every day Gospel, even though I knew it by heart, what should we say?
All that we, priests, write - all this should push such a person to begin reading the Holy Scriptures. In that the main task all church-related fiction and journalism.
Priest Alexander Dyachenko: Well, firstly, at the church we are collecting our parish library, in which everyone who applies can get something they need and something modern that is not only useful, but interesting to read. So for advice, including about literature, do not hesitate to turn to a priest.
In general, there is no need to be afraid of having a confessor: you definitely need to choose one specific person, even if he is often busy and sometimes he will “brush off” you, but it is better if you still go to the same priest - and gradually personal contact with him will be established.
Priest Alexander Dyachenko: It's hard to choose just one. In general, as I grew older, I began to read less fiction; you begin to appreciate reading spiritual books. But recently, for example, I opened it again Remark “Love your neighbor”- and I saw that this was the same Gospel, only presented in everyday terms...
With priest Alexander Dyachenko
talked Antonina Maga- February 23, 2011 - pravoslavie.ru/guest/44912.htm
The first book, a collection of stories, by priest Alexander Dyachenko "Crying angel" published by the Nikeya publishing house, Moscow, 2011, 256 pp., printed paper, pocket format.
Father Alexander Dyachenko has a hospitable LJ blog- alex-the-priest.livejournal.com on the Internet.
What is this book about?
And in the 90s, together with my beloved and loving husband- help the priest restore the temple from ruins. All of Nadezhda Ivanovna’s memories were written down in notebooks and placed in a book in almost untouched form. And then other stories seem to be “strung” onto these recordings - those of parishioners and Father Alexander himself. Joyful and terribly sad...
Read completelyWhat is this book about?
At the center of the story is the fate of one of the parishioners of the church in the Vladimir region, where Father Alexander serves. Many difficult and tragic things befell her: a hungry childhood in a distant post-revolutionary village, war, devastation, persecution of the Church, the loss of her only daughter, then her grandson...
But despite all the difficult trials, one cannot say about the heroine of the story, Nadezhda Ivanovna, that her life was tragic and that she unlucky man. Raised in a poor but very friendly believing family, from childhood she carried in her heart that joy of being and gratitude to the Lord for every day she lived, which gave her the strength to endure everything.
And in the 90s, together with my beloved and loving husband, I helped my father restore the temple from ruins. All of Nadezhda Ivanovna’s memories were written down in notebooks and placed in a book in almost untouched form. And then other stories seem to be “strung” onto these recordings - those of parishioners and Father Alexander himself. Joyful and terribly sad, funny and creepy, they form the second line of the book - scholia - i.e. notes in the margins.
Who is this book for?
For those who appreciate the author's sincere intonation, who expect genuine human stories, warmth, consolation and, most importantly, love for people from prose.
Why did we decide to publish this book?
Firstly, because it was written by Father Alexander Dyachenko. And this is always a joy for readers, because meeting, even just on the pages of a book, with a real priest who deeply and compassionately loves his parishioners is for many a strengthening of faith and consolation. Secondly, because, despite the abundance of literature on bookshelves, a truly living, warm word that is close to everyone is still a rarity. Father Alexander knows how to convey such a word.
"Highlight" of the book
“Scholia” is an unusual story: it contains independent and integral stories, the priest’s stories about his parishioners, friends, himself and his loved ones are a kind of comprehension, a detailed commentary on another line of the story - the diary of Nadezhda Ivanovna, a religious woman with a very difficult fate. The lines intertwine, like threads, into a single whole, revealing amazing connections that exist between people who seem to be completely strangers - not related by family ties, even living in different time, - but “for eternal memory there will be a righteous person.”
about the author
Archpriest Alexander Dyachenko - priest of the Russian Orthodox Church, rector of the temple in honor of the Tikhvin Icon Mother of God in the village of Ivanovo, Vladimir region. Graduated from the Orthodox St. Tikhon Institute. Bachelor of Theology. Actively involved in missionary and educational work. Published in the All-Russian weekly "My Family". Author of several books, including "The Weeping Angel" and "In the Circle of Light", previously published by Nicaea.
Approved for distribution by the Publishing Council of the Russian Orthodox Church IS R15-507-0385.
In the “Priestly Prose” series, which has recently been published by Nikea Publishing House, the best works of art authors whose work is inextricably linked with the Orthodox worldview. These are novels, novellas and stories about the destinies of believers, about tests of faith, hope and love. The stories - funny and sad, touching and poignant - are based on real events or inspired by meetings with amazing people. They reveal to the reader the world seen through the eyes of a priest, without edifying teachings and truisms. “My dear reader! In your hands is a book whose genre is difficult for me to determine. Is it a story, a novel or a short story - I don’t know. Rather, this is our conversation with you. I don’t know you yet, and you don’t know me, but this can be fixed. When you read this book and turn it over last page, we will already be friends. Otherwise, why write and borrow so much? your time? With these words, priest Alexander Dyachenko, the author of a book with unusual name"Scholia". The author of the book “Scholia”, priest Alexander Dyachenko, is the rector of the church in honor of the Tikhvin Icon of the Mother of God in the village. Ivanovo, Vladimir region. He was born in 1960 in Moscow, into a military family, but considers Belarus, the city of Grodno, where he spent his childhood and youth, to be his homeland. Graduated from the Orthodox St. Tikhon Institute. Bachelor of Theology. Actively engaged in missionary and educational work. Published in the All-Russian weekly magazine “My Family”. Author of several books, including “The Weeping Angel” and “In the Circle of Light,” previously published by Nikea Publishing House. All of this priest’s books, according to the leading editor of the Nikaia publishing house, Natalia Vinogradova, are full of “love for their parishioners. He mainly writes about his parishioners, about his friends, about his fellow villagers.” So the book “Scholia” is an unusual story: in it, independent and integral, in essence, stories, the stories of the priest about his parishioners, friends, about himself and his loved ones are a kind of comprehension, an expanded commentary on another line of the narrative - the diary of Nadezhda Ivanovna, a simple believing woman with a very difficult fate. The lines are intertwined, like threads, into a single whole, revealing amazing connections that exist between people who seem to be complete strangers - not connected by family ties, even living at different times, but “in eternal memory there will be a righteous man.” “I find it difficult,” writes Father Alexander, “to accurately determine the genre of this book; let it be a story written in the footsteps of real events. One of the central ones in the story is the personality of Andrey Kuzmich Loginov, a resident of the village of Staraya Racheyka, Syzran district, Samara region.” A simple, illiterate peasant, he became one of those whom today we call ascetics of faith and piety of the 20th century. If you set a goal and dig around on the Internet, you can find some information about Andrei Kuzmich, however, there is very little of it, and one cannot judge from it how he labored, how he prayed, why he took upon himself the feat of a hermit’s life . It is not at all clear how he was spared the terrible persecution of the Christian faith in our country. These questions are answered in the diaries of Vera Ivanovna Shalugina (in the text of the story by Nadezhda Ivanovna), the granddaughter of elder Andrei Kuzmich. “I have known Vera Ivanovna,” says the priest, “for many years, for the last ten of them she has been helping me at the altar. One day I heard about her grandfather and, impressed by what I heard, I wrote a short story called “What will the sun say?” As the priest notes, “Reading the history of this family, you dissolve in the events of that time. They were written in the late 1990s with the sole purpose of preserving memory. Pass on to your grandchildren what they will never learn about from other sources. Having experienced the loss of those closest and dearest to her, Vera Ivanovna herself found herself on the brink of life and death. Her condition was such that no one hoped for successful outcome. In those days, she began to write her memoirs about what should not be forgotten. Maybe thanks to the diary she survived. In many ways, these are very personal notes, so I allowed myself to include in the book only that part of them that can be read by any outsider. First of all, these are memories of childhood spent in the village, stories about grandfather and grandmother, mother and father, as well as about the numerous lovers of God who flocked to the revered elder. They included a book and instructions from grandfather Andrei Kuzmich, addressed primarily to his children and grandchildren. They reveal the personality of the ascetic, the rootedness of his spiritual worldview in the Holy Scriptures and the heritage of the holy fathers. Reading them, the author says, I could not help imagining that time. Temples in the area have been destroyed or converted into clubs, baths, and schools. The overwhelming number of priests have been repressed; it is not safe to even talk about faith. The Gospel found during the search could have landed you in a concentration camp. But the lovers of God remained and needed spiritual nourishment. Many of those who learned about Elder Andrei Kuzmich went to him for advice and prayerful support. The notebooks written by Andrei Kuzmich during his seclusion in the forest wilderness have been preserved. They contain many quotes from Holy Scripture and holy fathers. All his life this man continued to study Orthodox faith. The Bible is his most main book. Another characteristic aspect of Vera Ivanovna’s diaries, according to the author, is that Elder Andrei, his family and the people who took care of him never considered themselves enemies of the existing government. They accepted everything that happened to them as a given, as God’s permission, they humbled themselves and continued to be saved. We know about the exploits of martyrs and confessors of modern times. But we know almost nothing about the lives of ordinary believers, those who lived during the years of persecution. I just lived, worked, studied, raised families. And at the same time, he maintained his faith - he prayed, participated in the Sacraments, and raised his children in the faith. They did not, like the martyrs and confessors, perform open, obvious feats of faith, but when their time came, they came to the ruins and became the first builders of the restored churches. They became the ones who explained to us, people far from the faith, that these walls with broken windows and the remains of frescoes on the crumbling plaster would become the place where we would begin to find ourselves. As the author notes, “almost all the events described in the book are real. Even the amazing wedding described at the very beginning of the story actually happened. The story of the book's heroes - Gleb, his wife Elena and their daughter Katya - also true story. These people, says Father Alexander, pray in church with us today. The author tried to preserve the style of presentation that is inherent in each member of this family. Their life - real feat. A feat of love, selflessness - call it what you want. It’s just that these three took and conquered death. But since this book is still fiction, the author allowed himself some deviations from the chronology of events, bringing together or, on the contrary, moving away from each other some plot lines, some selectivity of the narration and even an experiment. “This is my vision,” says Father Alexander. “I have the right to this, as the author and participant in the events described.” In the preface of the book, the author writes: “In my youth, it seemed to me that the life I would live had not yet begun, that it would come some day tomorrow, somewhere out there, in wonderful, distant worlds unknown to me. I didn’t understand that I was already living and that my life was happening here, surrounded by people I knew well. Over time, I learned to look around me and notice those who live nearby. This book is about those whom I loved and continue to love, even if they are no longer with us. There is not a single loser in it, despite the apparent tragedy of the situation at first, everyone here is only a winner. First of all, those who have overcome themselves. Dear reader, I do not promise you that when you open this book you will get an easy, entertaining read. No. Because I want to talk to you. Together we will laugh and cry together. Because there is no other way, if people want to become friends, they must be honest with each other. Otherwise why..." 
Another collection of stories by priest Alexander Dyachenko is called "Time does not wait". This new collection priest's stories. From the pages of this book, Father Alexander, as always, shares with the reader poignant stories from the life of one of the parishes Russian outback. Before us stands a series of images, tragic and funny, a whole string of human destinies with their joys, troubles, hardships, the most difficult falls and all-conquering enlightenments. On the other hand, every story of Father Alexander is a heart-to-heart conversation. This happens when a random traveler, after a few minutes of conversation, suddenly becomes a loved one and the heroes of his stories come to life in front of you, as if you, too, had known them for a long time, and now you are carefully and eagerly listening to news about them. This is the unconditional gift of a storyteller and interlocutor - to revive his characters, to make them alien. According to the author of the preface, Alexander Logunov, the priest, as an experienced and tactful interlocutor, invites the reader to reflect on his narrative and draw conclusions for himself, saving his main words for last, so that they are heard at the moment when we are ready to hear them. The collection opens with stories that raise the topic of human freedom, which has again become relevant. The Soviet past of our country is a polemical issue. Now it is fashionable to idealize him. However, after a distance of a quarter of a century, it is easy to not notice, to forget what that very stability that causes nostalgia for many was worth. It cost her freedom. Of course, not in the sense of permissiveness and lawlessness, its dark sides, with which we usually associate the era of the 90s. No, it's about the freedom to be yourself. We live in a difficult and alarming time for our country. Quietly, tactfully, the author reminds us of the need to be sober and vigilant, because it depends on each of us what the future of Russia will be like - we make history. And time doesn’t wait. It is fleeting. Awareness of this fact forces one to turn to memories. The reason for this could be a trip to hometown, meeting with high school students or Sunday Gospel reading. “Memory” is generally one of keywords collection. In memory of people, he performs deeds and donates to churches. In memory of the homeland, they keep a piece of paper with poems, in memory of childhood friendship - a postcard. In important words The collection ends on memory. “You begin to forget a lot there,” says the heroine of the story “On the River Bank,” who survived clinical death, - and suddenly the memory awakens. Memory is a big thing; it obliges you to rush to those you love.” The author returns to another topic - the topic of death - many times. As he himself admits in one of his interviews, “death is a kind of Rubicon, a certain moment of truth, so I often write on this topic.” Death is an exam. “I told you incorrectly that time inexorably brings us closer to death,” reflects the lyrical hero of the story “Time Doesn’t Wait.” “No, it doesn’t bring us closer to death, but to Heaven. There the power of astronomical time, minutes and seconds disappears, and no one dies there." These stories are not about death, but about life, or rather, about Eternal Life and preparation for it. Some do it well, some not so well, and some even does not have time to do everything, endlessly postponing preparation... All this becomes food for thought, first for the author, and then for the reader. And now, together with the priest, we go to Radonitsa through the cemetery, remembering the deceased and continuing to pray for them, and they pray for us, because “love, if it exists, of course, does not disappear anywhere after death." Often readers witness a miracle that happened to one or another hero of the book in the face of death. Healings, conversions to faith, revaluation of life become possible thanks to the love of heroes capable of sacrifice. “A life for a life,” the height of Christ’s feat - this is the condition for performing a miracle. This happens with many of the heroes of Father Alexander’s book, and each such story is proof of the existence of God, who acts here and now. The author talks about this, and his stories flow into one another, and the reader suddenly stops noticing time. Time, as Logunov says, is one of the main characters of the book. Maybe partly because the stories of Father Alexander are, in fact, diary entries woven from everyday observations, stories heard and parish chronicles. These are photographs of our time through the lens of personal aesthetics and, more importantly, spiritual experience. Actually, Father Alexander’s first attempt at writing took place in Live Journal, a diary in its modern format. And any diary is a mirror that fully reflects time with its questions and problems. In the story “Time Doesn’t Wait,” the author, reflecting on time, writes: “Every age relates to time in its own way. As children, we really want to become adults as quickly as possible, but then time drags on slowly and slowly. But finally we grow up and are no longer in a hurry, and time deliberately accelerates faster and faster. It no longer walks or even runs, it flies, and you fly with it. At first it scares you, and you record each passing year with horror, and perceive congratulations on your next birthday as a mockery. And then you humble yourself and stop paying any attention to him, and only sometimes ask in disbelief: “What, already again New Year?’” The main words about the attitude to time and history are also heard in the story “Business Card”, which makes it key in the collection: “I don’t know,” writes the author, “what historians will tell about us in 50 years that we talk about today we have no idea. The funny thing is, they will write with confidence that they know us better than we knew ourselves.” But, as Father Alexander asserts, “the court of historians is not the main thing. The main thing is happening now. History is made in this moment, and each of us is a participant in this endeavor. And everyone has to give an account for him. And also,” says the priest, “offer me now to become young again and start all over again.” I'll refuse. I don’t need anything that belongs to others, and let my time remain with me, because this is my life and this is mine business card" Again and again, in his stories about people, Father Alexander Dyachenko returns to eternal themes: sinfulness and repentance, cruelty and mercy, acquisitiveness and non-acquisitiveness, gratitude and indifference. Revealing to us another story of insight or fall, with the sensitivity and depth of an experienced loving spiritual shepherd, he shows the reader how the Lord acts in arranging human destinies. At the same time, there is no moral teaching or condemnation in his stories. Only sadness and contrition about our foolishness and deafness. And one more thing: in the stories of Father Alexander, the motivation for choice and spiritual vigor sounds more and more confidently. It’s as if the priest is saying, addressing all of us: “Decide to follow Christ, bear your cross—time is running out!”
I dedicate this book to my dear granddaughter Elizabeth and to everyone who was born in the first years of the twenty-first century - with hope and love.
© Dyachenko Alexander, priest, 2011
© Nikeya Publishing House, 2011
All rights reserved. No part electronic version This book may not be reproduced in any form or by any means, including posting on the Internet and corporate networks, for private and public use without the written permission of the copyright owner.
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Road checks
Shortly before my New Year good friend sad news has arrived. In one of the small towns of the neighboring region, his friend was killed. As soon as I found out, I immediately rushed there. It turned out that it was nothing personal. Big, strong man about fifty years old, returning home late at night, I saw four young guys trying to rape a girl. He was a warrior, a real warrior, who went through many hot spots.
He stood up without hesitation and immediately rushed into battle. He fought off the girl, but someone contrived and stabbed him in the back. The blow turned out to be fatal. The girl decided that now they would kill her too, but they didn’t. Said:
- Live for now. One night was enough, and they left.
When my friend returned, I tried as best I could to express my condolences to him, but he replied:
- Don't console me. Such death for my friend is a reward. It would be difficult to dream of a better death for him. I knew him well, we fought together. There is a lot of blood on his hands, maybe not always justified. After the war he did not live very well. You understand what time it was. It took me a long time to convince him to be baptized, and, thank God, he was baptized not so long ago. The Lord took him to the most glorious death for a warrior: on the battlefield, protecting the weak. A beautiful Christian demise.
I listened to my friend and remembered an incident that happened to me.
Then there was a war in Afghanistan. In the active army, due to losses, it was necessary to make urgent replacements. Career officers from the units were transferred there, and in their places reserve officers were called up for a period of two years. Not long before, I returned from the army and found myself among these “lucky ones.” Thus, I had to repay my debt to the Motherland twice.
But since military unit, where I served was not very far from my home, then everything turned out well for us. I often came home on weekends. My daughter was a little over a year old, my wife did not work, and the salaries of officers were good then.
I had to travel home by train. Sometimes in military uniform, sometimes in civilian clothes. One day, it was in the fall, I was returning to my unit. I arrived at the station about thirty minutes before the electric train arrived. It was getting dark, it was cool. Most of the passengers were sitting inside the station. Some were dozing, some were talking quietly. There were many men and young people.
Suddenly, quite suddenly, the station door swung open and a young girl ran towards us. She pressed her back against the wall near the cash register and, stretching out her hands towards us, shouted:
- Help, they want to kill us!
Immediately at least four young people run after her and shout: “You won’t leave! It's the end of you! – they press this girl into a corner and begin to strangle her. Then another guy literally drags another guy like him into the waiting room by the collar, and she screams in a heartbreaking voice: “Help!” Imagine this picture.
Back then, there was usually a policeman on duty at the station, but that day, as if on purpose, he was not there. The people sat and looked frozen at all this horror.
Among everyone who was in the waiting room, I was the only one wearing the military uniform of an aviation senior lieutenant. If I had been a civilian then, I would hardly have gotten up, but I was in uniform.
I get up and hear the grandmother sitting next to me exhale:
- Son! Don't go, they'll kill you!
But I had already gotten up and couldn’t sit back. I still ask myself the question: how did I decide? Why? If this had happened today, I probably wouldn’t have gotten up. But this is who I am today wise minnow, and then? After all, I myself had Small child. Who would feed him then? And what could I do? I could have fought with one more hooligan, but I couldn’t stand against five for even a minute, they would have simply smashed me.
He walked up to them and stood between the guys and girls. I remember getting up and standing, what else could I do? And I also remember that none of the other men supported me.
Luckily for me, the guys stopped and became silent. They didn’t say anything to me, and no one hit me even once, they just looked at me with some kind of respect or surprise.
Then, as if on command, they turned their backs to me and left the station building. The people were silent. The girls disappeared unnoticed. There was silence, and I found myself the center of everyone's attention. Having experienced a moment of glory, he became embarrassed and also tried to leave quickly.
I walk along the platform and - imagine my surprise - I see this whole company of young people, but no longer fighting, but walking in an embrace!
It dawned on me - they were playing a prank on us! Maybe they had nothing to do, and while waiting for the train, they had fun, or maybe they bet that no one would intercede. Don't know.
Then I went to the unit and thought: “But I didn’t know that the guys were joking with us, I really stood up.” Then I was still far from faith, from the Church. He hadn't even been baptized yet. But I realized that I was being tested. Someone was looking at me then. As if he was asking: how would you behave in such circumstances? They simulated the situation, completely protecting me from any risk, and watched.
We are constantly being peered at. When I ask myself why I became a priest, I cannot find an answer. My opinion is that a candidate for the priesthood must still be a person of very high moral standing. He must comply with all the conditions and canons historically imposed by the Church on a future priest. But if you consider that I was only baptized at thirty, and before that time I lived like everyone else, then like it or not I came to the conclusion that He simply had no one to choose from.
He looks at us like a housewife sorting through badly damaged cereal, hoping to finally cook something, or like a carpenter who needs to nail a few more planks, but has run out of nails. Then he takes the bent and rusty ones, straightens them and tries: will they work? I, too, am probably such a rusty nail, and so are many of my brothers who came to the Church in the wake of the early nineties. We are a generation of church builders. Our task is to restore churches, open seminaries, and teach the new generation of believing boys and girls who will replace us. We cannot be saints, our limit is sincerity in our relationship with God, our parishioner is most often a suffering person. And most often we cannot help him with our prayers, we are not strong enough, the most we can do is only share his pain with him.
We are laying the foundation for a new state of the Church, emerging from persecution and getting used to living in a period of creative creation. Those for whom we work must come to the soil we prepare and grow in holiness. That’s why, when I give Holy Communion to babies, I look at their faces with such interest. What will you choose, baby, cross or bread?
Choose the cross, my friend! And we will put faith in you, and then we will multiply your childish faith and pure heart with our sincerity, and then, probably, our service in the Church will be justified.
The all-conquering power of love
I remember - I was still a boy, about ten years old - a family lived next to us on the same landing. All families were military, and therefore neighbors changed quite often. Those neighbors had a grandmother living in their apartment. Now I understand that she was a little over sixty, but then I thought that she was a hundred. Grandmother was quiet and taciturn, did not like old lady gatherings and preferred loneliness. And she had one strange thing. In front of the entrance there were two excellent benches, but the grandmother brought out a small stool and sat on it facing the entrance, as if she was looking out for someone, afraid to miss her.
Children are curious people, and this old lady’s behavior intrigued me. One day I couldn’t stand it and asked her:
- Grandma, why are you sitting facing the door, are you waiting for someone?
And she answered me:
- No, boy. If I had the strength, I would simply go somewhere else. And so I have to stay here. But I don't have the strength to look at these pipes.
In our yard there was a boiler room with two tall brick chimneys. Of course, it was scary to climb them, and even none of the older boys took risks. But what does grandma and these pipes have to do with it? Then I didn’t dare ask her, but after some time, going out for a walk, I again saw my neighbor sitting alone. It was as if she was waiting for me. I realized that my grandmother wanted to tell me something, I sat down next to her, and she, patting me on the head, said:
– I was not always old and frail, I lived in Belarusian village, I had a family, very good husband. But the Germans came, my husband, like other men, joined the partisans, he was their commander. We women supported our men in any way we could. The Germans became aware of this. They arrived in the village early in the morning. They kicked everyone out of their houses and drove them like cattle to the station in a neighboring town. The carriages were already waiting for us there. People were packed into the heated vehicles so that we could only stand. We drove with stops for two days, they gave us no water or food. When we were finally unloaded from the carriages, some were no longer able to move. Then the guards began throwing them to the ground and finishing them off with the butts of their carbines. And then they showed us the direction to the gate and said: “Run.” As soon as we had run half the distance, the dogs were released. The strongest reached the gate. Then the dogs were driven away, everyone who remained was lined up in a column and led through the gate, on which it was written in German: “To each his own.” Since then, boy, I can’t look at tall chimneys.”
She bared her arm and showed me a tattoo of a row of numbers on inside hands, closer to the elbow. I knew it was a tattoo, my dad had a tank tattooed on his chest because he is a tanker, but why put numbers on it?
– This is my number in Auschwitz.
I remember that she also talked about how our tankers liberated them and how lucky she was to live to see this day. She didn’t tell me anything about the camp itself and what was happening in it; she probably pitied my childish head. I learned about Auschwitz only later. I found out and understood why my neighbor couldn’t look at the pipes of our boiler room.
During the war, my father also ended up in occupied territory. They got it from the Germans, oh, how they got it. And when ours drove a little, they, realizing that the grown-up boys were tomorrow’s soldiers, decided to shoot them. They gathered everyone and took them to the log, and then our airplane saw a crowd of people and gave a line nearby. The Germans are on the ground, and the boys are scattered. My dad was lucky, he escaped with a shot in his hand, but he escaped. Not everyone was lucky then.
My father was a tank driver in Germany. Their tank brigade distinguished itself near Berlin on the Seelow Heights. I've seen photos of these guys. Youth, and the whole chest is in orders, several people are Heroes. Many, like my dad, were drafted into the active army from occupied lands, and many had something to take revenge on the Germans for. That may be why they fought so desperately and bravely. They walked across Europe, liberated concentration camp prisoners and beat the enemy, finishing them off mercilessly. “We were eager to go to Germany itself, we dreamed of how we would smear it with the caterpillar tracks of our tanks. We had a special unit, even the uniform was black. We still laughed, as if they wouldn’t confuse us with the SS men.”
Immediately after the end of the war, my father’s brigade was stationed in one of the small German towns. Or rather, in the ruins that remained of it. They somehow settled down in the basements of the buildings, but there was no room for a dining room. And the brigade commander, a young colonel, ordered the tables to be knocked down from shields and a temporary canteen to be set up right in the town square.
“And here is our first peaceful dinner. Field kitchens, cooks, everything is as usual, but the soldiers are not sitting on the ground or on a tank, but, as expected, at tables. We just started having lunch, and suddenly German children began crawling out of all these ruins, basements, and crevices like cockroaches. Some are standing, but others can no longer stand from hunger. They stand and look at us like dogs. And I don’t know how it happened, but I took the bread with my shot hand and put it in my pocket, I looked quietly, and all our guys, without raising their eyes to each other, did the same.”
And then they fed the German children, gave away everything that could somehow be hidden from dinner, just yesterday’s children themselves, who very recently, without flinching, were raped, burned, shot by the fathers of these German children on our land they had captured.
Brigade Commander, Hero Soviet Union, a Jew by nationality, whose parents, like all other Jews of a small Belarusian town, were buried alive by the punitive forces, had every right, both moral and military, to drive away the German “geeks” from his tank crews with volleys. They ate his soldiers, reduced their combat effectiveness, many of these children were also sick and could spread the infection among the personnel.
But the colonel, instead of shooting, ordered an increase in the food consumption rate. And German children, on the orders of the Jew, were fed along with his soldiers.
What kind of phenomenon do you think this is - the Russian Soldier? Where does this mercy come from? Why didn't they take revenge? It seems beyond anyone’s strength to find out that all your relatives were buried alive, perhaps by the fathers of these same children, to see concentration camps with many bodies of tortured people. And instead of “taking it out” on the children and wives of the enemy, they, on the contrary, saved them, fed them, treated them.
Several years have passed since the events described, and my dad, having graduated military school in the fifties, took place again military service in Germany, but already as an officer. Once on the street of one city a young German called out to him. He ran up to my father, grabbed his hand and asked:
-You don't recognize me? Yes, of course, now it’s hard to recognize me in that hungry, ragged boy. But I remember you, how you fed us then among the ruins. Believe me, we will never forget this.
This is how we made friends in the West, by force of arms and the all-conquering power of Christian love.
I did not participate in the war...
On Victory Day, my father, as long as I can remember, usually sat alone at the table. Mom, without discussing anything with him in advance, took out a bottle of vodka, collected the simplest snack and left father alone. It seems that on such a holiday veterans try to get together, but he never went anywhere. He sat at the table and was silent. This does not mean that none of us could sit down with him, it’s just that he seemed to go somewhere into himself and did not notice anyone. I could sit in front of the TV all day and watch war films, the same ones. And so on from year to year. I was bored sitting and being silent, and my father didn’t tell me anything about the war.
One day, probably in the seventh grade, I asked him that day:
- Dad, why did you come back from the war with only one medal, did you fight badly? Where are your awards?
My father, having had a couple of drinks by that time, smiled at me and answered:
- What are you saying, son, I received the greatest award that a soldier can dream of in war. I'm back. And I have you, my son, I have my family, my home. Is this not enough? “Then, as if overcoming himself, he asked: “Do you know what war is?”
And he began to tell me. For the only time in my entire life I listened to his war story. And he never returned to this conversation again, as if it had never happened at all.
– The German came to us when I was almost the same age as you are now. Our troops retreated, and in August 1941 we already found ourselves in occupied territory. My older brother, your uncle Alexey, was in the army then, he fought with the White Finns. And our whole family remained under the Germans. Who has ever been in our village: Romanians, Magyars, and Germans. The most cruel were the Germans. Everything they liked was taken away without asking and killed for any disobedience. The Romanians, I remember, constantly changed something, well, purely our gypsies, the Magyars touched us little, but they also killed us without asking anyone. At the very beginning of the occupation, two older village boys were appointed police officers. All they did was walk around with rifles and didn’t bother anyone. Announcements will be posted, that's all. Nobody said anything bad about them.
It was difficult. To survive, they worked constantly and still went hungry. I don’t remember a day when your grandfather relaxed and smiled, but I remember that your grandmother prayed all the time for the warrior Alexia. And so all three years. By the beginning of forty-four, the Germans began to force us young guys to dig trenches and build fortifications for them. We knew that ours were coming, and we were already thinking about how we would meet them.
The Germans understood that we were tomorrow’s soldiers. After liberation, we will join the army and fight against them. Therefore, just before our arrival, they suddenly surrounded the village and began to drive the young boys out of their houses and gather everyone central square. And then they drove out of the village to the ravine. We began to guess what awaited us, and where to go, the convoy was around. And suddenly, fortunately for us, there was a plane. The pilot saw an incomprehensible column and went into a combat turn. I went in and, apparently just in case, there was a line next to us. The Germans lay down. And we took advantage of the moment and scattered. The guards were afraid to stand up to their full height and fired at us from their knees with machine guns. I was lucky, I rolled into the ravine and only when I was already safe did I discover that my arm had been shot. The bullet passed successfully, without touching the bones, and exited just above the place where a watch is usually worn.
Then we were released. There was no battle for the village, the Germans retreated at night, and in the morning we were awakened by a roar Soviet tanks. That same day, everyone was gathered in the square, and there was already a gallows on it. When did you have time, did you seem to have just arrived? Both police boys were hanged in front of the whole people. Back then they didn’t understand: since you served with the Germans, that means you are guilty and you will be judged according to the law of war. It was after the war that the former policemen were tried, but then there was no time for that. As soon as the bodies of the unfortunate people hung, they announced to us that all of us who were under occupation were now enemies and cowards, and therefore must wash away our guilt with blood.
On the same day, the work of the military field commissariat began. They gathered many people like me from our village and the surrounding area. I was seventeen and a half then, and there were those who had not yet turned seventeen. I never thought that we would start fighting like this. I imagined that we would be dressed in military uniform, we will take the oath, they will give us machine guns. But no one thought to do this. It's 1944, it's not 1941, there were plenty of weapons, and we had one rifle between us. Some in bast shoes, some in supports, and some barefoot, so they went to the front line.
And so these untrained boys were driven to atone for the guilt of those who abandoned us in '41 to the mercy of the winner. We were thrown into attacks in front of regular troops. It is very scary to run into an attack, and even without a weapon. You run and scream in fear, you can’t do anything else. Where are you running? Why are you running? There are machine guns in front, machine guns behind. People went crazy from this horror. – Father smiled sadly. “After the first attack, I couldn’t close my mouth; all the mucous membranes not only dried out, but became covered with scabs. Then they taught me that before running, you need to pick up salt on a wet finger and smear it on your teeth.
We marched in front of the troops for a month, more and more “traitors” were added to our detachment. I already had a captured machine gun, and I learned how to escape bullets. When the order came in 1926 to remove us from the front, it turned out that there was no one left to remove from our village. Right now, on the black obelisk in the center of the village, all my friends are written down. Why did they do this, was it really necessary? How many people were put there for no reason. Why didn’t anyone take pity on us, since we were almost still children?
And do you know what was the most exhausting? In fact, it’s not even these attacks, no, but the fact that my father was following me in a cart all this month. And after each penalty box fight, he came to pick up his son’s body and bury him like a human being. My father was not allowed to visit us, but I sometimes saw him from afar. I felt very sorry for him, and I wanted them to kill me as quickly as possible, because they would kill me anyway, so why should the old man suffer? And my mother prayed all this time, did not get up from her knees, and I felt it.
Then I went to training, became a tank driver and continued to fight. Your uncle Lesha, at twenty-six, was already a lieutenant colonel and regiment commander, and crossed the Dnieper as a private in a penal battalion. Are you surprised? War, brother, and war has its own justice. Everyone wanted to survive, and often at the expense of others.
Dad was smoking then, he took a drag, paused, as if looking somewhere, into the depths of years, and then continued again:
– After the Dnieper, his orders were returned to him, he was reinstated in the party, and the rank of “private” was left. And he didn’t get embittered.
Your uncle and I crossed paths twice at the front. And only briefly. Once, from a passing truck, I heard someone shout: “Guys! Don’t you have such and such?” - “Why not?! Here I am!" We stand in cars passing towards each other and wave our hands, but we cannot stop: the columns are moving. And another time at the station, our train had already begun to move, and I suddenly saw it. “Alyosha,” I shout, “brother!” He’s coming to the carriage, we’re reaching out to touch each other, but we can’t. He ran after me for a long time, he wanted to catch up with everything.
At the very beginning of 1945, two more of my grandmother’s grandchildren went to the front, your cousins. Women in Ukraine give birth early, and I was the last in the family, and, of course, the most beloved. The elder sister’s sons managed to grow up, so they ended up at the front. My poor mother, how she begged for Alyosha, then for me, and then for her grandchildren. During the day - in the field, at night - on my knees.
Everything happened, and the tank was on fire, on the Seelow Heights near Berlin, together with the company commander remained alive. Last days war, and we have so many crews burned, what kind of blood this Victory was given to us!
Yes, the war ended, and we all returned, at different times, but we returned. It was like a miracle, imagine, four men from the same house went to the front, and all four returned. But my grandmother did not return from that war. She begged us, calmed down that we were all alive and healthy, cried with happiness, and then died. She was not yet an old woman, she was not even sixty.
In the same victorious year, she immediately fell seriously ill, suffered a little more and died. A simple illiterate peasant woman. What reward, son, will you appreciate her feat, what order? Her reward from God is the sons and grandchildren whom she did not give up to death. And what comes from people is all vanity, smoke.
My father ruffled my hair.
- Son, live decent person, don’t be mean in life, God forbid that anyone should cry because of you. And you will be my medal.
And then he continued again:
– The news of my mother’s death came to me under former Königsberg It is too late. I turned to the commander. And our commander then was a colonel, a Georgian. He wore an overcoat to his toes, and always had a Great Dane next to him. He treated me well, even though I was a boy, and he respected me. Then, in 1949, I remember, he called me in and asked: “Sergeant major, are you going to study? Do you want to become an officer? - “Well, I was under occupation, Comrade Colonel, but I can’t be trusted.” The commander, waving his fist at someone invisible, shouted: “And I’m telling you, you will be an officer!” And he hit the table. Yes, he knocked so hard that the Great Dane, frightened, began to bark.
While I was getting leave, while I was getting home, I spent almost a week traveling. There was already snow on the fields. I came to the cemetery, cried over my mother’s grave and went back. I’m driving and I’m surprised that I haven’t forgotten how to cry. There were no photographs of my mother left, and I remembered her as I saw her for the last time, when she ran behind our column, then, in 1944.
Some year Great Victory all front-line soldiers began to receive orders Patriotic War. We looked at the military registration and enlistment office, but according to the documents it turns out that my dad never fought. Who remembered the number of that military field commissariat that called my father to the penal battalion, who opened a personal file on him, if he survived due to a misunderstanding? Moreover, he went through the rest of the war without a scratch. No notes on treatment in hospitals. There is a medal for the war, but no documents. This means there is no order. I was very worried about my father then, it was insulting.
“Dad,” I say, “let’s write to the archives and restore justice.”
And he calmly answers me like this:
- For what? Am I missing something? I also have a rather large pension for my shoulder straps. I can still help you now. And then, you understand, such orders are not begged for. I know why they gave it at the front, and I know that I didn’t deserve it.
Uncle Lesha died in the early seventies. He worked as a school director in his village. He was a desperate communist, and he kept fighting with God, people went to church on Easter, and my uncle was painting the hut, and that’s all. He died not yet old, forgive him, Lord. A few years later, my father and I came to his homeland. I was 17 then.
I remember going into the courtyard of Uncle Lesha’s house. I see it hurts my dad that his brother is no longer here. We arrived at the beginning of autumn, it was still warm, we went into the yard, and in the yard there was a large pile of fallen leaves. And among the leaves there are scattered toys of uncle’s grandchildren. And suddenly I notice among this fallen foliage and debris... the Order of the Red Banner, still without a pad, the kind that was screwed to the tunic, and two Orders of the Red Star. And my father saw it too.
He knelt down in the foliage, collected his brother’s orders in his hand, looked at them and seemed to be unable to understand something. And then he looked up at me, and there was such defenselessness in his eyes: how can you guys do this to us? And fear: can all this really be forgotten?
Now I am the same age as my father was when he told me about that war, and he told me only once. I left home a long time ago and rarely see my father. But I notice that everything last years on Victory Day, after I serve a memorial service for the fallen soldiers and congratulate the veterans on the holiday, I come home and sit down at the table. I sit down alone, in front of me is a simple snack and a bottle of vodka, which I would never drink alone. Yes, I don’t set such a goal, it’s more of a symbol for me, because my father never drank it either. I sit and watch films about war all day. And I just can’t understand why this became so important to me, why didn’t my pain become mine? After all, I didn’t fight, then why?
Maybe it’s good that grandchildren play with their grandfathers’ military awards, but we can’t, growing up from childhood, forget them like this, on a garbage heap, we can’t, guys.