http://www.proza.ru/2007/07/22-157
When I think of my parents and grannies I always try to understand: how was it that their house always flowed with joy. The Joy that like the Bible’s milk and honey had always been there to feed and to warm up all the people around and inside, in spite of the trials and tribulations of the severe époque!..
My grandfather, Nikolai Petrovich Izyumov, married in 1910. Together with the young wife they settled in an excellent five-room apartment at Bolshaya Podyacheskaya Street in Saint-Petersburg. Although she became a spouse to a high- rank officer in the Holy Synod, my grandmother did not change a thing: she had remained the daughter of a villager priest. She just transferred from the Moscow Courses to the same institution based in Saint-Petersburg (Bestuzhev Courses). Her husband was truly amazed at such an unexpected decision, but he had no objection! Far from it, now Nikolai Izyumov had an even more profound respect for his wife! As for himself, Nikolai Izyumov managed to receive a truly dazzling education thanks to the patronage of his relative, Rev. Agathodorus (Preobrazhensky). I remember, the photograph of the archbishop occupied a very special place at the grandfather’s desk. We, the Soviet pioneers, were explained that this person in clericals was “the grandfather’s benefactor”. Benefactor. What a word!.. there was an air of mystery about this word echoing the time past. Well, that word could sound as something ridiculous as related to the seemingly forgotten world, yet it did not. Today I see it clearly that Rev. Agathodorus was not only the benefactor of our grandfather but also of our entire family: the excellent education received by our grandfather Agathodorus financed, provided to a large extent the cultural level and career of my father and that of his younger brothers and their families. This kind of assets proved to be much more reliable than Nikolai Izyumov’s bank savings that felt prey to the Bolsheviks’ revolution in 1917.
Being the author of catechism, a manual for all Russian pupils, Rev. Agathodorus was a zealous proponent of secular learning. Therefore, as soon as His Eminence detected the yearning for knowledge in his nephew, Rev. Agathodorus told him: “Kolya, study whatever you want and wherever you feel fit, I’ll pay grants”. No need to edit or repeat the offer! So, Nikolai Izyumov graduated from several high schools, including the University of St.-Petersburg. However, what my grandfather always considered to be his “crowning glory” was the diploma of Kazan Ecclesiastical Academy! Just recall the thesis at the entrance examination: “Materialist Metaphysic: Shall It Be the Ground for Immoral Motives?” The title itself could neutralize the sound and the fury of the routine antireligious propaganda. We were not religious at that time (we came to believe was the years). But then we came to realize that our religion had nothing in common with the lampoon pictured by school – and that's something…
My grandfather remembered with a smile two antipodal college entrants.
The first one, a punch humble priest, entered the huge examination hall, crossed to the four winds and drew the sign of the cross upon pens and paper. Only after that, he read the title of the thesis. He had been sitting for a while, silent and motionless. Then he drew a long breath and put the writing implements aside. After that, he stood up, bowing to the four winds, like the first time, and left the hall, sedate and decent.
The other priest was a tall person with jet-black hair. He entered the hall, resolute and assertive. As soon as he acquainted himself with the task, he launched into writing with a swift thrust, spluttering the ink over the paper and desk, as if he joined battle…When time was up the plucky priest submitted his thesis and said: “I’ve made hay of this materialism!” And he left the hall, like a triumphant… A couple of days later when Nikolai Petrovich was checking his grades he saw “the breaker of materialism”: he was quite embarrassed, saying over and over: “Can’t understand a thing! – one out of five minus – how on earth can this be?!” (“one out of five minus” that is, his mark was lower than just “very bad”).
For his thesis, Nikolai Izyumov was given a distinction for all nominations: grammatical correctness, style, manner and contents. Having graduated from the Academy, he defended the thesis on child-rearing practices among early Christians. So my grandfather became a Candidate of Theology. Although he refused to enter the priesthood: as Nikolai Izyumov confessed, he was not entitled to become a priest, because he had lost his faith in God (with all due, even deep, respect for the Christianity). We, the grandchildren, were aware of this fact. But we were always sure that the grandfather’s lack of faith was a tragedy, a disaster for him: we knew that despite our atheistic upbringing and the fact that our gentleman grandfather never looked like an unhappy person. Far from it! I keep a photograph given to my grandfather by one of his friends, Mikhail Pokrovsky with the inscription on the back of it saying: “To Nikolai Petrovich, always calm and noble”. I also knew that my grandmother rejected more than once the grandfather’s proposal of marriage. I think, the reason could be our grandfather’s unbelief, although I cannot be positive. Moreover, Dimitry Voznesensky favored his future son-in-law from the very beginning; he even said with confidence: “This one fits us!”
Nikolai Izyumov held Dimitry Voznesensky in high regard. The young son-in-law was aware that the priest’s little son died, so, he was going to be the last generation in his family. Therefore, Nikolai Izyumov offered his new father to take his family name (first, Nikolai had many brothers with heirs, and besides, he could win permission for this decision through the Synod). However, the reply he received from Dimitry Voznesensky was short and straight: “If God wanted our family to preserve He would do that!” A severe truth, perhaps: I remember the photograph of a small child’s coffin – and the inscription on the back, saying: “Petja Voznesensky, the last of us.” Anyways, however hard and painful it could be, the will of God was never challenged.
As it seems to me now, Dimitry Pavlovich did not interpret the unbelief of his daughter’s husband as something decided and closed. He rather thought it was a passing fad. What were not passing, however, were Nikolai Izyumov’s sober mind, his excellent education, as well as his ability to see any situation in proper perspective and make a decision, prompt and proper. Dimitry Voznesensky foresaw that such a man would be able to save the family under any, even risky and unexpected, conditions. As it turned out, he was right…
Before the marriage, Nikolai Izyumov was a student, and at the same time, served as a pretty successful Synod clerk. In 1912, my grandfather Vladimir was born. The home street of his family, Bolshaya Podyacheskaya, was situated not far from Nikolsky Cathedral. Pretty close there was another, very significant location: Alexander Block’s last apartment: the great poet moved into there the same year, in 1912. When I was a teenager, I loved to think that it was, perhaps, inspired by my grandmother carrying little Boba by hand that Block wrote this poem:
“Passing down, without a smile,
You are lowering your gaze,
In the twilight o’er the temple
Shining golden cupola.
How’s your face looking alike
To the evenings’ Madonnas
Who are looking down and far
To disappear in the twilight.
But I see with a meek and gentle boy
with white hat over the curls,
you are carrying him by your hand
not to let him fall down.// …
So I am standing there, recalling
How’re lowering your gaze,
How’d your little boy in white hat
Smiled at you…”
Quite interestingly, there is a photo in our archive: my father as a child in a white fur-cap. I do not think this can be adduced as a weighty argument proving that Block’s famous poem was inspired by the sight of my grandmother with her son. But the verse really reflects my grandmother’s manner and style of behavior, her love to the temple, her relations with the son – both tender and fiduciary. They both maintained this close relation to the last year of her life.
My grandmother was the only living creature that remained near Dimitry Voznesensky who had widower very young. His brother Alexander, also a priest had lost his wife very early too. A little baby soon became the object of admiration from both brothers: the two of them loved each other very much and were close to apotheosize Olenka, a daughter and a niece!
A stalwart handsome guy, Father Alexander, was in the diplomatic service. He travelled a lot – Alexander Voznesensky even accompanied the Russian Emperor on his trip to the Chinese Empire. From each of these travels, he used to bring all sorts of exotic garments for his precious niece. It perplexed Father Dimitry who could not tell the gifts of sartorial muses or some just trendy things from an antique sarafan. “What’s this all about? – Olenka’s got more dresses than late Empress Elizabeth!” Here, the uncle would exchange sly glances with his niece, and so… the incident was over.
In his turn, Father Dimitry Voznesensky devoted himself to the moral education of his daughter. Daughters of priests usually become priest’s wives. Father Dimitry, a son of his mother and a father of his daughter, he had no doubt about the importance of women in the family! God helping, the Voznesensky brothers managed to educate Olenka. Also, they contributed to her development as a person: often enough, children without a mother are of sullen disposition and difficult nature. Nothing like! Olga Dmitrievna was good-natured and balanced.
When World War 1 burst out Father Alexander went to the front as a regimental priest. I remember well his photograph in “Niva” magazine: riding horseback in front of the troops, with a cross in his hand… Father Alexander fell in action on the day of the Transfiguration of Christ, in 1915. May his soul rest in the kingdom of heaven!..
In December 1916 the second son appeared. Grandmother and grandfather christened him as Dimitry. Nikolai Petrovich was expecting a major promotion but… no such luck!
That was exactly the case when Nikolai Izyumov demonstrated his wisdom: he understood what the Bolsheviks were about, at sight, so to say. What is more, he understood that the Bolsheviks’ revolution had come to stay. Thus, Nikolai Izyumov left the office and his nice apartment in St.-Petersburg, gave up his almost entire assets and property. Then together with his wife and two sons he moved to the country to start living in the Father Dimitry’s house. They moved there to start from scratch…
Somehow Nikolai Izyumov contrived to put right subsistence farming with a cow and sheep, poultry house and bee-garden, fruit trees and vegetable garden; he even availed of dried sugar beet when sugar disappeared. It was in those years of nightmare, when not just families but entire districts were starving to death! The price Nikolai and Olga paid was that they had to assimilate the strange experience: they mastered not only sowing and reaping, even shoe-making (from the leather they produced by themselves). It is neither easy nor safe for an intellectual to become a manual worker: apart from learning a dozen of trades there are certain risks and barriers. However, “the refugees from the capital” coped with their task! Olga Izyumova learned even things her neighbors never knew: for instance, the production of cheese. It should be said that all the neighbors always asked my grandmother to saw grain for them: everybody was sure her hands were bringing luck, the precondition of fair yield!
For Nikolai Izyumov’s family, the farmstead became a kind of Noah's ark. This tool of life-saving was situated in the village of Nikolo-Zamoshye, Mologa district, Yaroslavl province. At the height of the Bolsheviks’ flood, Mologa with all its houses and churches went to the bottom of an artificial lake, like mystic Kitezh. Unlike it, Mologa sank indeed!
*
…Even now, this picture flashes out almost instantly: in the south, the estate borders upon the churchyard (like it may be thought to befit the estate of a priest). A low wooden fence and heavy bed of raspberry (marking shaggy extremities of the garden) separate the farmstead from the pogost, a village churchyard, so that one cannot see tombstones and crosses from the garden, while the belfry is seen and perceived as its part.
In the west, there was a little pool, “the still waters” formed by the rivulet of the Yild at its bend. This pool was overgrown with water lilies, and there were potato beds around it, a large meadow and a great barn – in summer the barn was filled with sweet-scented hay, bit by bit. There, not far from the pool, the so-called “Far pond” was dug – that pond was a perfect bathing-hut for weeping willows on its banks. The “Near pond” was in the middle of the estate, in the heart of Juneberry shrubs with sweet berries which we, children, enjoyed so much.
In the center of the garden, there was a draw well with two flanked washtubs. In summertime, these washtubs were used to warm up water for the irrigation of vegetable beds located right here. The draw well was not only a water reservoir, no! it was also a fridge, in its own way: we usually put tightly closed milk churns with butter, cheese and sausage into the well’s snow-cold water. Except for that, the internal walls of our draw well were a fine mushroom spawn: we liked to swish off lovely agarics’ honeys into a jug, and then regaled ourselves with fried mushrooms.
Also, there were shrubberies of red, white and black currants, bushes of gooseberry, bird cherry trees and rowans. Apple trees gave shelter to beehives. Sometimes, they set the table for the outgrown family – three sons with their “offspring and household” in the shadow of an old lime-tree. But this happened in only very special cases. It happened, say, in summer 1960, the golden wedding – our grandparents” 50-th wedding anniversary when even distant relatives and neighbors came to congratulate them. Usually, the family gathered for meals in a large sun parlour. In addition to an exceptional dinner there was a marvelous view – a beautiful fragrant parterre!
A bit far away, there were two birch trees where they used to place the so called Finnish swing with two seats, one opposite the other. This swing was an age-sake of the firstborn, Vladimir Izyumov: the swing came from Finland in the first spring of his life (as a gift from his father). The way the swing was made was truly excellent: not a minor failure over sixty years – and what years! Eventually, the swing just changed hands, together with the garden and house. Decades have passed since then, and now, gentle melancholy reminds me of those silent evenings when grandfather and grandmother were sitting together in the swing quietly talking – while the grandchildren were standing silent, at a respectful distance: everything was quite natural, no need to make a peremptory shout (well, although we were quite lively children).
In the north, there was a shallow ditch instead of the fence to separate our garden from the neighbor’s. It was Ivan Vasilievich Sofijsky’s family, a deacon who assisted Father Dimitry at his last liturgy, in the Temple of Epiphany.
That was in late October, 1918, the last liturgy in Father Dimitry Voznesensky’s life. When he finished the service he was taken to be shot. A wooden deck was made over the slush of clayey road, the road to the railroad station of Nekouz, three kilometers away from the village. The name of the village is said to come from “nekogo uzit’”, the saying attributed to the Tartar invaders: they found “nobody to be captured”. Well, even the Tartars did not use to shoot priests to death…
*
…Back in 1993, as soon as I had learned that there was a canonization committee based in Danilov monastery, I submitted the materials related to the act of faith done by Dimitry Pavlovich Voznesensky. The materials I submitted included everything I knew from the stories told to us by our grandmother, father and uncle, and also the remarks left by the daughter of the shot priest in the margins of his Great Euchologion.
In 2002, thanks to the Internet, we with not a little emotion learned that Father Dimitry had been canonized. Strikingly, the respective Synodal Resolution was taken in October 2001, during some dramatic events in the life of the family: Giorgi, the great grandson of Olga Dmitrievna, was at death's door. In those very days, one of the young man’s friends asked the priest, who was his friend, to offer prayers for Giorgi’s cure of illness. Quite soon, despite the hopeless forecasts from all the doctors around, the young man felt better. So his friend thanked the priest. “Your prayers almost resurrected the friend of mine”, he said. The priest’s reply was: “What are my tiny prayers? Giorgi’s ancestors really wrestle with God!” It should be said that the priest was a stranger, unaware of the family’s history. When we heard this there was no doubt that Giorgi would survive. Almost no doubt… God be thanked, today Giorgi is quite healthy.
Later on, in the Internet version we discovered some details that had been unknown to us earlier. It was some extra information available for the Church (in addition to my note). This way you come to realize that the history of your family tradition is a part of the Holy Tradition, a part of the ecclesiastical history!
With such awareness, one of Father Dimitry’s great granddaughter, Irina Vladimirovna Sanadze (based in Georgia), decided to visit her native heath. What she took with her was an icon - Priest-martyr Dimitry- and also a video recording of the recollections of family members (many things appeared related to the Holy Tradition). She hardly managed to obtain a Russian visa and set off... In Yaroslavl, Irina was convinced that this tour was not her (or even her entire family’s) private matter. Lidia Pavlovna Vatlina, Irina’s schoolmate, got in touch with archimandrite Father Benjamin, a representative of the Yaroslavl Eparchy. The matters related to the newly canonized martyrs turned out to fall within Father Benjamin’s responsibility. When he got familiar with the materials brought by Irina and heard her out, the archimandrite was deeply moved.
According to the story told by Father Benjamin, he discovered the report that had miraculously survived in the archives of notorious Che-Ka (predecessor to KGB). The report was returned to the Orthodox Church and archived in the eparchial office. That report was written by Father Sergiy (Rozov), the curate of Nikolo-Zamoshie church, and addressed to “His Eminence Agathangelos, His Beatitude the Metropolitan of Yaroslavl and Rostov”. It was sent in 1918, right after the dramatic events. On the basis of this very report, Father Benjamin applied for the canonization of Father Dimitry Voznesensky. This application seems to have become a decisive factor. Father Benjamin told Irina that while reading Father Sergiy’s report, he almost gave himself up to despair: “Shoot to death – and leave no trace!” That’s why he was so happy when he met the priest-martyr’s great granddaughter and got evidence that the time is NOT out of joint!
The eparchial office assigned a vehicle to take Irina to Nekouz . Father Benjamin told her, half in jest: “It doesn’t happen everyday that the saints’ descendants stay with us”.
When they came to Nekouz, the priest in the Temple of Epiphany was Father Sebastian who managed to maintain the proper decor of the church, despite poverty, if not destitution. Father Sebastian remembered well Olga Dmitrievna, and also Eugenia Petrovna Drozdova, Nikolai Izyumov’s sister. Now, he saw the icon of Priest-martyr Dimitry, the icon that Irina presented to the church of her native heath – what delight! what tenderness caused this gift in Father Sebastian! How was he touched!.. This became perhaps the last consolation in the priest’s life –he deceased several months later. May he rest in the Kingdom of Heaven!
In fact, the report made by Father Sergiy (Rozov) was the display of civil courage in those years of the Bolshevik terror, especially as he had to face the firing squad. However, the total destruction of the clergy was conducted secretly (in accordance with the Lenin’s secret order), only a very small portion of documents remained to reflect that unprecedented massacre.
The Bolsheviks’ hatred of clergy had nothing to do with abhorrence or social hate. Yet, it was absolutely understandable. It was not enough for Bolsheviks to just exploit people, to order about (?)the human beings (something that “good old” landed gentry was up to). No! Bolsheviks pretended to become spiritual leaders – chieftains and teachers. They tended to pasture people with a verger instead of crozier.
In 1918, Savinkov raised an anti-Bolshevik mutiny in Yaroslavl and Rybinsk. Father Dimitry had strong opinions about the Bolsheviks but he called the flock not to participate in the bloodshed. At the same time, certain individuals incited from the centre of the mutiny demanded to arrange a cross procession and to bless “feat of arms”. But cross processions and public prayers in public areas were already banned by a new decree of the Soviet government. Then, Father Dimitry and Father Sergiy made a decision –to stay with the people at that fatal hour.
“Yielding to the persistent demand, and also aware of the mission and duty of a priest to be everything for everybody, we left for the station. There we had a public prayer to Our Lord, to the Intercession, to Saint Nicholas. The deacon and I particularly prayed so that there be more love and no malice, no spite, no hatred. I asked the congregation to request, first of all, peace, concord and order” – the quotation from Father Sergiy Rozov’s Report.
When the prayer was over, and I was about to bless the flock with the Holy Cross, priest Dimitry Voznesensky told me he wanted to deliver a speech. I stopped. Father Dimitry said: “I would not be mistaken if I say: these days are extremely hard for all of us. We are looted. They rob us of bread and shrines, of everything we’ve ever had. They oppress vergers and the faithful of the Church. This way of life is intolerable. We need the Constituent assembly to elect the constituted authorities”. He finished. After the prayers the clergy of the parish went home.”
In sharp and definite words Father Dimitry refused in public to recognize the legitimacy of the Bolsheviks’ power. So, the choice was made: on his own accord, the priest chose to suffer martyrdom.
The march of events that followed the prayer and speech, the outline itself edged on the fatal inevitability. Let get back Father Sergiy’s Report:
“October 17, at 8 a.m., Father Dimitry told the sexton to toll a big bell before the mass.
Then, several punitive squads arrived from Rybinsk, and all the insurgents ran away, having offered almost no resistance. When the Red Army soldiers heard the big bell sound they thought it was a signal for a rebellion, the heart of which was supposedly located in our village, the nest of counter-revolution, so to say. That’s why they rushed to the church. Two Red Army men entered the temple where Father Dimitry was chanting the liturgy, the Epistle.
...One soldier shouted: “Stop chanting!” Then, the soldier approached the Holy Gates and demanded to discontinue the liturgy, making efforts to drag Father Dimitry off the sanctuary. The priest told him in a firm voice: “You are a soldier, you should remain holding the fort of yours. I am a priest and this is my fort to hold!” The soldier’s reply was that he tried to fire a shot at the priest. Father Dimitry told him: “Fire your rifle. I am ready” However, the soldier’s rifle failed… “We’ll get you anyway”, the soldier said and left the church. After that, the liturgy ran its course. Some people from the congregation chanted on the kliros. Also, there were communicants who made their confession the day before…
After the liturgy, Father Dimitry went home to have a rest for a moment. All of a sudden, several soldiers broke in and demanded that he go to the station. Father Dimitry obeyed. On the way down to the station, Red Army soldiers tried to make fun of him: “How many years have you been a priest?” “Forty-five”, he answered. “So, it’s a pretty long time, since you have been robbing the people!” “Ask the people, then, if I am a robber or not!” was the priest’s reply. Besides, he tried a lot to persuade soldiers not to loot peasants, not to be an offense to their shrines. At the station, Father Dimitry was interrogated. In the evening, they took him to another station, named Shestikhino. There he was interrogated for the second time; the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth – that was Father Dimitry’s reply to the examining officers. He was saying the same things he had held a speech on after the public prayer.
The same night from 17th to 18th of October, 2 a.m., Father Dimitry was executed by shooting. Together with the others who were executed by a firing squad, he was buried early in the morning, right there, not far from the station of Shestikhino”.
I dare to add some details we knew from our grandmother. During the interrogation, she was standing right near the building – sure, she was not let in to attend the interrogation. A young soldier asked her what was she doing there. She answered that she was the daughter of the priest under questioning. “Eh, he's broke, from all accounts – he is the one to say the truth and shame the devil. They’ll shoot him, for sure!” – the young Red Army man told her.
When Father Dimitry was escorted from the building he managed to side-shift the convoy and to bid farewell to his daughter in silence. Father was carried away, and Olenka returned home.
They say, the past cannot be changed. But that terrible night my grandmother felt as if their home had changed into a different house - one filled with fear and anguish. As the most depressive feeling Olga Dmitrievna recalled the hours when she wanted to pray for her father’s life – and she could not! The only thing the daughter could ask God for was to strengthen her beloved father. She understood: his death was inevitable. The only thing they could do was to face death the right way...
At a gloomy and cold dawn of the following day somebody came to the house hammering on the door. It appeared Nikolai Petrovich’s nephew: the nimble guy managed to get very close to the place of execution, so that he could see the whole thing. This was what he witnessed: “Four men were put up against the wall, in the light of the searchlights. Then, they were commanded to face the wall. One man fell down on his knees, pleading for mercy, some others cried quarter, averting their faces or trying to hide… but there was the man. The priest. He stood erect looking straight in the soldiers’ eye. He stood stock-still even after the first volley: it seems to me, nobody dared to fire a shot at him. At last, the commissar going off at the soldiers snatched a rifle out of one’s hands and took a shot at the brave priest. As for me, I crawled out by stealth...”
After the execution, Nikolai Izyumov made some serious efforts to obtain a reburial permit (that is, the paper authorizing the family to bury Father Dimitry in the churchyard). According to Father Sergiy, Nikolai Izyumov failed to obtain the permit. Our version is different: the permit was OK but the ecclesiastical authorities advised him not to use this permit. The reburial of Father Dimitry, as they suggested, could develop into a mass demonstration that would entail great sacrifices (they knew well about the love and devotion of the village residents to Father Dimitry). “The death of this man calmed down the situation, so let’s not agitate the people again; Father Dimitry himself would not appreciate that” – Nikolai Izyumov felt they were right. After all, the permit could trigger another bloodshed and violence…
Anyway, today, the discovery of Saint Dimitry’s Relics could only happen by some miracle!
… Our life went on. The house that had outlasted its owner was now coming back to its normal state. What is amazing, the perished owner, an unpractical and self-absorbed person deprived of woman's love, had managed to create such a house. The house – not just cosy or comfortable, but brightened up, sublime and joyful, filled with sacred books and icons, impregnated with chrism and wax, and also the scent of oak, honey and something indescribable, even imperceptible, something free and elusive. Perhaps, it was thanks to this feeling or aura, this house has always attracted people. In this very house, brides coming from neighboring villages usually changed their clothes (proper to the weather) putting on their new wedding dresses appropriate for the occasion. This old house used to be a magnet attracting Father Dimitry’s descendants with their families for years. Even at present, years later, all of them perceive this house as their home, as the most sacred place on the planet, their native heath!
*
When grandmother was telling us about her father she would make no secret about the fact that, after the death of his wife Dimitry Pavlovich went on a drinking bout. Thank Goodness, Father Dimitry managed to surmount this problem with age. Interestingly, it was Father Dimitry who men in the village preferred to come to confession to: they knew, the priest would not only grant them absolution. Habitual intemperance used to be “the main sin” in the village, so Father Dimitry could help villagers to give up this pernicious habit, based on his own experience. Their wives would rather go to Father Sergiy (Rozov): they knew that “batyushka” would wise them up with a useful advice. Good Shepherds…
In 1919, my grandmother’s third son, Boris, was born. Nikolai Petrovich and Olga Dmitrievna worked as teachers in the village school. Also, they kept house and fostered children. Most probably, such monotony was burdensome to a formerly top official. Therefore, he made an effort to move to Rybinsk and, perhaps, to launch a career anew, in the realm of education. But one fine day Dima, his second son, came from school in tears. He showed his mother a newspaper with a screamer: “N.P.Izyumov, eminent official of the Holy Synod, entrenched himself in a Soviet school!” The mother’s comment was authoritarian: “Surely, eminent! Isn’t he eminent?” Dima felt pride and was ashamed at the same time. But his father got the message: he turned back to the village, in order to risk neither himself nor his family.
Years went by, and the day came for Vladimir to select the course of life. A young man, avid for justice, seemed to be in favor of studying law entering a department thenadays known as “faculty of Soviet legality”. Vladimir expressed his view to his father. Nikolay Petrovich was attentive to his elder son but his reaction was sarcastic: “faculty of Soviet legality? Maybe, you mean “Soviet illegality”? I would say, it would be reasonable to link your destiny to Chemistry. It is a science of far-reaching importance and, what is more, you’ll be able to support your family without going against your conscience. You know why I teach only German? Well, with this wantage of teachers I could easily have extra hours in some other humanities: History, Literature, Social Science. The German language is the only subject I can teach children without deceiving them!” That was a strict guideline: you should serve people without (?)and be faithful to your principles. The three sons of Nikolay Izyumov became aces in engineering sciences.
My grandfather died in 1961, at the age of 82. I believe he died as a happy man: nobody was seriously ill, died, arrested for all the years that followed Father Dimitry’s death of a martyr. Neither horrible repressions nor the Great Patriotic War affected Nicolay and Olga Izyumov’s large family. My grandmother was sure she was happy. Well, she really was.
We, the children, were on good terms with our parents. Postwar devastation, poverty, deficit of living space did not affect us. But the only place we were at home was that House in Nekouz. The House where we, brothers, sisters and cousins, perceived something unique, some blessed power permeating everything, inspiring our very lives. We would easily give a tourist season at any health resort for one summer in Nekouz.
Quite often, grandfather and grandmother were not alone even in wintertime: they often spent cold seasons together with the grandchildren. Eight-year old Ira came to the village right from Germany. Her father had worked in Germany being on a long business trip right after the completion of the Great Patriotic war.
Ira did not remember her first trip to Nekouz: she had been only two years old then. She was taken to the village just to say good-bye to her grandparents before leaving for Germany. It was in 1946. Grim postwar years. When Irochka asked for a candy, the grandmother would tell her with regret, there was none. Ira thought it was an invitation to a game: “Let’s look for a candy, then!”
Ira in pram was taken to the railway station. A passer-by asked her: Hey, little girl, where are you going?” And the little girl answered: “To Germany!” In a pram, directly – to Germany!
…In the early fifties Ira did not remember her grandfather and grandmother. However, she started feeling really comfortable with them very soon. A tiny room her grandmother provided for her was really cosy, and the neighboring room was a kitchen with a magnificent Russian stove. Over the bed, the grandmother hang a good-old German tapestry. A nice breakfast scene on a meadow in front of a mansion was depicted on it.. The style of the eighteenth century – with pets, flowers: peace and tranquility were in the air, so to say. Additionally, the picture reminded Ira of Germany, so she felt quite at home despite the dramatic difference in the surroundings - between a Russian village and a German town. There was no electric light in Nekouz at that time, so they would light beautiful kerosene lamps, a legacy of Saint-Petersburg’s epoque. The beautiful antique lamps, a warm stove bench and a radio receiver…
Vladimir Nikolaevich would come on Sundays. He used to bring some exotic fruit to cheer up his daughter. One day, he brought a pack of bananas, a really “rare bird” then. For some reasons, he forgot about the fruit. So, they were found already rotten. Eventually, the tropical fruit was put at the mercy of the cow named Dina – surely, the only cow in Nekouz that knew the taste of bananas.
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In winter, the river of Yild flowing right behind the fence is covered with marble crust. Through the ice you can see evergreen driftweed to hem reddish clayey bottom. A magic scene can paint an overcast day in bright colors!
At last, Vladimir Nikolaevich’s entire family gathered to celebrate New Year – 1952 in Nekouz. Long years in a strange land were over...
That winter, tenants appeared in the House: two young men, Yura Troitsky, Russian literature teacher, and Sasha Kochnev, drawing teacher. Both were bright people and they soon became friends to the grandfather and grandmother, and also to small Ira. One day, Sasha showed Ira a photo of his diploma painting, and Ira asked, with amicability and naivety: “In which museum is it now? In Tretyakov Gallery?” - “Of course, in Tretyakovka!”, Sasha replied with laughter. Sasha loved the House so much that once he invited his friend there, a blind man. The supersensitive young man had an excellent time in an atmosphere of amicable care and attention.
There were two entrances into the House. You would enter the first one directly from the garden. This entrance, as the terrace itself, was used only in summer. When you enter the second one you ascend a high dark staircase and find yourself in an inner porch with a so-called “concocted cupboard” in the corner and smaller water tubs on a long bench. There were three doors in the inner porch: the first one to the terrace, the second one – to the rooms and the third one, letting in the warm air from the kitchen with a big Russian stove. The Russian stove usually equipped with various devices of cast-iron and oven forks is the true heart and engine of a Russian country house. In the corridor, near the stove, there was a huge washstand with a copper basin merrily clanking with water falling in…
Now let’s pass to the dining-room. There, you see an apple tree garden behind the window, with an unusual plant standing on the windowsill. That peculiar plant seemed to flood the entire room with a mist or a cloud of bluish color. That was what the poet meant when saying “in the bluish net of plants…”
What you also see in the dining-room is a smaller table with several chairs around, a fubsy leather sofa, and also a huge leather armchair known and respected as grandfather’s armchair. There are stoves with stove benches built-in the internal walls. Later one of the stove benches became a last asylum for dying Nicolay Izyumov: he covered with crosses the wall next to him.
Grandfather’s funeral… what I remember best of all is that Nicolay Petrovich looked years and years younger. His waxen complexion with a forehead large and high, with the wrinkles smoothed out – his face was covered with a kind of majestic beauty!
My grandmother did not cry. Her look was stern – as I remember now (I was ten years old, back then). Over the days of the funeral, the psalms were read in the House.
My grandfather was buried in the very place that had been prepared for Father Dimitry. That grave had remained hollow for decades. Near the place for the grave, there had been an elegant summer-church demolished in the 1930ies: Soviet-style procurement of quality bricks. In the days of past, from the altar fenestella of this very church Father Dimitry would hand particles to his beloved daughter.
When Dima, Nicolay Izyumov’s second son, was five or six years old here he saw an old man in monastic weed sitting on one of the tombs. The old man looked at Dima and apparently exhaled. Dimitry Izyumov, a sober and business-like person, was not the one to friend with phantoms. But that strange apparition excited his disgust for materialism; it was like a warning against the chains of inanimate matter, as he confessed as an old man of ninety. Eventually, the apparition’s object was gained, we can be sure.
Only one icon was there in the dining room – a really big one, however: Mother of God standing on a cloud, with two saints on the left and on the right – Alexander Nevsky and Dimitry Donskoy. Alexander and Dimitry, these two names… On the same wall, there was a big photographic portrait of Father Dimitry robed in cassock and with the heavy cross on his chest. This portrait had been always – far before Father Dimitry was canonized – perceived as an icon. I remember myself standing in front of this “photoicon”, looking intently into my grandfather’s face as if trying to somehow decipher the secret he was keeping (as I believed then for some reasons).
Today, almost half a century later, I think I was right. Secret of Sanctity – it was something Father Dimitry’s the face expressed. Saints are human beings who managed to go beyond the bounds of purely human existence; they hopped over the abyss, so to say.
Apart from sanctity, there was a place found for the present. In the corner, there was a black open bookcase with a gramophone and a lot of gramophone records. Among them, you could find grandmother’s favorite record – Beethoven’s songs: Irish and Scotch Drinking Songs brilliantly sung by Prof. Dolivo. Father Dimitry also liked the Scotch Drinking Song. As regards for the Irish Drinking Song, they thought it was too sad… Yes it was.
Above the bookcase, there was a portrait of Alexander Pushkin. Grandmother’s attitude to him was always so ingenuous and sincere that the poet might be thought to be a friend or relative of hers. She often quoted Pushkin, and it was more narration than quotation!
Every Sunday, my grandmother used to get up rather early, put on a very nice, black lacy headdress and go to church. Sometimes the children would dog her footsteps but she would pay no attention to anybody – she was saying her prayers. Grandmother had a calm face and mild eye but… after the liturgy, her face lit, her eyes shone with joy!
I was an active pioneer. So I made several efforts to get into an argument with my grandmother on account of religion. I respected Christ but nothing more. As for grandmother, she never tried to make out that Christ was NOT “just a good man” but a God-man, God-become-man. However, it should be admitted that all my “airtight arguments” appeared to come to a standstill: atheism did not work! Sometimes Olga Dmitrievna told us the stories from the Gospel – telling the way she saw it by herself!
In grandmother’s small room, which was adjacent to the dining-room, there were lots of family members’ photographs and a number of icons over them. Also, there was a picture, on the wall opposite to the bed: Jan Hus at the stake. Grandmother respected Jan Hus very much, and I remember her story about an old woman who added a billet to the fire. “Sancta simplicitas!” or “blessed innocence” – that was the saint’s comment. As for myself I considered that old woman to be a malicious dolt. However, I was afraid to say that aloud…
A dining room with a gigantic oak sideboard… This sideboard always tried to seduce me with the store of candies and cookies. Sometimes – when it was particularly cold – we used to have breakfast in that room. However, there was an ample room on the terrace – and we liked to sit at table, and it was a bell that called us together. The bell was small but its sound was spread all over the homestead: as soon as we heard it we would run home as fast as our legs could carry us. Then we used to sit down in a strict order: each place had its owner. Then we started to eat, in a dignified way. There was a long wooden bench on the left side of the table. Our parents used to sit in chairs, on the right side. The table was usually managed by Dimitry Nikolayevich’s wife, aunt Anya (Anna Kolabskaya), a blue-eyed fairy and kind soul. Uncle Dima and aunt Anya had three sons – and it was far from an easy task to feed only these three giants.
Talks during meals were forbidden. Well, it was not just eating behavior: the food had never been (and would never be) so delicious as there and then, in our childhood in Nekouz! For breakfast, really huge pies were baked in the Russian stove: pies with meat and pies with cabbage or spring onions, and also, special pies with mushrooms, picked at dawn in the forest. In addition, there were curd tarts (in-house). They would bring young potatoes – just from patches, smoked, powdered with dill and sprinkled with melted butter. Our grandmother had first cucumbers in the village, as well as garden radish and greenery. The pies were followed by candies, honey, bread and butter and jam.
For dinner, we used to have cabbage soup, rassolnik or other kinds of soup, followed by porridge with mushrooms or meat. Cottage cheese patty, raspberry or strawberry, made of milk fresh from the cow was another delight!
What we had for supper was scrambled eggs from domestic poultry: eggs that were plenty, fresh cottage cheese with honey and sour cream, and also, tea and milk fresh from the cow.
The children were the first to leave the table: they would stand up, one by one kissing the crown of the head of the adults with the words: “Thank you for a delicious meal!” The grown-ups usually continued sitting at table, relaxing after the meal. In fact, rituals make children laugh but they still love rituals, I am sure.
The attic – svetyolka – occupied a very special place in the house. You could attend this place from the inner porch, ascending squeaking loft stairs. The attic windows overlooked the belfry, while under the windows there was an apple garden. In the attic, there were only icons over two narrow beds. The rest space was dedicated to stacks crammed with books: Russian and European classics, collected works by St. John Chrysostom, multivolume History of Russian schism, books in the German language (Nikolay Petrovich was fluent in German) and many others: among them, an illustrated Gospel (for kids), the Great Euchologion and – Number One in the great grandfather’s library – The Sacred Scripture in Old Church Slavonic. Later, these three books were given to the eldest son, my father. All the grandchildren inherited pocket Gospels – a unique edition issued when my grandfather worked in the Holy Synod. Olga Dmitrievna granted the majority of Christian books to the priest, shortly before her decease.
The attic was situated in the garret with lots of forged trunks. In one trunk, there were icon lamps and icons from the destroyed summer church. Another trunk contained sacerdotal robes. The third trunk was full of grandfather’s cuffs, collars and shirtfronts: perhaps, he believed the day would come to return to Saint-Petersburg and resume the work he loved so much…
The garret was a kind of conservancy area: there were a plentitude of prerevolutionary journals and newspapers. I still remember the lady from the fashion magazine of the early twentieth century: her hat looked like a sailer with all sails set. Both the garret and the attic were the debris of the bygone, of the epoch that sank into oblivion. We did not know it yet but we did surmise what a treasure it was – History coming alive!
The attic was, thus, dedicated to the spiritual side life of the family. As for the physical side of life, it was served by the nonresidential part of the house. There were three premises: the “water-heating room”, which was a bathroom and laundry, at the same time; a cattle shed and hen coop with comfortable nests for a plethora of laying hens. It was so fascinating to collect eggs there! But most of all we loved the “water-heating room”. It had gigantic metallic cauldrons set in the stove, several barrels for cold water, countless wooden washtubs for washing, and also dippers, scoops and bunches of green birch twigs hanging up the walls. It smelled wet birch, smoke, wood tar and wisps of bast – in short, a scent of fun and comfort. A tiny window overlooked a corner of the garden that was overgrown with mountain ashes. Once a week we had that tiny festive occasion – a bathing day. The previous day, for a half of day my cousins were engaged carrying tubs of water from a draw well into the water-heater: what a great amount of water it required for about twenty persons to take a steam bath! And it was a real Russian steam bath: no mercy to time and to water, to steam and to soap! I always asked to let me in the first – before the heat became too heavy. Then, I used to wait for the others to come: after the hot steam, they were especially happy, particularly wanting to drink tea. With pies, of course…
In the evening, it was incredibly nice to go to bed: starched linen was well-ironed with a massive pressing iron. It was made of cast-iron and heated with burning charcoal – that was why the linen smelled smoke.
Honey and bees – that was another domain in the “physical part” of life. On the other hand, there is something not quite material about the bees. Grandmother believed that the first day of spring was the day when bees left the beehive for the first time: their joyous buzz welcomed the return of spring. The first honey was ready by early summer: dressed in special clothes (a hat with a net) and armed with a smoker my grandfather looked really mysterious. While we were hiding from the irritated bees, grandfather, like a magician, opened the beehives and put honeycombs, one by one, into a hand centrifuge. He swung the lever, and a thick flow of honey trickled down into kegs that were placed under it. The entire terrace was then filled with healing and hilarious fragrance of beeswax and honey.
Everybody of us, the people who have ever been in contact with the House, always tried to model or to imitate its style and habits in our everyday life. But something was missing – something very important. Every orthodox Russian is familiar with this key element, calling it “Sacred Russia”. This spirit was prayed to and mobilized by many generations of the people doing their best in an effort to live the Orthodox way of life. Sometimes these efforts fructify…
One of my cousins, Sergey, was a military doctor. He spent many years in a submarine. When retired Sergey let his family live in a Moscow apartment and started farming business in the region of Kuban, where his mother-in-law lived. Since the savings of his entire life fell prey to the economic reforms of the early 1990ies, Sergey was forced to turn over a new leaf: he managed to build up a nice house, on the pediment of which he depicted a bee. Physical toil, however, brought my cousin to his grave…
It was the day of his funeral of cold Moscow’s November. Quite of a sudden, a bee came flying, God knows from where and how, when the first snow had already powdered a fresh grave. The bee sat for a while on the shoulder of everyone who was attending the funeral. Then, this little miracle flew away, vanished, but it left a kind of awesome gratitude: everybody perceived the peculiar visit as a consolation that came from Nekouz of the past, from the sunny and happy days of Sergey’s childhood. Sergey, a man who had seen a great deal in his time, said that there was nothing in his lifetime, except for Nekouz…
After Sergey’s death, his mother-in-law confessed she did not want to live anymore. So, she died very soon, without any visible symptoms.
After a while, Sergey came in a dream to his daughter and promised her to turn back soon. Those very days she learned she was pregnant. A year had passed when a son, a true picture of Sergey, was born. He was named after his grandpa.
The death days of the ancestors coincide with the birth days of their descendants – this is not a rare case in the history of our family. These coincidences are reflected in the remarks to the Great Euchologion (the first remarks were made by Father Dimitry). Obviously, it is not a mere coincidence: it looks like the ancestors pass the baton to the following generations. It imposes a high responsibility, and also, it shows that the ties between different generations, between the past and the future – these ties are strong and sustainable.
Olga Dmitrievna passed away when she was 90. After her husband’s death she was lived in Moscow, in the family of her junior son, Boris. My father, Vladimir, loved his mother very much. When he was a little kid he had a dream that he would live together with his mother in a house built of roses… My father died in May, and his last impression was the bunch of red roses brought by my sister to cheer up our dying dad. At Vladimir Nikolayevich’s funeral, they brought many, many roses, so the catafalque looked like a house of roses. Those days, when the soul of my father was striving to meet his mother’s soul, we recalled his childhood dream… What is more important, Vladimir Nikolayevich’s decease was on the Holy Week. Special burial service, giving hope of resurrection, assuaged our grief.
My mother, a Georgian, was a person of rare sincerity and candour. She kept telling me that her mother-in-law was a person she respected more than anybody else in the world. Perhaps, the cardinal trait of her character was faithfulness. Her faith was on the confidence in God, on the belief and strong feeling that God is also faithful to “His people”. Such an attitude was the basis for grandmother’s firm moral principles and unfailing allegiance. When Vladimir Nikolayevich died my mother hang up her husband’s portrait close the portrait of his parents, Olga Dmitrievna and Nikolay Petrovich. They became, so to say, the travelling companions of her old age. Then I remember how, when I was a little girl, I asked my grandmother, whether she was disappointed with the choice of her son: “he married a stranger!” My grandmother was sincerely amazed: “How on earth could an Orthodox Christian be a stranger?!”
My mother deceased when she was 89. She had been ill three years before her death but suddenly she became so sick that she could not receive the Eucharist (or, the Last Sacrament). Then we decided to administer the last rites to Ekaterina Alexandrovna. The Anointing of the Sick lasted for a long time, so that the priest was afraid that she could pass away before the ritual was finished. In fact, in the very moment the priest uttered the last words my mother breathed her last. The priest was astonished, although such a case was not the first one in his life. “Her soul has been waiting for the completion of the sacrament”, the priest said.
Alas, often enough we were not worthy of our ancestors. Our sins and vices, however, have also been (and are, today) the result of our self-will: simply, the failure to “commensurate” our behavior with the heredity of the ancestors. At such moments, joy in our hearts becomes dim. But when we repent, when we return to our Father like the prodigal son did– then, again, joy is ready to flare up to illuminate our lives.
Vladimir Nikolayevich Izyumov was a head of department of paints and lacquers in the Technological Institute of Yaroslavl. Suddenly, the information came to the party bureau – the information against certain Ivan Frolov. That student was stated to be a churchgoer. At the same time, Ivan Frolov was a straight A student, one year before the possible postgraduate studies. While the decision of the Party’s regional committee was to expel the “dissident” from the Institute it was a Christian duty to save the young man. But HOW? One should be “gentle as a pigeon and wise as a serpent”…
Shortly before that event comrade Khrushchev himself paid a visit to Yaroslavl. He met the administration of the region. For some reason, the leader of the country got angry with somebody or something. So he was about to start screaming, yelling and stamping his feet – and such a behavior was known to be fraught with grave consequences for CVs and careers. Vladimir Izyumov was the only man who managed to keep his head: he held a “talking cure session”. “Chemicalization” for Khrushchev was a number two hobby (after Indian corn). So, when he learned about the new victories of chemistry in the Soviet Union, it was good. In addition, my father – as all Father Dimitry’s grandsons– had a way with people. Anyway, Khrushchev became kinder, while the staff members of the regional party committee sighed with relief, grateful to my father.
Now, the time came to use the “creditworthiness”. My father went to the regional committee and told them: “If we expel a straight A student (and from the fifth grade, on top of everything), the Western mass-media may start a row!” It was the time of the so-called “Khrushchev’s thaw”, therefore, foreign journalists raising the devil was not a good option, at all. In short, they considered Izyumov’s warning. Frolov was rescued.
However, a head of the department was obliged to conduct “educational work” with the “disloyal” student. My father discovered an excellent way to give a talk to the student who made up his mind to nail his colors to the mast (or, to defend Christianity). Vladimir Izyumov showed him that, in general, Christianity was a blind spot for the student: the strong faith should be combined with the knowledge and awareness! Yet, Frolov was almost unfamiliar with the dogmatics and Credo, knew almost no prayers, etc.
Ivan Frolov was much surprised: he could expect anything but not a genuine theologian talk! But even if he had been an agent provocateur, he would not have found a “corpus delicti” to inform against the peculiar head of department.
*
Dimitry Nikolayevich Izyumov served in the Air General Headquarters. It was an Easter morning when they, together with his colleague, returned back to Moscow from Tashkent. Crispness of the spring dawn was unusually pleasant, after the southern heat. Suddenly and unexpectedly, words burst from colonel’s breast: “Christ is risen from the dead…” Startled he stopped and glanced back, at Dimitry Izyumov. While he, a former choirboy, joined in singing with him: “…tramping down death by death…” Happy, they finished the chorale together: “…and upon those in the tomb bestowing life!” Miraculously enough, two Soviet colonels turned the runway into a choir-place and praised God, from the bottom of their hearts.
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It's amazing, what happened to one of Father Dimitry’s grandsons, Bidzina Zatiashvili. At Easter, he accompanied Catholicos-Patriarch of all Georgia Ilia II to Jerusalem (together with the other choir members). Bidzina wanted to somehow get to the Holy Sepulchre where the Holy fire was expected to descend. But the problem was, Bidzina was not supposed (unlike the hierarchs) to receive the permit to enter the temple, around which police cordons were put. He shared his regrets with an Arab who kept a little shop adjacent to the church. The fellow gave Bidzina a piece of advice: to join Orthodox Arabs when they were entering the temple, with songs and dances. When Bidzina managed to enter the church he left the Arabs and, guided by his intuition, passed through some stairs and corridors… A completely unexpected result was that the young man found himself in… the altar of the Greek church. So he went from the altar rail, along with the Greek hierarchs (although this place is designed solely for the clerics). Surely, the Bidzina’s compatriots were surprised – but the thing is, Bidzina could not understand or explain, how he managed, or, better, what force guided him to the Greek church.
Soon, the Holy fire descended. Bidzina immersed his hands into the fire – and he did not burn a single finger. This struck him even more…
That year, for the first time in the history of the Georgian church (since the 4th century), they managed to bring the Holy fire right to the Sioni cathedral, for the Easter celebration.
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In January 2005 a boy was born – a first Father Dimitry’s descendant to appear after his canonization. The boy was christened and given the name of his saint ancestor. I hope to God that Dima will become a worthy offspring of his family and worthy bearer of his name.
I have a concern, too. The Euchologion, bequeathed for me by my father, I should transfer to the most worthy person. Thanks God, Father Dimitry has worthy descendants, but how can I choose among them? It should be right that the book be in the hands of a churchman. Unfortunately, no Father Dimitry’s descendant has an ecclesiastical rank. I wait and hope….