Vasyl Shyliuk. Facets of Life and Death
The duel with the KGB was entering a new spiral. I was not fired from my job, but again I was given no work whatsoever. The Soviet government paid unemployment benefits to no one; on the contrary, it prosecuted people for parasitism: if a person doesn’t work, it means he lives at the expense of others, and such a person must be tried. The criminal article for parasitism carried up to two years of ordinary-regime camps.
I was not fired so that I wouldn’t snitch on Soviet reality, wouldn’t complain about the Soviet authorities. On my wife’s salary of 60 rubles you couldn’t get far: it might barely be enough for milk for the children and bread, but you still had to pay rent, electricity, water. The savings we had accumulated up to the time we applied for emigration were melting away like spring snow in warm weather.
A friend from Sukhumi, Pyotr Chernyshev, came to visit—he was passing through on his own business and decided to look me up. When he learned of my financial situation, he suggested I go to Sukhumi for work—there you could earn a little even in the winter painting buildings. I had to resign from my job myself. They gave me my pay within an hour—or rather, my work record book with a stamp “Dismissed at his own request”—and by evening they paid me all the money (the final settlement).
And just as we had traveled to Moscow or Kyiv, hiding from the vigilant, ever-watchful gaze of our guardians, by train, by roundabout routes, we set off for Sukhumi. With me were four other Pentecostal emigrants in search of work: my younger brother Pavel, Volodya Shkraba, Ivan Kovalsky, Stepan Gritsyuta.
February 1979 was drawing to a close. We were received well in Sukhumi. We got work painting small houses, a dormitory, a canteen, and the administrative building of the “Dynamo” shooting range, which belonged to the Ministry of Internal Affairs (militia). Seeing our work, the bosses at the repair-and-construction department promised that after finishing we would get a large five-story vacation home building somewhere far off in the mountains. We were also satisfied with the work. After two weeks, we received a good advance, which they gave us without any difficulty or red tape.
But our peace did not last long. After three or four weeks, the attitude of the RSU bosses changed sharply. They warned us that there was no more work, and nothing else would be done at the shooting range that year. It became clear: this was the KGB’s doing. We demanded that they settle up for the work we had done, but they were not willing to do even that. They promised to pay our wages only in two weeks. We could not sit idle for two weeks while eating up the money we had managed to earn. We decided to go home, leaving one person behind to collect the wages. I stayed to get the money we had earned. My friends said their goodbyes and left.
In Sukhumi there was a large church of Pentecostals, registered autonomously. There were no fewer than ten emigrant families in it, but they were treated well in the church, without hostility. Pastor A. Litoshik was not among the emigrants, but he also treated us in a friendly manner. We attended their services; they allowed us to preach, which was not possible everywhere.
Even before my friends left, Gerhard Klass, the president of the Union of Baptists of Western Europe, came to Sukhumi on a guest visit from West Germany, naturally with “escorts.” He visited the Pentecostal church during the week, at an evening service. We tried to speak with him without his guardians. When the service ended, we—a group of émigrés—formed a tight but inconspicuous ring around Gerhard Klass’s escorts and, while asking them various questions about faith, about the church in Moscow on Malouzyovsky Lane, edged Gerhard Klass away from them. We had our own interpreter. Our main questions were: the emigration of Pentecostals; whether the West knows enough about this movement; what the attitude of Western Christians is toward this question, and other similar questions.
Gerhard Klass answered that the West knows about this movement, but he doesn’t know the details. “But,” he said in a half-whisper, “next week Thomas Zimmermann—the president of the Assemblies of God in America—and his deputy for Eastern Europe, Bob Myakish, are coming here to you. You should turn to them with these questions; they know much more about it.” He dropped to a whisper: “He will be accompanied by Pyotr Shatrov and Sergei Nikolaev. Try to speak so they don’t hear—those two are working for the KGB.”
The pushed-away guardians realized that they had been “outmaneuvered” and began pushing through the tight ring to get closer to Gerhard Klass, but we had already done what we needed, and we didn’t need anything else. We broke the ring and dispersed.
Now we needed to prepare for the meeting with Bob Myakish and Thomas Zimmermann, and to prepare for such a meeting thoroughly, so that nothing would go wrong.
I knew Pyotr Klementyevich Shatrov well; he had come to impose order in the Rovno church when they had elected Fedya Melnik as presbyter—a man who was inconvenient to and unrecognized by the KGB. Pyotr Shatrov came to strip Brother Fedya of the office of presbyter. He called for reinforcements from the KGB—a car with their operatives and a radio waited not far from the prayer house throughout the entire time the members’ meeting lasted, while two “unknown church members” sat on the back bench silently watching everything that went on (possibly with a radio). The evening before, Shatrov had a talk with all the brothers, urging Brother Fedya to voluntarily give up the presbyter’s ministry. But nothing came of it.
So we already knew Pyotr Klementyevich quite well from his “exploits” in Rovno. The other man—Sergei Nikolaev—we did not know; we had only been told about him, that he is still very young, around thirty, lives in Leningrad, serves in VSEKhB as senior presbyter for Middle Siberia, that he studied in the West and speaks English well, and that he would be the interpreter for important and high-ranking guests.
We discussed all the events planned for the time of their stay in Sukhumi. We paid special attention to one of them: in the free time between services, they would be taken high into the mountains, to the mountain lake Ritsa—to introduce them to a great landmark of the Caucasus.
For the trip to the mountains, members of the Sukhumi church — émigrés — casually, as if by chance, offered their services: they were ready to serve with their cars. The pastor of the church, Brother Litoshik, agreed. At least five cars were prepared for the trip, three of them with our own drivers: Pavel Megedyuk, Slavik Maksimishin, and Petr Chernyshev. It was necessary that one of the two — Bob Myakish or Thomas Zimmerman — be in a car with our brothers. Brother Pavel Megedyuk had a decent Lada.
When the time came to leave for the mountains, Brother Pavel managed to get Thomas Zimmerman and his wife into his car. Nikolaev was supposed to accompany him. I rode in Petr Chernyshev’s car. In a cortege of half a dozen cars, we set off for the mountains. Our first stop in the mountains was at a certain clearing. Almost all tourists stopped there to admire a suspension bridge over a mountain river rushing below. A photographer was on duty in the clearing, ready to take pictures of all who wanted. Not far from him stood a saddled horse. Those interested could put on a Cossack burka and papakha hat, mount the horse, and capture this attraction in a photograph. The horse was so accustomed to riders that it no longer reacted to people wanting to climb onto its back. It seemed utterly indifferent to everything happening around it and on its back. It was so unfeeling that it didn’t even flick its ears.
We filed in single file toward the bridge. Brother Pavel Megedyuk was the last in line. Suddenly, he turned back and disappeared into some bushes.
When everyone was returning from the walk on the bridge, having admired the roaring river below, Pavel signaled to me, Petr Chernyshev, and Maksimishin to hang back a bit. We stepped aside, and Pavel said:
“That brother from the Baptist church has a radio transmitter or a walkie-talkie. When I stepped aside, he didn’t notice me and squatted down in the same bushes right next to me, reporting everything happening here — who is riding with whom, who is walking with whom, and whatever he managed to overhear from anyone. I stood up to my full height, and when he saw me, he hid the device under his coat.”
Even though it was warm in the mountains, he never took off his coat for the rest of the trip, though he constantly wiped his sweaty face and neck with a handkerchief soaked with perspiration.
(Usikov and S. Nikolaev now also live in America, having emigrated. But for what purpose?..)
We realized that at a short distance from us, our motorcade was being followed by a KGB car.
“And another thing,” Brother Pavel continued, “I had a clash with Brother T. Zimmerman’s escort. Zimmerman and his wife are sitting in the back seat, and Nikolaev is in the front seat beside me. When I started passing some papers and documents to Brother Zimmerman with my left hand, Nikolaev warned me not to do that again.”
“And what did you answer him?” we asked in unison.
“I told him, ‘You see nothing, you hear nothing, and you know nothing.’ He looked at me the way a doctor looks at a patient and replied, ‘Don’t fool around, Pasha, or you’ll get into trouble.’”
Then the conversation grew harsher, or rather, turned into an argument. He warned me once more, seriously, not to do anything foolish, otherwise it could end very badly for me.
I replied, “You can frighten me when I come to see you in your KGB office, but right now you’re sitting in my car.”
He answered in an even more raised tone. I tried to calm him down, pointing out that Brother Zimmerman might grasp our argument, our squabble. He said that Zimmerman doesn’t understand anything, and if he suddenly takes an interest in what we are arguing about, I’ll say it was about our doctrine and our understanding of the Bible.
“But that’s a lie, Seryozha.”
“And to you, I’m not Seryozha but Sergei Ivanovich, senior presbyter of the VSEKhB.”
“And to you, I’m also not Pasha or Pashka, but Pavel Megedyuk. That’s first. And second — regarding rank: to me, you’re not a senior presbyter, but a senior operative of the organs that send presbyters far away from the church and their families, making children orphans. And now you’re trying to frighten me with that, but you won’t succeed. A criminal case has already been opened against me by your ‘colleagues,’ and the trial is next week. I’m now giving Brother Zimmerman my own materials, and if it comes to that, I’ll also force you to translate my conversation with him to him. If you don’t calm down, you will translate everything I’m going to say.”
“You won’t get that from me, Pavel Megedyuk,” he said, pronouncing the name and surname with irony.
“Then I’ll put you out of the car and take my own interpreter, who will translate everything to him.”
“You won’t have time to do that, Pavel Megedyuk,” he said again with the same irony, pronouncing the name and surname, “even if you very much wanted to, you see — you won’t have ti-i-me!”
That’s the kind of squabble I had with that KGB man the whole way.
We advised Brother Pavel to stop the squabble — nothing good would come of it — but, given the situation, we decided: let’s try to continue the conversation in the prayer house. It needed to be conducted before witnesses, so that people could hear and see, and know who is who. If Nikolaev’s conscience is not completely seared, he won’t threaten with the KGB in front of many church members, but if nothing is left of it but burnt ashes, then let other church members learn more about such “senior presbyters.”
We took a group photo in the clearing and moved on toward Lake Ritsa.
Near Lake Ritsa, we again tried to arrange a conversation with T. Zimmerman, but nothing came of it. S. Nikolaev followed Zimmerman even to the restroom, not leaving him for a step or a second.
Near Lake Ritsa we took another group photo of all of us.
On our way home, we stopped in a small town and went into a restaurant for lunch. No sooner had we sat down at the table than a car with our “escorts,” who had been following us about half a kilometer behind, pulled up outside the restaurant. They came in and sat at a table opposite us. We — Brother Petr Chernyshev, Pavel Megedyuk, and I — decided to capture that car in a photograph as a memento of the trip, and we took a picture with it in the background.
The trip to the mountains took place on Saturday. That evening, after the outing, the visiting brothers decided to rest so they could come to the Sunday service refreshed.
The morning service went by quickly; Brother Thomas Zimmermann preached about the Church, which is made up of all peoples, all nationalities, all social classes, for which there are no state borders and no inaccessible places on planet Earth. After the service, when everyone went out into the inner courtyard of the prayer house, they all clustered around the guests. It was at that very moment that Brother Pavel Megedyuk—and along with him all of us émigrés—chose the place and time to continue the conversation with Brother Zimmermann that had begun in the mountains. Pavel approached Thomas Zimmermann closely and began to tell him that criminal proceedings had already been initiated against him and that a trial would begin soon. Nikolaev refused to interpret.
“If you won’t interpret, then we have our own interpreter, and we’ll use him.”
Finding himself in that situation, Nikolaev unceremoniously pressed the button of a tape recorder in his breast pocket, making it clear the whole conversation was being recorded, and said mockingly, “You can speak, I’ll interpret.”
Brother Pavel, without flinching, began to explain that there were many there who had submitted applications to emigrate. For that we suffer great persecution from the Soviet authorities. “It is precisely because I wrote an application to emigrate that criminal proceedings were initiated against me and the case has been sent to court. Next week I will already be on trial. Help us, as your brothers and sisters, to leave this godless country.”
Nikolaev had not expected such an accusatory speech. He was simply dumbfounded and fell silent.
“Why are you silent? Interpret! Otherwise we’ll interpret ourselves—I already told you we have an interpreter,” and Pavel began looking around, searching with his eyes for his own interpreter.
Nikolaev, seeing that the situation was getting out of hand, that he could no longer control it, that the church members were watching with redoubled interest to see what would happen next, how events would unfold, and that nobody was heading home, decided that he had to take some urgent decision, some retaliatory measure; otherwise his immediate masters might accuse him of aiding the émigrés. He seized Brother Zimmermann by the sleeve above the elbow and began pulling him, like a criminal, elbowing people aside, toward the car in which he was to leave.
Thomas Zimmermann did not understand what was happening around him, and at that moment a great uproar arose: people began to shame Nikolaev for his open work with the KGB, for his betrayal, for his Judas-like service. Zimmermann looked around, casting his eyes over the crowd that had gathered around him, and, as if on a leash, not understanding anything, step by step, obeying Nikolaev, who held him firmly by the jacket sleeve, he walked toward the car. The whole procession also slowly walked after them, angrily condemning Nikolaev’s lawlessness, tactlessness, rudeness, and insolence. But he paid no attention: his main task was to get Zimmermann into the car as quickly as possible, to separate him from this gathering he detested, to rid himself completely of this condemning crowd.
When they drew level with the car, Nikolaev opened the car door with his free hand and shoved Thomas Zimmermann inside, the way they shove criminals and hooligans. He slammed the door shut loudly, staying right beside it, and called the driver to take Zimmermann away quickly. And Zimmermann, through the door glass, looked at the brothers and sisters without understanding what was happening here, what was going on with the Soviet Pentecostals, why they were so angry, why they were arguing so fiercely—and in an unchristian manner—with the senior presbyter of the AUCECB, Sergei Nikolaev.
The meeting did not end entirely well, but after that Pavel Megedyuk was not arrested; apparently such an incident might have proved excessive.
The next day, Monday, the guests Thomas Zimmermann and Bob Myakish were leaving for Moscow. Brothers and sisters came to the hotel to see them off. And again our brothers came with their own cars to take them to the airport. And, as it happened, Thomas Zimmermann and his wife got into Pavel Megedyuk’s car, either because they had already ridden with him before or because they were curious about who he was. Accordingly, the chaperone was the same Nikolaev.
When the line of cars pulled up to the airport building, Nikolaev ordered them to drive under a prohibition sign: “No entry”. Pavel stopped, but he was ordered to drive on, with the claim that Nikolaev himself would take responsibility for the traffic. No sooner had Pavel, and the other cars behind him, driven under the forbidden sign than militia officers were right there, demanding the drivers’ licenses.
“Stay in your seats, don’t get out. I’ll deal with them myself,” commanded Nikolaev and stepped out to the militia officers. He pulled out a red booklet and showed it to the militia officers. They saluted him, touching their caps, and, apologizing, quickly disappeared.
The guests flew off, but the events that had taken place continued to stir the minds of the believers for a long time: how can one preach the Word of God, be a presbyter—and a senior one at that—and openly carry “red booklets” in one’s pockets?
Not ordinary “red booklets,” but ones that grant many rights that are forbidden to ordinary communists.
For two nights after this incident I stayed overnight at Peter Chernyshov’s, and during the day I sat in Pavel Megedyuk’s booth, where he repaired shoes. The booth stood right by the sea, on the embankment. Sitting in that booth, I felt as if I were resting on the seashore. We had many conversations, mostly about emigration. On Wednesday I decided to go to the place where we had lived when we worked there. The room in that small dormitory was still registered in my name; I hadn’t been evicted from there until I received my final pay.
The dormitory was on the outskirts of the city of Sukhumi, in a suburb called Gumista. I opened the door and entered the room, but some strange foreboding troubled me. I began to look around the room: it seemed as if an invisible eye was watching me. An eerie feeling came over me because of the total silence, a dead silence. Suddenly I noticed on the bed a buckle rivet from a soldier’s or militia belt: it lay on the smoothly made bed in the most visible spot. It was clear that during my absence someone had been here. Only it was impossible to know whether by day or by night, how many times, or how many of them there had been. I couldn’t understand: had the belt piece been left on the bed deliberately, to intimidate, or forgotten accidentally? The thought churned in my head: such things are not accidentally forgotten in such a conspicuous place; that means someone has given me a warning.
A freezing shiver ran down my spine. After all, at that time no one else was living in the whole dormitory or on the entire training ground-firing range—only I was there. I felt uneasy. Even lying down on the bed was terrifying.
At lunchtime Pavel Megedyuk arrived. He saw my worried look and asked what had happened. I told him about my suspicion that uninvited “guests” had come into the room and left their “calling card,” and I showed him the belt piece. Pavel became alarmed as well, and toward evening he returned together with Peter Chernyshov.
“Well, gather up all your things and get out of here,” Peter commanded. “Before we know it, those KGB men will have buried you somewhere, God forbid. Until you leave for home you’ll live with me. And don’t be stubborn, don’t resist,” he said, seeing my confusion. “It’s a good thing you didn’t spend these last two nights here, or else who knows what would have happened today. Georgia, my dear fellow, is not Ukraine—they’ll wipe you off the face of the earth, and the ends will end up in the water, or right into this Black Sea that’s roaring close by, and you’ll never find a trace, especially if the KGB is involved. And they’ll pin it all on hooligans—that they got rid of you because of the salary you received for the whole brigade. They’ll most likely carry out the reprisal after you get the money.”
I quickly packed my things into a suitcase and rode back with them to Peter’s, though his little house was tiny: a kitchen, a main room, and a little cubbyhole of a bedroom—that was the whole place.
The next day, Thursday, they paid me all the money. We bought a train ticket to Sochi at the railway ticket office, giving the impression that from Sochi I would fly by plane, and at night Brother Peter drove me to Adler. From there I took a direct train to Kiev, and from Kiev I made my way to Rovno by suburban trains, so as not to be noticed hanging around the station.
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