Արաքս Պողոսյանի
(A Story)
“Mommy!”
“What is it, my son?”
“Have you already prayed?”
“Why are you asking?”
“Mommy, lie down beside me, I’m sad.”
“Pavlusha, don’t be sly, are you scared again?”
“I’m scared.”
“But why, my son? I’m right here with you. Look, the door is open, you can see me.”
“Mommy, lie down, please?”
“Pavlusha, my child, when will you stop being afraid? You said you’d become a priest. How will you perform funerals? I won’t be coming with you, will I?”
“But the choir always goes with the priest.”
“I’ll already be dead, Pasha, by the time you become a priest.”
“Mommy, lie down, please? Mo…”
“Pavlusha, my flame and my trouble, my tender flower. Make space beside you—now sleep quickly, or I won’t finish my ironing.”
Father Pavel served as a permanent priest at the Holy Mother of God Church in a small town in the Volga region. He had not studied in a seminary, as there were none at the time of his ordination. He lived alone in their small house on the edge of town. After his mother’s death, he couldn’t tear himself away from the village church where they used to go together. In the early days of his solitude, he would simply come and sit silently in the church before the icons. After some time, the priest said to him:
“Why are you sitting idle? Come, help out, do something…”
“What should I do?”
“Go sweep the yard, fetch water, then go to the refectory to eat.”
And so, Pashka became a church worker. At first, he handled maintenance tasks. Then the priest took him on as an assistant at the altar. Later, he became a reader. They decided to ordain him a deacon; his voice wasn’t powerful, but it was harmonious, prayerful, and he could hear the notes. There was, however, one issue: he needed to be married before ordination. But he was shy around girls, practically fleeing from them. His extreme bashfulness was so intense it seemed he might faint from embarrassment. They couldn’t do anything about it. They ordained him unmarried—not a monk, nor a married priest.
Father Pavel dedicated his solitude to the church. He only spent nights at home, and even then, not always. Often, he simply lay on the old sofa in the bell-ringer’s room. He would lie in the darkness, the door to the altar slightly ajar, a candle burning on the table. And it seemed as if his mother, like in his childhood years, was standing beside him, murmuring evening prayers.
He grew accustomed to solitude, stopped being afraid, and even came to love the darkness and silence. He no longer feared the departed either. Everything passed on its own. Only his extreme shyness and fear of human coarseness remained. In conflicts, he would surrender, lose self-control, and be unable to respond. The faithful loved him for his kindness and for never refusing anyone. After services, they would “drag him” in different directions all day, each with their own requests. And just as in his youth, so too in his old age, Father Pavel kept running with his worn-out bag, breathless, panting heavily.
Thus, Father Pavel ran through his life, unnoticed by himself and the church authorities. He never became the head priest of a church, always the “second,” the “third.” In his 45 years of service, they remembered him once and awarded him a decorated cross, and he nearly fainted from embarrassment.
“What does such a beautiful thing have to do with me? It’s expensive, surely. Better let it stay on the table, I’m more comfortable with my old one,” he decided to himself.
Father Pavel outlived eight bishops. They all laughed at him, piling their duties onto him. He could have been offended, but it never crossed his mind.
The current bishop, Father Alexander, was educated, with academic knowledge, and refined. Only, he was very young. At first, he laughed at the old man’s clumsiness, noting that he served improperly and carried himself like a peasant. God knows, his sermons… they weren’t sermons, but some incomprehensible folklore.
“Father Pavel, have you ever heard of homiletics, the science of preaching? You need to construct sentences so that a thread of thought runs through the entire content. But you just utter disjointed phrases, whatever comes to mind. Prepare in the evening, read something.”
“When I get home in the evening, I immediately lie down to sleep. I’m unlearned, Father, forgive me. Don’t be angry, for Christ’s sake. Don’t send me to preach, I’d rather help at the altar.”
“And I think you’re lazy, Father Pavel. Work on yourself. There’s indifference in you. You’ve served 45 years, yet you still can’t pronounce many words correctly.”
“Forgive me, Father, I’m very sorry for upsetting you so much, but I don’t do it out of malice, forgive me. May I go now? Maria from the choir asked me to anoint her sick mother, and I have a requiem and a house blessing to do.”
“Anoint? You can anoint with a candle under the bed. Father Pavel, get out of my sight, you’re a trial to me. Go, anoint your old women, the light’s at the window. They’ve already anointed their huts eight times. They don’t need anointing—it’s like a contest to see who can get anointed more. And you encourage them, inciting religious delusions. Tell me, you can’t say no. I’ve told you, anointing is done once per illness. They get anointed more often than they take communion. And you’re complicit in it.”
“Father, may I go?”
“Go! You can barely drag your feet, yet you still say ‘go.’”
And so they lived. The young pastor of the church, though he got angry at Father Pavel at every opportunity, could never manage a proper argument with him. The old man was too non-confrontational, peaceful to the point of embarrassment.
Holy Week was approaching, and Passion Week had begun. In the fresh, damp spring air, the scent of Holy Resurrection was already subtly present. On Good Friday morning, the pastor was preoccupied with preparing the church and the Lord’s Tomb. The choir was rehearsing, the church workers were cleaning the candlesticks, washing the floor, and polishing the glass on the icons.
“Where are the flowers for decorating the Tomb? Have they been brought yet? Warden, where are you? We need to bring it out at 2 o’clock. I’m waiting,” Father Alexander was pacing nervously in the church, talking on the phone.
“Father, may I address you,” Father Pavel said, clutching his worn-out bag without a handle, looking at the floor.
“What do you want, Father? What now?”
“I want to run not far from here. Antonina, the candle-seller’s godmother’s husband, has a large wound on his leg. It appeared just before Holy Week. They asked me to come. The husband isn’t a churchgoer, but he’s a good man, worked his whole life at the depot, here with us. He’s suffering, but he’s a good man, though he doesn’t go to church. But now he’s agreed. I wanted to run to him. I’ll be back before the Tomb is brought out. Please, Father, let me run to Pyotr, our plumber from the depot… a ‘wound’ appeared… I’ll be quick…”
“Tra-ta-ta-ta-ta. What are you babbling about? I’ll go mad with you. The candle-seller Antonina’s godmother’s husband… Are you presenting me with a family tree? Add the children and grandchildren too. I already understand you’re running off somewhere again. You love running. Today is Good Friday, do you remember, Father Pavel? The bringing out of the Tomb at 2 o’clock—for our Lord Jesus Christ. Isn’t that an event for you?”
“I’ll be back, there are still three hours until two. I’ll be quick—there and back. Please let me run to Pyotr, our plumber from the depot… a ‘wound’ appeared… I’ll be quick…”
“Go, Pavel, go to Pyotr, go, but if you don’t return before the Tomb is carried out, I’ll write a report to the bishop, and you, our dear runner, will be running to your retirement. Then you can run wherever you want, wherever your eyes take you. I can’t rely on you; you’re always running somewhere. Go, runner, time’s ticking.”
Father Pavel returned with the pleasant feeling of having fulfilled his duty. He had managed everything in time—easing the suffering of a sick man and, with his love and simplicity, turning his heart toward thinking about the meaning of life and God. It all seemed to come naturally to him. He didn’t say anything extraordinary, everything was simple, yet somehow convincing, as if it couldn’t be otherwise. A warmed heart would turn on its own, becoming obedient and humble. Father Pavel could warm hearts even without words. He simply loved people sincerely, even those he met for the first time in his life. Why did he love them? For what? He didn’t know himself. He just loved, and that was it. Without thinking.
The sick Pyotr, the candle-seller Antonina’s godmother’s husband, promised to visit the church for the Resurrection service if his son drove him. Father Pavel was running the short way—through backyards, across a field, past the cemetery—to make it to the Lord’s Tomb ceremony. As he passed the cemetery, Father Pavel, breathless, began to pray one moment and talk to the departed the next, as if they were living people:
“Good day, dear departed! Happy spring to you, my beloved, the Lord’s Holy Week. Surely you’re waiting for Christ, when He will come and free you from the captivity of death. He’s already going to be slaughtered, humiliated, to ascend the cross, so He can die like you and descend to you in hell. There, He will embrace you all with His pierced hands, press you all to His chest, and say to Satan, ‘I’m taking them all, they’re not yours.’
And He will take you all to paradise, to Himself. There, where there is no sickness, no sorrow, no pain, but joyful life. A bright, good life is there, my beloved. Very good. Wait, my dear ones, just a little longer. I’ll run now to carry the Tomb and tell the crucified Christ about you. I’m running, Father Alexander, I’ll be there soon, my dear brother and leader.”
Father Pavel, running, reached the clearing near the cemetery and stopped.
“Oh-ho, Father!” The drunken eyes of a group of young men stared at him. Out of boredom, they were lazily sprawled on last year’s grass, warmed by the sun. On a plastic bag lay an open tin of canned food, sliced bread, disposable cups, and two empty vodka bottles. The alcohol was gone, but joy never came. The half-drunk boys, bored, were angry.
“Hey, Father, Father! Where did you come from, like you crawled out of the ground? From a grave?”
Seeing the drunken boys, Father Pavel tried to leave immediately.
“Where are you going, servant of the people, fleeing from the people?”
“Father, are you running from people? Don’t you love us, or what?”
“Maybe he brought us some priestly kagor wine for communion?”
In Father Pavel’s bag, there was indeed a bottle of kagor. The candle-seller’s husband had donated it to the church for the Resurrection Liturgy and filled out a prayer request for himself and the sick Pyotr.
“What’s that, Father, really? Did you bring something to warm our souls? Why are you silent? Speak!”
Father Pavel was flustered by the suddenness and coarseness. He stood, clutching his worn-out bag to his chest, not breathing.
“Give it here, let me see. Priests are never parted from Kagor.”
The boy rudely snatched the worn-out bag from the priest’s hands.
“Guys, he really brought kagor for us! Wow, a miracle-worker! How did you know ours was gone, my pretty one?”
“Boys, if you want, take the wine, just give me back the bag.”
“Boys’! Huh? Who’s he calling that? Us, guys? ‘Boys, if you want, take it,’ huh, we’ve already taken it. Take your bag and get lost!”
The boy rudely thrust the open bag at Father Pavel.
The priest clutched the bag to his chest, turned to leave, but went in the wrong direction. He stopped, turned again, and went the right way.
“Hey, Father, why are you spinning around? He’s drunk! Father, are you drunk? Listen, come sit with us, let’s have a drunken chat. You priests are masters at talking. Sit, I said, right here. Come, I’m talking to you!”
“Boys, I have to go. I need to make it to carry the Tomb.”
“Carry what?”
“Today is Good Friday. Today they crucified Christ, then took Him down from the cross, wrapped Him in a shroud, and buried Him. I have to run, boys. I’ll go, and you rest here. I’ll go, okay?”
“You’re not going anywhere. Now we’re curious about what happened on Friday.”
“The high priests betrayed and crucified Christ.”
“Who were those high priests?”
“They were Jewish priests.”
“What, seriously? Wow, priests, just like two thousand years ago, you’re still scoundrels.”
“Why did you betray Christ? What did He do to you? He healed the sick, fed the poor, visited prisons. So why, huh?”
“Boys, those were Jewish high priests. That was long ago.”
“Yeah, long ago, and now you’re different, huh? You’re good now, reformed, huh?”
The boy’s eyes turned malicious, his fists clenched.
“To me, you’re the same as back then, the same now, cut from the same cloth. You’re hypocrites. Father, tell me. Look me in the eyes.”
The boy stared at Father Pavel with drunken eyes. The priest lowered his gaze.
“Is it shameful to look the people in the eyes? But you have to. You need to answer. Come here, Father, we’re going to judge you.”
“Boys, let me go, please, I have to run.”
“You won’t escape justice. Stand here.” The boy grabbed the priest’s collar and dragged him. “Come, Father, tell us, how did it go in the script? Why did the Jewish priests hate Christ?”
Father Pavel realized he couldn’t escape their grasp. He seemed to accept his situation, stopped resisting, airborne and began answering their questions.
“I think they were jealous of Him.”
“And why were you jealous of Him? The people didn’t follow you, but Him, huh? Well, do what He did, and they’ll follow you. Am I right? Only, to be like Him, like He was, that’s hard—selfless, honest, loving everyone. Even bandits. So, Father, do you love us? No? Say it.”
Father Pavel raised his eyes to the drunken boys.
“How could I not love you? You’re good boys, you’ve just been drinking.”
“Good, huh? And if we were bad?”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that. Do you love me? And if I punch you in the face right now? Will you still love me like that? Well, why are you silent? Being like Christ is hard, isn’t it? You’re masters of empty talk, hypocrites, but why do you teach something you don’t do yourselves? You fool old women to get them to give you their pensions, and then you stuff your bottomless priestly bellies with it.”
Father Pavel raised his eyes and began looking around.
“What, Father, thinking of how to escape? No, it’s your judgment now. You say we should live like Christ lived. Well, then go all the way—trial, humiliation, crucifixion, and keep loving us, saying, ‘Lord, forgive them, for they know not what they do.’ Isn’t that right, Father? Guys, drag him to that cross!”
In the center of the cemetery stood a large oak cross. The noise raised by the young men startled a black raven perched on the iron fence, watching the scene.
“Boys, you can’t play such games, this isn’t a joke.” Father Pavel, trembling, looked from one to another, seeking compassion.
“What’s wrong with you, Father? Who’s playing here? We were playing ten years ago, but now we drink vodka, and everything’s real. Can’t you tell? And to make it more convincing, I’ll do this.” The boy punched Father Pavel in the face. A flash of light, then darkness, noise, voices in the distance.
Father Pavel opened his eyes. A small red ant was crawling across the grass in front of his eyes. The drunken boys opened the kagor wine, drank from the bottle, and laughed hysterically, in a terrifying, animalistic way.
“You’re not dead yet, King of the Jews? Come on, get up, let’s go.” They lifted Father Pavel; dry grass, soaked with blood, was tangled in his beard. His cassock fell off, and the spring breeze mixed with his white hair.
“Well, Father, now repent.”
“For what?”
“For illegal drug trafficking. How much is opium for the people worth? Scoundrel! You churchmen live off others’ misfortune. You teach them to bring their money to the church, and then you get fat on it. You drive Mercedes, drown in gold, gorge until you’re out of breath. Why are you staring at me? Want more, you shameless face?” The boy swayed, Father Pavel closed his eyes and trembled.
“Are you afraid, Father?”
“I’m afraid, my son,” Father Pavel answered innocently, like a child, “I’m afraid.”
He wiped the blood from his beard with his sleeve and looked in surprise at the red streak on the fabric.
“And what can you say in your defense?”
“Nothing, my son. A man can say nothing to justify himself unless God justifies him by the results of his life.”
“We are your results now. Got it? Tie him to that cross with wire, guys. Will you go yourself, or should I drag you by the neck?”
Something incomprehensible was happening inside Father Pavel. His whole body filled with pleasant warmth, and in his heart, there was peace and silence. Fear began to fade and retreat to the background.
“I’ll go myself, myself.”
He stood with his back against the cross and spread his arms.
“Why are you so proud, like a victor? Twist the wire tighter, guys, so he feels what it’s like to be nailed to a cross.” The wire dug into his wrists, the skin swelled, and his fingers turned blue.
“There you go, Father, now do you still love us?”
“Mother, was Christ afraid when they crucified Him?”
“It was terrifying, my son, because everything there was real, very terrifying.”
“How did He endure it, Mother? I wouldn’t have. I’d be afraid.”
“That’s how it was. He endured it, and it was terrifying and very painful for Him. Almost unbearable—so much that He even cried out, ‘My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?’”
“My heart aches for His Mother, to the point of tears. But I couldn’t have done it.”
“Listen, Father, why aren’t you hiding your eyes? You were looking at the ground. What happened to you that you’re looking up now? No more fear? I’ll cut your ear off with a knife now. You’re not afraid, are you?”
Father Pavel looked somewhere beyond the horizon, as if he wasn’t here. Everything happening seemed to be happening to someone else, like in a movie. He stared fixedly, unblinking, focused. Then, as if his mind returned to earth, he looked indifferently at his hands tied to the cross, looked at the boys in the clearing, one after another, and with a heart-wrenching voice said, “My Lord, my Lord.” His eyes welled up, and tears streamed down his aged cheeks. “Sweetest Lord Jesus…”
“Why are you crying, Father? Are you afraid? Does it hurt?”
“From emotion. Because I’m dying like my Christ. What an honor! Lord, I’m unworthy, I’m a sinner. My God.”
The boy went mad with rage.
“Like Christ, you say? You won’t be worthy of that honor. You’ll die differently.”
He swayed and furiously stabbed the old man in the right side, under the rib.
“One of the Roman soldiers pierced His side with a spear, and immediately blood and water flowed out” (John 19:34).
Father Pavel screamed, his head fell to his chest, his body hung on the wire-bound hands.
Somewhere in the distance, the first spring thunder rumbled. Unusually large raindrops fell to the ground, increasingly flattening the white hair and flowing down the beard to the chest, reaching the ground in bright red drops. On the right side of the cross stood Father Pavel’s late mother, in a white headscarf. She smiled and said something to her son. She spoke, spoke, and smiled at him, as in his childhood years.
The Good Friday service was ending in the church. The flower-adorned Tomb was placed on a table in the center of the church. People were still coming to venerate it.
“Father Alexander, don’t be so upset. Where could he have gone? He’ll come,” the elderly choir director comforted the priest. “Be careful with yourself, don’t get upset, you look terrible.”
“Margarita Petrovna, today is Good Friday, the day of the Lord’s Tomb service. By the way, the Liturgy is over, and he doesn’t care about our common church affairs. He only has his personal matters. That’s egoism, do you understand? Egoism. I’ll never understand it. Enough, I have no strength left.”
The door opened noisily, and an unfamiliar boy burst in, beside himself. Gasping for breath, he began shouting from the doorway:
“There, at the cemetery… I was walking my dog… we were both at the cemetery… the cross is there, and he’s hanging on it alone… We were walking in the cemetery, and he’s hanging on the cross alone!”
“What are you babbling about? Who’s hanging there? I have no strength left. Why are you shouting?” Father Alexander grabbed the boy by the shoulders and, in a nervous frenzy, began shaking him. “Who’s hanging there? I’m losing my strength by the minute.”
“Yes, your old priest is hanging, killed on the cross, I’m telling you… we were walking there, and he’s hanging alone, no one else is there. I ran here right away.”
A deathly silence fell over the church. Father Alexander stood frozen for a few seconds, as if struck by lightning. Then he ran toward the altar, stopped, turned toward the entrance, and noisily ran out of the church. The door slammed, and it seemed to awaken the people still standing in the church. They ran toward the cemetery.
At the oak cross stood Father Alexander. He looked at Father Pavel, his beloved brother, whom just fifteen minutes ago he was ready to tear apart in anger, but now loved so deeply. The priest fell to his knees, whispering, “It is finished,” took his head in his hands, and wept bitterly.
The cold spring rain beat on his back. Father Alexander knelt in a puddle, understanding or feeling nothing. People took Father Pavel down from the cross and laid him on his coat. Someone said they needed to wait for the police and leave everything as it was. Choir director Margarita Petrovna paced frantically from one person to another, saying:
“We need to hurry, we can’t bury him on Easter; it’s a great feast. You can’t bury him, so we need to hurry. We need to have time for tomorrow’s funeral.”
These words snapped Father Alexander out of his stupor.
“You say it’s Easter, a feast, we can’t bury him. The Jews couldn’t do it, but we do things differently. We’ll bury him on Easter. That’s what I’m telling you, dear brothers and sisters. On Easter.”
At dusk, only the lamps burned in the church. There were so many people that it was impossible to pass through them, yet a tomb-like silence reigned. The bells rang twelve times, and from the altar came Father Alexander’s lone, low chant: “Thy Resurrection, O Christ our Savior…” Then a light shone in the altar, the curtain opened, and the priest began to sing more loudly and solemnly. On the third chant, all the church’s lights blazed, the royal gates opened, and the priest sang the Easter hymn with all his lungs: “Thy Resurrection, O Christ our Savior, the angels sing in heaven…”
In the center of the church, the people lifted a red velvet coffin containing Father Pavel’s remains. The men’s procession approached the exit. Everyone wanted to carry the coffin personally. From above, it seemed as if Father Pavel was floating over the sea of people.
“Thy Resurrection, O Christ our Savior…” This sacred hymn had never sounded so solemn and majestic there.
The river of people, holding candles, circled the church three times with the coffin and stopped at the altar.
Father Alexander doesn’t clearly remember what happened next. He remembers shouting, “Christ is risen from the dead!” and answering himself, “Blessed is the Resurrection of Christ!”
Then he wept bitterly, not for Father Pavel, but for himself, remembering how coarsely and ungraciously he had treated the old man. And slowly he calmed, murmuring under his breath: “How wonderful, Lord, how solemn, how right everything is, in the end, what an honor! Christ is risen from the dead, Father Pavel, Christ is risen from the dead!”
At early dawn, the sun illuminated the fresh grave near the church’s altar, where cheerful sparrows pecked at the Easter cake. There was no sense of death, only quiet joy.
Christ is risen from the dead.
Valentin Biryukov