In Soviet Russia, the Party expects conformity and the state demands obedience, but one man must decide where his true allegiance lies--no matter what it might cost him.

This short story was first published in The Clarion Call, Vol. 5: Fire and Faith by the Agorist Writers Workshop.

“Citizens of the USSR are guaranteed freedom of conscience, that is, the right to profess or not to profess any religion, and to conduct religious worship or atheistic propaganda.”

Pyotr Simonov read the words for what must have been the hundredth time that night. The right to profess religion and to conduct religious worship; it was as plain as the noonday sun. Despite his persistence, the words were still as hollow as ever. He crumpled the page from his sermon notes on which he had written the lines from his country’s constitution and tossed it into the waste paper basket at the end of the last, small pew in the empty church.

Hours ago, his wife and children had been the last ones to leave, while Pyotr had remained to pray. He was doing this for them, he reassured himself. No loyalty, save one, mattered more in this world. He knew that what he was asking his family and his congregation to do now could put all of them in danger. Even raising the topic had become dangerous since the Council for Religious Affairs had begun increasing their actions against unregistered or uncooperative churches in his town of Ulyanovka.

Turning off the hallway light, Pyotr cinched the laces on his boots as tight as they would go before securing his scarf. It would be a long walk back to his family’s apartment and the streets were quickly filling with snow on this mid-January night.

Reaching into his pockets to check for his key, his hand closed around a small chess piece. It was the bishop that he had confiscated from his son Yegveny just after the meeting had started. Thinking back, Pyotr decided that he had been too harsh. The boy’s active mind sometimes made it difficult for him to sit still and such an insignificant trinket would not have been a serious cause for distraction. This was all somewhat new to the boy, after all.

A sudden gust sliced at his exposed cheeks as he stepped outside, and a flake of snow momentarily blinded him. Regaining his sight, he looked up to see the familiar figure waiting under the light across the narrow street. Pyotr judged it better to meet him head on.

“Good evening, Yuri. I’d best get home before much more of this snow piles up.” He had always tried to be cheerful when speaking with Yuri, but it never seemed to have any noticeable effect.

“Moscow will hear about this, you know,” the other man sneered. “I don’t have to tell you what that could mean for you.” He leaned closer, tapping a finger on Pyotr’s chest. “And your family.”

Pyotr stroked his chin and realized from the stubble on his face just how long a day it had been. Now Yuri seemed determined to make it just a little bit longer. But that didn’t mean he had to rise to the provocation. The two men had completed their secondary education at the same time, but their paths had diverged sharply from there. Even in his youth Yuri had been one to hold a grudge and throw his weight around. Pyotr pondered whether, perhaps, that was what suited Yuri so well to his job with the CRA. Just as quickly as the thought entered his mind, he set it aside.

Looking down at the finger still planted in his chest he simply said, “Yes, Yuri,” and nodded.

Seeming to be satisfied that Pyotr was sufficiently intimidated, the apparatchik scoffed, shook his head, and turned to go his own way.

Pyotr closed his eyes again briefly. “Lord, forgive him and protect my flock from such men and their bureaucracies,” he prayed silently.

Arriving at the apartment, he found his wife, Sofia, still awake, sitting by the stove that heated their small quarters. Peeking behind the curtain that separated them from the apartment’s other room, he saw three angelic faces, sleeping the peaceful sleep of children who would not understand.

“Elena will be the least able to bear it,” his wife said flatly.

At only seven years old, the truth of his wife’s statement weighed heavily on him. Josef, of course, was not really a child any more, but Pyotr still found it difficult to think of him as the young man he was quickly becoming. Yegveny--his quick-witted Zhenya--would turn ten next week. Would that God would allow him to be home to celebrate in their small way.

Pyotr hung up his scarf and kissed his wife gently on the forehead.

“Trust in God, my dearest,” he whispered as he embraced her. He felt her suppress a sob. Then as she looked up, tears streaming down her face, she whispered back, “What? shall we receive good at the hand of God, and shall we not receive evil?”

Hearing his beloved wife repeat the words of faithful Job was too much for Pyotr. He sank to his knees, laid his head on his wife’s lap, and wept.

Morning dawned cold and clear. Pyotr knew that the snow had stopped just before dawn because sleep had utterly evaded him. He passed the time praying for his family and every member of his congregation by name. Then he prayed for Yuri.

When Sofia woke and came out from the bedroom, Pytor shuffled in as quietly as he could. He took the contraband bishop from his pocket and laid it on the pillow next to Zhenya’s outstretched hand.

Nothing happened that day or the next, but that did not make passing the time any easier. On Saturday evening, just after the children were in bed, Pyotr took the family Bible out of its hidden nook and reviewed the verses he would preach on the following morning. Sofia usually sat up with him as he prepared his sermons, but tonight she looked particularly tired.

“Why don’t you go to bed,” he offered. “It’s been a hard few days and you need the rest.”

“The waiting, Pyotr, I . . .” Her voice trailed off as she leaned against the wall on the other side of the kitchen area. “Yes, perhaps I should get to bed now.” Crossing to where her husband sat, she took his hands in hers, pressed them against her face, and muttered something--a short prayer, Pyotr assumed--then kissed each of his hands, before shuffling off to the bedroom.

Turning back to his work, he read out loud softly to himself:

And these words, which I command thee this day, shall be in thine heart: And thou shalt teach them diligently unto thy children, and shalt talk of them when thou sittest in thine house, and when thou walkest by the way, and when thou liest down, and when thou risest up.

That was all that they wanted to do: teach their children and include them in the worship services that the Soviet Constitution gave them the supposed right to hold. But Yuri and his colleagues at the CRA had very different ideas.

Pyotr thumbed the pages of the Bible gently to turn to another passage but was interrupted by an ear-splitting crash. He looked up just in time to see splinters from the now-shattered door to his apartment fly past his face.

A startled scream came from the bedroom, followed by the unmistakable cry of terror and anguish from his children who were now awake and aware, even at their young age, what was happening.

“Papa!”

“Stay where you--” Pyotr tried to yell, but was cut off by the blinding pain of a sharp blow across his cheek. Even before a groan of agonizing pain reached his throat, he felt rough fabric cover his head and large, gloved hands drag him out of his house.

As he regained consciousness, it took Pyotr a moment to realize that the screams coming from somewhere down the hall were not, in fact, those of his wife and children. He felt a pang of shame as the thought crossed his mind that the cries of pain from an adult he would never see, did not match the cries of terror from his children for sheer agony. He whispered a quick prayer for the stranger down the hall and wondered how long it would be until his own ordeal began.

He did not have to wait long to find out. Before he had time to fully grasp the pain on the side of his head, he heard the door unbolt and open slowly. In stepped Yuri and another man that Pyotr did not recognize. The stranger sat down at the table across from him while Yuri hid himself in the shadows on the far wall.

“Hello, Pyotr,” the stranger said, in a voice that seemed altogether too calm. “Yuri tells me that you’ve been up to . . . interesting things lately.”

Pyotr remained silent. He knew, of course, that torture was the threat that lurked beneath the surface of many such interrogations, but he resolved not to speak unless compelled to do so.

“You needn’t be worried about me, Pastor Pyotr.” When he said it, the title dripped with contempt. “Do I look like the sort who would risk bloodying his own fists just to get information?”

The interrogator opened the file and shuffled a few pages. “I don’t expect you to tell us the names of those in your church. As you can see, we already know who they are.”

Pyotr sighed. Theirs had never been an underground church. He was saddened not so much that his flock was known to the CRA, but that they were now being threatened because of him.

“What we want to know,” the interrogator continued, twisting his pencil between his fingers, “is who got to you? Who could so poison the mind of an otherwise obedient pastor such as yourself that you would go along with it? Such information is very useful to the state and the Party, as I’m sure you can understand.”

Pyotr knew what all the words meant, but the order in which they came out of the strange interrogator’s mouth seemed to make no sense. He realized quickly that his confusion must have shown on his face.

“Oh, Pyotr,” the interrogator shook his head gently, in a perverse imitation of fatherly disapproval. “Now is not the time to play innocent. We know it can only have been outside agitators. It is no more than your patriotic duty to tell us who they are.”

Lately, that tactic had been a favorite of the CRA: to position the tender consciences of church members like his in between conflicting duties to state and faith. At this moment, however, he truly had no idea what the man was talking about. He started to turn his palms upward in a visual display of his ignorance and winced as the handcuffs cut into the chafing that was already beginning to develop on his wrists.

“I teach God’s Word with help only from above.”

The interrogator scoffed gently underneath his breath and set the pencil down on the table. Closing the folder, he said, “I’m sorry to hear you say that, Pyotr.”

Then the interrogator slid his chair back from the table slightly, leaned back, and laced his fingers behind his head. Somehow, that more relaxed posture made him seem more menacing to Pyotr.

“Tell me something else, then. Why would you do it? You know the CRA has banned you from bringing children to your church services. You’ve done everything we’ve asked up until now.”

Pytor’s mind raced. He had had endless debates with himself on this very question before ending where he was now. To try to distill all of that internal dialogue into something he could spit out in the tense moments of an interrogation seemed impossible.

“Oh, come now,” the interrogator said, some of his collected manner seeming to wane. “There’s always something.”

“We must obey God rather than men,” Pyotr whispered, recalling the words of the Apostle Peter.”

“What? Speak up!”

“We must obey God rather than men,” he said again, this time with more force and conviction. He looked the interrogator directly in the eyes, just the same way he’d taught Josef to do.

The interrogator sat forward in his seat again.

“We will make sure that there are no more men who think such things. Doesn’t that frighten you, knowing that no one can rescue you? Not even your precious Jesus?”

“Sir, I see no need to answer any more of your questions. My God can rescue me, even from all the powers of the CRA, and the Party, and the state. But even if he does not, I want you to know for certain, that we will not serve your gods or worship the golden statue you set up.”

The interrogator screwed up his face in a look that was equal parts confusion and indignation.

“Gods? Golden statue? What in the world are you talking about? Have you spent so much time with this Jesus nonsense that it’s warped your mind?”

Turning back to look at Yuri for the first time the interrogator indignantly said, “You didn’t tell me he was mentally deranged, Yuri! This is no use.”

With that, the interrogator snatched his folder from the table and swept out of the room, pausing long enough only to say, “He’s yours now.”

Yuri remained in the shadows for a long moment, before stepping into the light. Pyotr noticed that his face was red and wondered whether it was embarrassment.

“I told you not to make trouble, Pyotr,” he said, leaning on the table with both hands. “Why would you say something ridiculous like that?” He slapped the table with his hand.

His memory flashed with an image of a Yuri as a schoolboy, berating his classmates for besting him in some playground game. A wave of pity and compassion washed over Pyotr. He realized that nothing had really changed for Yuri: he was a Party member now and could back up his threats with overwhelming force, but on the inside, he was still that same angry boy, whose only happiness seemed to sprout from inflicting unhappiness on others.

Pyotr pondered telling Yuri the story of the three Jewish boys who stood up to a king--how obedience to their God outweighed all the pain that earthly government powers could threaten them with.

But before the words could form on Pyotr’s lips, Yuri’s heavy fist fell there instead. After the second blow, he felt nothing.

The train was drafty and crowded, but Sofia knew she had no choice. Escape--no, merely the chance to escape--was a blessing from God. She had hesitated at first, but her friends prevailed upon her to leave Ulyanovka for the sake of her children, if no other reason.

Elena amused herself with a doll given to her by an adopted grandfather from church. How much Sofia knew the child would miss him.

“Mama,” the little girl said, “will you tell me again why Papa had to go to Jesus?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” interjected Josef, who so far had been the most bitter. “We’re not alone on this train--”

“Be quiet, Josef,” Sofia scolded mildly. The boy, just turned fifteen, had lost his father at a crucial age and it would do no good to feed his anger. He sulked, but he obeyed.

“Dear one, as I told you before,” she began, smoothing the child’s wild, flaxen hair as she talked, “Papa loved Jesus more than anyone or anything.”

“More than you, Mama?!”

“Yes, even more than me. But in our country, there are people who cannot accept men like that. That kind of love, they say, belongs to the Party, to the government. I know it’s hard to understand at your age.”

The girl stroked her doll’s hair and tipped up onto her toes to look out the compartment’s one, small window. Josef shifted in his seat and crossed his arms. Sofia ignored his thinly-veiled petulance; he needed time. Elena too would be fine eventually, so innocent was her devotion to her father and so full her trust.

Yevgeny, however, worried her. He had always been the brightest of her three children, and yet he had now remained silent for days. Elena’s childish inquiries were to be expected; even Josef’s stormy sullenness was understandable. But this self-imposed silence was almost too much for a mother to bear.

As a bump in the tracks unexpectedly and violently shook them, Sofia noticed something small and hard spill out of Zhenya’s satchel onto the floor. It bounced across the car to her feet and she picked it up.

“What’s this, Zhenya? One of your chess pieces?”

The boy nodded silently as she handed him the piece.

“This one’s the bishop, isn’t it?” she asked, trying to draw her son out of himself.

He nodded again and stuffed the piece securely in his pocket.

Zhenya broke the silence a few minutes later, without looking up from the floor. “Mama, how are we to remember Papa?”

“Well, Zhenya,” she began, hoping the family nickname might help keep him out of his reverie. “We have all of our memories. We’ve brought our small photo album--”

“No, that’s not what I mean,” he interjected, suddenly, yet not angrily. He looked up into his mother’s eyes and continued, quite insistently. “I mean was he a good man? Why would they do this if he did nothing wrong?”

“They.” Sofia realized that even in a lifetime she had not fully plumbed the depths of that single word. “They” were--or so “they” said--her Party, her protectors and providers, her government. There was no explanation she could give her son at this moment that would fully satisfy his precociousness. She promised herself that she would make him understand, no matter how long it took.

For that night, she settled for cradling his head in her lap as he traced the contours of his last chess piece with his fingers. How fitting to keep the memory of his father, she thought to herself, that the piece was a bishop.

“Remember him, my son, exactly as ‘they’ saw him, because it’s exactly how your Papa wanted to be known: they knew him as a man who had been with Jesus.”

The Tidewater Papers

Allegiance Owed