This account of an unforgettable Paschal celebration with Holy Hieromartyr Hilarion (Troitsky) in the Solovki prison camp was published in shortened form from I. A. Reznikov, Orthodoxy on Solovki (St. Petersburg, 1993).
This was probably the hardest Pascha of the four I had to spend as a prisoner for the sake of the great Russian Church, from 1923 to June, 1926. The first was in Butyrsky prison, two were on the Solovki Islands, and one was on Popov Island, at what I would call a punitive transfer point. This last Pascha left an indelible mark in me—one the one hand, it left an external, sorrowful mark, but on the other, a joyful one. It’s an inner joy I especially poignantly feel now that I live on a different edge of the world—having moved from the far north to the far south. My sorrow began on that Pascha because it was all unexpected. I was supposed to be spending that fourth Pascha at home, in the circle of my family. But the Lord judged otherwise.
On March 30, the sentence for our entire group ended—a sentence we had served for the honor of our Mother Church, for the honor of the St. Nicholas parish, which had refused to recognize the authority of the Rostov Revolutionary Committee on Church Affairs over its existence. And on March 31 at 11:30 p.m., Fr. Alexei’s [Trifiliev’s] friend V. D. Anfilov, the clerk of the camp administration, summoned him from the invalid unit and congratulated him on his release. Having read the telegram, Fr. Alexei was perplexed to see that my surname was not listed there. Meanwhile, I was sleeping in my clerical unit, when the chancellor Pivovarov walked in and informed us that three of us were being congratulated with an answered request. “Well,” I thought, “if it’s three, then I am one of them. How could it be otherwise?” and peacefully fell back asleep, rejoicing that tomorrow I would say, “So long, transfer point—Popov Island”—truly a punitive island. But the morning brought the saddest possible news: I and Bishop Mitrophan, for an unknown reason, were staying there for an unknown amount of time. Maybe a week, maybe ten weeks. “Ah,” I thought. “I again get more than others! Either I’m the most sinful, or the Lord loves me the most!..”
My envious eyes followed Fr. Alexei and six other priests, and I remained to languish in expectation of the day that Anfilov would call for me too.
Priest Pavel Chekhranov All around was ice, snow, barbed wire, and booths on high towers where the guards in sheepskin coats cursed the island as they watched out for the lives of desperate “criminals”: bishops, priests, and archdeacons… My heart was filled with sorrow. But in my mind, the thought nevertheless occurred: “Is there anything accidental in your life? Doesn’t the Lord direct the world and your life? Could He wish you evil? Just wait a bit, and you’ll see the good consequences of this temporary delay.”
Two weeks passed. There was another unlucky prisoner, the military engineer E. I. Przevalsky. His sentence had finished back on February 23; now it was already April 15, and he was still not being released. Fully convinced that he would leave the camp at the end of his sentence, E. I. had written to the administration of a factory in the Urals and received a position with a salary of 200 rubles. One could understand his anxiety and longing—after all, a good position was slipping away. Moreover, the travel money they had sent him was spent, but he couldn’t leave. And so, we two unfortunates, sitting or pacing around the barrack, made various suppositions about the reason for our delays, or checked to see if a boat had arrived with mail.
My languishing was disrupted by the work supervisor—a Georgian officer who was also a prisoner—Yashvili.
Holy Hieromartyr Hilarion (Troitsky) “You know,” he said to me, “they’ve brought Hilarion here today with a party of prisoners!..”
“No kidding?!”
“Yes, yes, they’re checking him in the invalid unit…”
Although it was about 10:00 p.m., I decided to go and see the dear archpastor. But they weren’t letting anyone in until the check was over. Not giving it much thought, I took a bundle of papers in hand—empty inventory blanks—grabbed a pencil, and with the air of an officer assigned a special task, I went straight there. The military command sent from Petrograd turned out to be rather decent and polite, and they let me in freely. For this kindness I informed them:
“Be careful, there’s typhus in the camp…”
In the barracks, there was shouting, noise, and commotion—the search was in full swing. I peeked in and saw Archbishop Hilarion sitting on the bunk in a brown kaftan. As soon as he saw me, he jumped up:
“Fr. Pavel!.. Fr. Pavel!..”
We kissed each other. But our friendly encounter was noticed by the unit commanders and assistant to the camp supervisors, Pepellevsky (General Pepellevsky) and F. Polivtsev. And although I proved my status with papers and pencils, they nevertheless insisted I get out until the end of the search.
The next day, Vladyka Hilarion considered it his obligation to share all the information he had on Church life that he had “received” in Yaroslavl, in the political isolation ward. He gave a very detailed report about being visited by the head of the “Secret Department”—Tuchkov—relayed the exact conversation he had with him, and presented a written declaration concerning the principles of our Orthodox Holy Church. “If you desire to have peace among the people, then give us freedom today, and it will all calm down... Three divisive councils are enough for us—the one in the year 445, and the two in Moscow—in 1923 and 1924,” Vladyka Hilarion ended his declaration. What an amazingly kind man! He considered it his responsibility to share with his old acquaintances his impressions and information about his time in the isolation ward. These heart-to-heart daily conversations with Vladyka Hilarion greatly comforted our highly disagreeable existence in the Kem unit—especially mine, imprisoned as I was for two months past the end of my sentence.
Soon it would be Pascha. People seen and unseen were being dragged to the unit. As a result of the spring floods, the forest work had ended, and over a thousand men had returned to the camp. But the entire camp was built for only 800 people. The club was closed and turned into living quarters with bunks. In the other barracks, the corridors were stuffed with bunks, and two-level bunks were turned into three-level bunks. Even the privileged clerical barrack was given double bunks, and instead of sixty men there were now 120. Boiling water was not being distributed freely, because the kettles were occupied with lunch and dinner.
It was Pascha. And how we longed to celebrate it with prayers, even if under difficult circumstances. “How can it be?” I thought. “Even now, when it’s hard to even push your way through the crowd to talk with someone, how can we keep from singing, “Christ is Risen! On this Paschal night?” So I decided to prepare my brotherhood. I talked with the most magnanimous Bishop Nektary (Trezvinsky), Bishop Mitrophan (Grishin), Bishop Raphael (Gumilev), and Bishop Gabriel (Abalnikov). The latter did not even suspect what an Easter egg was being prepared for him. Of the rest of the brothers were Fr. Philofei, a chess player, and the Vladyka Hilarion’s constant companion, Fr. Arkady Marakulin.
The invitees divided into two groups. Only Archbishop Hilarion and Bishop Nektary agreed to hold a Paschal service in a far-from-completed bakery, where only a few openings had been cut—no doors, no windows. The rest of the bishops decided to hold the service in their barrack, on the third bunk, right under the ceiling, next to the company commander’s quarters. But I resolved to chant the Paschal service outside the barrack, so that, at least during those moments, I would not have to hear the profanity.
We all agreed.
It was Holy Saturday. The prisoners’ yard and barracks were packed like sardines with men returning from forest work. But now we were met with a new trial. An order was issued by the camp commandant to the company officers not to allow even the slightest hint of a church service, and from 8 p.m. onward, no one was to be allowed out from other companies. Bishops Mitrophan and Gabriel informed me of this order with sorrow. Nevertheless, I insisted to my “clergy” that we should still attempt to hold the service in the bakery. Bishop Nektary agreed immediately, while Archbishop Hilarion hesitated—but still asked to be awakened at midnight.
At the beginning of the twelfth hour, I first went to the barrack where Bishop Nektary was staying. The doors were wide open, and as I entered quickly, the duty guard blocked my way.
“No one from other companies is allowed in…”
I stopped in hesitation. However, Bishop Nektary was ready.
“Just a moment, just a moment,” he said to me. Then I went to see Bishop Hilarion. Entering the barrack swiftly, I walked past the duty guard, who happened to be somewhat familiar with me and friendly.
“Go ahead, do it quickly and leave. It’s not allowed…”
I nodded to him, then walked up to Vladyka Hilarion, who was stretched out to his full gigantic length, sleeping. I nudged his boot; the bishop stirred and sat up.
“It’s time,” I whispered.
The entire barrack was asleep. I stepped outside. Bishop Nektary was waiting at the lineup area. Bishop Hilarion joined us, and the three of us quietly walked in single file toward the back of the barracks, where across the road stood the skeleton of an unfinished bakery, with openings for windows and doors. We had agreed to slip in one at a time, rather than all at once. Once inside the building, we chose a wall that offered the most cover from the view of anyone passing along the path. We pressed ourselves tightly against it—Bishop Nektary on the left, Bishop Hilarion in the middle, and I on the right.
“Begin,” said Bishop Nektary quietly.
“Matins?” asked Vladyka Hilarion.
“No, everything in order, from Midnight Office,” replied Bishop Nektary.
“Blessed is our God…” Bishop Hilarion softly pronounced.
We began to chant the Midnight Office.
“Thou Who of old buried the pursuing tyrant beneath the waves of the sea…” we sang.
And those words, with their stirring melody, echoed strangely and deeply in our hearts.
“And now the children of those Thou didst save bury Thee beneath the earth…”
And the whole tragedy of the pursuing Pharoah, especially in these circumstances, was felt in our hearts more acutely than ever before—the White Sea with its white, icy covering, the floor beams on which we stood as on a choir loft, the fear of being discovered by the watch. But despite all this our hearts were breathing joy, because we were celebrating the Paschal service against the strict orders of the commandant.
We finished the Midnight Office. Archbishop Hilarion blessed to begin Matins.
Vladyka Hilarion did not pronounce “Let God arise, and let His enemies be scattered” but rather whispered it as he peered into the darkness of night.
We sang, “Christ is Risen!..”
“Shall I weep, or laugh for joy?” I thought to myself. How I wanted to fully voice those wondrous irmoi! But caution guided us. The Matins ended.
“Christ is Risen!” said Vladyka Hilarion and we all exchanged the Paschal kiss.
Vladyka Hilarion pronounced the dismissal and left for the barrack. Bishop Nektary wished to serve the hours and typica. We served them together. Only, I was the head celebrant, while Vladyka Nektary was the cantor. That is how he wanted it, for he knew all the hymns, the readings, and the Epistles by heart.
During the day, in honor of the feast, I invited Vladyka Hilarion for coffee in my barrack. However, we ended up drinking it in the office of the supply department, which was empty due to the holiday. Vladyka was surprised by my boldness and resourcefulness. The coffee was served with halva and pieces of kulich (Easter bread), which had been sent by the Kem clergy for all of us.
“Have you ever had Viennese-style coffee?” Vladyka asked me, and, laughing, explained how it is made.
The next day, Vladyka Nektary and I did the services together as we walked along the path. And this day also seemed so festal to me, just like the first, with “divine services.”
That Paschal service remained in Vladyka Hilarion’s memory as well. That year, in December, his term was supposed to end. He had already been transferred from Solovki to the mainland due to the end of the navigation season. In December, I received a letter from him: “The wheel of fortune has turned back—I am being sent to Solovki again...” Indeed, a notice had arrived from Moscow to extend his isolation by another three years. “I’ve been enrolled in the repeat course,” joked Vladyka Hilarion. And in May of 1927, he wrote to me, “I remember last year’s Pascha—how different it is from today! How solemnly we celebrated it back then!..”
Yes, the setting of Pascha in 1926 was extraordinary. While the three of us were celebrating it in an unfinished bakery, at that very time in Rostov, in the cathedral flooded with electric light, the city clergy, accompanied by the beautiful choir of I.F. Kovalev, were also conducting a festive Paschal service. But!… It seems to us that our Kem Pascha with Vladyka Hilarion—in a bakery without windows or doors, lit only by the stars, without miters or brocade vestments—was dearer to the Lord than the splendidly arranged Rostov celebration...
From: Memoirs of the Solovki Prisoners, ed. Priest Vyacheslav Umnyagin (Solovki: Solovki Monastery Publishing, 2013–). Book series: Memoirs of the Solovki Prisoners, 1923–1939. Vol. 1, 2013, 774 pp. ISBN 978-5-91942-022-4.
