The Persecutor

[Soldier4Christ]

   Nichy took a good beating that night. Three guys sat on him and held him down while the others dashed to their beds and jumped under the covers. Then they turned loose and jumped into bed too. Nichy, shocked, shaken, and bleeding at the nose, jerked the sack off his head and staggered out the door, cursing all the way. We heard him raging and bawling all the way back to his quarters. Then we all braced for the explosion.

   But there was none. Not that night, nor the next day, nor the next week. He just didn't say anything about it, ever. But we knew he was suspicious of who did it, and we figured he was waiting for a chance to get back at us. But we had vowed to stick together, no matter what, and if Nichy ever tried to give anybody Vitamin P again, we'd beat him instead. A balance of terror now existed between us and Nichman, and I can tell you, we felt ten feet tall!

   In 1963 things began to get extremely bad at Barysevo. Until then, the food at the children's home had been poor but adequate. Now it began to decline in quality and quantity. We found ourselves getting hungrier and hungrier. What we ate at lunch no longer lasted us until dinner time, and when we protested and asked for more, we were simply told there wasn't any. The food crisis became worse not only in the children's home but in the village of Barysevo, as well.

   Soon we learned that the shortage extended throughout the country and was worsening rapidly. We were told that Khrushchev had a weakness for corn and thought he could grow it anywhere, even on the moon. In his eagerness to increase the corn crop, he had dug up land normally used for wheat and other foods and substituted corn for them. It was soon learned that corn would not grow there, and a famine spread throughout many parts of Russia.

   It was no secret to us where the food supplies were kept at the home, so we planned a raid. But Uncle Nichy and Big Irene were one jump ahead of us. They made sure all food was under lock and key and guarded. And no matter how cleverly we planned, we could find no way to get to it.

   For months, all we got to eat for the whole day was one corn flatcake, something like a hard pancake. The flatcakes were hard and dry, but at least they were something to put in our mouths. I broke mine in two every day, eating half in the morning, a quarter in the afternoon, and the final quarter at night. With hunger on our minds, all serious study at school stopped and we formed into "wolf packs" of children desperately foraging for food and fighting over pieces of potato peel or whatever we could get. After months of this meager diet, I began to get a bad case of scurvy. My teeth came loose and I could feel my strength waning.

   But many of the children were in far worse condition than I. My very good friend Sasha Ognev was small for his age, but always a most pleasant, cheerful person. I could see he was failing more rapidly than the rest of us, though he had been on the same diet. Day by day, Sasha grew thinner and weaker, his skin becoming very white and his face pallid. Soon we found him spending more and more time in bed, too weakened to move about.

   After a few weeks, his stomach and his whole body began to swell. I had never had any experience with starvation before and didn't know it when I saw it. Poor Sasha tried to put on a good face and smile, but I could see that he was in a really bad condition. Our inner circle hung around and tried to help him, but there was nothing we could do. The only solution here for Sasha was good food. One day I heard a noise of several people at the door of the boys' dormitory. As the door opened, there stood Big Irene, as fat as ever. She was a big shot and it was beneath her dignity to come to our dorm. But there she was, for some reason. I don't know where she got her food, but it was obvious she hadn't lost a pound. After hesitating at the door a moment, she strode over to Sasha's bed, with a twisted smile on her lips and that medal of the Order of Lenin hanging prominently from her coat.

   I was near Sasha's bed when Big Irene reached it, and I watched as she pulled back the covers and looked at Sasha's swollen body, bloated from hunger and malnutrition. Leaning down, she patted him on his thin little face and said, "Oh, I see you've put on some weight, Sasha! You look pretty healthy. I've got a weight problem too, you know." A half-smile came over her face. She paused, took one sweeping glance at the dormitory, then strode away.

   I felt an overpowering wave of hatred for Big Irene at that moment. How could she compare her rolls of fat with Sasha's tiny body, swollen by malnutrition and hunger? I could feel the anger rising from every child in the dormitory. The whole room was charged with tension.

   Two days later, when I came home from school about four o'clock in the afternoon, I walked into the dormitory and put my things in the chest at the foot of my bed. Then I walked over to see Sasha and ask how he was doing. I whispered to him. "Sasha?"

   There was no response. I peeked under the covers. His face was white and frigid, and I knew he was dead. My friend Sasha had died alone and no one had even noticed that the life had gone from his little body.

   Sasha's death hit me hard. Of all that took place at Barysevo, it had the greatest impact on me in changing my attitude and outlook on life. From Sasha's death, I realized many things. First of all, that life is the survival of the fittest. It is a jungle. The strong will live. The tough will make it. The weak will lose or die.

   I walked from that room fighting back tears and vowing if this is how life is, I will be the toughest, the strongest, the smartest.

   Two other children died in that famine in Barysevo. One little girl, age 13, calmly said good-bye to her friends, walked into a lake, and drowned herself. Another, only eleven, was found hanging from the rafters. It was too much for them.

[Soldier4Christ]

"King" of Barysevo

   The leaders of the children's home cared nothing for us as individuals. Because they generally hated their jobs, they left us largely to our own devices to govern our own lives. So long as we didn't damage the buildings or completely bring routine activities to a halt, they mostly ignored us.

   We were free to organize our own lives with a minimum of adult interference, so we created our own little world. It was as structured as any society in the outside world. The inmates of the children's homes were divided into three distinct categories: the slaves, the lieutenants, and, on top, the king.

   The slaves were the younger children, smaller and weaker than the others. It was their responsibility to carry out the jobs given them by the older children. Assigned to manual labor and menial work, they were forced to serve those above them. Most of the children belonged to that category.

   The lieutenants who gave the slaves their assignments and supervised their work were a small, more exclusive group. They exercised control in the day-to-day life in our own society at Barysevo. They were an elite commander corps that delighted in ordering the others about. Above the lieutenants, reigning supreme over all, was the king. He was the unchallenged ruler in the home over all the children there. He was selected on the basis of two tests, one physical and one psychological. Physically, he must be big and strong. He must prove his physical superiority by being able to whip any other boy in the home who might himself want to be king. Psychologically, he must command the respect as well as the fear of the children. He must be one cunning enough to beat the hated system at the home.

   The king's life was relatively easy, mainly because he had his lieutenants below him carry out his orders and all the slaves in the school to look after him and obey his every command.

   I don't remember the boy who was king when I first went to Barysevo. He was much older than I and ready to leave the home when I arrived. Nikolai Povaleyev became his successor, and I was merely a slave.

   My first job as a slave at Barysevo was to polish the king's shoes. After they were ready, I had to stand at attention and wait for the king to decide whether they were acceptable. As he examined them carefully and critically, I stood there trembling, hoping I had pleased him. And usually I had, because I was a good shoe-polisher. I was never hit or shouted at for doing a poor job.

   Sometimes the king would decide to lie in bed and summon one of his slaves to comb his hair carefully, so it would be in perfect order when he got up. His clothes, also, would have to be carefully arranged, his boots polished and ready to put on. Then his breakfast would be served. Everything had to be done so he could truly live in a manner fit for a king. After the king had arisen and was prepared for the day, he would summon his lieutenants and begin to issue orders and instructions, sending them out to organize the slaves for their day's tasks.

   Any dispute among the slaves had to be settled by the king, who would instruct the lieutenants to bring the dissenters to him, so that he could listen to them, sometimes kindly and patiently, sometimes angrily. After hearing all sides of the story and the arguments, he would render his verdict and it would be the final law.

   But the king's throne was an uneasy one. Always there was some lieutenant eyeing him carefully, looking for the slightest sign of weakness and hoping that he might overthrow the king and take his place.

   When I first became aware of the little society the children had created, I wondered what Uncle Nichy and Big Irene would say when they discovered the king and his lieutenants and the whole system. To my surprise one day, I saw Uncle Nichy talking to the king. They were discussing rules Uncle Nichy wanted carried out. Then I understood! This complete system wasn't kept secret from Uncle Nichy and Big Irene at all. They knew all about it and they used it for channeling their wishes to the king and through him they ran the children's home.

   I remained a slave for only a short time. When I became a little bigger and a little stronger, I challenged a lieutenant and beat him up and took his place. Before long I was one of the top lieutenants in the home. Most of my friends of the inner circle — Boris, Alex, and the others — also became top lieutenants when Nikolai was king, and we were able to do pretty much whatever we liked in the home.

   I was determined to become the strongest boy in the home, and eventually to become king. That was my goal, and no one, including Nikolai, was going to stop me from reaching it! But because Nikolai was my friend, I only hoped that I wouldn't have to take him on personally.

   Then one day in late 1965, when I was fourteen, Nikolai called me and said, "Well, I'm going to be transferred to another children's home, Sergei. You should be king here at Barysevo. You've got what it takes!" I didn't tell him that's what I was planning, but I did say I was sorry to see him leave. "Don't worry, Sergei," he said, "I won't be very far. I'm going to a home near Novosibirsk."

   "Great!" I said. "Let's get together there in the city."

   "Sure," he said. "I'll introduce you to some of my friends." It was rumored around Barysevo that Nikolai knew murderers and narcotics pushers by their first names. And to think he would introduce me to them! Criminals, individuals who could beat the system, were greatly admired by the Barysevo boys.

   I said good-bye to Nikolai, and he left for the other children's home. As I expected, in a short time he became king there. I was very glad I didn't have to fight him to become king at Barysevo.

   But even at that, I knew the throne he was vacating at Barysevo would not be easy to win. There were four other boys who wanted to be king. One by one, I took them on and beat every one of them. Only one gave me a hard time, but I was able to finish him by smashing his face in.

   Soon it was very clear who was the new king. We had fought by the rules of our society, and I had won. If at any time some lieutenant thought he could whip me, he had the right to try. But for now I had won, and I was crowned the new king at Barysevo. For a fourteen-year-old, that was not bad!

   I appointed my inner circle of friends my top lieutenants. With them, I was able to control and run most of the home. Boris, Mikhail Kirilin, Alex, and the others in my group were ready to cater to my every wish. If I needed money I just told Alexander, our pickpocket "treasurer," that I wanted fifty rubles by sunset. At sunset, sure enough, Alexander would come back from Novosibirsk with the money I had asked for. I'm sure he kept that much, or more, for himself.

   The most objectionable part of being king was the fact that I had to deal with Uncle Nichy and Big Irene. I detested them. They could sense this and kept their distance from me. I told Boris, "I'm going to have as little to do with them as I can. I want you make contact with them. I hate them!" Boris accepted my order although he didn't want to deal with them any more than I did.

   All in all, life at Barysevo went on fairly well for me. I was in the Communist Youth League at school, and king at the children's home. And I felt good about that.

   As kids reached the age of sixteen, seventeen, or eighteen, they left the home and their places were taken by new children whom we didn't know. We had no idea how reliable they were, and we knew nothing about them. So we had to put them quickly to the "light bulb test," the same one I had been through years earlier. If a boy told one of the aunts or uncles, he'd never be trusted by us. He was branded a spy. On the other hand, if he kept his mouth shut, he'd be accepted by the other kids as reliable.

   Because of the trouble the spies could get us into, we developed special treatment for any we caught informing or spying on us. Once one of the fellows got mad at another and reported him to Uncle Nichy. Uncle Nichy beat the offending boy. The spy was found out. Under the rules of our little world, he had to pay. He had to be taught a lesson.

[Soldier4Christ]

   I sent Boris and Mikhail to get him. They taped his mouth while he was sleeping and, with him kicking wildly, dragged him out. A couple of other guys emptied his locker at the foot of his bed, leaving his toothbrush, clothing, and other belongings spread out all over the floor. We carried both him and his locker to a ravine on the grounds of the home.

   "Open up the locker," I ordered. "Now stick him in." Boris and Mikhail crammed the boy into the locker, closed and locked it, then carried it to very edge of the ravine. As we lifted it on end, I shouted, "All right. Let it go!" With that, we gave it a big shove, and the locker, with the spy inside, tumbled down the steep hill end over end, bouncing and crashing all the way, until finally it came to rest at the far bottom of the ravine.

   "All right, somebody go down and let him out now," I ordered. "Maybe he's learned his lesson."

   That trick shut the mouth of that spy right there. The poor kid could hardly walk for the next two weeks. He had bruises all over him. But it was a lesson he had to learn. In our world of conflict in the children's home at Barysevo, there was no room for spies.

   I ran a tight ship. But I wanted all the children to know that if they did right and were fair, they need not worry. I tried to make sure that I never abused my position of power and authority.

   As king, I made it my business to learn as much as I could about the children in the home. Almost a third of them had been taken from their parents and sent to Barysevo, and I was curious to find out why. It was a question that had bothered me, off and on, for a long time.

   I was amazed at what I learned. Some were there because their mothers were prostitutes or their fathers were drunkards or because their parents were believers in God. Such parents had been declared unfit by the state, had been stripped of their parental rights, and their children had been sent to Barysevo.

   One of those whose parents were Believers was a thirteen-year-old boy. He was always a bit of a mystery, very different from all the others. He was small for his age, bright, intelligent, and always studying. He did his duties as a slave without complaining, but then stayed to himself. Whenever he did talk to other children, he always talked about God. When I heard about him, I was fascinated. Nobody had ever talked about God before around Barysevo — or anywhere else I had been. Somebody drew a cartoon of the little fellow on a wall and made him look like a priest, with a halo on his head and a greased beard on his face. One of the other kids came along and wrote under the picture in pencil, "The Deacon."

   The nickname stuck, and from that time on, it was the only name we ever used for him. "Hey, Deacon," I shouted once when I saw him. "Come here." Well, to be called by the king was something, and he came running. "What's this I hear about you going around talking about God? Is it true?"

   "Well, yes . . . yes it is," he stammered.

   "Are you a Believer?" I asked. I was really curious. I had never seen a Believer up close before. To me, it was like asking if somebody was from Mars or the moon. I had heard some things about Believers, even rumors that my mother had been one. I put my arm around his shoulder and began to walk and talk with him. I found that the Deacon was a real "missionary." Though grim and gloomy-faced most of the time, when he started talking about God he promptly came alive. His face would light up and you couldn't turn him off! He'd begin to give the background and the history of God and man and fill his story with examples from the Bible. I was dumbfounded. He was an object of curiosity to me and I took him under my wing and talked with him often.

   One day in winter, after a heavy snowfall, we were all very happy because we could ski down the sharp slopes of the ravine. The Deacon was out there watching us, and I called him over and said, "Hey Deacon, does your God hear our prayers?"

   "Yes, He does," he answered. I could see his face begin to beam and I knew he was about to give me another message about God.

   "Hold on," I said. "I'm not ready for a sermon now. All I want to know is, does your God answer prayer?"

   "Yes, He does."

   "Good," I said. "You mean that when I get ready to ski down this slope, if I ask God to help me ski better, He will?"

   "Of course," the Deacon said.

   "Even over there," I asked, pointing to the sharpest and most dangerous slope on the ravine, "where no one has ever skied before?"

   "Yes, even there. God will hear your prayers, Sergei."

   "I'm going to give it a try," I told him.

   With everybody watching, I walked down the ravine to a slope which fell off sharply. I stood at the top with my skis on, ready to shove off. But I gulped. It was the steepest slope I had ever dared to try. I was scared.

   "Start praying!" I shouted to Deacon, and off I went. Swift as a bullet, I zoomed almost straight down. To my amazement, I stayed on my feet, then came to a neat stop at the bottom of the hill! Looking up, I shouted, "Hey, Deacon, it worked! It worked!" I carried my skis back up the slope, slapped the Deacon on the back, and said, "Boy, that's not bad. You and I have got to stick together, Deacon. You do the praying and I'll be the ski champion."

   Once more I went confidently down the slope, picked up speed, then tumbled and fell flat on my face. From that point down, I skied more on my nose than my feet and came to a crashing stop at the bottom of the ravine. Everybody started laughing until I looked up, and then they quit. The Deacon stood there, a little afraid.

   Hey, Deacon," I shouted, "what happened this time? Did God go to sleep?"

   I climbed back up the hill, threw my arms up, and said, "Well, I guess even God can't hear all the time, huh, Deacon?" And he was relieved.

   Some of the boys at the children's home hated the Deacon because he did so well in school and made all the others look bad in class. Fortunately, he was not in my grade, or I might not have liked him either. When some of the boys picked on him and beat him up several times, I heard about it and ordered it stopped. But still they teased and tormented him.

   One day I asked him, "Deacon, what do you want to be?"

   "Well," he said, "all my life I've wanted to go to Bible college and study the Bible more. That's what I'm hoping for, Sergei, and I'm praying that some day God will give me that chance."

   He wouldn't talk about his family. One day I overheard one of the other boys asking him, "Deacon, where are your mother and father? Why are you here?" Deacon grew very sad. I don't think I've seen sadder eyes in all my life. He had a faraway look and big lump in his throat. He couldn't talk, just got up and went into the dormitory. I followed him and found him lying on his bunk facedown, with his head covered by a pillow, sobbing.

   It was later that I learned his mother and father were believers in God and lived in Ogurtsovo, over seventeen miles away. Because they were Believers and had taught the Deacon about God, they had been brought before a judge, declared unfit parents, and stripped of their parental rights for life. The little Deacon was pronounced officially without parents and made a legal ward of the state until his adult life. He would never see his mother and father again, even though they were only seventeen miles away. It was a great load for a boy to carry, a tragedy he will carry with him the rest of his life.

   Just now, however, he had other burdens to bear. Persecuted severely for his faith by the aunts and uncles, he was tormented at every turn. At the slightest provocation, they would shout at him and mistreat him. Uncle Nichy especially hated him. Frequently he would come storming in shouting angrily, "Where is that Deacon? Where is the little devil? I've got some Vitamin P for him." Deacon would slip off his bunk and walk over to Uncle Nichy, who would grab him roughly by the coat and drag him out to where he would give him a brutal dose of Vitamin P.

   I never learned what finally happened to the little Deacon, but I knew there was no place in Russia for anybody like him. Later I discovered that there were hundreds of Barysevo-type children's homes across Russia and hundreds of other Deacons who had been taken from their parents. The little Deacon was my first close contact with anybody who believed in God, and I will never forget him.

[Soldier4Christ]

Training Ground for Criminals

   When I was fifteen, something happened that helped change my life. I began to get special, helpful attention from Comrade Skripko, the Communist director of the school. He was the first man to ever show any interest in me. Through his guidance and teaching of communism, I became more interested in the Communist Youth League (Komsomol) at the school. I joined it eagerly. Comrade Skripko began to channel my restless energy into work with the Youth League, and I plunged into it eagerly.

   One day the director came to me and said, "Kourdakov, I've been watching you in the Youth League. I think you're good leadership material. How would you like to work real hard next year and see how far you can get? If you really apply yourself, you could go far. You could be leading the Youth league here at school."

   Wouldn't that be great! Leader of the Communist Youth League! Why not? I was king of Barysevo and could easily make it, so I set out with all my might to study Marxism-Leninism and the goals and aims of communism.

   I can't think of anything that had a greater impact on my life in school than my studies of the principles of communism: The unity of all peoples and the brotherhood of man. From each according to his ability, to each according to his need. Those truths rang a bell for me. Until I learned them, I had had nothing to believe in, no time to develop any strong commitments or beliefs. Now I had a belief: communism.

   It wasn't the communism which I saw in Big Irene and Nichman, however. What they had wasn't communism. Their personal brutality and failures had nothing to do with communism and its ideals. How could it? Communism taught the brotherhood of man and the equality of all people, yet Uncle Nichy and Big Irene created an atmosphere of hate in the children's home, of survival of the fittest, of might makes right — exact opposites of equality for all.

   But the hope that I found in communism was not shared by my friends at Barysevo. The harshness and hatefulness there were working tragic effects on them, one by one. My good friend Alexander Lobuznov and his brother Vladimir ran away from the children's home into Novosibirsk. Absences from the home of a few days or even a week weren't noticed. Alex and Vladimir hung around the park in the center of Novosibirsk, sleeping there and living off food they stole. One day they stole several bottles of vodka and soon were drunk. They attacked a young man in the park and beat him fiercely. They didn't intend anything serious, but in their drunken state, Alex put a leather belt around the young man's neck and dragged him about a thousand feet across the park. On the other side of the park, Alex unloosened his belt and shouted at him, "If you know what's good for you, get out of here fast!" But the fellow didn't move. Alarmed, Alex looked down. The man was dead, strangled by the belt. Alex and Vladimir took off, running as fast as they could, but the police finally caught them.

   Alex, my good friend, two years older than his brother, was executed by a firing squad. Vladimir went to prison and is still there.

   Others in the children's home, when they became fifteen or sixteen, ran away to enter a life of crime, narcotics, or prostitution. The criminal underworld was very strong in Novosibirsk and easily accessible.

   My inner circle stayed mostly intact until one day Ivan Chernega disappeared from the home. I didn't think too much about it, because I knew Ivan could take care of himself. I figured he was probably off having a good time in Novosibirsk. What I didn't know was that Ivan had gotten mixed up with a notorious element of the underworld and was robbing trains — and was very successful at it, too, for a while.

   One day Boris came running up to me all out of breath. Excitedly, he asked, "Sergei, have you heard about Ivan?"

   "No. Why? What's up?"

   "They caught him."

   "Who caught him?"

   "The police. He's been running with a gang of train robbers and they were caught trying to hold up a train."

   "Ivan, a train robber! Boris, you're crazy," I said.

   "No, Sergei, it's true. He's at the Central Police Station in Novosibirsk. They're going to send him to prison."

   "Can we go see him?"

   "It won't do any good, Sergei. They won't let anybody near him."

   Poor Ivan. My good friend. We had been on many trips together and shared all kinds of experiences ever since I had first met him, when I was eight years old. He then was a young, wide-eyed, happy boy, always wearing a smile. And he always saw the best in everything. Somehow those years at Barysevo had changed him. He was given a long sentence at hard labor and is still in prison somewhere in Russia.

   Meanwhile, I was at the top of my class, not only in Marxism-Leninism but also physics, mathematics, language, geography, and politics. I had developed an excellent facility for language and had studied German and was able to speak it quite well. I suppose that being the favorite of the Communist director of the school was a great help — but only initially. Ever since the tragic death of my gentle friend, Sasha, my driving ambition was to go ahead. And I put my motto into practice, studying with determination. I scored grades of 100 percent, or perfect, in most subjects.

   The Communist director came to me one day and said, "Kourdakov, I want you to speak to the younger classes on communism and Marxism-Leninism."

   "All right," I said, realizing that it was a great honor.

   I was allowed to stay out of my own classes and go into the classrooms of the younger children to lecture them. My subjects included imperialists, the war in Viet Nam, which was then beginning to be very much in the Communist literature of Russia, and other political themes, as well as Marxist doctrine.

   The Communist director of the school was pleased. "Keep this up," he told me, "and you've got a great career ahead of you — and an excellent record to show from school."

   His praise meant a lot to me, because not only was he a director of the school, but he was an important Communist official in the region, and I knew that to get ahead in Soviet life, you have to have a top reference from the local Communist party official. Everything seemed to be going my way.

   During the school recess, in the summer of 1966, Boris, Mikhail Kirilin, and I spent a lot of time in Novosibirsk. We could come and go at the home as we pleased. One day when I met the two of them in Novosibirsk, they were bubbling with enthusiasm. What are these guys up to now?

   "Sergei," Mikhail said, "back home where I come from in Tashkent, there are a lot of Moslem people."

   I know. You told me about them."

   "I've got plenty of friends and family acquaintances, Sergei. You know they smoke a lot of hashish down there and I think I can use my connections to buy some."

   Oh, oh. Here it comes.

   "We could bring it up here," Mikhail continued excitedly, "and sell it!"

   I thought it over for a minute. Offhand, it didn't seem like a bad idea.

   "Why not?" I said. "We could make a lot of money."

   "Right, and it wouldn't be difficult."

[Soldier4Christ]

  "But," I asked, "where would we store it?"

   "Where else? Right where we live — in the children's home."

   "Here? Mikhail, are you crazy?"

   "No, I think it's a great idea. Who'd ever think of looking in a children's home for drugs?"

   "Hey! That's not bad."

   "Sure, and then we can go into Novosibirsk and sell it a little bit at a time. The city's running over with young people who will buy it."

   "How would we get started?" I asked.

   "Nick — that's my partner — and I have already talked it over. We're going to be leaving for Turkestan by train in three or four days."

   We scraped together all the money we could, with the help of our treasurer, and Boris and Nick took off by train for the southern regions of Asiatic Russia to make contact. In about three weeks they were back at Barysevo, grinning from ear to ear. I knew by that they had been successful. We found a place to hide the hashish in the home, which became a perfect front for our new business.

   Mikhail started selling it almost as soon as we got it unpacked. Some of his first customers were the older kids at the home who bought it and smoked it secretly. We didn't have to worry much about Uncle Nichy and Big Irene and the other uncles and aunts, because by this time, especially during the summer, they just let the home run itself. There was very little surveillance and few controls. Anyway, we kids were pretty resourceful by then and knew how to get around them.

   Then we went into Novosibirsk, made some contacts with young people, and the stuff sold as fast as we could handle it.

   One day on one of our business trips through the streets, we ran into Nikolai Povaleyev. We hugged and slapped each other on the back. It was the first time I had seen him since he had been sent away from the Barysevo home to another children's home. He told me about his association with the criminal organization in Novosibirsk, part of a nationwide system. I learned later that each major area in the USSR is divided into regions, and each region is assigned to a criminal organization. Povaleyev told me of attending a conference near Moscow for three days to divide up the country. He told me he had become good friends with some of the top criminal leaders.

   "I'm not surprised, Nikolai," I told him. "That's you, able to get in anywhere."

   "And what have you been up to, Sergei?" he said.

   "Mikhail, Boris, and I have a little business."

   "I heard you were the Communist Youth League leader at Barysevo. Is it true?"

   "Yes, it's true," I replied.

   "So can't you make up your mind? What are you trying to be — a Communist or a businessman?"

   I laughed. "Well," I said, "we've all got to eat. Even Communists."

   What happened to Sasha was never far from my mind.

   "Look, Sergei," he said, "I want to see you in a couple of weeks. I've got something in mind for you. How about meeting me right here at this time — two weeks from today?"

   "Right," I promised, and we went our separate ways.

   When we met again, Nikolai got right down to business. "Sergei, you're wasting your time on this little stuff. You're working your head off and taking all kinds of risks and where's it getting you?"

   I had thought I was doing pretty well. But next to Nikolai's operation, it was not so much. Nikolai saw the effect his sales talk was having and he began to put on the pressure. "Sergei," he said, "the people I'm with need guys like you. You're young and fresh in the business. You don't have any police record so far as narcotics is concerned. You're just the kind of guy the police wouldn't suspect."

   It all sounded great to me, so I said, "All right, Nikolai, what do you want me to do?"

   "Well, we need couriers. All you have to do is pick up merchandise and deliver it where we tell you."

   "That sounds easy."

   "It is easy. That's all you have to do."

   We walked on and continued talking, and I said again, "It sounds good. I'll do it."

   "Great!" he said, and slapped me on the back.

   But before I could start with Nikolai, I had to finish with Boris and Mikhail. We still had quite a bit of hashish on hand that we needed to get rid of. We decided to take it to Ulyanovsk, Lenin's birthplace, and sell it all.

   It was summertime, and lots of sightseers were coming in to see where Lenin was born. We figured it would be a good place to make some sales. We made the trip by train, and it didn't take us long to sell out our goods in Ulyanovsk. I saw Lenin's birthplace, too, so it was a great experience for me both ways — as a Communist and as a businessman. Before long we were on the train and back in Novosibirsk.

   Soon I was in my new courier routine, going into the central marketplace in Novosibirsk and making contact at a certain stall. There I would be handed a paper bag under the counter and told a street address for me to take it to. I then would carry the bag to the assigned place. The police didn't suspect me; I was just a sixteen-year-old kid.

   I was paid well and it was easy work.

   I, myself, never took narcotics or smoked the hashish. I was a physical fitness fanatic and I knew drugs would ruin my body. I disciplined myself, determined to get very strong and stay that way. What I was doing was just a job to help me get money in order to take care of myself in life. Nothing more.

[Soldier4Christ]

   Then something happened that upset my comfortable life. It was a hot day, and I was wearing light summer clothes, carrying hashish in my shirt pocket to give to some of my friends at Barysevo. On the streetcar in Novosibirsk we were jammed in tight, which made everyone even hotter. Somehow in the jostling and pushing, one of the packages split open and the hashish split out into my shirt pocket. Hashish has an odor all its own and can be easily detected because of its distinctive smell.

   I came to my streetcar stop, got off near a small kiosk that sold newspapers, and went over to get a newspaper. Then a man, tall and strongly built, came over and said to me, "Come here, boy, I want to ask you something." I began to suspect something was wrong, but I followed him over to a dark alleyway. I wasn't afraid of him. I was strong and was skilled in judo. I could take care of myself with one man anytime. It didn't worry me that he was bigger and taller than I. So I followed him without fear.

   When we reached the alley, he said, "You've got narcotics."

   "No, I haven't," I lied.

   He grabbed me by my shirt, and I reached up to give him a karate chop and follow that up with a judo throw. But I didn't know what was going on behind me. As I raised my hand to let him have it. I felt a hot pain in my back, like boiling water had been poured on me. One of his comrades had sneaked up behind me and stabbed me with a knife. My head began to spin. I became faint and dizzy and fell to the ground, unconscious.

   The next thing I knew, I was in a hospital, asking the nurse what had happened. "You were found in an alleyway," she said. "You lost a lot of blood. If they hadn't found you when they did, you'd have bled to death. The stab punctured a main artery."

   I got word to Boris and Nikolai where I was and they came to see me. During his visit, Nikolai came close and said, "Sergei, give me a description of those guys."

   I said, "Well, I only saw one."

   "What did he look like?" I remembered him well and was able to give a good description. "Don't worry, Sergei. We'll take care of him."

   A few days later, Nikolai came in. He said, "Well, Sergei, we've taken care of your two friends. They won't be causing anybody trouble anymore."

   "What happened to them?"

   "Well, I put the word out to my friends and they soon found those two guys. I'm not going to tell you what happened to them, but they won't be bothering anybody else, ever." Knowing Povaleyev, I guessed the two guys were at the bottom of the Ob River.

   After about two and a half weeks I was released from the hospital, and Boris and Nikolai took me to the children's home to rest. It had been a narrow escape. The doctors said that if the knife blade had gone in just a little farther to the side, the stab would have been fatal. Or if I hadn't been found when I was, I would have bled to death.

   As I lay in my bunk at the children's home, being waited on by my lieutenants and slaves, I had lots of time to reflect during my recovery from my stabbing.

   I could see that my life was beginning to come to a crossroad. Either I had to follow the course Nikolai Povaleyev was taking and become deeply involved in the underworld, or start seriously developing a career of my own in the Communist organization. I had tasted both, and wasn't certain which would suit me better. There was no moral question involved. After all, just a few yards away, in the tiny cemetery behind the home, lay the body of Sasha, a good person, but not tough enough and hard enough to survive. If I did not take care of myself, I would meet the same fate.

   I must admit I was a little confused by it all. There was Big Irene, strutting around with her medal. She had been rewarded by the Communist party and made sure she took care of herself. But she had less scruples than some of the people I dealt with in the underworld.

   But I realized my real interest was in politics and studies. Comrade Skripko, the Communist director at school, said I had a real knack and ability. I had a growing love and enthusiasm for Lenin's teachings and the goals and aims of communism. I wanted to be in party work or politics.

   So, lying there on my bunk, I made my decision. I would pursue a party career with the help of the Communist director of the school. I would talk things over with him as soon as possible and get his advice on how to shape my life and career. I would put aside everything but my work as head of the Youth League and plunge into my studies. The reckless phase of my life was over. Now I needed study and discipline.

[Soldier4Christ]

A Military Life for Me!

   More and more I lost contact with Nikolai Povaleyev, Boris, and Mikhail Kirilin, who continued their work in drugs and narcotics in the criminal underworld. I saw them occasionally on weekends when I went into Novosibirsk. My life was increasingly taken up with my studies and my duties as the Communist Youth League leader. I pushed our Communist Youth League hard in all its projects and goals. I began to win a reputation for getting things done. I determined that my youth organization was going to be the best in our entire district. This was a tall order because our district took in the city of Novosibirsk and the huge surrounding area. But it was important for my career that my Communist youth group be the best.

   The months passed rapidly, I was doing excellently in my studies, and my Communist youth group was at the top of the entire district. I graduated from school in late June 1967, at the head of the class. Three top students in the school were to be given medals. A girl won the gold medal, and I won one of the silver medals.

   Then the big day came. It was time to judge all the Communist Youth league organizations in the district of Novosibirsk. High Communist officials were there, and I was sitting in my group, nervously waiting for the awards to be announced.

   "The number one Communist youth organization in the district of Novosibirsk is . . . " The announcer paused and I listened breathlessly . . ." . . . Barysevo!"

   I couldn't believe it. I had won! All eyes turned in my direction, and people slapped me on the back as I made my way to the podium to receive the award as leader of the Barysevo Communist Youth League. It was a great day for me. There was long and loud applause. Handshakes and congratulations from Communist leaders of our district. And as I received the public award, the Communist officer who gave it to me stated, "This boy will go far."

   That was my goal in life — to go far, to go ahead. As I stood there with the applause and congratulations ringing in my ears, I knew this was my life. I knew that I understood the rules of the game and the rules of life and that I could play by those rules and win. All the years at Barysevo and V-I and even way back at Number One, the hard knocks I had taken, the hard lessons of self-reliance I had learned, though I resented them then, had toughened and hardened me. These lessons gave me an advantage over those who had lived a soft or sheltered life and who had a mother and father to look after them. In the game of competition, I could go ahead. My life and career lay ahead, and I knew that I was prepared. I was a creature of the system. I understood it and knew I could go to the top.

   Now it was time to decide what career I would choose. First of all, I would have to face military service. Would it be the army? I had talked to some fellows who had been in the army and they said, "Sergei, that's the last thing you want to do. Stay away from the army. It's a hard life, and there's no way to get ahead. You come out of the army and you start as a factory worker. What kind of future is that?" I had already observed that the life of the factory-working man was not very good. I didn't want that. I wanted something that would help me get ahead.

   Then I talked to some friends who had been in the navy. After hearing them tell about their experiences, I decided the navy was for me. But I wanted to be an officer, not just a seaman. I had been a leader in every children's home where I had been except Number One, both in grades and in the Communist youth organizations. Now I wanted to be a leader in the navy.

   Comrade Skripko promised to help. "Kourdakov," he said, "I'll write up a very good report and recommendation for you. You take this report and give it to the naval recruiting authorities in Novosibirsk and have them contact me."

   So he prepared a record of my work in the Communist youth organizations, from the time when I was an Octobrianik to the present, and gave it to the authorities in Novosibirsk along with his endorsement. He also sent a copy on to Leningrad along with my application for admission to the naval academy.

   In early August 1967, the word came back to me at Barysevo that I had been accepted for training at the officer's naval academy in Leningrad. That was great news! I had Comrade Skripko to thank for that. It was hard to say good-bye to my close friends — but my mind was fixed on going ahead and not looking back.

   When it was time to go to the Novosibirsk railway station to board the train for Leningrad, I looked around at the familiar sights from ten long years ago, when I was there as a street child. Finally I heard the last "all aboard for Moscow." I boarded, and in moments we began chugging out of the station. Suddenly I was struck by the realization of what a big part of my life I was leaving behind. Peering out the window, I took one parting look at that massive old station.

   My mind filled with reflections, I settled down for my long ride to Leningrad. The train chugged out of the station and through the outskirts of the city. As we entered the countryside and picked up speed, the clickety-clack of the wheels began to speak to me. They seemed to be saying, Clickety-clack, clickety-clack, you made it, you made it. Clickety-clack, you made it, you made it.

[Soldier4Christ]

   Yes. You made it, Sergei. But what about all your friends who didn't? As I reminisced, the faces of these who didn't make it flashed before me. There were seven boys who entered Children's Home Number One at about the same time, when I was six. We grew up together. Of those seven, I was the only one who finished high school and had any hopes of making something of my life.

   As I stared absentmindedly out the windows at the flat Siberian landscape rushing by, other faces began to appear. There were Ivan Chernega, Alex and Vladimir Lobuznov. There were Nikolai Saushkin, Nikolai Povaleyev, Boris Lybanov, Mikhail Kirilin, Alex Popov, our "treasurer," and all my old friends. Some had turned into thieves, narcotics pushers, even murderers. Nearly every one had been in serious trouble of some kind. Ivan Chernega, my good friend, was to spend years in prison, and Alexander Lobuznov had been shot by a firing squad. I was shocked to realize how many of the boys and girls in the home at Barysevo turned out to be criminals, gangsters, or prostitutes. The weak, like Sasha Ognev, died or committed suicide.

   I remembered the Deacon and wondered what would happen to him. Where would he go? Would he ever get to his dreamed-of Bible school? Of course not. Where would life find a place for a kid like him? And my mind raced back to all those other "official orphans" taken from their parents. What would happen to them?

   The train sped across the vast flatness toward Moscow and a new life, and soon the the wheels seemed to change their message, saying, Be strong, be strong. And I realized that above all else I must heed the message of the wheels.

   After a long and tiring journey, my train pulled into Kazan Station in Moscow. I got off the train and began a two-day stay there in the capital city of our country.

   The first place I went was the tomb of Lenin. There I got in line and stood patiently for several hours, until it was my turn to go in. As an Octobrianik I had been his grandson and as a Communist Youth League leader, his son. One day, as a member of the Communist party itself, I would be his comrade.

   As I entered the quiet sanctuary and approached the mortal remains of Father Lenin, I was overcome with a sense of awe and reverence. I stood close, quietly looking at the body of the man about whom I had studied so much and who was a god to me. He was the founder of my "religion," which had given me something to believe in for the first time in my life. He taught equality, brotherhood, and the strong helping the weak. I bowed my head and prayed to him. Yes, it was a prayer. I cannot describe it in any other way. I prayed, "Help me, Father Lenin, in my life. Give me the guidance and direction I need. Help me to have the understanding to follow your teachings. Remove obstacles and danger from my pathway and from life. Lead me and guide me. Help me, Father Lenin." I lifted my head, looked a few minutes more at the remains of Lenin, and left. Somehow I felt stronger and more able to face what was ahead of me.

   The next day I boarded the train for Leningrad, four hundred miles northwest of Moscow, and arrived in a short time to begin another chapter of my life, a career as a future naval officer, studying at the Alexander Popov Naval Academy. Back at Barysevo I had kidded "my" Alex Popov that the academy was named after him.

   When I first saw Leningrad, I immediately understood why it was called the queen of Soviet cities and why Voltaire, in the fifteenth century, had said, "The united magnificence of all the cities of Europe could but equal St. Petersburg" (Leningrad's former name). Leningrad contained a rare mixture of Russia's timeless grandeur and its modern culture. It was often spoken of as the capital of the czars and the cradle of communism. Founded by Peter the Great centuries ago, it was named for him. It had received its present name in 1924, in honor of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, who, on an October day in 1917, launched an uprising that transformed Holy Russia into the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. In founding the first Communist government in history, he set off an ideological explosion that was to change and shake the world. A huge, one-hundred-foot billboard picture of him towered above the streets, dominating Leningrad's famed Palace Square. Just as I had read about it and seen it pictured, it was a city of bridges, with nearly six hundred of them spanning numerous canals and rivers that intersected the streets.

   I remember how low the skyline seemed for a city of four million inhabitants. But I had already read that it was because of a law limiting all buildings except churches — their spires, that is — to a height not to exceed the ninety-two-foot height of the czar's winter palace.

   As we rode down Nevsky Prospekt, the city's main thoroughfare, I recall the numerous shops, restaurants, and cafes that lined the sidewalks for the avenue's entire three-mile length. A description by one of our poets, Alexander Blok, popped into my mind. He called Nevsky Prospekt "the most lyrical street . . . in the world." It was a true description.

   Leningrad is also a city of museums, one of the most remarkable of which is the State Hermitage Museum housed in the eleven-hundred-room winter palace that originally belonged to Catherine the Great. Guides there tell visitors that if they were to spend just one minute looking at each object on display, it would take them twelve years to complete the tour. More than three million visitors pass through its doors each year.

   The general citizenry of Leningrad more fondly thinks of it as the hero city, a title well earned by its gallant, unyielding stand against Hitler's three-year siege and slaughter of two hundred thousand of its soldiers and a million of its citizens. On one of the worst days of the Nazi siege, more than eight thousand Leningraders died in a twenty-four-hour period. While the city itself had recovered remarkably from the devastation wrought by the unprecedented bombing and shellings, more than a million of its former population remained forever anonymous in huge, mass graves. I had studied all of this in preparation for my coming to Leningrad.

   Of course I was looking forward expectantly, not only to being in Leningrad, but to my arrival at Alexander Popov Naval Academy. Finally my bus came to it, on the outskirts of Leningrad in a wooded area quite far from the center of the city.

   On our first day we were called in to muster where all new recruits were being assembled. Because the older cadets were on hand to observe us, all of us new recruits were a bit nervous. But the ice was quickly broken when the older cadets got up and began to shout, "Who's from Moscow?" or, "Who's from Kharkov?" or Donets or Bashkin. Whenever any hands went up, the older cadets and the new ones from the same place would get together. It was the way in which the older cadets, who had come from all over the Soviet Union, could find some new recruit from his old hometown. From that, friendships developed.

   Somebody called out, "Who's from Novosibirsk?"

   "I am," I shouted excitedly and looked around, soon spotting one of the old-time cadets smiling. We met, shook hands, and introduced ourselves. Vasil was his name, and he was two years older than I, a friendly sort of guy. I was glad I met him because he helped me to get adjusted to the naval academy routine and to avoid a lot of problems. As in most schools, it was customary for the older class to harass the newcomers, as well as befriend them. Vasil and I hit it off great and spent many long hours talking. Soon a strong friendship developed that was to last several years.

   In my studies, I was offered two separate kinds of courses I could take, one in mechanics, the other in radio. I wanted to become a radio officer. I had always been good at physics and mathematics and was fascinated by radio and electronic equipment.

   Three days after we arrived at the academy and got settled, all the new cadets in the radio section met to elect the leaders of the Communist Youth League organization for their section of the academy. Names were submitted, and somebody said, "I propose Sergei Kourdakov." I was surprised, since I was new there; and I was more than a little flattered when the vote was taken and I was elected their leader.

   Later I learned that my record of having the best Communist youth organization in the Novosibirsk district was responsible. Based on that, my name had been proposed by the party chief at the naval academy. So my "election" was automatic. In any event, I took charge of the Communist youth organization in the radio section of the naval academy for the year I was there. I organized classes and taught Communist theory and, for my own further learning, attended lectures in geopolitics and current events.

[Soldier4Christ]

   The regimented discipline was difficult at the academy, but for me, after my life in the children's homes, the academy was a pushover. While some of the other cadets who had had more sheltered lives couldn't take it and dropped out, I thrived on it and was able to maintain an excellent record, especially with my work in the Communist Youth League.

   During those early days I met Pavel Sigorsky, who became a dear friend of mine. He was a senior naval cadet and had come from that part of Poland which had been taken over by Russia after the war. Being a Polish nationalist, he spoke only Polish in my presence. We laughed about it, and he said, "If you want to speak to me, you'll have to learn Polish." I thought that was a good idea, so I asked him to teach me, and he did. We were soon able to speak to each other entirely in his native tongue.

   Often I was assigned to guard duty at the entrance to the academy. On a Sunday morning I saw some people walking across a nearby field.

   "Who are they?" I asked the other fellow on guard with me.

   "Believers."

   I looked at them. To me they had always been, and still were, an object of great curiosity. "Where are they going?" I asked.

   "Oh," he replied, "there's a church there behind those trees and they're going there."

   It was true. Here on the far outskirts of Leningrad, there was one church allowed open. All the Believers in the whole city who wanted to worship had to walk out into the countryside to get to the church. I was impressed. I remembered reading in school, in our constitution of the Soviet Union, that every citizen had the full right of religious worship and religious freedom. It's true! There is religious freedom in Russia. Believers were openly going to church. That proved there was religious freedom.

   The months passed quickly through the winter of 1967 and on into the spring of 1968. My work at the naval academy in Leningrad became increasingly demanding. I was keenly interested in all my studies and especially enjoyed the lectures on Marxism-Leninism and politics. They attracted me very much and I studied hard.

   I was very glad when April came, so I could get away for my spring vacation on the trip I had planned back to Novosibirsk and Barysevo. The holiday turned out well. I had a great time with all my old friends. But the experience which impressed me most during the two weeks of my vacation took place on my short bus trip from Novosibirsk to Barysevo, on my way to visit friends at the children's home. As we passed through the suburb of Inskaya, I noticed a bus ahead of us was caught in a traffic jam. Looking out the window, wondering what it was all about, I saw trucks blocking the road, police cars, two fire wagons, and people by the hundreds and hundreds thronging about.

   It was a hopeless tangle. Everyone on our bus knew we'd be delayed for some time, and we kept looking ahead to see what was going on. None of us could figure it out. All we knew was that there was a lot of frantic activity up in front of us. Then some of the people from the milling crowd came back and boarded our bus. We asked them what was happening.

   It turned out that they were Believers. I had thought Believers were grandmothers or grandfathers, old and bent over. But these Believers weren't like that at all. They were all ages. Many were as young as I, and they looked and dressed pretty much the same as I did.

   We asked them what was going on and they told us that many of the churches in Novosibirsk had been closed. But just now, after much petitioning, they had succeeded in getting the government to allow one small prayer house to open here in the suburb of Inskaya, on this day. They said the news of its opening had spread among the Believers and though they expected quite a few people to be on hand, they never imagined there would be a crowd like this. The prayer hall held about 150 people standing. But many hundreds of Believers had shown up, jamming the streets and blocking the roads, all trying to get in. And no wonder there were so many! Novosibirsk was a city of one and a half million people and for years it had been without even one Protestant church. So the day this one church was allowed to open, everybody came.

   It didn't take the police long to get out there and order the Believers out of the area. We asked the Believers on our bus how they ever expected to get in to worship, and they said, "Well, we were going to take turns. The plan was for one group to go in for half an hour, pray and worship, then leave. Then the second group of 150 would go in, and so on, until everyone had a chance."

   I shook my head in amazement. I was really dumbfounded. First, I had been told there were very few Believers, and here were thousands of them, spilling out into the streets of this small suburb. Then I had also been told that only the old continued to believe in God, but there were lots of young people in that milling crowd trying to get in to pray.

   Finally, after the police drove the Believers off and got the traffic moving again, the bus went on to Barysevo. I was lost in my thought about what I had witnessed. It all made a deep impression on me, and I was to think about it again and again for a long time to come.

   The rest of my holiday I spent with friends in Barysevo and Novosibirsk and had some good, happy times. But soon my time was gone and I had to return to Leningrad. Before long I was back, working harder than ever.

   In July 1968, after completing almost a year at the naval academy in Leningrad, I was assigned to continue my studies at the naval academy at Petropavlovsk in Kamchatka Province. I was really pleased. This was a choice assignment. The Petropavlovsk Naval Academy was a large one in the Soviet Far East, on the Pacific coast of Russia, north of Japan. Kamchatka was known as the "eyes of Russia." To be assigned to the naval academy there was a big step upward. Most of the Soviet fleet was in that area and I was happy for this good fortune.

   I said good-bye to my friends, including my Polish comrade, whom I was not to hear from again for quite some time. My military pass gave me a month-and-a-half holiday before I was to report to the new assignment. I decided to spend my holiday with my friends in Novosibirsk.

   My last look at Leningrad brought a lump to my throat., I felt I would never forget those busy, exciting days of training, and of course I would always remember the unsurpassed beauty of that great city.

   From the time I left Leningrad until my train neared the suburbs of Moscow, the trip was uneventful. Then things began to happen. In the car ahead of me I heard a big commotion going on and, being curious, I had to find out what it was. So I sauntered through our coach into the next one.

   There I saw three big, tough, young guys shaking the life out of a small, studious-looking boy with big glasses and pale, white skin. "Give us your money," they told him, "or we'll break your arm!" The kid was trembling like a leaf in a windstorm. One big guy stood facing the other passengers to make sure no one interfered while they worked over the boy. I've never liked bullies and what I saw instantly made me mad. I whipped off my military belt and wrapped it around my fist, so that the big heavy buckle would be like brass knuckles, and moved toward the boy. When the guard made a move to stop me, I rushed him and grabbed him around the neck with a judo hold, then threw him against the wall and smashed him in the face with my improvised brass knuckles. He went out cold.

   The two others were pulling the money out of the boy's wallet. "Drop that money," I said, "or you'll get the same treatment!" They saw their comrade sprawled unconscious on the floor. I moved to take them both, and they backed off, saying, "Okay, okay. We're going, we're going." They got off at the next station, taking their friend with them.

   The young boy, of course, was completely shaken. I helped him gather up his money, then took him by the arm, comforted him, and suggested we sit down. As we talked, I found out his name was Mikhail Koptelov. For a while I hesitated to ask about that name. It was such a remote possibility that he would have any connection with the person I was thinking of. But finally I said, "Are you, by any chance, related to the great writer, Konstantin Koptelov?"

   "Oh yes," he replied. "He's my father."

   "Your father!" I exclaimed. I was really impressed. Anyone in Russia who loves literature knows the name Konstantin Koptelov. He is one of Russia's greatest and most popular writers and won the Lenin Prize for Literature. His books are famous throughout the whole Soviet Union. From then on, I talked with more interest than ever. Mikhail asked who I was and where I was going, and I told him.

   "Look," he said, "while you're here in Moscow, Sergei, why not break your journey and come up to our apartment and meet my parents?"

   Great! A chance to meet Konstantin Koptelov! It didn't take me long to decide. "All right," I agreed. "I've got several hours to wait anyway." I found myself very excited over the prospect of meeting one of Russia's famous writers

[Soldier4Christ]

   When we got off the train, we took a subway to Mikhail's apartment, where he introduced me to his parents and told them what had happened on his way home. His father shook my hand and thanked me for my help, and his mother smiled and was very grateful, too. Then she said, "Sergei, can you take time to have dinner with us? Everything's about ready. We can have a nice visit and you can catch the train to Novosibirsk." I was delighted and accepted the invitation readily.

   Before long we were at the table enjoying a wonderful, homecooked meal and talking like old friends. Mr. Koptelov began to ask me about my background and what was I doing now and what did I expect to do in the future. So I told him the story of my life in the children's homes. He seemed fascinated. Listening intently, he asked for more and more details about it. When dinner was over, we retired to the living room for more conversation and a few drinks before they were to take me to the station. "Sergei," he said at last, "as I've been listening to you talk, I've been thinking. I'm convinced your story and the story of the children's home at Barysevo would make a fascinating book."

   I was taken aback. I had never thought of that. He began to ask more questions and said, "I could write a book about your life at the children's home. It would be like a Russian Tom Sawyer." I was certainly flattered, but I told him I honestly didn't know whether there was a story there or not. Of course, he would know best, because that was his business. I assured him I would be glad to tell him all I knew about it.

   "All right, we'll do it," he announced, "I'll be in contact with you soon. We're trying to buy a summer country house near Novosibirsk. It'll be close enough to the children's home to interview you and the other fellows." Then my new friends took me to the depot where we said good-bye, and I boarded the train for the rest of the trip to Novosibirsk.

   When I arrived at the Novosibirsk train station, there was Boris Lobanov to meet me. Good old Boris! I set my suitcase down and threw my arms around him, and he hugged me too as we exchanged greetings, both talking at once. Soon we were at his one-room apartment and after I got cleaned up. we went to see some of our other friends. The first we saw was my good friend Nikolai Povaleyev.

   "Just look!" he shouted. "Who's that smart-looking officer walking with you, Boris? He goes off a wet-behind-the-ears kid and comes back an admiral! Boy! They sure aren't particular who they put a uniform on these days!"

   After we all had a good laugh and greeted each other, I got serious and said, "Listen, Nikolai. I've got some great news for you." I proceeded to tell them about how I met Konstantin Koptelov and how he wanted to write a book about the children's home and the people in it, including Nikolai. "I told him the whole story," I said, "and, Nikolai, he wants to tell your story, too. It'll make you famous!"

   Nikolai listened with a growing look of horror on his face and exclaimed, "Sergei, how stupid can you be? Of course it will make me famous. But it will also put a noose around my neck! The last thing I need is to be famous, or written about! Don't you understand," he said, "what that would do to my business? Sergei, how could you do this to me, your good old friend?"

   Then it dawned on me. Of course! How stupid could I be? "Look, Nikolai," I said, "I'm sorry. I didn't think about it from that point of view."

   "Well, you better begin to think about it," he muttered. "The kind of activities I've been in — well, we just don't talk about them. Boris and I and some of the other guys have a good thing going here, Sergei, and a nosy writer would end it all fast!"

   I started to interrupt, but he wouldn't let me. "I know you haven't made much money at the naval academy, Sergei. And I've been making pretty good profits lately. Look, I'll give you the money to make up for what you lose on the book, if you'll just call this whole stupid idea off. All right?"

   By this time I was getting irritated. "Listen, Nikolai," I almost shouted, "if you'll quit talking for a minute, I'll tell you what I'm trying to tell you! I didn't realize what you've just said. I hadn't thought of it that way. So you can consider the idea dead. You don't have to pay me off. I'm your friend."

   Nikolai relaxed. A little smile crossed his lips. "That's the old Sergei I knew. Thanks a lot."

   Later Koptelov wrote me at the address I had given him and told me he had bought a summer cottage nearby and was coming out to it soon. When he got there, in a few days, I went over to see to explain about the book, that I didn't think the idea was too good after all and I'd rather not collaborate on it. He wasn't at all happy that I'd changed my mind, but I told him that's the way it had to be. And we ended it right there.

   The twenty days of my holiday before I would have to leave for Petropavlovsk were filled with fun and excitement and happy reunions with friends. But there were also unexpected incidents. One day Nikolai said, "Sergei, I want you to meet the big man of our organization." I had heard a lot about this underworld figure while I was a courier. I had wanted to meet him, but I was so far down the line in the business that I didn't have a chance. I regarded this invitation as a rare opportunity.

   We went clear across Novosibirsk to a little, out of the way room in a neighborhood I'd never been in before. Nikolai walked in with me at his heels. We stood for a minute, then Nikolai whispered, "Here he comes, Sergei." The door opened.

   I was flabbergasted! I couldn't believe my eyes. I looked at Nikolai and said, "That's 'Mr. Big?' That's Saushkin!"

   "That's right, Sergei. Saushkin. I am the — shall we say — Number One of this business."

   So I finally found out what had happened to Saushkin! It all flashed before me, how he had been caught and arrested at Barysevo when he had once tried to kill Big Irene with one of the deadly homemade zip guns we had secretly made at the children's home. He had been arrested and taken away. Nobody knew where they took him. "They took me to a children's prison," Saushkin said, as he started to answer the questions on my face. "That's where I made the contacts that led me into my present — uh, profession."

   Saushkin's "profession" was drug pushing. He was the biggest pusher in all of Novosibirsk. Here was one graduate of Barysevo who had really gone far. I stood looking at Saushkin, hardly daring to believe what he and Nikolai were telling me. But when I remembered how tough he was at Barysevo, I knew it was true.

   Actually, I didn't think Saushkin remembered me, since I was so much younger than he was when we were at Barysevo. But he did. "Of course I remember you, Sergei," he said. "How've you been? I see you're in the military now."

   "Yes," I said. And we had a good time talking about Barysevo and everything that had happened to us since.

   That day was the first I knew that Boris and Nikolai Povaleyev had been working closely with Nikolai Saushkin in the narcotics business in Novosibirsk. After we had talked awhile, Saushkin made me a proposition. "Sergei, you're going to be here on holiday for a few days. How about making some money while you're here?"

   "I could use it," I answered. "Tell me more." So he did.

   "For the time that you're here," he said, "you can work with Boris and me and Povaleyev. Business is very good. We're selling a lot of narcotics and we're getting other merchandise in from Japan and selling it on the black market."

   I leaned over to Boris and asked, "What are you selling?"

   "Tape recorders, lipstick, things like that," he said.

[Soldier4Christ]

   "All right," I said, "I'll do it." I was thinking of the lesson I had learned long ago, that in this life you look after yourself.

   I worked closely with Boris, Nikolai, and Saushkin for a few days. Then disaster struck. Saushkin was arrested and sentenced to eight years at a rugged old prison near Tomsk on the river Yaya.

   But business had to go on. I couldn't stop just because "Mr. Big" was gone. Nikolai Povaleyev figured he was next in line and promptly took over Saushkin's territory. One night he and Boris invited me to go along with them to a special meeting of local underworld chieftains. "Since Saushkin was arrested," Boris explained, "we've been having some trouble with another organization. They've been getting into our territory."

   I said to myself, "Well, this ought to be pretty interesting. I think I'll go along." On the way, Boris told me there had been some shootings and somebody had been killed in the fight between the two organizations. That's why they needed this peace conference. They wanted to get things settled so they could get on with their business and not get in each other's way anymore. The meeting was to be held in a dilapidated building in an out-of-the-way part of town.

   When we arrived, we went up a small stairway and down a long, dark corridor to a dimly lighted room on the third floor, where we found the other gang leader already waiting. I stood off to the side while Nikolai and the other leader began to talk. After they argued for a while, Nikolai began pounding the table and shouting, "If you don't stay out of our area, we're going to talk to you out of a gun barrel. We've tried to work things out, but you won't listen to plain talk. You've got your area — you stick to it! You got that clear?"

   Nikolai got up, then the other leader and his two cohorts got up and stormed out. I looked at Nikolai and winked. He was the same tough guy I knew back at Barysevo, the same guy who had taken care of the two men who stabbed me in the alley.

   I figured the meeting was over and I told Nikolai, "I'm going to go down and get some fresh air. I'll meet you outside." I walked down the corridor, the two flights of stairs, and out the door to the street. The moment I stepped outside, an explosion ripped the air and blew up right in my face. I felt a hot, burning sensation beneath my ribs and a fierce impact that knocked the wind out of me. In a daze I looked down and discovered I was bleeding profusely; my shirt was already covered with blood and my military jacket was starting to get soaked.

   I'm shot! I'm shot! I dropped to my knees. Then, from behind, I heard footsteps. Someone came racing down the hallway and down the stairs. It was Nikolai and Boris charging out with two guns each, one in each hand, ready to blaze away at my assailants. But they had disappeared. Nikolai and Boris put their guns away, helped me to my feet, and half dragged me inside. The raincoat I was wearing over my jacket had a pocket full of documents — papers, my orders, identification cards, other items.

   "You've got to be the luckiest guy around, Sergei," Boris exclaimed while he emptied my raincoat pocket, just over my left breast. The bullet had gone through my thick address book, all my identification papers, plus all my clothes — raincoat, jacket, shirt, undershirt — to hit me. It was embedded in my skin. Even so, my clothes were soaked with blood, and when Boris looked at the wound and then at the hole through the documents, he gave long, low whistle. "If it hadn't been for that pocketload of stuff taking the impact of that bullet, you'd be dead right now," he told me.

   We improvised some bandages from our handkerchiefs and Boris's shirt and stopped the flow of blood. They helped me up and took me to the hospital. It had been a very close brush with death.

   After that, I rested for a few days at Boris's place, and drank. I was never a really heavy drinker. I did drink some at Barysevo, along with the other kids, and I drank quite a bit afterward, too. But I usually stopped short of getting drunk, because I was determined to stay in good physical and mental condition. I knew that too much alcohol could be harmful. Only on the rarest occasion would I really get drunk.

   One morning about nine o'clock, after a big party that Boris had thrown for me the night before, I woke up and found everybody else still out cold. Still groggy, I got up to walk outside and clear my head. Just then I found somebody else with the same thought in mind. He was about fifty years old, heavyset, and had a wooden leg. Since we both wanted to brush the cobwebs from our brains, we decided to walk together in the park across the street. After a few minutes we found a bench where we sat down and talked. I told him who I was and where I was going and asked him about himself. To my surprise, I learned he had been a major in the police force in the city of Norilsk. At the mention of that name, my ears perked up. Norilsk is one of the most famous of all cities in Russia. It is a fabled masterpiece of far-north technology. Built in the very northern part of the country, it stands as a shining example of Soviet skill in building cities in the frozen north and actually making them habitable.

   "That's great!" I exclaimed. "I've read about that fabulous city in my school books. I understand that it's a great technological achievement for the party."

   "Technological achievement!" he snorted. "All you kids know is what you read in books. That's the trouble with you! You believe everything they tell you and everything you read."

   "Now don't get upset," I replied. "I'm only trying to be friendly and tell you what I read."

   "Well, forget what you read! Not a word of it is true. I know. I'm from there. I was a major in the police force there."

   "But," I protested, "I understand we developed special machines and special technological abilities just so we could handle difficult jobs like these."

   "Machines!" he said and laughed. "Do you want to know what machines we developed? The machines we developed were slaves. Tens of thousands of them died building that city, and their bones are still there. That's the 'technology' that built Norilsk — the blood and bones of slaves."

   I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I'd like to have been able to brush his words away as the confused ramblings of a drunken moron, but how could I? The man was a former police officer and, if he was telling the truth, he had not only lived there but had helped build the city. "I saw them die by the thousands," he continued. "They died from hunger or cold or both."

   He went on to tell me how he had given his life to communism. When the Hungarian Revolution of 1956 broke out, he had been sent to Hungary to help put it down. But there, while fighting as a tank commander in Budapest, he was shot through the leg and had to have it amputated." After that," he said, "I was considered worthless, of no use. They sent me to Norilsk to ride herd on those poor devils up there. That's all they thought I was good for!"

   Such talk was, to me, sacrilege. This man, a stranger, was attacking the system I believed in and I didn't like what I was hearing. I tried to close my ears to it, but he raved on, and I listened. "Do you know what they gave me, son? Oh, they were good to me, all right. They gave me this wooden leg and a handful of rubles every month, which I can hardly live on, then threw me out! Oh yes" — and it seemed he was saving this for last — "they gave me something else, too. You know what? A handful of medals." He reached into his pocket and dug out a bunch of them. "You see, I served them well in Hungary. And up in Norilsk, too!"

   He dangled the medals in my face and continued. "Medals! What can I do with them? Eat them? Pay my rent with them? Look at me, son." He paused, as though I should really study him from head to foot — and I did. I had to agree with what he was saying. He called himself old and worthless and pointed out again that he had one leg and forty-five rubles a month. He wasn't my idea of what a loyal, retired Communist officer should be. The medals, yes. But not the poverty, the bitterness, and the hopelessness of it all.

   Then he began coughing. The medals fell from his hand into the mud around us. He began coughing up blood. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped the blood from his mouth, then fell to his knees in the mud and began scraping around with his fingers, searching for his medals. I got up and left.

   Well, I thought, if what the old man was saying is true, it was all in the past anyway. I had my future to live for, and I had to look to that. Only fools dwell on the problems of the past, we had been taught. Certainly our party had had difficulties in the past, when our country was new. Our country had been embattled and had suffered greatly in the early days of the new regime. Some slight injustices had to be accepted. In what country aren't there slight injustices?

   But all those deaths in order to build a city! Could that be considered a slight injustice? I debated with myself, then decided to dismiss it from my mind. Anyway, I had no real answer to my questions, and life for me had to go on, whether or not it did for that pathetic figure groveling in the mud for his medals. Trying with great difficulty to erase the whole disturbing incident from my mind, I went off to prepare for my departure. Soon I would be on my way to the Soviet Far East and my new and exciting career in the Soviet Navy.

[Soldier4Christ]

Assigned to the "Eyes of Russia"

   My first stop after leaving Novosibirsk, traveling across the endless stretches of Siberia, was "the magic seaport" — Vladivostok. I spent two weeks there at the naval base. Then I was moved for a three-week stay at Blagoveschensk, right on the border of China, where there has been a lot of military tension, even actual gunfire, between Russian and Chinese troops on the Amur River.

   I was in a military unit of the navy ordered into action against the Chinese and was involved in a machine-gun battle with Chinese troops on one occasion. Later I received my orders to report back to Vladivostok, where I boarded a ship for Nkhodka, a major Soviet seaport city, and continued on to my main assignment at the naval academy at Petropavlovsk, arriving in late September 1968, to begin two and a half years of study to become a radio officer.

   Petropavlovsk is the main city of Kamchatka Province, with a population of 150,000. It is a port city with paved streets and lights in the middle of the city, and dirt streets away from the center of town. The citizens are from all parts of the Soviet Union. Due to the numerous naval and military bases, Kamchatka has a high percentage of young people. But there are also many retired military personnel who stayed on following their service there.

   The naval academy at Petropavlovsk was headed by Commander Viktor Yelisayev, a young officer who had climbed rapidly to this important post. The base was a great sprawling area with twelve hundred young naval cadet officers in constant study, training, and preparation. These twelve hundred young naval officers were the cream of the crop, carefully chosen from all over the Soviet Union, handpicked future officers.

   Life at the academy was divided into two basic parts: naval studies and Communist party activities. The naval studies were divided into several areas: navigation, radio, mechanical, and others. We studied intently, concentrating on our chosen area.

   Because everything in Russia has its political aspect, the Communist party reaching into every phase of Soviet life, it was only to be expected that here, where future naval officers were in training, party activities would be intense and strongly emphasized. It was as expected.

   One day shortly after my arrival, Commander Yelisayev called me to his office. Several officers were there, as well as a man in plainclothes. He was introduced as the Communist party chief for the city.

   "Kourdakov," he said, gesturing with my file in his hand, "we have been examining your records as a party activist as well as the records of the other cadets. We have to pick one of the men to be chief of the Communist Youth League here at the academy. There are twelve hundred men here, and we are all agreed," he said with a sweep of his hand toward the others, "that the job is yours. Your record is perfect. You've been an activist since your first grade. Your group won the district award for Novosibirsk and we see your good record at Leningrad. So, it's you, Kourdakov. You're our man."

   I was a little stunned. I would be responsible for the Communist education and development of twelve hundred future officers! And I was only eighteen years old.

   As I walked across the naval base, back to my quarters, I couldn't help saying to myself, "Sergei, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. You're going to go far."

   About three-fifths of our time at the academy was spent in political studies and two-fifths in technical studies. As officers of the Soviet Navy we would carry great responsibility with its warships. And because of the military power we would command, we had to be politically stable and utterly trustworthy. This is why so much time and effort were devoted to political development.

   We had adult overseers who assisted with day-to-day naval training, but the political responsibility was in our hands. I had six lieutenants who supervised groups of fifty, one hundred, or two hundred. We were the top seven leaders. They were my cabinet.

   My duty was to lead them in organizing and supervising all political training activities. I received directives from the Communist League headquarters in Moscow, and it was up to me to see that those directives were carried out. I assigned work responsibilities and political studies to the cadet officers through my cabinet.

   In general, the purpose of my job was to make sure that each cadet who graduated and assumed high responsibility in the navy was tough, highly disciplined, and totally committed to communism. The Communist Youth League was the party's watchdog over the political beliefs and dedication to communism of every one of the twelve hundred officer cadets. If any cadet had a problem with anyone on his level, or even with the academy commander, he had the right to come to me with his grievance. Then I was expected to represent him before the commander and to argue in his favor if I was convinced he was right. Of course, the veteran career officers resented such double authority on the base. They wanted their authority to be supreme and final. But the party gave equal authority to the Communist Youth League. In some cases, the League could even overrule the purely military officers in deciding the merits of a case. Political purity was more important than technical skill.

   Whenever a cadet showed signs that he was beginning to waver or err in his Communist commitments or political zeal, I would call him in and give him a hard lecture. Then I would bring him before a general meeting of the Youth League and shame him publicly. By these methods I was to try to shock him into better performance.

   One word from the Youth League over my signature could ruin a young officer's career. He could be discharged, reduced to an ordinary seaman, or assigned to the army at low rank.

   Other punishment was fast and severe, even for the slightest misstep. Any infraction could bring the offending cadet fifteen days in the brig (jail) on bread and water. Other offenders would be assigned twenty-four hours a day on patrol watch. When they fell asleep, they would be arrested. The object was to toughen them to the point where they would obey any order of their superiors without thinking first. Every command had to be executed without consideration or hesitation. We were to become officers and lead others. But before we could lead, we had to learn to follow.

[Soldier4Christ]

   I determined that I would exercise my authority with caution and care, seeking to help the cadets as much as possible. I understood human weakness, and it was my job and personal intention to make sure as many of the officer cadets as possible would come through successfully.

   But it wasn't always possible. The pressures were extremely intense. The constant marking and drilling, the technical naval studies, the studies of Marxism-Leninism, the long, hard hours devoted to the subbotniks (volunteer labor brigades) brought incredible pressures to bear on some of the cadets. The first year I was at Petropavlovsk three cadets shot themselves to death — or hanged themselves in their barracks. The pressures were too much for them.

   One boy, I remember, was accused of sleeping on duty and was ordered to go on watch duty and patrol for another twenty-four hours straight. Of course, he couldn't take it and he disappeared. We immediately assumed he had deserted, but the next day we found his body hanging from the rafters.

   One particularly sad case I had to deal with was that of a young fellow officer whom I had tried to help. He finally jumped out of a third-story window and killed himself. We were ordered to spread the word around that he was drunk and didn't know what he was doing. I knew better. I knew him well and it was plainly suicide. But, like the others, I had to obey orders and make it appear that he was drunk when he jumped.

   In some cases I used my position as Youth League leader to intervene for cadets even though naval authorities were determined to expel them. I would arrange to meet with the officers to try to persuade them that the cadet in question was salvageable. I would urge them to give the cadet another chance, promising that I would personally see to it that he was more thoroughly indoctrinated with Lenin's teachings and that we would make him into a good Communist officer yet. "Just give me another opportunity to make him right," was my plea.

   "All right, Kourdakov," they would often reply. "You have three months to see if you can turn him around and straighten him out." Usually I succeeded.

   I reported directly to the local Communist party committee in Petropavlovsk. There my duties put me in direct touch with Communist party leaders in Moscow. From them, I received the directives, training manuals, lessons, and copies of lectures I was to give to the cadets. I met many of the top Communist officials of Kamchatka Province and of the city of Petropavlovsk in the local Gorkom, the city Communist party office. The direct link these contacts provided with Moscow gave me opportunity to the inner workings of the party.

   One pleasant duty I had was to organize recreational and cultural events for the academy. These came under the heading of "political development." Often we brought in entertainers for the cultural events from Moscow. They were always well received.

   The least well received were the lecture meetings. I had to get a good turnout for the bigwig Communist lecturers visiting from Moscow, or else! Many such lecturers came through regularly.

   During this time, from September 1968 to May 1969, I was asked by the Gorkom to go to some of the local schools and the university and give lectures on communism and world politics. I lectured on American involvement in Viet Nam, the dangers of imperialism, the importance of the military might of the Soviet Union, Leninism, Marxism, and other political subjects. I tried to speak forcefully and soon became a popular speaker, with my lectures well attended.

   In addition to such activities, I also participated in all sports at the academy: wrestling, judo, karate, long-distance running, track. I was always on the go, with never a moment to relax. It was a busy, active life I enjoyed very much.

   One day when I was in the Gorkom headquarters in Petropavlovsk, one of the party officials put his arm around my shoulders and said, "Kourdakov, we want to tell you that you're doing a number-one job. We've had less trouble at the naval academy here than in any of our other military institutions. You've really got things organized. Keep it up, kid!" I beamed all over, really pleased and stammering for words.

   Then as I turned to leave the office, the city party leader walked into the room and said, "Young man, keep it up; you've got a great future! We need men like you. Keep your head on straight and you can go far."

   I almost floated back to the base. This was my life. This was my kind of people! The party was my "family." I was now a part of something I could believe in, belong to, and give my life for. I understood discipline, authority, and hard work, and the party knew how to reward such. This was one of my proudest moments! I felt in perfect harmony with the world.

[Soldier4Christ]

An Order From the Secret Police

   One day in early May 1969, I sat working at my office at the Communist Youth League building on the naval base. There was a rap at the door and I called out, "Come in."

   The man who entered was a stranger. He was short, powerfully built, combed his thick, black hair straight back in a severe manner, and wore civilian clothes. When he spoke, in a rapid-fire staccato, he betrayed a defect in his speech which made him difficult to understand. I had to listen closely to catch what he said. He introduced himself as Ivan Azarov.

   I had heard his name before down at the Gorkom. He was a major in the KGB, the secret police, here in Kamchatka. The KGB is the Soviet's elite secret police unit, operating with far greater authority than the uniformed police. When I heard the name, I gulped. What did the KGB want with me?

   Azarov pulled some files from his briefcase and, as he placed them on the table between us, I noticed one set of papers with my name on the folder.

   "Kourdakov," Azarov said, "I've been studying your record back to the time you were at Children's Home Number One at age six. You've piled up quite a record for a young man."

   I shrugged, trying to effect a gesture of modesty.

   "You see," he continued, "we've got a very serious problem in our country that we have to deal with in a special way. As you may know, I'm involved in police work." Then he told me about a special police group to be formed to operate as an official secret branch of the police in Petropavlovsk.

   "This special-action squad will be given assignments and take on very special jobs the regular police can't handle for a number of reasons," he explained. "Similar special-operations squads have been set up all over the Soviet Union. We've got orders from the party and Moscow to set one up here." He paused, then continued, "We've been looking for a man to head up our special police group here."

   So that's what he's after! I began thinking up reasons for not accepting the assignment. I already had my hands more than full right now. But Azarov went right on in his rapid-fire way. "I don't know whether you remember it," he said, "but I was in one of your meetings at a school where you spoke." I didn't. "You made quite a rousing speech there, young man, one of the best on communism that I've ever heard delivered to young people. Those kids were eating right out of your hand." And then he came to the point. "We're looking for leadership like that, Kourdakov. The man we choose must be able to recruit and train his men, organize and direct their activities. I've studied this file closely," he added, tapping it as he spoke. "We think you might be the man to organize and lead our new police-operations group."

   He could, of course, order me to take the job, but I was nevertheless trying to think of a reason to say no. When I started to speak, he began talking again. I could see he wasn't accustomed to interruptions." And you understand that for this very special work you would be given very special pay, out of a special fund set up for this purpose — twenty-five rubles per operation."

   I couldn't believe what I was hearing! Had I misunderstood? After all, he spoke like a machine gun. I couldn't have heard right. "Would you repeat that sentence?" I asked.

   He smiled and said, "I know what you're thinking; but you heard me right. This is a special police squad, with its operating expenses paid from special funds set aside by Moscow. You will be given twenty-five rubles per operation."

   As a naval cadet I received seven rubles per month! And here I would be paid twenty-five rubles per "operation"! Even as a commissioned officer in the navy, following my graduation from the cadet program, I would earn only seventy rubles per month. In just three operations with the police unit, I would earn more than a whole month's navy pay! Azarov saw the gleam in my eyes.

   "You agree to accept our offer?" he asked.

   "Yes, of course," I said. "But why did you pick me?"

   "For three simple reasons. First, you're in military school as an officer cadet, and your time already belongs to the state. You don't have to quit a job. It's a simple thing. I'll make the arrangements with your commanding officer for time off for your police work. Second, I can't forget your talks on communism and world affairs at the university. You showed the kind of leadership that this job needs. Third, and this is the most important reason, you have the contacts to pick the kind of men we need in the police-operations group."

   He was certainly right on the last point. As head of the Communist Youth League on the base, I had developed friends among all the party's secretaries under me. They, in turn, knew every naval cadet on the base. All I'd have to say was, "Give me your top three toughest guys," and they would do it. I had the contacts and authority to pick from all of the twelve hundred officer cadets on the base.

   "How many men do you want?" I asked Azarov.

   "At least twenty," he replied. "They won't all be needed at one time, nor in all cases, but we want at least twenty to draw from, in case a few can't make it at a particular time." My mind started working on who my twenty men would be.

   "Pick your men, Kourdakov, and bring them to me no later than ten days from now. I want to brief all of you and turn you over to the man who'll be directing your operations group on a day-to-day basis."

   "All right," I replied. The major stood and went out.

   I wasn't born yesterday, I thought. I knew what he had in mind. We would be expected to take on drunks, murderers, wife beaters, and other lawbreakers the regular police couldn't take time to deal with. There were some pretty tough elements around Petropavlovsk, since it was a seaport. I knew I'd better pick some rugged, tough, fearless guys, strong and skillful enough to break up a gang fight by taking on both of the gangs involved.

   I was sure I could handle myself. I'd always been strong on physical fitness, had wrestled, and had recently become judo champ of Kamchatka Province. I had to pick twenty other guys like me. I thought of my athlete friends first. By the time I got to my barracks I had already decided on several. They were men I had met through our Communist Youth League sports program — champion boxers, judo experts, and other good athletes.

   My first choice was Victor Matveyev, a very strong man about six feet, six inches tall and weighing 230 pounds. Though built like a bear, he was exceptionally fast on his feet. And despite a warm, friendly face, he had a cold heart. He was a close friend of mine and one of my deputies in the Communist Youth League, in charge of two hundred cadets in the radio department. He was a top player on our hockey team. The only time we had any problem with each other was when we'd get into physical competition. At first it was just a friendly judo or wrestling match, but sometimes it got beyond friendliness and became a real battle, with both of us losing our tempers.

[Soldier4Christ]

   Inside his own circle of friends, or people he worked with, Victor was congenial enough. But when he got into a fight, he was crazy, completely given over to animal instincts. At those times he could do terrible harm to those he was attacking, as he was later to prove during the police actions.

   Victor had a frustrated ambition: to be an air force pilot. He never quite made the grade in the air force and lost two years trying. Though two years older than I, he was one grade lower in rank. This frustration nettled him.

   But in judo, he achieved one of his goals by becoming champion of all east Russia. After he won his title, I once fought him in a city judo competition and, though he was in a heavier class, I held him to a draw.

   My next choice was Anatoly Litovchenko, a playboy in Petropavlovsk, tall, strong, and handsome, with an outwardly charming, friendly personality. His long, black hair and dark moustache gave him the appearance of a "Latin lover." And his big, dark eyes added to his striking appearance. But though he looked like a lady's man, no one but his close friends dared to call him that, and even they did so only in fun. Anatoly was a highly skilled, classical boxer, ranking third in all the Republics of Russia. It was generally agreed that he would have been champion, but he suffered a shoulder separation in one of his bouts. Until his injury, he had been popularly known as Kamchatka's hope for the Olympics. He was in that class.

   The next man I picked was Alexander Gulyaev — nervous, tense, with an explosive temper that later cost him his life.

   Alex was no athlete, just big, strong, and violent. He was impulsive, jumping into things before thinking. He was from my own home city of Novosibirsk and we had become good and fast friends. Probably the most determined of all my men, once Alex set his mind to something, nobody on earth could stop him. He had a round, flat face with a nose that was shaped almost exactly like Victor's. In fact, we called Victor and Alex "The Nose Brothers."

   Vladimir Zelenov was one of the smaller men I chose for our squad, not tall but an extremely skilled boxer and quite strong. He was a happy-go-lucky guy, to whom life was supposed to be all fun and nothing else. He went to the naval academy, not because he wanted to, but simply to avoid the army. In fact, Zelenov didn't want to be in anything, but he figured the navy was better than most of the other military choices. "All that army marching," he used to say. "Anything's better than that!"

   Once in the navy, he did everything possible to get out. Some of the cadets cut their fingers or tendons, or tried to contract tuberculosis or some other dangerous disease to get released. Vladimir never actually tried any of those things, but he often talked about a plan for getting out — breaking a leg, cutting off a finger, faking a heart attack, or whatever else came to his mind. He never went beyond idle boasts, however.

   The only activity he took seriously was boxing. He was the middleweight boxing champ of Kamchatka Province.

   The tallest member of our attack squad was Yuri Berestenikov. His mother was director of Public School Number Fourteen in Petropavlovsk and had many friends in the Communist party. Yuri was exceptionally strong and dearly loved to fight, especially on buses. Often he would go for bus rides, not to get anywhere in particular, but just to get a good fight going. Our buses were usually crowded, often with military personnel.

   Once Yuri was on the bus, he could always count on someone bumping him when the bus started up with a jerk. That gave him an excuse to let go with a good punch at the offender. Sometimes all the younger guys on the bus would take up sides, and Yuri would have a good free-for-all going. One time he got all the civilians fighting all the uniformed military men in a wild free-for-all. The bus driver looked back at the brawl and drove the bus straight to the police station with his load of fighting passengers!

   That was Yuri. He lived for a fight. But still you had to like him. He had had a good education, was smart, very witty, but always doing something crazy.

   I'm sure he was also the most unmilitary guy ever enrolled at the academy. I think he got in only by the pull of his well-placed parents. In class, when he was called on, he would go to the blackboard to give an answer to the instructor's question. There he would stand at rigid military attention and soberly give the wrong answer. When the instructing officer told him it was not correct, he would drop his head in a show of mock shame and let out a very unmilitary yell, setting the whole class off in a roar of laughter. Once he patted a bald senior officer on the head and said, "Grass doesn't grow on a good roof."

   Of course, Yuri got called down often for his undisciplined behavior, but he didn't care. His fun in life was to get people laughing or fighting together, preferably with him in the middle of it.

   Finally his superiors concluded he simply wasn't officer material and, despite his parents' influence, took him out of officer training, making him just an ordinary seaman. But while he was on my attack squad, he proved to be one of my toughest, most dependable men, fearsome when he got into a fight.

   Another key man was Sergei Kanonenko, a Ukrainian, who was one of my assistants in the Youth League. He was tough, reliable, brutally cold, with almost no show of emotion, and very efficient. He was also on our wrestling team, a powerful man, weighing about 210 pounds and standing six feet, three inches tall. He loved to use a knife in fights, and I'd have to keep an eye on him to make sure he didn't use it unnecessarily.

   There were other friends, like Vladimir Litovka and Victor Lazarov, all strong, powerful athletes and big guys. They and I would form the nucleus of my police squad. For the rest of the positions, I asked my deputies in the Youth League to give me the names of the strongest, toughest men they had, men skilled in boxing, wrestling, or judo. I really don't think a tougher group could ever have been assembled in all of Russia! Comrade Azarov had asked for the best, and that's what he was going to get.

   After making my list, I approached each of the men. Generally there were complaints and excuses. "Sergei," some said, "I'm too busy. I've just got too much going right now." They talked that way until I mentioned the money they were going to get. After that, I didn't need to say a word. They did the talking. "Sergei," they would say, "when do we get started? Let's go! Those twenty-five rubles for just a few hours' work was a magnet none of us could resist. But I think Yuri would have accepted just for the fighting alone!

   Soon I had rounded up a group of twenty-one and had assembled them together. I don't think I'd seen a room full of so many big, tough-looking guys in my life. As soon as we got together we all enjoyed a good drink, several in fact. I told them to report the next day to Ivan Azarov at Communist party headquarters in Petropavlovsk.

   The next day we all showed up at Azarov's office. We were all assembled in the room when Azarov entered. He looked at my men and said, "All right, Kourdadov, I see you took me seriously when I told you to choose well." As he checked out the fellows, I could see he was impressed. Azarov was overshadowed in the crowd of tall, heavily muscled young men, but with a great air of authority he ordered us to sit down, proceeding then to explain why he had called for such a group.

   "I've asked Kourdakov to bring you here for a special reason. Throughout our country we have problems with enemies of the people. To combat them we're forming special police-operations groups to work closely with the police.

   "Technically, men you will work for the police here in Petropavlovsk, but you will be directed behind the scenes by my office at party headquarters here. You will become a special unit, organized by direct orders from Moscow, to deal with special enemies of the state. You will not be used for general police work. Any questions?"

   There were none, so he continued. "After this briefing, I will have you meet your police commander who will be in day-to-day charge. I will be ultimately responsible and will check on your reports. I know most of you are at the naval academy with Kourdakov. I'll inform your commanding officers that you're being assigned to special outside police-operations work. That way we'll be sure you get the passes needed to leave the military base at any time you're called by police headquarters. There's no question that you are responsible first to the base, where you are cadet officers. But your police duties and responsibilities, as part of the operations group, definitely come next. Any questions?"

   Still there were none. "We're going to give you a preliminary group of assignments first, and then I'll be seeing you fellows again shortly for further briefings. Now I want you to meet your police commander, the one who will be giving you your assignments."