The Persecutor

[Soldier4Christ]

  A few moments before he said that, a man in plainclothes had walked in and seated himself off to the side. One glance at him said he was military or police and that he was out of place in civilian clothes. His coat, though not designed to be, was buttoned clear to the top, and he wore it as if he would have felt more comfortable in a straightjacket. Now Azarov said, "I want you to meet Police Captain Dimitri Nikiforov." Captain Nikiforov got up and acknowledged Azarov's introduction by awkwardly thanking him and stammering a greeting to us. At first I wasn't much impressed, but I realized that appearances were often deceiving. He was short, stocky, with slightly blond hair and cold, steel-blue eyes. Though not tall, almost everything else about him was big — large, bulbous red nose; bigger-than-average mouth; big bones, but no muscle. Puffy, dark semicircles under his eyes gave him a weary look. I could guess he was no man to fool with and was certain it would be dangerous to underestimate him in any situation.

   Nikiforov had come to Kamchatka Province as a young man in 1947. In 1953 he was promoted to police chief of Petropavlovsk, succeeding a man who had gone on a drunken rampage and from a window in the police station had begun sniping at passersby with a hunting rifle, killing several before he himself was killed.

   I learned that Nikiforov was no big improvement over his trigger-happy predecessor. He, too, had such a craving for action that he often neglected his administrative duties to go on raids. Nikiforov never married but lived with a prostitute in a big, second-floor apartment which, except for absolute necessities — refrigerator, bed, chairs and table — was devoid of furnishings. His whole life belonged to the police and the state. His home meant nothing. We called him "Iceberg Niki," but not to his face!

   He had well-placed contacts in police circles and strong connections with Communist party leaders in Kamchatka. As I looked him over, I thought I'd surely hate to have him on my track.

   His awkward introductory remarks concluded, Nikiforov began speaking slowly, deliberately, giving every word meaning. "You men," he said, "have been picked to be a special-operations group attached to police headquarters. As such, you will work directly under my command and follow my orders. I, along with Comrade Azarov, will be responsible for your training and your assignments." He shifted his feet, looking us straight in the face. "We have growing problems in our country with enemies of the state. They operate internally, attempting to undermine the authority of our government. It's our job to find these enemies and root them out.

   "At first I am going to give you routine assignments for a short period of time, to let you get your feet wet. After that, Comrade Azarov and I will conduct another group of lectures as part of your training. You will be on call at all times and when you are ordered out, you will report to me at police headquarters as quickly as possible. You will be given some assignments which the police do not have time to take care of, as well as assignments which must not look like official action. That's why you will wear street clothes at all times. To the public, you'll simply be ordinary citizens aroused into taking action against criminal elements. Do you understand?

   We nodded that we did. Then he continued. "Now I want to speak to your leader, alone. You're dismissed — all but you, Kourdakov. Come up here, comrade."

   The others filed out. Nikiforov then told me that my responsibilities with the police-operations group would begin at once. He ordered me to report to headquarters with my men in three days.

   When the three days had passed and we gathered again, Comrade Nikiforov told us we would be on routine assignment for the next several weeks and should report to police headquarters for three hours each day. Soon we were being sent out to assist the police in routine arrests. It was not unusual for murders to take place two or three times a week. Fights broke out often among drunken sailors in from the sea. We were sent to break up the fights. We could charge into a bar full of brawling seamen and soon would have the situation in hand.

   On one occasion Victor, Vladimir, a few others, and I were sent to break up a brawl in a club near the city docks. On such assignments, we used a police truck, with the driver and two passengers in the cab and the other men on benches fitted around the sides of the bed of the truck. Such a truck would hold ten to fifteen men. This particular night we raced to the scene of the brawl and charged in. Nikiforov had said, "Don't worry about who's right and who's wrong. Just get it stopped by whatever means is necessary." For boxers, judo champs, and wrestlers, that was like throwing red meat to a dog! Victor promptly floored four guys, knocking them cold, with one blow each. I was in the middle of the brawling crowd when two guys jumped me at the same time. They were both bigger than I, but I got rid of them in a hurry, one with a karate chop across the back of the neck and the other with a judo throw. It was really great sport!

   It took us about twenty minutes to get the brawl stopped, and by then the inside of the club looked as if a hurricane had struck. I looked around to see how we had made out. There were Victor and Anatoly and three of our other guys standing around and laughing. And Yuri! He was in heaven. He didn't have to go start a fight. It was already waiting for him. He was beside himself with joy. It was a big joke to us. Where else could we get a license to fight as much as we wanted to and be paid for it?

   Well, the fight was over. Most of the guys who started it were lying around the floor groaning. Drunken seamen weren't much of a match for a trained, disciplined group of fighters. We made no arrests. Our job was just to break up the fight. We had done that, so I shouted, "Come on, let's go!" We piled into the police wagon and took off back to the station, reporting our results to Nikiforov, who commended us.

   "Good," he said. "You boys are doing a fine job."

   Time went on and we were called out three or four times a week to break up brawls or help police search for someone. Sometimes we'd all go to the station and just sit there and be available for duty, having a drink, smoking, and talking. The phone would ring, somebody would report to Nikiforov that a brawl was going on, or a murder was taking place, and Nikiforov would say, "All right, Kourdakov, get moving." We'd tear out of the police station, leap into the truck, usually driven by Victor, and head for the address given us. We raced through the streets with our sirens screaming and red lights flashing, without a care for anybody else.

   After every raid, we'd collect our twenty-five rubles each and head for a bar or club where we'd eat, drink, and dance with the girls, and have a grand time before going back to the base. It was a good deal all around. We could get off the base at any time, something none of the other cadets could do, and we could stay out after our assignments for a drink and a good time.

   The work brought us in contact with the worst kind of people, and we soon developed a complete disregard for them as humans. When we got a chance to beat up a killer, why shouldn't we beat him to a pulp? And Nikiforov would laugh and congratulate us on "changing faces." If we didn't beat someone enough, he mocked us as "little softies." We got the message. Pity the next guy we caught!

   Then one day Nikiforov phoned me. "Comrade Kourdakov," he said, "I want you to get your men over here tomorrow afternoon at four. Azarov is coming by and we both want to have a talk with you."

   I notified my men and we assembled at the police station. Azarov spoke first. "Well, I've heard good things about you boys," he said. "I hear you're coming along real well. Now we're going to get down to the real heart of your job, down to the really important work." I wondered what he was talking about. We'd been doing our work for several weeks now. What more was there to do?

   We went on, "I wanted you fellows to get some experience in the job before giving you the really important assignments. In the Soviet Union we have many types of criminals. We have anti-state people who are murderers, drunkards, and prostitutes. You've been dealing with that kind. But they are really nothing.

[Soldier4Christ]

   "Then there are criminals who are a far greater threat to our country's security and our way of life. They are more dangerous because they work quietly in our midst, undermining the foundations of our system and threatening the existence of our country. The people I'm talking about look innocent on the outside. But don't be deceived. They spread their poisonous beliefs, threatening the life of our society, poisoning our children's minds with false teachings, and undermining the doctrines of Leninism and Marxism. These are the religiozniki, the religious Believers."

   I didn't catch what he said at first. But he repeated it. "It's the religiozniki." He wanted to make sure we all got what he was saying.

   "These are the Believers," he continued, "who have organized an active program which threatens the great accomplishments of the Soviet people. They actively aid the enemies of our country. They go hand in hand with the imperialists and attempt to overthrow or set back the achievements of the Communist party of the Soviet Union." By now he had become greatly impassioned. We could tell how deeply he felt about what he was saying. "They are even more dangerous because they do not appear to be dangerous. Murderers and thieves are direct. These people are deceptive and cunning and clever. Before you know it, they have underminded the things we've worked so hard for, poisoned the people, and done their damage.

   "Now, that's why you've been selected as a special police-operations squad — to be an action group against the enemies. You've been given practical experience; now it's time for your real work. Your unit is one of many that are being established throughout our country. It's time we put a stop to these enemies.

   "We must take direct action! That's your job. The orders for your operations come directly from the party bureau and Comrade Brezhnev. From Moscow your orders come directly to Gorkom here, and we pass them along to Comrade Nikiforov, who will be your immediate superior, as before. You're being paid from special funds set aside for the purpose of combating the evil and contaminating influences of religion in Soviet life."

   I listened with amazement. Ever since I had seen those Believers, almost two thousand strong, in Inskaya near Novosibirsk, I had wondered about them. I knew, of course, that there was no God and that religion was the opium of the people. I realized that religion had no place in modern Soviet life. All this I knew well; I had taught it myself many times in the lectures I had given in the schools and universities and in my Youth League meetings. What surprised me was that religion and the Believers were so strong they created a special threat to our country and had to be dealt with so severely. Of course, I thought, they do grow and spread, like a disease that will infect you before you know it. Certainly they must be stopped and uprooted from our society.

   "You see over there," Azarov said, pointing to a group of "wanted" posters on the wall. Beside the posters of several murderers was a photo of a man wanted for "action against the people."

   "That man," Azarov stated, "poisoned children with the narcotic of religious beliefs. He had secret Bible-teaching sessions. When he's caught, he's going to get seven years."

   I was glad for the pay I was already getting, but somehow, dealing with murderers, thieves, and other criminals seemed outside my interests as a Communist activist. But now, dealing with the enemies of our party, that would be far different, far more relevant and direct. These were problems I had often discussed in my lectures. Now I could do something about them and get paid well for it. This was great news.

   About this time, "Loverboy" Anatoly asked Azarov, "Comrade Azarov, you say these people are worse than the murderers we've been dealing with. In what way?"

   "Comrade Litovchenko," Azarov said, "murderers kill a few people and are caught. But these Believers kill the soul and the spirit of our Soviet people and spread their poisonous beliefs to many, many thousands. In the past two years in our country, this problem of religious Believers has become a far greater one. Instead of dying out and ceasing their struggles against our state, they have spread their poison throughout our country and managed to beguile and win over many followers. Wherever they can, they poison the minds of our Soviet youth. Finally now, our party has to take action. A special-action order to fight the religiozniki came from the top in Moscow. You boys are part of that action program. All organizations engaged in warfare against religious beliefs have been brought together under the party's central leadership. A coordinating body has been set up to direct the battle plans against the Believers and their superstitious beliefs. Our best brains and finest professors are studying this problem theoretically. At the same time, a new body had been established with large computers to keep records of all of the Believers, so that we can identify and keep track of the enemies in our midst. Part of your assignment will be to prepare reports and record names and all details of the Believers among us. These reports will be sent back to Moscow and fed into the computers. That way we'll be able to keep track of these cunning and dangerous foes.

   "Another organization and department branch has been established in Moscow to study the teachings of these Believers, so we can better oppose and defeat them. There our finest scholars are studying their literature, including their Bible, in order that they can learn how to better fight their religious beliefs. It's sort of a complete and full-scale Bible college."

   When I heard the term "Bible college," my mind immediately flashed to the Deacon back at Barysevo, who wanted to go to Bible college. But I don't think it was the kind Comrade Azarov had in mind! I tuned in to Comrade Azarov again. On and on he went.

   Looking about, I saw that the others were as fascinated as I. Never before had we realized the great threat that religious Believers were to our way of life. But now we knew. And we were hearing of a dynamic-action program that was being established in defense of our country. It convinced us of the vitality and vigor of the Communist party. Behind it all were men who knew what they were doing. Because of them, our Communist party was on the move. They weren't sitting back, waiting for our enemy to destroy us from within. We were men who admired action and we listened with admiration as we heard of the massive efforts being mounted. And to think that we were part of it! My sense of pride in the Communist party welled up inside me. At last we will strike. Our enemy had pushed us just too far. We, the Soviet people, would show them. The Communist party has patience, but when pushed too far, it knows how to act. And here I am, in the mainstream of it all.

   Azarov told of another special force whose specialty was to seal our borders and prevent smuggling of Bibles or literature into our country. I had never heard that anything like that was taking place. Azarov continued, "Men, it's up to you to get all the religious literature you can. We'll examine it and send it to Moscow. They'll study it to find out what country it's from and how it's being smuggled in. When we learn that, we'll soon put a stop to it.

   "Cut off the heads," Azarov said, "and the body will die. Get rid of the leaders, the brains behind the secret organization of Believers. Then their deceived, disillusioned followers will drift back to the right way."

   By the time Azarov had finished talking, we saw Believers as evil, plotting people who gathered secretly in homes to plot the overthrow of our government and poison children. We wanted to get right in, teach them a lesson, and finish them off.

   Azarov's speech was followed by a number of other, almost identical lectures over the next two weeks. We learned the methods and techniques used by the Believers. During one of those lectures, I asked why the term "religious people" or "Christians" wasn't used, instead of "Believers."

   Azarov replied, "That's a good question, Kourdakov. Let me answer it. Didn't Comrade Lenin teach us long ago that it's not religion that we have to fear, but beliefs? That's our great enemy. We can crush religion and close the churches. Look about you here in Kamchatka. What do you see? Any churches here? Of course not! We don't allow them. There's not one place of religion in all of Kamchatka. The church represents no threats. Religion represents no threat. It's the Believers themselves who are the threat."

   He paused for a moment, glancing over his audience to see what effect his words were having. Apparently satisfied, he continued, "Comrade Lenin once said that we can close the churches and put the leaders in jail, but it's very hard to drive faith and belief from the heart of a man once he is contaminated by them. This, Comrade Kourdakov, is why belief is our enemy, not religion. This is why we don't call them Christians or church-goers. We call them Believers. They believe inside, and to root this belief from their hearts is a very difficult task."

   It made a lot of sense to me.

   After all, our club building back at Barysevo Children's Home was a closed church building. It's not hard to close churches. I understood it now. Our job was to keep belief from taking root in our people, especially our youth and children.

   "Thank you, Comrade Azarov," I said on behalf of my men. "These have been most revealing sessions. We had no idea what problems those innocent-looking people have been causing."

[Soldier4Christ]

The First Raid: Disaster!

   A few days later, while I was busy with my radio engineering studies at the academy, a voice came over the loudspeaker: "Kourdakov, Kourdakov, report at once to the patrol office!" My teacher nodded, and I put down my textbooks and reported as ordered.

   The patrol officer in charge said, "Kourdakov, there's a telephone message for you from Captain Nikiforov. You're to report to him at the station tonight at ten o'clock with your men. He said you would understand what it's all about."

   "Yes, I do," I said. "Thanks." At ten o'clock that evening, fourteen of us, all I could get on that short notice, met at the police station.

   "Send your men into the back room," ordered Nikiforov. "Let them relax a little. It's too early to go yet." So I sent the men on to the small lounge at the back of the police station, while I stopped to talk to Nikiforov at his desk.

   "Here are your instructions," he said. "We found out about a meeting of Believers that's starting at about eleven o'clock tonight."

   "Where is it?" I asked.

   On a huge street map on his office wall, he pointed to an area of private houses in District 75, clear across the city. Nikiforov continued with his instructions. "There'll be only twelve to fifteen people there. You shouldn't have any trouble."

   I asked, "How do you know all this?" The meeting hadn't started yet, so word about it couldn't have come from neighbors reporting suspicious activity.

   A sardonic smile came on his face. "Why, a little bird told me of course, Kourdakov," he said. "You'd be smart not to ask too much."

   I had only tried to be friendly and had learned how difficult Nikiforov could be. I decided I'd better take it slowly with him. I wanted eventually to get on close terms with him.

   Meanwhile, my men were sitting around in the back. "Go ahead, comrades, drink up and relax a little," Nikiforov called out, gesturing to the vodka bottles and glasses on the table. We needed only one invitation. Victor had already started pouring his glass full, and soon everybody was drinking and chatting.

   When Nikiforov saw that everybody was loosening up with the vodka he said, "You should start out from here at about eleven o'clock. That'll give those Believers thirty minutes to get their meeting started, and they'll be relaxed, thinking everything's all right. It's the ringleaders, their secret pastors, we want. Here are the names of the two men I want brought in."

   "Yes, comrade," I replied. "What about the others?"

   "The others? Oh, just rough them up some. Give them something to remember you by. But don't fail to bring in the leaders," he said firmly, gesturing to the names on the paper as he handed it to me.

   "Yes, comrade," I replied again. Then I began wondering why all the instructions. Was this going to be so different from our other raids? When we were sent out to break up a brawl in a bar, "Niki" was straightforward and direct. But I could see that tonight he was nervous and I wondered why.

   "Make sure that no one on the street sees you," he went on. "You shouldn't have any trouble; it's eleven o'clock at night. But if there are still people passing by, just wait a minute till they go before you move in."

   During one of the briefings which Azarov had given us on the Believers, he had emphasized the need for secrecy. Under no condition was the public to know what was going on. I was curious about that, because when we took on the drunken, brawling gangs, we plowed right in and there was no problem. I asked him why, and he replied, "Well, Kourdakov, some people could misunderstand what we're doing and why we have to do it. Some people don't appreciate the danger that these people represent to our society. Also, there are always enemies of our country, agents of imperialism, who would really like to spread the word that we're persecuting Believers. Therefore, it's absolutely vital that you do everything possible to keep out witnesses, especially anyone taking photographs of what's going on. We can't have enemies of our country telling the world that we persecute Believers and don't permit religious freedom, now can we?" he said and laughed. That makes sense.

   I assured Nikiforov we would wait until the street was clear before we moved in. "All right, Kourdakov," he said. "Go back and join your men, and I'll call you when it's time."

   Back in the lounge with my men, I had a couple of drinks. I could see that everybody was feeling the vodka. The tension was gone, and Vladimir was telling a story. Everybody was laughing. Before long Nikiforov came in and said, "All right, Kourdakov, it's eleven o'clock. Time to get going." As we got up from the table, Alex bumped it and knocked over the glasses. He apologized to the table.

   Nikiforov gave me last-minute instructions at the door on the way out, saying, "Now, Kourdakov, I want you to make a thorough search for Bibles or literature. These people have some anti-Soviet literature, we know, and we need as much as we can get to send into the Gorkom for them to mail to Moscow. So search the place carefully for any literature and bring it in!" I nodded in agreement.

   Behind the station, where the police truck was parked, Victor got into the driver's seat; I joined him in the cab, and the others piled into the back. Off we went. There were no sirens this time, no need for them because it was late at night and the traffic was light. Anyway, we didn't want to alert the Believers that we were on our way.

   The city has street lighting only in the major center, which leaves the outlying areas dark. So we had to pick our way in and around the darkened areas in the outskirts, as we tried to locate the house in which the Christian Believers were meeting. Finally we found the street and drove quietly along, looking at the house numbers. We slowly made our way up the muddy, unpaved street.

   I was watching to see if I could spot any people outside. The street was deserted. Victor looked through the darkness on the left, and I looked on the right, both of us watching the house numbers. Finally I said, "It's in the next block up ahead, Victor, Stop here."

[Soldier4Christ]

   He pulled over, cut the engine, and we got out. I told the fellows in the back to be very quiet. We didn't want to make any noise and have a lot of peering eyes looking out windows or curiosity-seekers coming out on the street to find out what was going on.

   I got out and they followed me as we walked toward the house. It was a few houses to the left, a cabin made of wooden logs with a wooden roof. It stood behind a little picket fence and was like thousands of other houses in Petropavlovsk. The curtains were drawn, but a dim light shone through.

   Now what to do? Suddenly I began to feel a little embarrassed. This was far different from breaking up a fight in a bar. There we just took off running and plunged into the wild free-for-all with fists flying, feet kicking, punches swinging, until we'd cleared the floor of brawlers.

   But here, instead of fighting and screaming and cursing, a few people were simply holding a meeting. We could faintly hear them singing inside. We looked at one another. What do we do next? Well, it was up to me to get things started, so I walked up to the door and tapped on it. Then I tapped a little louder.

   We stood awkwardly waiting for the door to open. This was utterly ridiculous, and we knew it. What a sight it was! Fourteen tall, strapping men, standing in line on the narrow pathway leading to the front door of a humble little house on a deserted street at night, with one of the men up front politely knocking on it!

   Soon I heard footsteps from inside. The door opened, and a man of medium height stood there and asked politely, "Yes, what can I do for you?" He sized us up, looking around my shoulders at all the other men behind me, and understood what it was. His face became downcast, but he kept his dignity and said, "Come in."

   As we entered, I looked around. It was a one-room house, poorly furnished, with a cooking area in back. Twelve or thirteen people were sitting on the edge of the bed and chairs that were pulled up together. They were softly singing a Russian hymn and continued singing — though with nervous glances — even as we spoke.

   The man who opened the door asked in a soft whisper, "Are you from the police?" He knew, of course, that we were.

   I replied, automatically picking up his whispering tone of voice, "Yes, we are." Boy, is this stupid! We were sent to break up the Believers' service, and here I am, conducting a conversation in whispered tones so I won't disturb the meeting!

   By now they understood that their meeting was over. But, amazingly, they continued singing. We kept on talking and soon their hymn came to a close. Then they all turned and looked at us. The little house was now packed with the Believers and my men.

   Defensively, feeling more than a little embarrassed, I began to assert my authority. "What are you doing here?" I demanded.

   The leader of the group said, "We're worshiping God."

   "But there is no God," I protested.

   "Well, we believe there is, and all that we're doing is worshiping our God," replied the man whom I guessed was the secret pastor.

   "You can't!" I said firmly.

   "Why not?"

   "Because it's against the law. And we've been sent with orders that say it must be stopped."

   Then he said, still politely, "But we're not breaking the law. Comrade Lenin himself said that citizens of our country have the right and freedom to worship God."

   I was really at a loss for something to say. Seeing the advantage he had gained over me, he began to press his point. "Comrade Lenin said that every citizen of our country has the full right to exercise his belief in religious worship, or not to believe, as he chooses."

  "Is that really so?" I asked.

   "Of course it's so. If you want, I can show you where Lenin said that."

   I was getting nowhere. I was confused and bewildered; my men behind me were embarrassed, and I could see we were losing this argument. Then the Believer began to quote the Soviet constitution, pointing out that a certain section states that every citizen has the right to fulfill his religious beliefs. "All we're doing, comrade," he said, "is using the rights which the founder of our country and our Soviet constitution provide. Are we harming anybody? Look around. We believe in God and are worshiping Him. That's all. It's our right, and we're harming no one. What have we done wrong?"

   I was trapped, because I knew the constitution does say that, and I remembered that Lenin did say something about religious freedom somewhere. I also recalled how, back in Leningrad, I had seen Believers going to church, and how I had thought then that our country does give religious freedom.

   I protested, "But you're violating the laws of our country. Don't you understand?"

   "Please explain to me how," the leader asked.

   "Well, I only know that you're violating the laws of our country, and I'm sorry but I have the names of two people who must come with us."

   The Believers looked at one another and realized that somebody had to go with us. The man I had been speaking with was one whose name I had. As the two men put on their coats to be taken to the police station, the confusing contradictions went through my mind. At last our two prisoners were ready. They quietly shook the hands of the fellows, said something like, "Pray for us," then came out the door. As we left, I could hear the remaining Believers begin to pray.

   Back in the police truck and bouncing down the darkened streets of Petropavlovsk, on our way back to the station, I was really confused. I would rather break up barroom brawls and fight twenty knife-wielding men than go through this kind of experience again! I didn't like it at all.

   We parked the truck in back of the police station and got out. Niki was waiting at the door, a big smile on his face. The smile quickly disappeared as we walked in. He took one look at us and at the two men we had arrested and became furious. He turned to one of his lieutenants and shouted, "Get these prisoners out of here and lock them up!" Immediately the two were shoved into a cell. Then Nikiforov turned to us. We were a sheepish-looking bunch. Fourteen grown men coming back from a raid, with nothing to show for it but two small, middle-aged men who had put up no fight at all when we arrested them.

   It hadn't taken Nikiforov long to size up the situation. "Well, my children," he said sarcastically, "it looks like you have been on a nice little picnic." Then he abruptly dropped the sarcasm and roared, "Where do you babies think you have been anyway?" He proceeded to give us a tongue lashing none of us would soon forget, raving angrily as he paced the floor.

   "But Comrade Nikiforov," I protested, "these people didn't fight back. This wasn't like the other police actions we were on. They're a different kind of people. We have to use different techniques sometimes!"

   "Different techniques!" he shouted. "Different people! I'll tell you about these 'different people!' These are cunning, deceptive enemies of the state! You go out to bring them in and protect our state, and they almost convert you!" He went on to tell us how evil and treacherous they were. The very fact that we thought them harmless, he said, and had arguments for their rights, was itself proof of how deceptive and evil and cunning they really were. Couldn't we see this? He slumped into his seat, apparently exhausted by his diatribe.

   After a moment his strength seemed to revive. He jumped to his feet and continued his harangue. "Won't I ever get it through your numb skulls that they are our worst enemies? They are the most dangerous criminals among us. They're like snakes. They keep themselves hidden from view until they're ready to strike and then it's too late! I'd rather have a hundred murderers running around loose than a half dozen of these poisoners of the people! The murderers we know we can catch anytime. But these — you never know what they'll be up to next. They spread their deadly propaganda everywhere and work constantly behind our backs. And you," he shouted, "you let them off!" He went on and on.

   "These are the leeches that are sucking the lifeblood of the Russian people," he yelled. "We must crush and destroy these elements. Now, do you still have sympathy for them?"

[Soldier4Christ]

   We were all beginning to see things differently by then. The sheepishness that my men had shown earlier was turning to anger because we had been tricked by the Believers. No one likes to be tricked. We apologized to Nikiforov and mumbled that we hadn't understood properly.

   Nikiforov shouted, "Well, next time you'd better understand! What kind of workers for the party are you?"

   That really stung. I'd given everything I had to the Communist party. I was upset and angry — with myself and with those people who had deceived me. The next time, I promised myself, I wouldn't be so stupid. The next time. The next time!

   Nikiforov thought we need a little more of the regular police operations. So when he called us again, it was for brawls or other regular police work.

   Nikiforov knew human nature. He was a master of psychology, a student of the human mind and behavior who both gained and used his knowledge in his dealings with criminals. And he used his skill on us. He knew just how to spur us on. During the next few weeks especially, he never passed up an opportunity to reward us with high praise after especially violent actions. Once when we arrested two thieves and brought them back, we shoved them through the door of the police station. Nikiforov took one look at them and shouted, "What kind of an arrest is this? Look at these men. Why, they look as fresh as the day they were born! What's the matter with you babies? Won't you ever learn how to change faces? Now take them back out and bring them in looking different!"

   Vladimir and Anatoly, our two boxing champions, took the poor fellows outside. Soon we heard the blows and the shouts. They used the thieves like punching bags. When they dragged the two thieves back in, their faces were unrecognizable. "All right, boys," Niki said. "That's better! Now you're acting like the men I thought you were!" We drank vodka, laughed, and joked.

   That was one step in Nikiforov's brutalization program. But I can't put the blame on him alone. We responded enthusiastically. We were beginning to enjoy this kind of violent life as much as he.

   We had started in May. It was now early August. Most actions had been against gangsters and brawlers. But gradually he began to sandwich a little raid on Believers in between the gang fights and violent arrests. A barroom raid, a Believer arrest. We soon learned to "change the faces" of Believers as easily as we worked over the drunken, brawling sailors. But still, our raids against the Believers were minor, small groups which met mostly in homes.

[Soldier4Christ]

Sudden Death at Elizovo

   One Friday in August 1969, Nikiforov called me at the academy. When I got on the telephone, he said, "Kourdakov, I want you to be here at five o'clock this afternoon." From the way he spoke I knew we were at last going to get our big chance to prove ourselves, to once and for all make up for that humiliating first encounter with the detested Believers.

   After classes, I got on a bus and made my way across the city to the central police headquarters. Nikiforov was waiting for me in his office. I found him looking at his large map on the wall. "Oh, Kourdakov," he said, "come on in." Then, as he always did, he got right down to business.

   "Kourdakov, I've just received information from my sources that the Believers are planning a secret baptismal service up here next Sunday," he said, pointing to a spot on the map. I moved closer and saw that he was pointing out the small village of Elizovo, in the foothills, about thirty-five miles north of Petropavlovsk, near the Avacha River.

   "They picked quite an area!" I exclaimed.

   "Yes," he said, "it's densely forested and, from their point of view, it makes an ideal place."

   I agreed. The river Avacha started as a small stream high up in the mountainous backbone of the peninsula and as it flowed downward, it became larger. At the town of Elizovo, it was about two hundred feet wide but still shallow. From there it flowed to the Pacific, emptying into the bay on which the city of Petropavlovsk was situated.

   Nikiforov volunteered more information about the Believers. "This isn't the first time they've used that spot," he said. "They're getting careless. They used it once before for a secret baptismal service, but our informants didn't learn about it until the service was in progress. By the time we got there, they were gone. Usually, these people are pretty smart. They never go to the same place twice. But according to our informant, they're going back. Since it's an ideal spot, they plan to use it once more."

   And then he said with ominous delight, "We missed them the first time. We'll not miss them this time!"

   I understood that he expected me to keep his promise. "When are they meeting?" I asked.

   "At four o'clock Sunday afternoon."

   I wondered how he had such specific information. I assumed it could only be from spies among the Believers.

   "Kourdakov," he said, "I want you and your group to be there at nine o'clock Sunday morning. The Believers must not see you coming, so you'll have to get up there and get in place before they show up."

   "Yes, comrade!" I exclaimed excitedly, thinking what a great Sunday outing that would be. I went back, contacted my men, and told them to meet me at the police station on time and to bring along their guitars. "We're going to have a picnic," I told them, "and make a day of it." If we've got to be there, why not go early and have some fun? On Sunday, twelve of us met at 8:00 A.M., and Nikiforov gave orders to arrest and bring in everyone we caught attending the Believer's meeting.

   We packed three boxes of vodka and some food in the back of the police truck. Alexander Gulyaev brought his guitar and mine too. We boarded the truck and took off on the road leading out of Petropavlovsk heading north.

   As we bounded along, I asked Victor where the vodka came from. "Oh, it's a present from Nikiforov. He had it waiting for us when we got to the station."

   I looked in the sack on the floor of the cab, and found some caviar. "Well, old Iceberg Niki may not be so bad after all," I said.

   It was almost an hour's drive over winding roads that rose into the foothills until we reached the village of Elizovo. We turned off into the deep, dark forest onto a small side road. What a beautiful, sunny, and warm day it was! We drove on deeper into the cool, green forest. Checking our map carefully, I concluded we were near the Avacha River, which flowed through the dense forest. We stopped and unloaded the truck, and I told Victor to park the truck in a ravine so it couldn't be seen. We pulled the vodka bottles out of the back and the sack of sandwiches and caviar out of the cab. Then, walking deeper into the bush, we selected the spot for our picnic. We settled down and relaxed. Alexander began strumming his guitar, and somebody opened a couple of bottles of vodka, and soon we had a roaring picnic going!

   Victor came tramping back over the hill and reported, "Well, nobody will ever see the truck there. I've got it in a little gully completely out of sight."

   "Great," I responded. "Here, have a sandwich and a drink."

   We spent practically all day there drinking, eating, singing, telling stories, and having a good time. As time went by, everyone was getting a little drunker. We thought of all the guys back at the academy. They were rarely let off the base. But we were free to come and go.

   I guess I had a little too much vodka and dozed off. When I finally woke up, it was 3:15. The Believers would be heading this way any time. We had to move fast. It had been a restful holiday, but now it was time to go to work. I looked around at my group and, to my chagrin, saw that most of them were half drunk. No one was falling-down drunk, but they were all feeling light-headed and were rousting about, wrestling and roughhousing.

   "Hey you guys," I yelled. "Get ready. We've got work to do. Get your clubs ready."

   "Where are they?" somebody asked.

   Somebody else exclaimed, "We forgot them. They're still in the truck!"

   We had to have our clubs. They were made in Czechoslovakia, designed especially for Soviet police work. Made of steel on the inside and solid rubber on the outside, they were heavy and extremely hard. Even a light tap with only one of them could be devastating. They were telescopic, with a lever on the handle that released a spring inside, popping another length of rubber-covered steel out. For close work, we kept it telescoped down to the smallest size. For outside work, like today, we extended it to its full length by flicking the lever. My men and I had become adept with our police clubs, both in tight quarters and outdoors in open spaces.

   The clubs were now brought from the truck and distributed around. We then climbed over a high hill and, in minutes, arrived at one of the two spots we thought the Believers might choose for their baptismal service. We began to inspect it.

[Soldier4Christ]

  "This has to be it!" exclaimed Victor. "Look how perfect it is." It was one of the prettiest natural scenes I had ever seen. There was a grassy, gently sloping area leading to the sandy shore. At this point the river was shallow for about fifty feet out. The spot was perfectly secluded, hidden from all approaches by trees and tall rocks. It was difficult to reach, and no one could sneak up on them without warning. Those Believers. They're stupid to believe in God, but they certainly know how to pick their meeting places.

   As I further examined the spot, however, I noted one point of danger. Because the river was quite shallow, it would be easy for the Believers to try to escape across the river and into the dense forest on the other side once the attack started. My military training told me I'd better assign guards on the other side of the river, in order to cut off any possible escape. Sergei Kanonenko and Yuri Berestennikov got the assignment.

   "If any try to escape over there," I said, "you guys cut them off."

   "But Sergei," they protested, "nobody's going to make it that far and we'll miss all the action. We won't have any fun."

   That didn't matter one bit to me. Anyway, Kanonenko loved to use his knife too much and I didn't want anyone cut up to death. The important thing was to keep anyone from getting away. So Kanonenko and Yuri waded and swam to the other side of the river, grumbling all the way.

   I positioned my other men in a semicircle behind bushes and trees high up on the hillside, so that no matter which direction the Believers might try to run, we'd get them. Every one of my men was perfectly concealed from view. Those Believers are in for a surprise today!

   When everything was ready, we lay there waiting. The ambush was all set. Two across the river and ten of us here. We didn't have to wait long. At about 4:15 we heard voices and the sound of feet crunching over dry branches in the forest behind us.

   Soon the walking noises and soft voices were very near, and then I spotted a line of people, eighteen or twenty at least, coming toward us single file along the small path. Their leader was a man about thirty-eight years old. As they walked, they talked quietly. Several of the Believers were wearing white robes, and I assumed they were the ones to be baptized. I was surprised to see how many people were in the group.

   Silently we waited while they assembled at the water's edge. Once the stragglers had arrived and they were all congregated at the river's edge, one of the men began to speak. I strained to hear what he was saying but caught only occasional phrases. Nikiforov had told me their leader was Vasil Litovchenko, a wanted man, from Petropavlovsk. How ironic, I had thought, the same last name as Anatoly Litovchenko, one of my best men. A few of the other Believers were from Petropavlovsk, also. Some were from the nearby town of Elizovo, and four were from a nearby collective farm called Pogranishny. Apparently, the parasite Vasil had won followers not only in town, but in the country too. It showed me how these people, if left alone, would quickly multiply and spread their poisonous teachings everywhere.

   As I looked over the group of Believers, now congregated near the water's edge, I counted seven in white robes. The party kept telling us that religion had no appeal for youth. But this contradicted what I was seeing now with my own eyes and had seen before on other occasions. It worried and somehow angered me.

   After speaking for a few minutes and reading to them from a little book, Vasil Litovchenko began to lead the group in singing. Again I strained to hear the words, but mostly without success. It had something to do with God, I knew, for that was the one word I heard most. After the singing, Litovchenko began to walk out into the water, followed by the seven white-robed Believers, one at at time, until they all were about twenty-five feet out in the river, waist deep. The others stood on the river-bank softly singing. The sun beat down warmly and the forest was quiet except for the chirping of the crickets. In the background I could hear the sound of running water. I couldn't help but notice the beauty and serenity of the scene.

   But now the time for action had come. My men were crouched and ready. Suddenly I jumped to my feet and yelled loudly, "All right, let's go! Now!"

   Immediately my men exploded from behind the bushes, racing down from the hill, clubs raised, hitting the sandy shore of the river at full speed. We smashed into the startled group of Believers, knocking them sprawling out into the river. No one remained standing after the first running charge. Knocked into the water and stunned with surprise, they floated about as we went after them one by one.

   I came in behind my men. By then the screams of Believers began to rise. A woman's voice cried, "Oh, dear Lord, no. No!" Whoever it was soon stopped crying, letting out just one more piercing scream as one of my men got to her. That beautiful mountain scene had erupted into a wild, swirling mass of hands, feet, and clubs, splashing water, and the agonized cries of the Believers.

   "Get those in the river," I shouted, and several of my men charged at the white-robed ones standing in the water, ready for baptism, smashing them with their clubs, extended to full length. One young fellow trying to break away jerked his arm from me, but my club was just long enough to enable me to land a blow on the back of his head.

   I looked over and saw Alex Gulyaev smash one of other girls on the side of the head with his fist and split her ear wide open. She clutched at it as the blood began to flow. I grabbed one of the Believers around the neck in a judo hold and crushed him until he stopped screaming, then dropped him into the water. The whole scene was a bedlam of curses [from us], shouting, screaming, and the Believers frantically praying, "God help us! God help us!"

   Their prayers angered me. "Shut them up!" I ordered, then reached down into the water and scooped up a big handful of sand. Jerking open the mouth of one of the Believers, I rammed the sand into his mouth, packing it full until he couldn't pray. The other guys started doing the same. We packed their mouths with sand and mud until the praying stopped.

   Hearing a commotion behind me, I whirled around just as Anatoly Litovchenko reached the pastor, Vasil Litovchenko. The girl who had been waiting to be baptized next had tried to run when she saw Anatoly coming at them. Vladimir Zelenov saw her trying to escape and took off after her, smashing her across the back of the neck with his extended club. Without a sound, she collapsed in a heap in the water. Vladimir dragged her over to the shore and dropped her.

   I saw that Anatoly was taking care of the pastor, so I whirled back. All around me my men were following my lead, ramming sand down the Believers' throats — rocks, sand, dirt, anything. One man had his mouth open, praying, when I hit him full in the face with my fist and knocked most of his teeth out, cutting my knuckles. I cursed him violently as the blood streamed down his chin.

   "All right, all right," I shouted, surveying the scene. "Drag them out of there. Get them onshore!" So we started pulling them out of the water and dragging them up on the riverbank and throwing them to the ground. One of the older women with sand in her mouth was bobbing up and down in the water about to drown, gagging and clutching her throat. I grabbed her, pulled her up out of the river, and threw her roughly on the beach. Then I looked around to take stock of the scene. There they lay, the choking, gasping Believers, many with blood pouring down their faces. The girl whose ear Vladimir had split open was bleeding profusely. We herded them together and my men stood guard over them. It seemed like an eternity had passed since we started our attack, but as I looked at my watch I found we had been at it only five minutes. We had taught those people a lesson they wouldn't soon forget. And that was what mattered most.

   "Separate those men from the women," I ordered. We grabbed the men roughly and tied their hands behind their backs. Then I looked around and counted. Something was wrong. Somebody was missing.

   "Where's Litovchenko?" I demanded.

   "Here I am," Anatoly replied.

   "I don't mean you, stupid," I growled. "The pastor. That's who I mean."

   "I don't know, Sergei. The last I saw him was when I hit him."

   Well, I had more pressing things to tend to and promptly dismissed thoughts of the missing pastor for the time being. We herded the men down the path to the truck. We then turned to the women and girls. Some of my guys began ripping the wet, bloody clothes off the young girls. Stripped naked, the girls crouched down on the beach, trying to hide themselves in shame. We prodded them and laughed at them and said, "Hey, guys, so this is what Believers look like!" And we all laughed. The older women bowed their heads and sobbed as we taunted the frightened, beaten young girls.

   All this time Yuri and Sergei had been on the other side of the river. Now they made their way back, complaining loudly, angry because they had missed the action.

   "Let's get going!" I shouted. Jerking the girls to their feet, my men started running their hands over them. Then we marched off, pushing the Believers ahead of us to the police truck. Many of them were sobbing as they walked.

[Soldier4Christ]

   "Shut up!" Vladimir shouted. But they continued to cry as we pushed and prodded them over the trail to the waiting police truck. Once we arrived, I began counting the men. Yes, one was definitely missing — the leader of the group, Vasil Litovchenko.

   "Where is he? Who's seen him?" I demanded of my men. All shrugged except Anatoly.

   "The last time I saw him, Sergei, he was floating in the water, unconscious."

   Oh, well. Nikiforov will understand. We loaded the men in the front part of the truck, their hands tied behind them, and pushed the women and girls into the back. My fellows sat on the benches around the back of the truck, with the women and girls on the floor in the middle. The four younger girls were still nude. They buried their faces in their hands and sobbed. Up front, the men kept their eyes averted. The older women were praying, I guess, as their lips moved in silent supplication.

   It was about five o'clock in the afternoon when we came back into civilization, passing through several villages and then into the outskirts of the city of Petropavlovsk. It was still quite light, and the people could see the police truck coming with the nude girls crouching down and being prodded by the big men in the back. By then we had finished what was left of the vodka. Our afternoon's work was done and we were quite drunk. We thought it great fun as some of the guys lit up cigarettes and smoked and pressed the lighted ends of their cigarettes to the girls naked flesh and watched them jump and squirm about.

   One of the girls, Nina Rudenko, sixteen years old, was singled out for particular abuse because she was so young and innocent looking. Another woman was about twenty-six, and Vladimir Zelenov took a liking to her, teasing her and running his hand over her body, laughing boisterously until she turned around and slapped him very hard in the face.

   The journey back to police headquarters had been a nightmare of horror to these young Christian girls. They had gone out to be baptized as Believers in God, and their baptism turned into one of terror. In the station, I looked again at the sixteen-year-old Nina Rudenko. She had beautiful blue eyes, long, brown hair, and a slight build. Her lips were quivering, and she sobbed and trembled uncontrollably.

   Nikiforov, standing at the door, quickly took in the scene and thundered, "Kourdakov! Did you drive these girls through the streets this way?"

   "Of course! Why not?" I answered.

   "You fool! Don't you know this will turn the people against the police? This makes us look bad," he shouted in rage. "Out of sight, where people can't see you, do what you want with these people; but in the open and in public, never!" Nikiforov called for his lieutenants. Several came rushing out, and he ordered, "Put them away, inside. Lock them up."

   The men were taken to cells. The girls, including Nina, were left all night in the sobering cell, full of drunken men who tormented and raped them, doing what they wanted with them the whole night. It was a horrifying experience for them and one from which Nina Rudenko never recovered.

   At the police station we sat around, and Victor laughed and said, "Did you see poor old Vladimir? Great boxing champion of Kamchatka, but his reflexes are so slow he gets beaten up by a Christian girl!" He laughed uproariously, and for a long time we teased Vladimir about his slow reflexes and how he met his match in a small Christian girl who succeeded in slapping him across the face.

   It was part of my job to follow up and make a report of all those we arrested. Days after the arrest, I learned that Nina Rudenko had been expelled from school. The director told me, "Nina was all right until recently, when for no reason that we could determine, she became emotionally and mentally disturbed. She was unable to concentrate on her work; she frequently interrupted the class by babbling incoherently. She often began to shake and weep uncontrollably. We repeatedly had to interrupt the class and take her out. Finally we had to expel her, she was so disruptive. I think the girl's had some sort of nervous breakdown, but I don't know why."

   I could have told the school director why but I didn't.

   "We called her mother in for a conference," the director said, "and she told how Nina would awaken at night with a start, sit up in bed, and scream in a high-pitched voice that could be heard all through their house and out into the street." The school director concluded the interview with a final remark. "You can well imagine, Comrade Kourdakov, how impossible it would be to keep a child like that in school. We just couldn't let her go on interrupting all the other children." As I listened to the director's report, I was glad he didn't know what had happened to this young girl.

   As for the men we brought in from the Elizovo raid, well, first they were loaded into their cells, and Nikiforov said to us, "You boys go in and have a drink and rest up. I'll take care of this bunch and then I'll get your reports." The reports, oral or written, were required as part of our assignment. They were forwarded on to the Gorkom and from there to Moscow. The party kept close track of everything we did, frequently sending us a complimentary letter on our work.

   While we sat in the police station, drinking and waiting to give our reports to Nikiforov, Anatoly said to me, "Sergei, you looked like you were taking a holiday out there. How come you didn't do your share?"

   "Listen, you!" I shouted across the room. "Don't you get out of line there, boy, or I'll give you the 'Elizovo treatment.' " We all laughed. The "Elizovo treatment" came to be the name for the trick of scooping up handfuls of dirt and sand and packing the mouths of the Believers. From that raid on, any time some of the fellows got into a dispute, we'd say, "Look out, or you'll get the Elizovo treatment!"

   Later I whispered to some of the fellows something I didn't want Anatoly Litovchenko to hear. I had been struck by the fact that he and the leader of the Believers, Vasil Litovchenko, had the same surname, and I told the men something out of hearing of Anatoly. Just about then, Nikiforov came into the room, and we quieted down and waited for him to speak.

   "Well, my children," he began. "My children?" That's the first time old iceberg Niki has used that term in a long time. He was really pleased. "I want to congratulate you. You boys are finally learning how to get things done." He was beaming as we'd never seen him do before. He paused, then asked, "By the way, what happened to Vasil Litovchenko, the pastor?"

   I knew he was going to ask that question and had rehearsed my men. When I nodded to them, we all sang out in chorus, "Litovchenko killed Litovchenko."

   By that, of course, we meant that Anatoly Litovchenko had killed the underground pastor, Vasil Litovchenko. But from what we said, it sounded as if the pastor had committed suicide. Nikiforov caught on to the joke and had a good laugh with the rest of us. We were all in high spirits by now. But then suddenly he sobered and asked sternly, "All right, Kourdakov, now I need to know what happened to Litovchenko."

   I smiled and said, "We told you, captain. Litovchenko killed Litovchenko."

   With that, everyone joined in laughter again, and finally Nikiforov said, smiling with fatherly approval, "Well, I see I'm not going to get much information out of you boys tonight. Kourdakov, get these guys out of here and go out and have a good drink. Come back tomorrow and tell me what happened." We jumped to our feet and started to leave, but Nikiforov stopped us and said, "Before you go I want to tell you how proud I am of you all. You've done a terrific job and taught those Believers a lesson and given them something to remember. You're beginning to really shape up, my children."

   That was the second time he had used that phrase that night. I wondered about the significance of it. Maybe we were getting into Nikiforov's good graces at last. Maybe tough old Iceberg Niki was beginning to warm up.

   Next day, when I reported back to Nikiforov, he asked, "Kourdakov, are you still holding to that story about Litovchenko killing Litovchenko or was that all a joke?"

[Soldier4Christ]

   I had sobered up during the night and said seriously, "To tell you the truth, captain, I'm not really sure. It was such wild confusion out there, with people shouting, screaming, and praying and making all kinds of other noises, I really don't know what happened."

   "Well," he said, "I've got news for you. Some villagers down the river a few miles from Elizovo found the body of Vasil Litovchenko this morning snagged on a bush in the river. They called the local police, and the body's on its way here for an autopsy." I shrugged. So, there was nothing bad about that. I could tell last night that Nikiforov was proud of his accomplishment in getting rid of the underground pastor. In fact, he had joined in to make a big joke of it with us.

   Then looking very serious, he went on, "Kourdakov, I want to review this raid with you. I have no objections to anything that happened on it, except one thing — the way you drove those girls, openly exposed, through the streets. Do whatever you want with the women and other Believers out of sight, but don't ever bring public ridicule to the police that way."

   I said, "Yes, sir." Then I was struck by the fact that Nikiforov hadn't raised any objection to the killing of a man, nor any reservations about the abuse of those girls, especially in the police holding cell.

   I was at the police station the next day when the autopsy report was given. It said that Pastor Litovchenko had died from a massive blow across the head that had split his skull and caused instant death through internal hemorrhaging.

   That was the first time we had ever killed anybody. As I thought about it, I began to feel bad.

   "Listen, Kourdakov," Nikiforov said, sensing my feelings, "you men did an outstanding job at Elizovo. Don't feel bad about it. Remember, these are enemies of the state. They're dangerous and determined to overthrow our way of life and they must be destroyed. Besides, I had arrested this man before. We warned him, we taught him a lesson, but he defied us and went right back to his work among the Believers. Kourdakov, he wasn't an innocent man. Never forget that!"

   Well, I felt better about it after that. Certainly Nikiforov was correct. But when I looked at the body of Vasil Litovchenko, a very slight man, he didn't seem like such a terrible enemy. I heard later that he was a man of great character and spiritual stature. He had suffered much for his faith. He was very courageous, never allowing anything or anyone to intimidate him.

  "Kourdakov," Nikiforov said, "people in the area have heard that a man was killed and that it was your group that led the raid and was responsible."

   "Has his wife heard about it?"

   "She has. And you've got to go to her and tell her what happened."

   "Tell her what happened!"

   "Our version, of course," he said and smiled.

   That was something I hadn't bargained for. But I obediently responded. "Yes, sir. Where can I find her?"

   "In the hospital."

   "Hospital? She wasn't in the raid."

   "No, but apparently she is an emotional woman and the shock of her husband's death was too much. She had a stroke. They took her to the emergency ward of Kempi Hospital near the waterfront district. I want you to go down and see her."

   "But what can I tell her?"

   "Just come up with a good story about how he got that gash in his head."

   Why do we have to say anything? I didn't see where it was anybody's business what happened. It was police business; and if he got his head torn off, it was his own fault. He'd been warned, but he wouldn't listen. But orders were orders, and I had to go. I left the police station and headed for Kempi Hospital.

   When I arrived and inquired for Mrs. Litovchenko, I was taken to a large ward in which she was lying, four beds down on the right, near the window. She was a pitiful sight.

   The nurse reported that she was paralyzed from the waist down and was in a state of shock and heavily drugged at that time. I looked at her and thought that at one time she had been a rather beautiful woman. She appeared to be about thirty-five or forty years of age, slight of build, with dark hair and handsome, even beautiful, features. But now she was paralyzed and not expected to walk again. She had been devastated by her husband's death. My first thought as I looked at her was, What a waste! Such a beautiful woman to be in such a helpless state.

   I felt no real sorrow, just that it was tough luck. My only feeling was the sympathy that one has for anybody in that condition. But I had no regret for what had happened to her husband. After all, enemies of the state can't expect to avoid bringing suffering to members of their families.

   The nurse awakened Mrs. Litovchenko, and she looked up at me through heavy-lidded eyes. She was confused and looked at me with a bewildered gaze. Sudden sorrow raced through my heart, but only for a moment. I pulled myself together, walked up to her, and said briskly and with an official tone, "Mrs. Litovchenko, I'm from the Petropavlovsk police. I am the leader of the police-operations group which arrested your husband and the others at Elizovo."

   I looked for some sign of reaction, some flicker of response. I thought she would surely show anger at seeing me and learning that I was one of the men responsible for her husband's death. But she just lay there in a seeming stupor, apparently not understanding my words. Well, Nikiforov didn't tell me to make her understand. He just told me to tell her. If she couldn't understand, it wasn't my fault.

   I went on to say, "I am officially here to explain the reason for your husband's death." Again I peered at her for some reaction as I spoke. But there was none. I wondered if she had lost her mind, as well as having become paralyzed. The only sign of life she showed was piteous moans coming from deep within her.

   I told her that as we arrested her husband, he made a break for it, jumped into a shallow part of the river, and split his head open on a rock. She appeared to be looking straight at me but not seeing me at all. Her unfocusing, unfeeling eyes held a deep, deep look of sorrow.

   I explained again that if her husband had obeyed the orders of my police group and had not tried to escape, he would be here today. Then the poor woman tired to speak, but with great effort. Nothing she said was distinct enough to be understood. Finally, she gave a moan and collapsed back against the pillow.

   Well, no need to waste any more time here. I had told her what I had come to say.

   As I turned to leave, her eyes caught mine and they sent shivers up my back. I will never forget that last look I saw on the face of Mrs. Litovchenko. It was as though a deep, hidden cry within was bursting to be let out, or a great, agonizing scream was futilely trying to be released. Her haunted eyes followed me for days.

   I walked out into the bright sunshine of Petropavlovsk, with the noise of the waterfront behind me, walking slowly back to the police station. When I got there, Nikiforov said, "Kourdakov, forget that. You're doing a job for the state. Some will suffer, but they are the worst enemies and criminals. Never forget that."

[Soldier4Christ]

   But I had a hard time forgetting.

   Later I found that Pastor Litovchenko had had two children — a daughter who had died of illness and an eighteen-year-old son, now serving in the army. We had to write him to inform him officially of his father's death.

   Three days later we were ordered to Pastor Litovchenko's home to look for illegal literature. Nikiforov barked out his orders again. "Ransack the house. Do whatever you have to do. Just find that literature!"

   Four of us drove to the house in the inner-city area of Petropavlovsk. It was a poor, ramshackle, run-down shack. It was evident from our first glimpse of his home that Pastor Litovchenko hadn't lived very well. The furniture was very shabby and poor.

   We tore the house up from top to bottom, and our efforts were well rewarded. We found handwritten hymnbooks, one new Bible, which had been smuggled in from outside the country, and a very old, worn, and tattered Bible.

   As we turned the literature over to Nikiforov, he grinned wildly. "Splendid! Splendid!" he said. "We can send this back to Moscow and show them we've been busy out here, getting our job done."

   Later that night I did some more thinking about the Litovchenko home. There would be no husband to return and no wife waiting for him. Suddenly I brought myself up short. Sergei, you're getting soft! Remember, these are enemies of the worst kind. Just keep telling yourself that, so you won't forget it.

   Five days after the attack at Elizovo, we were summoned to lead another raid on a group of Believers meeting in an underground church. On this raid we again gave the Believers something to remember. We arrested their leaders. Several were shipped away to imprisonment in Siberian forced labor camps, mainly to Magadan on the Siberian mainland. Nikiforov said to me one day after that raid, "Sergei, you and your group have surpassed my expectations. I couldn't ask for a better group of men." I felt there was something more coming — more responsibility with the police, perhaps. I began mentally to total up all I was already doing: my duties as leader of the Communist Youth League, organizing, lecturing, lining up assignments for volunteer work brigades, looking after the political purity of twelve hundred future Soviet officers. Then there were also my normal activities in the radio division of the naval academy, learning to be a radio engineer in the Soviet Navy. I was also active on the academy's sports team and athletic groups. It was during those days that I won the championship in judo wrestling for Kamchatka Province. Also during this period, whenever time permitted, several of my friends and I participated in cross-country hiking and racing.

   I was in good with both Nikiforov and my operations group. They were a bit afraid of me because of my position as leader of the Communist Youth League. It was my duty to report on all cadets. One day Yuri Berestennikov got a little drunk and told me, "Sergei, you think you're a pretty big guy these days, don't you?"

   Oh, oh. Yuri's had a bit too much.

   "I hear you think you're a big shot," he went on. "You're the big shot of the Communist Youth League and all you ever do is spy on the other guys."

   "Cut that out, Yuri!" I warned.

   "Look at him," Yuri retaliated. "He thinks he can even give us orders here."

   I began to understand that beneath his partial drunkenness, Yuri was testing me. So I brought it to a showdown. "Yuri," I said, "any time you think you're the better man, just give me a try."

   "How about now?"

   "All right, now!"

   So we went outside. Yuri was a lot taller than I, but my judo training gave me a big advantage. It wasn't long before I had him down and beaten.

   "Don't ever say that again, Yuri," I warned. He got the point and so did everyone else. No one there ever challenged my authority again.

   After that incident, I concentrated on my military duties again. Among the most important were two "open house" activities. All the citizens of Petropavlovsk were invited to visit the naval base to observe life there firsthand. The main feature of each was a huge dance, to which the girls from town were invited. I had to make sure there would be no drinking, so I had several of my men stand guard at the door, checking the girls' purses to make sure they weren't bringing in liquor.

   Vodka is the curse of Russia. It's everywhere. We naval cadets were paid seven rubles at the end of each month and after pay-day we promptly headed for town and spent our money on two bottles of vodka. With a bottle inside their pockets, the cadets would go into the street looking for girls. Once they opened their jacket to show the girls the vodka, they could have the girl and anything they wanted. We waged a constant fight against alcoholism among the cadets. And the ironic thing about it all was that we who were responsible for the control of drinking, which was officially frowned upon, were among the worst offenders.

   After one particular open house and dance, we made our regular inspection tour to make sure no one was staying on base illegally. On opening the door to the women's rest room, we couldn't see the floor — it was covered with empty vodka bottles. The next day I had to order a military truck to back up to the building, just below the rest room, and have our cadets throw the bottles into the truck below.

   The party blames vodka as the greatest cause for low production in industry. On Saturday nights in Petropavlovsk and other cities, I'm told, drunks staggering about or falling in the gutters are a common sight.

   We in the operations group could see, perhaps as well as anyone, what vodka was doing, especially to the young. In most of the brawls, knifings, and shootings, drinking was involved. Yet we who were aware of all this drank our share, especially before raids on Believers. The only thing that kept us from going to the extremes that so many others did was our interest in athletics. To be good athletes and keep in good physical shape, we had to control our drinking. It was for none other than practical reasons that we were concerned.

   The steady flurries of directives coming from Moscow to warn us of the problem of alcoholism showed me the great menace it was to youth in the Soviet Union. It was the number one problem of Soviet youth.

[Soldier4Christ]

"Get the Literature!"

   While studying at the academy one afternoon, I got orders for a small group of my men to meet at the police station at nine o'clock that night. I quickly lined up seven of my men to go with me and when we arrived at the station that night, we went straight to the lounge in the back for our usual briefing with Nikiforov. In the lounge was the ever-present vodka, and this time Nikiforov had laid in some caviar, too. I wondered where Nikiforov got all this expensive stuff. I meant to ask him sometime.

   Nikiforov told the boys to relax and took me into his office to talk. Very seriously, he explained the night's assignment. "This one's a very important one for us," he said. "We've learned that a group of Believers are meeting tonight at ten o'clock. They've got a Bible — a new one — and handwritten literature. We need that literature for evidence against them. Get it. We'll send it in to Moscow."

   "Do we send all the stuff there?" I asked.

   "No, only the printed stuff. They don't want the handwritten junk."

   "What are we doing with that?"

   "Come. I'll show you. Getting rid of it is part of your job." He led me down the dimly lit stairs and into the "cold room," an unheated basement room that was at freezing temperature even in summer. That's where we threw the drunks till they sobered up. A small, log-burning stove had been installed to keep the guards warm. The rest of the room was cold as ice. Nikiforov pointed to a box full of old newspapers and sticks of firewood and said, "Just dump the junk in here when you get back. We'll put it to good use — to keep the guards warm!" He laughed at his own joke.

   When we were called in advance of a raid, we could be pretty sure that a spy had been at work inside the secret churches. The network of spies Nikiforov had organized and operated was efficient. I asked myself, Why do those spies do it! Well, I knew it wasn't for ideological reasons. It wasn't because they were Communists. They were doing it for the money, just as we were. "A ruble can change a heart," it is said, and there were a lot more rubles floating around for this work than I ever dreamed possible. The spies working among the Believers were highly paid. They earned even more than we did. And for good reason. Often they would be beaten up with the Believers because we were never told their identity. In order to keep up a good front, the spies had to attend the Believers' meetings, and if a spy was unlucky enough to be caught with them when we made our raid, he would be beaten up as severely as the Believers. We had no way of distinguishing them from the Believers. That's why they got the extra pay. Without the spies, we could have done very little.

   The spies never went high in the leadership of the underground churches, I was told. The most information we could get from them was who and where individual underground churches met. But for our purposes, that was all we needed to know. We did the rest.

   It was about ten minutes after nine when Nikiforov called me back to his office to check out the street map. "Where is it tonight?" I asked.

   The spot he showed me in the suburbs would take us fifteen to twenty minutes to reach. "How many do you expect to be there?"

   "Well," Nikiforov replied, "according to our information, between ten and fifteen." Our seven men would be enough to take care of them.

   I studied the map closely and decided what route to take. By then it was 9:15 and we still had plenty of time. We made it a policy not to break into a meeting until twenty or thirty minutes after it started. That gave the Believers time to get over their caution and to relax. They usually figured that if they hadn't been discovered in the first twenty or thirty minutes, the danger was over.

   I told my men, "We won't leave until 9:45."

   A couple of the guys put their feet on the table and sipped vodka and talked. The caviar disappeared fast. Cadets don't often get that kind of food! Victor was reading a book on judo. That struck us all funny. Victor could have written a book on judo! He was judo champ of all East Russia.

   Suddenly he put the book down, jumped to his feet, and began practicing judo holds and karate blows. "I'm going to try this new karate blow tonight," he said. "It looks real effective!"

   "Hey! Did you ever try this one, Victor?" I demonstrated with the flat of my had across the front of my neck above my Adam's apple. "If you ever want to finish somebody off in a hurry, here's the way to do it." The other guys looked on in amusement.

   Vladimir Zelenov and Anatoly Litovchenko, our two boxing champions, began to kid around, too. Being champion of Kamchatka, Vladimir always tried to compete with Anatoly, champ of all Siberia. "Hey, little brother," he teased, "watch and I'll show you a thing or two tonight. I'll show you a punch that will send shivers down your spine."

   Anatoly just laughed. "After you get through with your child's play, take a look at me and I'll show you the punch that made me champion of Siberia."

   They laughed, and we joined in. We were all getting warmed up. The vodka flowed, the banter continued, and we were ready to practice our arts on those unsuspecting Believers who were already gathering in that small house across town to study their precious literature.

   I glanced at my watch and said, "All right, you guys. That's enough of the horseplay and big talk. Let's go see if you're a bunch of doers or just loud talkers."

   Soon we were making our way in the police truck through the darkened streets of Petropavlovsk. As we left the city behind, moving into the suburbs, we left the paved streets and hit the dirt roads that were usually muddy from the frequent rains which deluged Kamchatka. We picked our way along, searching for the street sign we wanted.

   "Slow down, Victor, it's around here somewhere . . . There it is," I said, spotting the sign. "It's about three blocks down this way. Drive slowly and quietly."

   Victor slowed down and picked his way along the muddy street while I peered through the darkness, searching for the target house. Behind the houses, we could see, in dark outline, the sloping mountains that characterized this part of Siberia.

   "There it is," I said softly. It was a small, log house, typical in this area. "Stop here," I told Victor. "We walk the rest of the way."

   We got out and the men followed me as I walked down the muddy road toward the house. "You two!" I said, pointing to Alex Gulyaev and Yuri. "You watch the front door and window. Make sure nobody gets out."

   Alex began to protest. "Look, Alex," I said. "I know what you're going to say. But you've got to guard those exits. As soon as the fun starts you can come and join in." Yuri, as always, complained but went.

[Soldier4Christ]

   We found the front door locked. No lights were on, except in the back. It was a dark, moonless night. Quietly and quickly we made our way around to the back of the house, where a room had been added on. It was about half the size of the house, with a sloping roof and a back door. The light was on inside. So that's where they were!

   As we slipped around to the back, somebody tipped something over. A bucket went rolling, and suddenly alarmed voices sounded from inside. People were rushing about.

   There was no need for us to keep silent any longer. They knew we were there. "Let's go!" I shouted. "Fast!" We rushed to the back door and found it locked, also. But it looked weak, so I told the others to stand back. I backed up abut twenty feet and rammed my shoulder against it in a flying run, expecting it to pop open. I felt a sharp pain, bounced off the door, and ended up sprawled in the mud. As I sat there in the mud a brief moment, I couldn't control my anger.

   "Over here! someone shouted, pointing to a small log. They picked it up and brought it to the door to use as a battering ram.

   "Knock that door down!" I ordered.

   They started battering the door with the log. It was a strong door. Finally the door burst open. By this time we were very angry, especially me. Inside, by the light of the coal-oil lanterns, ten or eleven people were scurrying about. We charged in with all our might, cursing and shoving the Believers to the floor.

   I spotted a man in the corner of the room. He had a Bible in his hand and was looking about with terror in his face, trying to find someplace to hide it. Rushing over to him, I grabbed at it roughly, but he held on. I jerked it again and tore it out of his hands. Doubly angered because my shoulder hurt from the crash against the door, I started ripping the pages out of the Bible, flinging them to the floor. The man, about sixty-five years old, looked up and cried with a pleading tone, "Don't! Please don't! I beg you!"

   His mouth was open, begging, and I whirled around, smashing my fist at his face. My fist landed on the edge of his nose and his upper row of teeth. His nose and mouth began to spurt blood. He struggled back to his feet, grabbing the Bible from my hand.

   What kind of fool is he? I asked myself. He values this book more than he values his face! I ripped it away from him again and smashed him again in the face. This time he reeled and fell to the ground, unconscious. He wouldn't give us any more trouble. Now my hand was covered with that fool's blood.

   I whirled around just in time to see a Believer throw some books under a table covered with a long tablecloth, hanging almost to the floor. As I raced past Victor and Vladimir to get those books, I saw Vladimir aim a blow at a young man of about twenty-five. It sent the guy sailing across the room and crashing into the wall. He fell to the floor, unconscious.

   My other men were busy, too. Victor picked up one middle-aged man and hurled him across the room like he was a rag doll. He struck his head against a cabinet and began bleeding. The room was a bloody chaos by this time.

   I wanted those books under the table. We had been ordered to bring them back to Nikiforov. Anatoly grabbed the man who had thrown them there. Jerking him up by the collar, Anatoly positioned his face and let loose with a devastating blow that must have smashed his jaw in a thousand pieces. He didn't let out a whimper as he fell.

   Then it was all over, almost as soon as it had started. There was nobody left standing. The men were lying in bloody heaps and the old man I had beaten was lying with his face in a pool of blood. Three older women lay cowering in the corner, sobbing.

   "Get all the Bibles and literature," I barked to my men. Then I crawled under the table to find what had been thrown under it.

   About that time, Alex and Yuri came running into the room from their guard posts outside. Angry for having missed the action, Yuri took one look at my backside sticking out from under the table. Thinking I was a Believer trying to hide, he rushed over and raised his club extended to full length. Before anyone could stop him, he brought the club down across my lower back with a powerful, crushing blow.

   I felt like the house had fallen on me! I shrieked out in pain. I'll never forget that pain! It was unbelievable. I saw stars and felt hot flashes of pain across my back and collapsed flat. The other fellows were shouting at Yuri, but it was too late. Frantically shoving the table away, he saw who it was he had hit.

   "Sergei, I'm sorry!" he shouted. "I thought it was one of the Believers trying to hide."

   It hurt so badly I couldn't speak. I just lay there groaning, cursing violently under my breath.

   Finally Yuri and Gulyaev helped me to my feet. The lower part of my spine hurt so much I could hardly move my legs. I'd never felt such excruciating pain! Yuri was apologizing all over the place, until I yelled, "Shut up! Just get out of my sight!"

   Two of the four Believers we had orders to bring in were still unconscious. The men dragged them through the mud and threw them into the truck. They were pretty battered. I was bent over and hobbling like an old man until a couple of guys gave me a hand. "The literature, did you get it?" I asked Victor.

   We took off for the police station. Every bump over those rugged roads brought me indescribable pain. After we reached the station and the prisoners were taken in, I walked back and forth, exercising my back. It still hurt terribly. How I wished I had never seen those two books thrown under the table! But I really couldn't blame Yuri. I guess I did look like a Believer trying to escape.

   Once I felt better, I went into the station. My men were carrying the Bibles and other literature, piling them on Nikiforov's desk. He looked the growing pile over, exclaiming, "Wonderful! Wonderful! These," he said, pointing to the printed Bibles, "will make great presents for the party back when you had your 'accident.' " He grinned.

   The leader of the group, the man I had smashed in the face twice, was sitting with his head in his hands on a bench. His upper front teeth were missing and the front of his shirt was covered with blood.

   "I think he needs a nice shower," Nikiforov said. The fellows laughed and promptly took his downstairs. They threw him in the shower and turned on the cold water that was used to sober up drunks.

   Upstairs, I was rubbing my back while Nikiforov commended us. "All right," he said, "look what we got. It's a real load. They were hand copying literature in quantities. We got it all." He spread it out on the table. There were a couple of Bibles — one new, pocket-size Bible, the other almost worn out.

   "These will go to Moscow," Nikiforov said. Then he looked at the pile of other literature. Among the pieces were a child's school-exercise book with Bible verses scribbled in it, a notebook with a few songs written in it, and several pages with hand-written Bible verses.

   Nikiforov shouted an order to a couple of the men. "Take this junk downstairs and throw it in the box. At least it will keep the guards warm!" Then he turned to the others. "Why don't you guys go out and get something to eat!"

   We went to eat and drink. My back was still hurting, but I soon forgot it in the noise of the bar. As I was eating, I noticed my hand was still covered with the blood of that Believer. Oh well, I'll wash later.

   The raids were stepping up in frequency. Sometimes we were called out two or three times a week. The Believers were becoming more active. After some raids there were vast amounts of paper work. I had to send someone to the places where the Believers were employed, to get information about them from their fellow workers in order to build a detailed personal file which contained everything about the Believer's life. All this information was sent to the antireligious headquarters in Moscow. There the complete personal file on every Believer was fed into the computer for immediate retrieval.

   Computerized copies of the Believers' files were sent from Moscow back to our local headquarters. This gave us a permanent record in the local police headquarters of every Believer in every district. In addition, a three-by-five-inch card with the Believer's picture, birth date, and other data was sent to the police station. These cards were kept in a special file. Any time the party chose, the Believers could be rounded up and removed from society quickly.

[Soldier4Christ]

"You're Our Number One Man"

   During my time off, I sometimes went mountain climbing and hiking across the mountains of Kamchatka with my friends, just to take a break from my studies and heavy duties in the Youth League. Our military status enabled us to visit places which were off-limits to civilians in Kamchatka. During such outings, my friends and I came across something which puzzled us. We saw no less than thirty concentration camps and prisons hidden away in the mountains and valleys in the interior. We were amazed, especially because they were new — and empty.

   We'd often come around a bend or over a hill, and there would be a new prison complex, with barbed wire around it. Each was completely equipped, even with living quarters for the guards. Caretakers kept the buildings up and closely guarded them. These camps had everything — guards, equipment, dogs — except prisoners.

   I wondered about them and what they were for. I asked Nikiforov. He replied, "We have enemies in this country, you know, and we have to be ready for them. In the event of the slightest trouble, we'll find some occupants for those places."

   We laughed together, as though it were a joke. But it wasn't. Huge files, such as those on Believers, were set up identifying persons who were to be arrested at the first sign of any disturbance. All that would be needed were orders from Moscow. The prison camps were ready and waiting, hidden in the mountain vastness. I took great pride in all this. Our party was vigilant!

   Nikiforov pulled out a confidential police bulletin he had been sent from the antireligious headquarters in Moscow, giving detailed instructions on the treatment of Believers in the Soviet Union. The document told of a major antireligious action organization that was being vastly increased, so that every town, hamlet, and village in the Soviet Union, stretching the six thousand miles between Leningrad and the most distant areas of Far East Russia, would be covered. Specially trained workers were to use films, papers, and recordings, lectures, tapes, drama, displays, and propaganda of every kind to spread atheism and combat religious faith.

   As I surveyed these documents and spoke to Nikiforov, I began to sense the immensity of our party's action to stop the growing menace of religion in our country. I was overwhelmed by it. "What fantastic amounts of money this must cost," I exclaimed to Nikiforov.

   "Well, you can imagine," he responded. "You know what your group alone is costing. As I told you, Kourdakov, we have two great enemies — the imperialist Americans and these undermining enemies here at home. They must be controlled, whatever the cost! The Believers are especially dangerous because they are growing so rapidly. We have thirty thousand of them in Kamchatka alone. And that's out of a population of only two hundred fifty thousand!"

   "That means," I said after some brief mental calculations, "there could be millions of them infesting the nation."

   "You're right. And communism will never fully triumph in our land until their minds are changed or they are destroyed. Frankly, I prefer the latter."

   "But what about the Believers saying they have the right to religious freedom?" I asked.

   "That's in the constitution for the record," he said. "But you and I both are men. We've lived. We know reality."

   His remarks reminded me of a time when I overheard him talk to one of the arrested Believers.

   "What are we here for?" the Believer asked.

   "You're here because of anti-Soviet literature found in your possession."

   "What do you mean, anti-Soviet literature? They were only Bibles."

   Nikiforov snapped back, "That's what I'm talking about, you fool. That's anti-Soviet literature."

   "But," protested the Believer, who had been roughed up pretty badly, "how could the Bible be anti-Soviet literature? Our government states it is printing Bibles in our own country, and if the government is printing Bibles, how can they be anti-Soviet?"

   I wanted to hear Nikiforov's answer to that! "You're wrong!" he shouted. "Our government would never print Bibles."

   "Oh yes, it would. In fact it already has. At least, it says it has."

   "Shut up," Nikiforov responded angrily and went on with his interrogation.

   Later I learned that our government did claim it had printed ten thousand Bibles. But that announcement was for public consumption abroad, to show the Soviet Union as believing in religious freedom. What happened to those Bibles? Well, about five thousand, I learned, were sent abroad for sale to Russian-speaking people in foreign countries. Another three thousand were sent to the Communist countries of eastern Europe, and approximately two thousand were sent to the antireligious organization in Moscow to be used for study and research, for the purpose of refining our antireligious propaganda. Virtually none of those ten thousand Bibles ever got to the Russian Believers.

   That's why they had smuggled or handwritten Bibles.

   As head of the Communist Youth League at the naval academy, I had often heard of Comrade Orlov, the party leader for the entire province. Comrade Orlov came to power as the party secretary for Kamchatka Province during the reign of Stalin. He consolidated his control over the party and was known throughout Kamchatka as "Little Stalin," not only because he rose to prominence during Stalin's regime, but because his practice, personality, and methods of leadership were similar to Stalin's.

   Comrade Orlov ranked among the top two hundred leaders of the entire Soviet Union. I had heard his name again and again, and I greatly respected and admired him. I first met him on April 22, 1970, when we had a great party convention, celebrating the one-hundredth anniversary of founder Lenin's birthday. Party leaders from all Kamchatka Province gathered along with party youth leaders. I was invited to this great conference.

   The idea behind this convention was to introduce future Communist leaders to the older leaders. It was to honor the future leaders of the party. I was an invited guest, selected to receive a special award for my work in the Youth League and for being one of the promising new leaders of the party. My Youth League had been selected as the top Youth League organization in Kamchatka Province. Since I was the head of it, I was singled out as the Number-One Communist Youth of Kamchatka Province. I was given a seat of honor on the platform. On the platform with me were Comrade Orlov and all of the big people I had heard about but never seen. Behind the platform was hung a massive outline of Lenin's profile. I was a little nervous and very excited. It was the greatest Communist celebration in many years.

   I was introduced as the head of the winning Youth League organization as TV cameras broadcast the event live. I had been told to prepare an acceptance speech and gave a rousing fifteen-minute talk on the victory of communism. I gave a detailed report of my work as a youth leader and outlined what we proposed to do in the future. I emphasized we would continue to serve the cause of the party and do even more in the future than we had in the past. I ended with this pledge: "In honor of the memory of Comrade Lenin, I commit my organization to even greater achievements for communism next year. I pledge to you, and to Lenin's sacred memory, this is only the start!" And I meant every word of it. When I finished, there was great applause, and Comrade Orlov jumped up and put his arm around my shoulder. He called for the special red flag that had been flown in from Moscow. It was brought out, and he ceremoniously presented me with the flag. I kissed it and draped it proudly around my body to the standing applause of the delegates. It was a very big moment for me! Here was the top leader of Kamchatka Province, a man recognized to be one of the top leaders in all the USSR, with his arm around my shoulder, and it was all shown on Soviet television!

   When the applause subsided, Comrade Orlov declared, "Such young men as this are a perfect example of Communist youth and the future hope of the party in the USSR. We must support and help them develop, because, comrades, look at this man. In him and thousands like him you see the future of the party and our country." My head was spinning. I hoped my nervousness didn't show on television. What a proud moment it was for me — the proudest moment of my life.

   After the ceremony, speeches, and the presentation of awards, we were all invited to a great banquet hall where the tables were filled with food and drink. Many of the men gathered around, congratulating me. But the very highest leaders, including Comrade Orlov, did not join us. They went to a private dining room apart from the ordinary delegates. After I finished eating, I got up and wandered through the corridor. I didn't drink much, for I was in training for a judo championship match coming up. As I walked down the hall, a door suddenly opened and who was standing there but Comrade Orlov! I had stumbled upon the door of the private banquet hall for the top party leaders. Orlov saw me and, though quite drunk by now, recognized me. Holding his arms out to me, he said, "Hey, Comrade Kourdakov, come on in here."

   I hesitated to go in. After all, I would be out of place in there with the top leaders from our area. Orlov took my arm and pulled me in. About twenty senior party officials were inside, food and drink crowding the large table. I think it was good that they had a private dining room, because of the expensive food and drink they had — sausages, caviar and other delicacies, Greek wines, everything. And vodka flowed like water. I was wide-eyed. This was certainly not what we had been eating out in the banquet hall.

[Soldier4Christ]

   Orlov excused himself for a few minutes and staggered out the door looking for a toilet. While he was gone, I looked around. Here were the great Communist leaders of Kamchatka Province, drunk. Several had passed out cold, their heads lying flat on the table. Three lay with their faces in their plates of food. Two pairs of legs came out from under the long dining table. Others were fast drinking themselves into unconsciousness. Another man lay stretched out full length on the top of the table. His arms and feet were in the big serving trays full of food. I looked at them in disgust. I had ordered cadets dismissed from the academy for less than this. The lives of the people of this part of Russia are controlled by these men who are so drunk they don't even know their first names. I was looking at the "cream of the crop" Communist leaders, and the cream of the crop were stoned out of their heads. One man had become sick and had vomited all over his clothes. The whole scene was incredibly and utterly disgusting.

   By now Orlov had come back. He sat me down in the chair next to him. As he drank freely and became drunker, his head began to weave. Suddenly his face fell forward, directly into the food on his plate. He raised his head and shouted, "Hand me a napkin!" I did, and he wiped part of the food off his forehead, chin, and nose. Some of the mashed potatoes were still on his nose and chin. He cursed until the air was blue. It was an incredible sight! Food was running down his face onto his coat and medals.

   He pulled his coat and shirt up and showed me a long scar, where he had been wounded in the war, and said to me, with his head rolling around, "Comrade Kourdakov, you see this? Stalin did this to me! Stalin sent me out. Stalin used our bodies instead of weapons. Stalin gave me this and now when it hurts, I curse him."

   He cursed Stalin drunkenly, then went on to curse others. "And not only Stalin, but who is this Brezhnev? He's a toadeater, a lickspittle backslapper, licking the boots of Stalin. That's how Brezhnev survived, and that's how he got to be the Communist leader! I listened to him at the party congress in Moscow. He baas like a sheep, baa baa baa, one word after another, like a sheep."

   I couldn't believe my ears! Orlov rambled on drunkenly, using barnyard terms to describe his colleague Brezhnev. I looked frantically around the room to see if anyone was hearing all these incredible words. If they heard what Orlov had said, I was finished! But no one seemed to hear; they were lost in their drinking. Comrade Orlov was himself in some other world, babbling and ranting.

   But I had not only the others to fear. If Orlov later remembered what he had said to me, my life wouldn't be worth a kopek. He couldn't afford to let me live and could silence me with one word. He had that kind of power. I looked at him. His head was on the table again and I thought he was asleep. Suddenly he sat up with a jolt, put out his arms, and said, "Communism is the worst curse that has ever come to man!" He nodded and mumbled, "Communism is (a description too foul to print)." I was petrified with fear. Orlov rambled and shouted, "Communists are a bunch of bloodsuckers!"

   I fled from the room, left the hall, and headed back to the naval academy as fast as I could. For days I lived in fear.

   Until my encounter with Orlov, I had been a genuine and firm believer in communism. I had a bedrock belief in the goals and objectives of communism. Often I had been asked by younger cadets, "Why is life so hard in Russia?" The answer I always gave was, "It is difficult now, but we are building a better tomorrow." And I generally believed it. I had seen many contradictions between the teachings of communism and reality. But I was sure they were simply aberrations or personal failures, and that we really were on our way to that better tomorrow.

   But my encounter with Orlov and the roomful of Communist bigwigs showed me the hypocrisy of it all. For days my mind went back to that night with Orlov. So this is what the leaders are really like. Calloused, hard, cynical, failing to believe even in communism, looking merely for a way to get ahead personally.

   I had observed that the life of the leaders was rich with everything, but the life of the people was poor and hard. I had seen the great gap between the promises of communism and the reality in the lives of the people. Always I had justified it and comforted myself by saying, "Today we sacrifice for tomorrow's victories."

   But now I had seen this incredible scene. I decided if those men didn't believe but were using the system to get ahead, then I would use it, too. If a man like Orlov wasn't a true believer in communism, why should I be? If Orlov was wily and clever enough to get to the top, I could get there, too. I had been raised under the system since I was six, and I could claw my way up like the rest of them. My idealism, misguided though it had been, died that night of Lenin's one-hundredth birthday, April 22, 1970.

   "Go ahead! Go ahead!" That motto I had adopted as a child in the days at the children's home became my motto once again. From now on, there was only one goal: Get to the top! If the game was played by cynicism and ruthlessness, I'd play it that way. And I'd play it a lot better than Orlov or anybody else. I would serve communism because that was the way to get ahead.

[Soldier4Christ]

The Beautiful Religioznik

   I answered the telephone after two rings and heard Nikiforov's voice. "This is a big one, Kourdakov," he said. "Make sure you get at least ten men and be here at 8:30 sharp!" Without waiting for a reply, he hung up.

   I began calling my men. Usually I found it difficult to line up more than ten, but today I mustered fourteen. When I arrived at the police station, fifteen minutes early, some of the men were already there. Others drifted in minutes later. "What's up?" they were asking. "Where are we going tonight?" I went into Nikiforov's office to find out.

   "Sixty-six Okeanskaya Street," he said, leading me to the wall map and pointing. "You'd better stop about here," he said, and indicated a street intersection three blocks from Okeanskaya Street. "You can make it the rest of the way on foot."

   I knew the section well. "That's a heavily populated area." I said. "We've been in that general area several times lately. We're almost certain to be spotted."

   "You're a military man, aren't you?" Nikiforov said bluntly. That meant: Use military tactics.

   "All right," I said as I studied the map more closely. "I'll put two men here and one over there at that corner. That way I'll be able to block off the street and keep pedestrians away."

   "Good."

   "How many Believers do you expect?" I asked.

   "Fifteen."

   "Any special instructions?"

   "Same as usual," he said. I was to bring in the two men whose names were on the slip of paper he was handing me. "These are the ones we want."

   "What about the rest?"

   "The rest?" he bellowed. "Do I have to spell it out to you? Give them something to remember! Let them know it doesn't pay to carry on their kind of activity."

   "What time is the meeting?" I asked.

   "At ten o'clock. Get there at half-past ten."

   I walked into the back lounge where my men were drinking and joking. Most of them had become close friends. A few were just "vodka friends."

   At last it was 9:45 — time to go. As we started toward the door, I shouted to Yuri, "Watch what you're doing tonight! Open your eyes before you swing that club."

   Yuri laughed and said, "All right, Sergei."

   On the way out to the truck, we picked up our police clubs and handcuffs at the door. "Keep the clubs short," I said. "We'll be in close quarters tonight."

   The handcuffs we took along were special. Once they were on a person, they became tighter as the person struggled, the sharp teeth inside clamping down tighter and more painfully on the victim's wrists. I had once put a pair on myself, just for fun, and was soon yelling for someone to get them off. They were extremely painful, and we used them often against the Believers.

   We climbed into the police truck and sped off, racing across the city, lights flashing and siren screaming, playing havoc with traffic. As we came within a few blocks of our destination, we shut the siren off, lowered our lights, and slowed down. We soon reached Okeanskaya Street. "Pull over here," I said to Victor.

   As soon as we had parked at the side of the street, I pointed to a couple of the men in the back of the truck and said, "You two, get out and block off the street . . . And you two, over there, you go around the block and cut off the other end of the street. Remember, nobody gets through. Understand?"

   We had strict orders from Nikiforov to keep passersby away. A couple of recent raids had turned out badly because groups of curious spectators had been attracted by the screams of the Believers. We finally managed to disperse them, but the damage had been done. Word got back to Nikiforov. He was furious and in no uncertain terms ordered me never to let it happen again.

   I was determined there would be no spectators tonight. Both ends of the street were completely blocked off. Leaving the guards to their duties, the remaining ten of us walked toward house number sixty-six and its unsuspecting, praying occupants. In a few moments we spotted it. It was a simple, plain home, like the others in the area. A light was on inside, shining through a heavy curtain which covered the window. There were two windows on each side of the house and a door in the back. I assigned one man to guard each window and the door. After the usual griping about missing the action, they acquiesced. That took care of half my men. I told them they could leave their posts when things got going and come inside for the fun.

   Now everything was set. Stealthily, we moved toward the front door. After one more check to make sure everyone was in his place and alert, I nodded and said, "Let's go!" Then I hit the door in a flying run and snapped it open.

   Inside, fifteen startled people on their knees, praying and singing, looked up in utter disbelief. They knew what was happening and their faces were filled with a mixture of surprise and fear. Yet some kept praying, and three or four continued to sing, not missing a note. These people, I thought, are incredible! I had to admire their courage; but at the same time it infuriated me. I shouted, "What are you doing?"

   "Praying," someone replied.

   "To whom?"

   "To God."

   "There is no God, you fools," I yelled. "Don't you know that?" I shouted, "You're praying to empty air. Where's your God now? Let Him help you now!" We shoved and pushed, getting warmed up to the attack. Then suddenly one of my men swung his club and the fight was on. We waded in, shoving, hitting, and kicking.

   Vladimir grabbed an old man, smashed him in the face, and sent him screaming across the room to tumble on the floor in a pool of blood. Anatoly, not to be outdone by Vladimir, grabbed someone else and was pounding him in the stomach, chest, and face, toying with him. Then he finished him quickly with a frightful blow in the mouth. The Believers who could stay clear of us rushed about the room trying to hide their Bibles and literature. Seeing what they were doing, I shouted, "Get those Bibles!" Sergei Kanonenko had his knife out and was swinging it wildly, sending Believers diving to avoid the blade. Yuri picked up an old woman, grabbed her long, gray hair, pulled her head back, and struck her across the throat with a karate chop. Without a sound the old woman crumpled to the floor.

   I spotted an old man trying to scurry off and I grabbed him and aimed a blow at his head. But he managed to get his guard up enough to deflect the blow. That made me mad and I raised my fist to let loose with another smash, but someone behind me grabbed my hand and yelled, "Don't hit him, please. Don't hit him. He's just an old man."

   I whirled around in a rage. There stood two young men, Believers, one about eighteen and the other about twenty-one." "So you're going to tell me what to do! Well, we'll see!" I looked around the room, spotted Boris and Yuri, and yelled to them, "Take these two out in back and teach them not to give us orders." The young men were pushed and pulled outside and beaten until their faces were a bloody pulp. Most of the bones of their faces were broken.

   Meanwhile, Sergei Kanonenko had used his knife on a couple of women, and they were screaming and holding their sides. One old man was groveling on the floor, trying to get up, bloody and beaten. Yuri rushed over and gave him a powerful, arching kick in the ribs with his heavy boot. There was a crunching of bone as several of his ribs were broken. The old man rolled over, writhing in pain.

   Nothing in the house — people or furniture — escaped our wrath. We smashed everything in sight. Whoever had turned his house into a secret church building would learn he couldn't do it without losing everything he had. In minutes the house was a shambles — broken tables, chairs, dishes, everything smashed and scattered all over the room. Half covered by the debris were the Believers, some unconscious and the rest in agonizing pain.

   I saw Victor Matveyev reach and grab for a young girl who was trying to escape to another room. She was a beautiful young girl. What a waste to be a Believer. Victor caught her, picked her up, lifted her above his head, and held her high in the air for a second. She was pleading, "Don't, please don't. Dear God, help us!" Victor threw her so hard she hit the wall at the same height she was thrown, then dropped to the floor, semiconscious, moaning. Victor turned and laughed and exclaimed, "I'll bet the idea of God went flying out of her head." But I was thinking, She's a real beautiful girl. I wished I had met her under better circumstances.