The Persecutor

[Soldier4Christ]

   That morning of September 4, 1971, dawned raw and blustery over the village, a small settlement at the edge of the sea, on the Pacific side of Queen Charlotte Island. Most of the villagers work in mines in that area. A woman whose home faced the sea, about sixty feet away, went to make a phone call at 8:30 A.M. and looked out her window. It was most unusual that she would be there that day. I was told that almost any other day she would have been at her job; but she had stayed home that day. She looked down toward the sea and saw a surprising sight. She saw me stagger up from the beach, half naked, exhausted, and bleeding from the cuts. She phoned for help and I was taken to the hospital. The doctor said I had a cardiac irregularity from exertion and was in and out of a very deep sleep for several hours.

   After several hours I could hear distant voices speaking in whispered tones in a language I couldn't understand. I wondered where I was. Back on ship, I thought with a rising sense of panic. But no, no, those are foreign voices! Canada! I must have made it!

   My eyes were beginning to focus, and I looked up into the face of a woman nurse bending over me. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I was alive! I was in Canada! I had made it! I was the happiest guy alive!

   After several hours, a man entered and said he was going to translate for me. "Who are you? Why did you come here?" he asked.

   I could hardly speak for the pain. I said, "I don't want to go back to the Russian ship."

   He replied, "Very well, we will now contact the Canadian authorities in Prince Rupert and they'll tell us what is to happen to you next."

   That same afternoon, a plane came and flew me to the capital of Queen Charlotte Island and from there to Prince Rupert in British Columbia. Before I left, I thanked the nurse and the doctor who had taken such good care of me in Tasu. I had nothing to give except my thanks, and I couldn't understand their language.

   In Prince Rupert, I was placed in the prison section of the hospital. I was kept there for several days and given the very best: wonderful food, rest, and the finest of medical care. Everybody was wonderful to me. I was the center of attention and though I couldn't understand their language, I understood that not too many Russian seaman come to Prince Rupert! They looked at me as though I were a creature from outer space. No one could speak Russian, so I spoke a little German and they found someone who could translate. These strangers took such wonderful care of me that I rapidly began to regain my strength.

   With my strength coming back, I took more interest in my surroundings. One day an immigration official and in interpreter took me out of the prison hospital and drove me around Prince Rupert. My eyes almost popped out as I looked at the cars and nice homes. I guess I was staring at them. He said, "This is where the people live."

   "Who, capitalists and businessmen?" I asked.

   He laughed and said, "No, just the plain, working people."

   Well, I wasn't falling for that! This is a real propaganda tour, Sergei. Don't believe it.

   Later, they brought me a photographic magazine to look at. Its name was something like Interior Design Made Easy. It was really beautiful, full of pictures of mirrors, chairs, beds, carpets, and beautiful homes with expensive furniture. Aha! This is a special magazine printed by the government to trick me!

   I had been raised suspecting everything to be propaganda and had come to learn never to believe the government. I was out of communism; but communism, with its suspicion and distrust, wasn't out of me.

   I felt a little foolish afterward when I found out that normal workers did live in homes like that in Canada and that the magazine hadn't been prepared just to trick me.

   Russian propaganda says that the very rich have become rich by exploiting the very poor. But the homes of the workers here were the equivalent of palaces in Russia, and I couldn't fail to notice that everyone was dressed almost the same, with good clothes. I saw a drunk or two, but in Russia you can walk through towns in the evenings and see drunks spread out on street corners. Our propaganda says that millions are unemployed and have to stage demonstrations to get bread, and that the police beat them terribly. Though I had doubted it, my first exposure to a free country during that short drive showed me what a great tragic lie the Communist propaganda is.

   Every day I sensed growing strength and I began to look ahead. Then suddenly, with almost no warning, just as my hopes were highest, I received news which left me reeling in confusion, fear, and bewilderment: I might be handed back to the Russians.

   The next day a special plane flew me to Vancouver, where I was placed in the Vancouver Central Jail. My dream of freedom, a new life, and finding something to truly believe in was on the verge of being shattered into a million hopeless pieces. How? Why?

 

[Soldier4Christ]

   I cannot describe my state of mind in the Vancouver jail. I was alone in a strange land, which I had looked to with great hope and trust, but which seemed now to be turning on me. I had trusted this land. I had chosen the stormy, freezing North Pacific over the warm waters of California because I believed in this land. I had placed my life in its hands. I had experienced the most wonderful care, concern, and help from everyone I had met. But now this country might possibly hand me back! To certain death! I had never expected that. The sheer possibility of it haunted me.

   I was alone in my strange cell. I couldn't speak with others. I felt cruelly betrayed and hurt. I tried to forget my troubles. My guard became a good friend. At times he would take me out of my cell and into the exercise yard. We would throw a ball back and forth to relax.

   I had few physical problems still, not being fully recovered, but they were nothing compared with the pains that tormented my spirit. I had to talk to someone. In my despair I wanted to pray to God. I got down on my knees as I had seen the Believers do. I thought that might help. But I knew no prayers. I was embarrassed; I felt awkward and ashamed. But my heart was so full of problems I began talking to God. It was all I knew to do. I don't know if He heard. I only know that for a little time I felt better.

   My court-appointed attorney was a friendly man and a capable attorney who did his best to help me. He took my case with great interest and worked hard on my behalf, which I shall always appreciate. I asked him why I might be sent back. He told me that Canada was involved in a very large trade arrangement with Russia and was selling Russia millions of dollars' worth of wheat, and had to have friendly relations with Russia. The Russian officials had made it clear they wanted me back very much. He explained how my staying here could harm Russian-Canadian relations. On top of that, Kosygin was coming to Canada the next month, and the Canadian government didn't want to offend him.

   Alone in my cell, I thought, I'm finished now, if I'm handed back.

   I had tried and had succeeded through great hardships to find a new home, only to face the danger of being returned. Again that night, in despair, I tried to talk to God. Finally I drifted off in an uneasy sleep.

   The next few days were ones of fear and uncertainty for me. Every approaching footstep down the corridor of the jail could be the guards coming to hand me over. Russian ships were in the harbor of Vancouver. It would be so simple to hand me over in a matter of minutes. My mind was tormented and fearful. Once I was in Russian hands, the fate of Kudirka, who was beaten and kicked when he was handed back, would seem merciful compared to mine. During these lonely, fearful days and nights I talked often to God, on my knees.

   One night I couldn't sleep for worry. I switched off the lights at 2 A.M. and lay awake in the darkened cell. Around half-past two I suddenly heard men's voices coming from down the corridor, followed by approaching footsteps. They stopped outside my cell. This is it.

   The keys rattled and the cell door light flashed on, and several men in plainclothes stood there. "Come with us," one of them said. "Get all your things. We're going to take you on a little sight-seeing trip of the city."

   A sight-seeing trip at zero-dark-thirty in the morning? No, I realized something strange was under way. They hurried me out the back entrance of the jail, into a waiting, unmarked police car. Three officers in plainclothes were in the car. The driver took off into the darkness. Even at 2:30 A.M. the street lights were on and I could see how big and beautiful Vancouver really was. It was the first big city in the free world I had seen. We drove through the streets of Vancouver, then began to go through back alleys and down tiny side streets at a fast rate of speed. The driver would swing the car around suddenly and reverse his direction, heading down unlit back alleys, along winding roads, cutting off sharply onto side streets, with his tires screeching from the abrupt turns.

   This "tour" of the city continued for almost two hours. Finally at about half-past four the driver stopped and went into an all-night coffee shop, made a call, and came out. He said, "Okay, it's all set. Let's go." We started off again. We headed for the Vancouver airport and drove onto a runway, up to a large airplane waiting there. We went aboard. There were only a few people in the entire airliner, including the officers accompanying me.

   We flew across Canada into the dawning new day and landed in Montreal. I was quickly whisked into an unmarked police car and placed between two police officers. I was then driven to Quebec City. There I was taken to a jail on an island in the middle of the Saint Lawrence River, and was kept in custody in a locked cell. I didn't know then that in a few days the Soviet liner Alexander Pushkin was due to sail up the Saint Lawrence and dock only a few hundred yards from where I was being held.

   In my mind, my being secretly taken out of Vancouver and flown here was apparently set up carefully to prepare for my hand-over to the Russian liner in a few days. My case had received a lot of publicity in British Columbia, and many people had befriended me and taken an interest. For this reason I thought I was to be handed over far from where I was known, the other side of Canada. To me there were only two reasons for the great secrecy, the midnight Vancouver ride, and the special jet flight across Canada: to protect me from unknown enemies or, far more likely, to hand me over to the Russians quietly, without attention. There was little doubt in my mind at the time that the latter was true.

   But back in western Canada, some of my new friends were working to help me. Someone who has never been identified made a call to Pat Burns, who has a popular radio-interview show in Vancouver, and informed him that I had been secretly taken out of Vancouver the night before. Mr Burns had told my story over the radio and had taken an interest in my case. Fearing I might be handed back at any moment, he acted immediately. While broadcasting live on the air, he telephoned Ottawa to speak to a member of Parliament who represented Vancouver.

[Soldier4Christ]

   Mr. Burns told him what had happened. The member of Parliament then went back onto the floor and demanded to know of the prime minister, Mr. Pierre Trudeau, if the Canadian government was planning to give me back to the Russians. Mr. Winch demanded a public answer from the prime minister. Members of the press were present and reported the incident.

   With my plight now public knowledge, the authorities couldn't give me back and my danger was past. I never did learn how much danger I actually was in or whether or not I would have been handed back. But, to me at least, the danger had seemed very real.

   Meanwhile I paced my cell, nervous, praying, and waiting. I didn't know that my awkward prayers to a God whom I wasn't even sure heard me had been heard.

   When I finally was told, "You are allowed to stay in Canada," I realized I was the freest man in the world, even though I was still in jail. And I didn't forget to pray and thank God that He had answered my prayers, as bad as I had been in life to Him and His children.

   I stayed in jails in Canada for several more weeks while my papers were being processed and my story was being investigated, but now that I knew I would not be handed back, it was wonderful. I played the guitar. I sang. I made up songs. I received letters from people across Canada who had read my story. I had friends who came to see me. And I was very grateful to the Canadian government for the outcome. I will always appreciate their kindness.

   Others also came to see me, less welcome. One day the second secretary from the Russian embassy came to see me. He spoke with me in the presence of Canadian authorities, telling me, "We know you are young and made a mistake. If you will just come back, we will forgive you and forget all. We will give you your same position back again, and everything will be the same."

   I said I could never do so. He then handed me a letter from my former girl friend, Olga, back in Russia, who pleaded with me to return to her, saying that all would be forgiven — almost word for word what the embassy official had said.

   When I again said no, the Russian official said, "Kourdakov, some day you will come to us begging to be allowed to return."

   Shortly afterward, my immigration papers were processed and I was told I was a free man, free to leave jail and start a new life in Canada. During my weeks in jail, someone from a government office came to me and said something to this effect: "Kourdakov, we have checked your story very carefully from start to finish. We have put all the factors into a computer specially programmed to make an analysis. We have put the water temperature, the direction and strength of the wind, the severity of the storm, the distance from the ship to shore, the extra distance you swam in a circle, the height of the waves — even your physical strength. Our scientists have tested all this on the computers, and the computer analysis is that your swim and survival were impossible. This is the conclusion of our computer. Is there anything, anything at all, that you have failed to tell us about that night?"

   I thought for a moment and said, "The only thing I left out is that I prayed to God very much."

   He left, then came back a few days later. "Sergei," he said, "you'll be interested to know that when all factors were again fed into the computer, including your prayer to God, the computer reported that your swim and survival were possible. We believe your story." I was amazed. How could a computer know the difference God could make?

   Later it was explained to me that my prayer to God was considered a "psychological strength," and strong psychological strength and willpower were the extra motivating factors that made my survival possible. Of course, I knew it was the divine power of God helping me that night.

   I left the Quebec jail as a free man and went to a small hotel to get a room. While I was there, and even before, many wonderful people contacted me to offer help, a job, or a place to live. But I received one job offer I didn't expect. A swimming competition promoter from Ontario wrote me that he was sponsoring a great summer swim contest the next year, and since I was now famous across Canada for my swim in the ocean, he would give me $150 if I would appear at his swim show and swim twenty-five miles. "Everybody knows you as a great swimmer," he said. "They'll come from everywhere to see you swim. We can make a good business together."

   Well, I am a good swimmer, but I told him it was God who helped me swim for so long in the ocean and I could not accept his offer.

   I now had two great concerns in my life. My first concern was to keep my promise to God to serve Him. The second was to get a job and settle in Canada, to be the man I wanted to be. The second, I knew would be far easier than the first.

   My first order of business was to find God. But how? Where? I knew virtually nothing of God, and I knew no ministers to talk to about Him. But I had seen a large church in the center of Quebec, Saint Ann's Catholic Church, and I decided to go there. If this is a church, I can find God here.

   I went inside, not knowing what to do. Some people came in and I decided to do as I saw them do. They went up front and knelt. I did the same. I watched them carefully to learn what to do next. They began to pray, and I did the same, but not knowing what to say, I felt awkward and unworthy to be in this house of God. I had beaten and killed Believers. I had broken up more than 150 secret meetings in Russia. I had burned Bibles. I had injured old women and many Believers. I was unworthy to be in God's house. But I felt a calm sense come over me and I talked to God, as I had done in the ocean and in the jails.

   My heart was so painful, like a man who is looking for bread but cannot find it. I knew I was close to God in the beautiful church, but I wanted to be closer. I felt a beauty, a peace, a lifted burden. I wanted more of this. If this is what God gives, I wanted it very much. After three hours of prayer, I felt as if I have been helped, but my heart was searching for something even more, something like what the Believers in the secret churches had. I wanted what Natasha had.

   I left the church and went back to my small room. There I had a message that someone wanted to talk to me about a job. I was to come to a certain address and be interviewed. Two young Bulgarian men, who had escaped to Canada several months earlier, were helping me as interpreters and showing me around. I left a note for them, saying where I was going, then went to the address written on the message for me. Several people were waiting for me there. But they didn't want to talk about a job. They were members of the FLQ, the French separatist terror organization in Quebec which had bombed and killed diplomats in their struggle to break away from Canada. They had strong Communist support and ties. I looked about and immediately saw it wasn't a job interview. It was a trap.

   "Kourdakov," they warned, "if you raise your voice one time and say things you shouldn't, you will be silenced."

   I tried to talk to them to stall for time and find a way to get out. Then my two Bulgarian friends arrived. They had found the note and rushed over. I left immediately with them, with the warnings ringing in my ears. I now realized, even here, as a free man, I would still not be left alone. Moscow still was reaching out to me.

[Soldier4Christ]

  I was followed in Quebec by a man from the Russian embassy who dogged my footsteps everywhere I went. The Mounted Police warned me that a Soviet ship was docked at Montreal and to be careful. "Call us if you are threatened," they said.

   With the danger of the FLQ and the Communists so strong in Quebec, I made plans to leave and go to Toronto. There was a Russian consul in Montreal and the Russian embassy was in Ottawa, and I wanted to be far from them. I arrived in Toronto and stayed with a Russian family who had read my story and offered me a place to live.

   The Canadian government paid my tuition to study English at a university, and I busied myself learning the new language.

   But always on my mind was my need for God. I felt a spiritual hunger which was hard to explain. I felt I would not be a complete man until my spiritual needs were met. It was not just a sense of remorse for the beating and killing of Believers. I know God had forgiven me for that; I had done it in ignorance. What I felt now was a genuine, deep spiritual need in my life. I knew I could never be a really free man until my spirit became as free as I was free physically.

   I remembered hearing one of the Believers say, while being questioned, that the Believers often fasted when they were praying for something they wanted very badly. I thought maybe that's what I should do.

   I went to a Toronto church which I had attended with a family who had befriended me. The church was always open for prayer.

   There was no one present, so I went to the front and began to pray. I stayed there for two days, only drinking water. I didn't know what words to say, but my heart was praying for me. My heart could express what I felt. After two days, during which time I slept only three hours each night, from 3 A.M. to 6 A.M., I left the church and went back to school.

   I felt spiritually stronger, but still there was something I lacked. I had received a card from Valentine Bubovich, a Russian girl who was a librarian at a university near Toronto. She told me she was a Christian. I had her address and wrote her. She invited me to go to church, and I gladly did so.

   When I walked into the church, I sensed something familiar. I exclaimed, "This is like in Russia!" thinking of the songs, the spirit, the fellowship which was in the Russian secret churches. Valentine's father gave me the Book of Psalms which helped me very much.

   I started to go to the Ukrainian churches in Toronto and found a wonderful spirit there — especially among the young people. I met a pastor who had heard about me, and we talked. I told him how my heart was still empty and that though I was now free physically, I did not feel complete. I explained about the feeling inside me to want to believe in and serve God. He said, "I understand." He answered many questions for me, taught me Bible truths, and showed me the way to God. For this I shall always be grateful.

   One day during a church service, he said, "Sergei, are you now ready to give your life to God fully and completely?"

   "Yes," I replied.

   "Let's pray," he said.

   As we prayed, something happened in my life — something definite, concrete, and positive. I felt the change. I felt the peace of God inside me. I felt my long, long search and yearning was over. I surrendered my life to Jesus Christ, and He began living inside me. I was born anew that wonderful day, and finally the restlessness, the emptiness, the harshness, and the void in my life was filled by Jesus Christ. How wonderful I felt! To know that now I, too, was a Believer, right alongside Natasha, Pastor Litovchenko, and the other Believers I had persecuted! Now I was one of them!

   The pastor counseled me often, so I would grow as a Christian. One day he said to me, "Sergei, you are a Christian and you need your own Bible in your own language." And he handed me a small, black, Russian Bible.

   It was as if a thunderbolt had struck me! I couldn't believe my eyes. The pastor saw my shock and asked, "What's wrong? What is it?"

   "This Bible," I exclaimed. "I have seen one just like it before."

   "Where?"

   "This is the same kind of Bible I saw in some of the underground churches in Russia!"

   I opened it, looked through it. Yes, it was. It was the same Bible.

   "That's very possible," the pastor said. "It's one of the Bibles printed and sent into Russia by the organization called Underground Evangelism."

   "Where are they?" I asked. "I want to thank them and tell them their Bibles are getting through."

[Soldier4Christ]

   I learned the address of Underground Evangelism and had a friend call their phone number. I spoke to the president, L. Joe Bass, and he said he would like to speak to me and would be in Toronto soon on his way to Europe. When Mr. Bass came, we met and spoke for many hours. I learned of the work this organization is doing to help the persecuted Believers of Russia and other Communist lands, and thanked him on behalf of the Russian people.

   My English course was ending and I would soon be ready to take a job. I had a good offer to work in an electronics firm as a radio engineer and I saw many good things ahead in my life. I could make a good salary with the company, buy a car, later get married, raise a family, and have our own home. It was very appealing to me.

   But as I thought all those happy thoughts, I could not forget my experiences in Russia. I could not forget the thousands of Believers there who were still being beaten for their faith. I could not forget the youth who had taken my place on the attack squad. I could not forget the Bibles still being burned and the churches still meeting in secret. I could not forget the millions of Russian young people, like me, misled, disillusioned, drifting, looking for the truth. I had to do what I could to help them. I began to speak in churches and on television telling what my conversion to Christ meant to me and asking prayer for my people, making many public appearances and telling of the religious persecution in Russia.

   Then one day I came out of the Dundas West subway station in Toronto and walked toward my rooming house. Feeling I was being followed, I stopped and turned around abruptly. There stood three powerfully built men. One of them spoke in perfect Russian, saying, "If you know what is good for you, Kourdakov, you will keep silent and say nothing more. If you open your mouth, you will have a 'final accident.' Remember, you have been warned."

   They turned and were soon gone, and I walked on to my room, thinking about what they had said.

   I know the Soviet police, for I was one of them and saw how they worked. This was not an idle threat. I knew I must consider my responsibility to my people, especially those persecuted for their faith. If I kept silent, who would speak for them? Who would know of their suffering? I decided that since I took their lives, I owed them a debt. I decided not to tell the authorities of the threat. After all, it was my decision to speak out, and I had to take responsibility for it.

   Of course I wanted a home, a family, and a normal, settled homelife, something I never had in all my life. But before I could look to my own interests, I must remember those whom I left behind. I must tell their story and help them. I must show people, especially young people, by my own example, that there is a God and He can change even the worst life, as He has mine.

   The soul of the great Russian people is not dead. It has not suffocated under an alien, godless, sterile ideology. It will not, so long as there are men like Alexander Solzhenitsyn, women like Natasha Zhdanova, and millions of others like them in whom the spark of faith and decency has not died out. Indeed, in thousands of secret churches and in millions of lives across Russia today, that flicker of faith glows brightly, the commitment to biblical principles grows stronger, strengthened by the brutal ordeal of suffering. And one day those millions of flickering candles of faith and decency may burst forth and merge into one gigantic flame of faith.

   And I have in my heart a message I want to pass to those Believers in Russia who have helped so much to change my life. I put this message in this book, hoping that in some way at some time, it can reach them and they will understand.

   To Mrs. Litovchenko, the paralyzed wife of the pastor whom we killed that Sunday afternoon along the Elizovo River: I wish to tell you that I am sorry, more than you can ever know.

   To Nina Rudenko, the beautiful little teen-age girl whose life was ruined by my attack group, I ask, please forgive us.

   And, finally, to Natasha, whom I beat terribly and who was willing to be beaten a third time for her faith, I want to say, Natasha, largely because of you, my life is now changed and I am a fellow Believer in Christ with you. I have a new life before me. God has forgiven me; I hope you can also.

   Thank you, Natasha, wherever you are. I will never, ever forget you!   

[Soldier4Christ]

Publisher's Note

   Shortly after the draft of this book was complete, Sergei died.

   He had devoted what he called his "new life" to awakening Christians of North America to the plight of the Russian Christians, and appealing for Bibles and help on their behalf.

   Between January and April 1972, he spoke in many churches in Canada.

   On May 1 of that year, he joined Underground Evangelism, an organization which provides Bibles and assistance to the Persecuted Church throughout the Communist world.

   He spoke in churches, on television, gave newspaper interviews, and spoke before government officials, telling the story of Communist persecution and the inner workings of his former comrades of the Soviet police.

   He undertook Bible studies, worked on this book, and announced that he was especially looking forward to speaking to the youth of Russia by radio broadcasts. These were in the process of being arranged at the time of his death.

   Though Sergei had warned that if anything happened to him it "would have all the appearances of an accident," he was optimistic, outgoing, and forward-looking.

   He made many new friends wherever he went. Among them was a Christian family in Los Angeles, California, for whom he became an "adopted son" and with whom he was living while there.

   Several times he remarked that he felt his life might be in danger, and he borrowed a gun from the father of the family for self-protection. He took the gun with him when, accompanied by the daughter of the family, he visited a ski resort area close to Los Angeles.

   On January 1, 1973, he died instantly from a shot from this gun. Though news of his death was first carried internationally as a suicide, this possibility was soon ruled out.

   An inquest was held and on March 1, 1973, his death was ruled to be an accident.

   On that very day, Sergei would have been twenty-two.