Pavel Adelgejm

Pskov

Year of birth: 1938

Interviewed by Nastya Mikshevich, Liuba Ploshednova, Anya Mihailusova, Nadezhda Egorovna

4th February, 2007

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Tell us about your parents please.

Well: my grandfather... I think I should start from there. My grandfather was German, he lived I don't know when – either during Ekaterina the Great's reign or in Peter the Great's, but he came to live in Russia. His roots can be traced back to the Baltics... 3 books exist about his surname. Even Walter Scott, in Ivanhoe, and – what was it called – 'The Lazy Cavalier'. There were obviously roots in different countries – you can find them in France too. The names are slightly changed, they would have been...

Well, anyway, my grandfather lived in Russia, and he was educated abroad as an engineer. A good education, evidently, because he built a whole lot of factories not far from Kiev. There was a china factory, and in Glukhovtsi a sugar factory and one where icons were made. There were lots of them. Then when the Revolution happened – he stayed on as Director of the factory for another 10 years after 1917. In 1927 – 1928 he was asked to set up the same factory in Vilnius, and he did that – as chief engineer in both places, and then later on as the Director of both factories.

Then in 1938, he decided to visit his family, because they had stayed behind in Kiev, on Rejtarskij St. They were living in very squashed conditions: there were only 2 rooms left from the original house. In one of the rooms lived a housemaid and her daughter, and in the other our grandmother lived. When he came back, the housemaid informed on him,and they took him away, and then after 2 months, after Epiphany, they gave a service for him. They'd delivered a package for him, you see, and they just returned his things and said he had died. So that was the fate of one of my grandfathers – he died. My grandmother, after that, and when the war started, she decided to leave the country. Of course she wasn't able to go anywhere at all. She fell very ill and ended up in a small shack, and in the yard by that shack she passed away.

That was on my father's side, and then on my mother's side my grandfather was Nikanor Pilaev. He studied at the military academy and was a colonel in the Tsar's army, but his fate ended after the Revolution. And my grandmother lived in Moscow.

So now about my father: all children of the repressed were taken up by strangers and given into slavery. They had no right to study in higher educational institutions, and they were deprived of lots of other civil rights as well. But he was a very talented person, he was a poet – he wrote lots of poetry. But his life was cut short at an early age: he wasn't even 30.

I remember I went to a meeting – a round table – at the history department, and I looked out all the old documents. I prepared photographs, and then when I went home again, I put everything back where it should be (he shows some photographs). My father wasn't able to study further, although he wanted to be an engineer as well, like his father. They refused him – they refused him at the entrance exam. The only place he was able to study was at the Studio Simonova, at the Vakhtang Theatre. He qualified at the theatrical institute, and that was where he met my mother. They got married there. Then they left for the town of Ivanovo, and he became Director of the regional theatre company.

In Ivanovo, when the war started, they arrested them – 15 of them were arrested, accused of espionage and treason. Out of the 15, 5 were shot. Then after some years, when things started to come apart, it turned out that except for the statements that they had made themselves, there was no basis at all for the accusations. Only what they had blurted out themselves – and they said what they did for perfectly understandable reasons. The first time they were questioned, they answered normally. But then from the second time onwards, they started to cover themselves with whatever they could think of, put up smoke screens. Then when the whole thing unwound – particularly because all the documents of the German secret service were revealed – and my mother was sent to prison, and I was left alone. I was just 2 1/2 by then. I ended up in a children's home, then we were exiled to Kazakhstan. We lived there until 1953, until Stalin died – there were enormous numbers of people settled there, huge numbers of de-kulakised people. My mother was released later on.

My wife had a completely different fate. Quite opposite. Her grandfather fought at the front, and strange though it may seem, he got through the whole war and returned home without even a wound. But his 3 sons died at the front.

Can you tell us anything about the 1930s and 1940s?

I was only born in 1938, so I can't tell you anything about that. But about the 1940s...-

When you were in the children's home, did you keep your name and surname?

Of course.

How did people treat you there?

There were lots of children like that. Then I entered the Kiev-Pechersky Monastery – I was a lay-brother there. After that I went into the seminary, studied there for 3 years, and then they didn't exactly ban me, but asked me to leave. Then I went off to Tashkent, worked there and built a cathedral – although at that time it was forbidden. I was imprisoned for anti-soviet activities. One of my classmates from the Seminary wrote an official complaint about me to the Committee for State Security, saying that I had refused to sing the Soviet national anthem. The fact is that at that time, that anthem was forbidden: it wasn't just at the seminary that people didn't sing it, but even in the politburo. We were meant to study all members of the Party, know everything about them and in every detail. I was sent to prison in 1969. I spent a year in an underground cell, then I was sent off to a prison camp. I was in 4 different camps...

Then later on, they started to rehabilitate people: they rehabilitated my grandfather, my father, mother, and then they overturned my conviction, according to the criteria for rehabilitation. Now they need to rehabilitate my son, as the child of someone who was repressed.

Children of the repressed – that's a terrible thing, because it can even be felt in school, in the way people behaved. I was completely indifferent to Soviet power: I didn't share its outlook and felt no love towards it at all. In general, you should never love the state, you can only love the fatherland. Soviet ideology always connected those two concepts, but in fact it had in mind the state. We were under the impression that we should love the state. Soviet power treated us as enemies – not because of something we had done, but because according to its own psychology, if someone's parents had been murdered, their family destroyed, then that person would be bitter, angry, full of malice. But this is where they were mistaken: we bore no malice, because we were Christians. For Christians, revenge is a sin. We had a peaceful attitude towards the state, a human relationship towards it.

What did you know about de-kulakisation and about collectivisation?

The thing is – I not only knew about it, but I saw and heard those people. My wife could tell you more about de-kulakisation than I can. Her family was not a rich one. They had 3 horses, some land, and grandfather built the house with his own hands. It was a large family. The village was a small one, with a population of 15,000. They wanted grandfather to join the kolkhoz but he refused, categorically. And he said categorically, that no-one from his family was going anywhere.

They took the ropes away – they wove these themselves. They took the horses, the plough... They took everything, and left them with nothing. Then during Khruschev's time – in general, strange things happened at that time. They took the plough and ploughed the land around the house. They couldn't have even one small seed-bed: they had to go and work in the kolkhoz. In front of every house there were large areas of land which couldn't be used. The land stood empty for many, many years. That's what an interesting government we had. You could respect it, or you could laugh at it. In fact, at the time, we used to joke that that was the only form of our relation with the authorities.

Can you tell us about religion?

That's a question it's hard to answer briefly. Beginning with Lenin – all the documents have been made available by now – the authorities in charge of the country made it their aim to eliminate the church completely. But despite the fearful, iron will of the state, it was still unable to deal with religion. In other words: history repeated itself. The Roman state had tried to eliminate Christianity – there were thousands of martyrs. They died, but their blood turned out to be the seeds of Christianity, and that iron state cracked, it became a Christian one. Then exactly the same happened with the Soviet state. It seemed that everything had been reduced to nothing: in Russia there were 80,000 cathedrals, and only 150 remained by the beginning of the war. The five-year period which was to end with the start of the war was even called the 'Godless Five-Year Plan'. By 1941, the church should have been uprooted in its entirety, but instead – the war began. Stalin turned to the country and said 'Brothers and Sisters...' In other words, he spoke for the first time in the language of Christianity. He was very alarmed in the month of October, very scared. In that manner, when the war ended, the church began to be revived.

But there was terrible legislation concerning the Church. There was a revival of spirituality, of the clergy, but among them more than 300,000 were eliminated for 'insubordination'. From every generation of priests, I think they all went to the prison camps.

After the Great Fatherland War, a completely different era began (1947 – 1949). Stalin began to rely for help on the Orthodox Church, he tried to build relations with it. Until the death of Stalin, relations between the Church and State were quite tolerable. But from 1953, very many people had to turn away from religion, from being Christened. This would begin and end very suddenly, because different people would come to power with a different set of aims objectives. So it's hard to explain it all in the same way. But in general, they were all inclined towards atheism. Of course, there wouldn't have been any fuss about Christians if they could have worshiped idols or emperors, but Christians will worship only God. In Brezhnev and Khrushchev's time the situation with the Church was very difficult. And when Gorbachev started talking about some sort of rights and freedoms, this sounded very strange to me – completely unbelievable. Then the 'thaw' began (this was about 1988) and continued until 1992. Then again we began to feel the pressure.

And now this apparent flourishing of the church, all this building of cathedrals is quite unnecessary. There are some places where there is no church at all, where people have been starved of the church's words, of christianity. In Pskov, though, we have a different situation: we have 30,000 churches for 700,000 people. This is the only Russian town with such an enormous number of churches – not Moscow, not Saint Petersburg, but right here in Pskov!

Can you tell us whether people at that time were able to change their place of residence, or of work?

Not everyone. Many people didn't want to get a passport, and it turned out that the passport is the only way to live a normal life. The entire rural population was without passports. In the cities people could move from one town to another, and there was no problem with that. Well – in Moscow you needed a propiska, and in Saint Petersburg, but for the other towns, you could move between them freely. But of course – times were different, and there were different epochs. As far as the villages were concerned, everyone there was tied, bonded. Take my life, for example: when I met my future wife, it took us 3 days to register our marriage, and just because they wouldn't give her a passport straight away. They just delayed it, just for a while. Then later on she joined the Komsomol, so that she could leave the village on one of their permits. Boys could get passports after they had served in the army, and girls by joining the Komsomol. People from the villages began to try desperately to leave – for anywhere they could – just in order to escape. Later on it became unbelievably difficult.

But the thing is that I was very young then – I don't really remember. Then during Khrushchev's time I was a priest and I lived a life of religion. If you compare the state of the Church then and now, then I would say it was better in Khrushchev's time. The unfortunate times joined us together. I could go to the Bishop and tell him everything that was worrying me, and he would listen to me with his full attention. But now there is none of that: he lives in a world where there are no moral demands, and is wholly unconcerned with theological matters. In religious life today there is commerce, there is politics. Religious life, unfortunately, has lost a great deal. On the outside, the churches are decorated, painted; but on the inside we are losing our spiritual life.Before, when I was a priest in Karagand, religious services were forbidden, and we all used to gather in some house or another at around 10.00, and we would pray until 5.00 in the morning. All together. In Tashkent, the same thing happened: there was an intense spiritual life in the cathedral.

When did you decide you wanted to be a Priest?

I just happened on a wonderful church community, and I used to travel there regularly. There was a wonderful Father there – he was renowned. So there was – I mean it was forbidden to give religious services, forbidden to preach, but we used to meet in different houses every evening. Somewhere around 10.00 the service would begin, and around 5.00 it ended.

He wasn't very old – about 58, I think. He would read the service all night. At 5.00 in the morning it would end, and we would drink cups of tea, then obviously we all went to sleep – and he would go on to another house. And I remember one little house...

Where else did you serve as a priest?

I was in Koroleva. I had my own parish - unofficial, of course - and officially I served in Pskov... There wasn't a church, there was a small benefice, a community of about 25 people.

Can you tell us what you think when you compare life in those days with today?

You know – there used to be a joke about new times – 'We live like dogs: the chain is longer than it was, but everyone steals from everyone else, and it isn't clear who to bark at'. Of course – today we

live in a mad bazaar, and soon life will be terrifying. In those days there was order, but no-one had the right to express his opinion. Everyone was well-fed, clothed and shoes on their feet. But everyone looks at it in a different way. In our day, we needed books – and they didn't just sit on the shelves, we read them, and read them, all night long. Literature was rare: we had to snap it up, and people were ready to give whatever was needed to get it. My wife typed out whole books of Akhmatova, Tsvetaeva, Ivanov, Lewis – everything that was forbidden.

Thank you – you have answered all our questions!

My pleasure.

Velikie Luki

It's the 12th October, 6.10, and we are at the home of Evdokia Zaharovna

What shall I start with?

Tell us about your family, your parents and grandparents

I was born in a village. My parents – father was in the army. He was a communist in 1917. ?here.

What was his name?

Zahar Dmitrievich. I was brought up with my grandmother and grandfather. There was my great grandmother too, she was over 100. A very large family. My father worked all the time.

Where did he work?

He was at the front, then he became a communist, there at the front. He was awarded a silver cross for the first Civil War. He got a medal. Then I lived in the village, till about the 4th class. I lived there all the time.

Which region?

Ryazan, Barsuka village. I went to school in the first class. Our village was very small and the school was 20 kilometres away. There were 30 houses and very few children. There was a landowner – he lived separately. We lived in a wooden house, and the teacher was cruel, very cruel. One little boy hadn't done his homework and she hit him on the head with a ruler. Hit him so that the blood flowed. That's what she was like. I studied there for 7 years, and then the revolution ended – there was a revolution, you know. I remember it well, we used to go around at school, as little girls: 'Down with the Tsar! Down with the Tsar!' Everyone did that.

Which year did you start school?

What? In the eighth class.

When you were eight?

Yes, 8 years old. I went to school... I passed my exams, and then I left school. We used to be very active as komsomol members, we did lots of sport. And we did dancing. They knocked the church down, smashed it... We did lots of sport... lots of sport... and of course, young people used to organise meetings. Then my father was transferred to ... to that town – it's called Spas now. So I went to school till the 8th class, finished school, and went straight off to college in Ryazan, to the teacher training college. I wanted to go to medical college, but father wouldn't let me. But at medical college I was also in the komsomol, I was one of the ones in charge. And then the theatre – I had a good voice, I sang well, I even did things there.

Performances?

Group performances. But then when I finished college, I was sent off – they sent me off – or rather, I didn't finish college. I was in the 4th year and then [the war?] started. There weren't enough teachers, and there was great demand. I didn't finish college, but there were 4 komsomol members from the college and on the 30th January they released us from studies and sent us off to different villages.

Which year was that?

I don't remember... they sent me off and others to other villages. But I got a good one. There were workers there and a sovhoz (state farm). In the day time I worked at school, and in the evenings I worked with illiterate people. I had a difficult group, and I should have had a second one as well. We all had to have 2 groups because we had to finish our studies – we hadn't finished.

Three teachers left before I got there, and I was the only one to arrive. To start with they would fight, fight with each other, and I would sit there, silently. Then I say to them – 'OK lads, that's it, that's enough fighting'. They were silent, they didn't say anything. 'Ah well... alright, I understand: you don't want to study, don't want to learn. That's fine, so I'm off now lads, good bye, I'm off'. They say – 'No, no, don't think that – we won't fight any more'. 'Well', I say, 'don't just give me your word for it, give me your word as pioneers'. So they gave me their word as pioneers, and then I started to work with them seriously. In the breaks they did a lot of sport, and they changed completely. Became quite different lads.

You taught grammar and sport?

We did sport at the weekends, and in breaks. I would let them out for break, they took a rest, and I did some sport with them – we really liked that. And you know what – they used to do pyramids. Lots of that. So I worked for a year there, then they called me up and asked me to work as an inspector.

Yes – that was good. They sent me to Moscow, and I studied for another month there. But when I worked in the villages, that was really awful. Collectivisation. I was a komsomol member and they sent me all over the place. Once they arrived and told me to go and get my things ready. It was evening already and I asked them 'Where to?'. They said 'You're coming with us', and I said 'I'm not going anywhere at all. I need to go to work tomorrow'. 'Yes you are – go and get your things'. So we drove and drove, and all along the road they were shooting at us.

Then afterwards I worked a lot in the organisation of the kolkhoz. That's what it was like. Then they always made sure I sat away from the window.

What – because of the shooting?

Yes – so that I stayed alive. Well – there were times when the women all met together. It was very difficult – they were shouting, fighting, the men were swearing. Lots of times we actually had to close the meeting. But once I managed to take control: I said 'Alright, let's all swear. I can swear too. I can swear, so let's swear together. But I'm not sure what good it will do: we won't build the kolkhoz on swear words'. Well, we talked a bit, and then we all split up. One of the other teachers says to me, 'Come and stay the night', so I say 'Alright, let's go'. The komsomol members were keeping watch all the time, so we went off to the school with her. And there were stones flying around my head, stones they were throwing at me, all over the place. So on the second day I sat down and I thought...

I thought: I need a plan. I need a plan for what I do tomorrow, because tomorrow we have to have another meeting. We hadn't made any decisions, hadn't decided anything. So I think: tomorrow I'm going to battle with them again. Again I'll have to swear with them.

So we voted for the chairmen and the secretaries of the party organisations. I say to them – 'Well come on then, let's do some swearing and get going'. But they all shouted and shouted and I say 'You're going to be shouting for a long time, shall we try to get something done? Come on, really, it'll be fun to work', I say to them. Well – at long last, an intelligent person came forward. And it wasn't a bad meeting.

The kolkhoz?

Yes – only gradually, of course, we had to make note of all the animals. So I went home, got in the door – and everything should have been alright only I didn't feel calm. You understand – I just didn't feel at ease.

And the school was built on a high level, very high, so that you couldn't have climbed up. And I can hear that someone is climbing up... they knock at the door, and I just turned, and there was a shot. If I'd been sitting down there, I wouldn't have been alive.

And there are children there, and I'm alive. And the children sent messages, rang around to say that I'd been killed, and a whole brigade was sent to find me – and saw me alive. That's how it all was.

And that was all in Ryazan oblast?

Ryazan. Then I left Ryazan and worked regularly not as a teacher but as – what's it called?

In the organisation?

As inspector. But I worked for schools all the time. I did everything, helped the young teachers, told them how to run lessons. And even the older ones too – I could give them a few tips. Some of them had been learning for 30 years. I was intimidated – I was only 30, I was even scared of teaching. I sat still and didn't go to work: I wasn't going to be an inspector, and that was that. Then they wanted to make me the Deputy Head of the regional education authority – but they didn't, of course. I didn't want to. And then there was wartime recruitment.

Of course, I'd just got married and my husband was serving in Leningrad in the army. Mama came to visit me and she said 'Come on, let's go', but they wouldn't let me go. 'You're not going! We've got no-one to work, there's lots to do'. And they wouldn't let anyone go. I decided to go: I bought a ticket and left without any of my documents.

her daughter asks: Where did you go, Mama?

To Suzdal.... So I arrived and they sent me off straight away. I worked in the school there – they made me Director (head teacher). Then the war started.

My husband – he was sent away.

The Great Fatherland War [2nd World War]?

Yes. My husband... he was sent away, he should have finished in the army, but they kept him – and he took me with him. So I worked in Leningrad, in a school, early years. Then I fell ill... No – then they took me into the regional section of the Party, and I worked there. I was in charge of documents: I wrote out tickets and checked everything over. But then I had a terrible misfortune. My little girl died, then a second one died, and I became very ill. The doctors – local neurologists – said they couldn't cure me. They sent me to the Behterev Institute, where there was a department of psychiatry, and I stayed there for 2 years. I was in such a state that my head was quite messed up. They wanted to open up my skull, but I wouldn't let them. I'd rather die... 'Keep away from me.. I won't let you'. Anyway, they cured me there – cured me with everything under the sun. I was a mass of injections, all sorts of different medical machines, tablets...

and? Did it help?

(inaudible) Then they sent me off for a rest cure, to Gelendzhik. I stayed there for a while.

Did that cure you?

And then, in Leningrad... I went back there. Later on they sent my husband to the border, to Karelia... I've forgotten where it was.

Sestroretsk

No – the place in Karelia.

aha. Well it doesn't matter.

No – it's not important.

I arrived there – I hadn't been there for 2 whole years. They got us all together, all the women, and they said 'Come on, let's do some teaching. There are lots of illiterate women, and we haven't got any teachers. There isn't one. Maybe there's someone among you who's a teacher'. And I stuck my neck out and said 'I'm a teacher. I've got a degree'. They said to me 'Alright. So you're going to teach everyone'. I said I could only teach the illiterates 'I can't teach that lot'. Well, anyway, they found two more and we worked together. Then they wanted to choose me to be head of the kolhoz. I said nothing... I mean I don't know any Korean [sic?]. I said 'I can't do it'. And they said to me: 'You just show us what to do and we'll do it'. So I had to work.

Did you work as head of the kolhoz then?

I did, but I worked just for a short while, and then the war started. We went off into the forest one day for mushrooms – and there were so many of them. So, so many. So anyway, we went into the forest, and we're just walking along as if nothing is happening, and we got right to the Finnish border. We got to the border, and we were captured. Of course it wasn't the Finns that captured us, but our border guards. They shouted at us of course, and then took us...

Can you tell us – when you compare life in those days with life today, which was better? Do they differ in significant ways, and was it better then or now?

I lived well then, and I live well now. I live like a duchess now! It's good to be with someone, isn't that right? It's true – I don't work now, and that bothers me. I want to work, but I can't. I just sat down on the floor here, I felt terrible. I felt as if I was dying, everything was being taken from me. 'Well what on earth is this then! I won't lie down, not for anything in the world'. I'm alone alone in the flat and I shout out: 'I'm not going to die, not for all the money in the world! I'll get up off the floor, and I'll be fine, and you know – what am I dying for anyway? I've got two lovely grandsons and I need to watch how they are going to grow up.' So I got up, and I was perfectly alright.

Which times in your life were the best for you?

Oh – you know: I've lived through so much. Of course I've been very spoiled.

Which were the happiest years Mama? (her daughter asking)

Ah – the happiest?

Which years?

I'm alright. I worked all my life. For as long as I could, I worked.

Can you tell us about events connected with Stalin? Who did people blame? Those people who were arrested... people you knew, people in your circle, who did they blame?

Those who deserved it – them, of course. They should definitely be blamed. They lived among us, some of them used to come and see me. Communists used to come to me with false documents. But some of the others – well of course.

They ended up there by mistake, you mean?

Yes. But those that did it, they should be blamed.

Was Stalin blamed for the repression?

I don't remember.

Was Stalin blamed at that time for the repression?

I don't remember that. Some people said that it was wrong to blame Stalin, I heard that from some people. Someone asked me once, one of our communists in Suzdal asked me what I think about Stalin, and I said that he had never done anything to hurt me. And what he did, it must have been necessary – because. It must have been necessary, because you don't just take a person away for no reason.

Well... it's not certain

Not certain!

Lots of innocent people were arrested

No – you know what.

Perhaps it wasn't so much Stalin that was responsible

No, you know – what was he called... Beria was the one who was responsible. Beria. Beria – that was a real animal. I didn't like him. He just chased after the ladies.

Is that right?

Of course.

And what was people's reaction when Stalin died?

We all cried.

daughter speaks: I remember – I was at school then. The school was very small and we had a special wall in the hall, and they got us all together and announced a minute's silence – and everyone cried. Then in the street – the people flooded into the streets. There was a loud speaker, and everyone gathered and we all cried. It was a national holiday.

grandmother again: You know what I think. One person can't be responsible for all that. There was a whole department. Really.

Well, yes. And can you tell us – are you a religious person? Did you go to church?

Yes, I am, I used to go to church on anniversaries, then I stopped going.

The church was taken down, is that right?

No – I didn't do anything.

But you saw it?

Yes, I saw it – it was in front of the school. The children tore it down. And in Suzdal there were 34 churches. I don't know how they did that.

daughter: 33 churches, Mama.

33?

daughter: 33, and only one of them was functioning.

Grandmother: Well... they loaded everything up, put it all into one place.

And what happened with those who worked in the churches, priests?

Oh I don't know about that. I didn't hear anything. I left Suzdal.

What did the (Communist) Party mean for you at that time? Did you believe in Communism?

I believed, and I did everything I was meant to do. I was 50 years in the Party. I've got a medal for it.

What did your parents do?

My mother was Praskovya Mihailovna – she worked at home. Looked after the land we had.

And your father?

daughter: He was a member of parliament, isn't that right, Mama?

I don't know. She was at home all the time. She had 6 children.

And your father?

He was in the army. They took him away, and we never saw him. He met Stalin, he fought with him.

Really!

And he knew Lenin, and he knew Krupskaya.

And you?

Well – she came to visit us. And she was very simple, ordinary. I went up to her and I said 'Could I talk to you please?' and she said 'Come and see me tomorrow, and we shall talk'. Well I went to see her on the following day, but she had already gone, she'd left. They had told her to go, and she left. And then in Suzdal they used to call me Krupskaya! (laughs)

And you met Yesenin as well?

No – I didn't actually meet him. He courted my friend for a while, that's what happened. But I never met him.

Very interesting

Yes – my story is long. Wherever I've been, I have been happy. I remember they sent me from one village to a different one, I was working for the MVD (home office), and I had to find something out. And the river was flooded, very flooded... and I set off, I was very tired. I thought – if I cross it, I'll drown. You had to jump from one piece of ice to another. Well I did it in the end, I jumped, and I was alright. Then they told me later on – we'll take you across next time. But who I worked with, I can't remember.

Well of course, with your age.

No – it's my head... I don't remember anything.

And all your documents are lost? Have you got nothing left?

I have my Party membership card.

Can we photograph it? Do you remember what you received it for?

Of course you can. I don't remember... I went somewhere... I don't remember, honestly.