The Russian Century: A Hundred Years of Russian Lives

Vasilii Nikiforov-Volgin, Presanctified Gifts

Vasilii Nikiforov-Volgin was born in 1900. Originally from the Volga region, his family moved to Russia’s Baltic coast in search of a better life. When he started writing, Nikiforov used the pseudonym “Volgin” in honor of his original homeland. The son of a poor cobbler, he obtained his principal education in the Orthodox Church. His vignettes, two books of which were published during his lifetime, often dealt with the Soviet persecution of religion. After the USSR annexed the Baltic nations, Nikiforov-Volgin was arrested in May 1941 and executed six months later. Taken from Vasilii Nikiforov-Volgin, Zemlia imeninnitsa [The Earth’s Nameday]. Tallinn, n.d.

After a lengthy reading of the Hours and prayers on bent knee, the choir in the apse began to sing in a solemn, grieving tone:

In thy kingdom remember us, O Lord, When thou comest into thy kingdom.

The liturgy with the majestic and mysterious name of “Presanctified” began in a manner that was unusual. The altar and the amvon1 were in the bright light of the March sun. According to the calendar, spring was to set in tomorrow.

Joyfully, like a prayer I kept repeating the word, stretching it: spri-i-ing! I went up to the amvon, lowered my hands into the sun’s rays, bent my head to the side and watched the “sunspots” dance on my hands. I tried to catch them, but they wouldn’t give in. The sexton, who happened by, tapped me on the arm and said, “Quit playing.” I was taken aback, and began crossing myself.

After the reading of the first Exclamation the royal doors were opened. Everyone got on their knees with their heads bowed to the very ground. Into

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Vasilii Nikiforov-Volgin, Presanctified Gifts

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the noiseless silence stepped a priest carrying a lit taper and the censer. With the holy flame he made the sign of the cross over the bowed congregation and proclaimed: “Wisdom, O believers! The light of Christ illumineth all.” My friend Vit’ka [Vitalii] came up and whispered barely audibly: “Kol’ka [Nikolai] is going to sing now . . . listen, it will be terrific.”

Kol’ka lives in our court-yard. He’s only nine but he already sings in the choir. Everyone praises him, and we kids envy him but treat him with respect. Now three boys came on to the amvon, with Kol’ka among them. They’re all in sky-blue robes with gold crosses and remind us of the three adolescent martyrs stepping into the fiery furnace to suffer in the name of the Lord. It became very, very quiet in the church and only the silver censer trembled in the hand of the priest. The three boys sang in pure voices, fragile as crystal: “Let my prayer arise in thy sight as incense . . . Receive the voice of my prayer . . . Let the lifting up of my hands be an evening sacrifice.”

Kol’ka’s voice soars higher and higher like a bird and may drop at any moment, like a spring icicle, to shatter into minuscule crystals. I listen and think: “I ought to join the choir myself. They’ll put a dressy robe on me as well and have me sing . . . I’ll walk out into the center of the church and the priest will cense in my direction and everyone will look and say to themselves: ‘Way to go, Vasia! What a great kid!’” And father and mother will be glad that they have such a clever son.

They sing; the priest first censes the altar, then the table of oblation; the whole church in the smoke of the censer seems to be amidst the clouds.

Even Vit’ka, the foremost rowdy in our yard, has grown quiet. With mouth wide-open he is staring at the sky-blue boys, and his hair is lit by a ray of light.

“You have golden hair,” I tell him. He didn’t hear me right and said:

“Yes, my voice isn’t bad, but it’s a little husky, otherwise I’d be singing.” [In Russian the words for “voice” and “hair” are similar, “golos” and “vo-los.”] An old woman came up to us and said, “Quiet, you rowdies.”

During the [procession called the] Great Entrance, instead of the usual “Cherubic Hymn” the choir sang: “Now the powers of heaven with us invisibly do minister. For lo! The King of Glory entereth now. Behold the mystical sacrifice, all accomplished, is ushered in.”

Very, very quietly, in the most soundless silence, the priest carried the Sacred Gifts from the table of oblation to the altar table while everyone stood on bent knee with heads bowed, even the choir.

And when the Sacred Gifts had been brought over, the choir movingly sang: “Let us with faith and love draw near, that we may become partakers of life everlasting.”

The royal doors were then closed and the sanctuary curtain was drawn only half way which struck Vit’ka and myself as especially odd.

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Chapter Eight

Vit’ka whispered to me: “Go tell the sexton that the curtain isn’t drawn right.”

I obeyed Vit’ka and went up to the sexton who was removing candle-ends from candlesticks. “Uncle Maxim,” I said, “the curtain’s all wrong.”