A Total Letdown

;Calling it a town was a stretch; in reality, it was a village, entirely made up of the private housing sector. A Siberian village, at that. The main town-forming enterprise here was a maximum-security prison colony. Places like this are usually called "God-forsaken," but no.
It was precisely here that a Catholic priest from Germany named Father Dietmar had been sent to serve, and we—a film crew from the "Cana" film studio—had been dispatched to film the life of the parish for the Catholic Video Journal.
Deep in the Siberian wilderness, one was bound to unearth at least one interesting story, if not more. Such destinies, such faces.
Father Dietmar himself was quite a character: tall, thin as a rail, with an elongated oval face, thin lips, and blue eyes that were kind and defenseless, as is the case with all short-sighted people. A textbook "pure Aryan," thoroughbred, starkly contrasting with the locals—even though the area was teeming with local Germans, Poles, and Latgalians. But what else did we expect? Siberia is a concentration camp without borders; there is hardly a soul who wasn't exiled here at some point.
Only Dietmar had come here of his own free will, all the way from Munich.
;…Igor, the cameraman, is shooting a B-roll sequence: the priest emerges from a small church—more like a chapel—crosses the snow-covered yard, and locks the gate.
"The Batyushka looks exactly like a leftover Fritz," I murmur quietly under my breath.
Father Dietmar is wearing a long black cassock with a short puffer jacket thrown over it, making the hem of the cassock look like a skirt. On his head, however, is a very German-looking cap, militaristic, olive-drab, with a wide visor, a high crown, and earflaps tied under his sharp chin. Add to that those rimless glasses—it was impossible not to recall the Nazi retreat.
;Father Dietmar put us up in his wooden parish house. The outhouse was in the yard, and the stove was fueled with firewood. And how he relished all of this after European comfort, multiplied by Deutsch Ordnung! Yet, the priest remained undaunted.
Noticing a distinctive Medjugorje Rosary in my hands, Father Dietmar rejoices wildly, as if he has run into a fellow countrywoman.
"Where did you get that?"
"I went on a pilgrimage there this spring."
He is utterly ecstatic. As it turns out, Medjugorje is a deeply important place for the young German.
"I owe my conversion solely to Mary," Father Dietmar calls the Mother of God by her name, just as all pilgrims do after visiting Medjugorje.
He shared with Igor and me how, as an advanced programmer, he used to have a prestigious, high-paying job, but allegedly felt that something fundamental was missing from his life. In search of an answer to the meaning of life, he embarked on a pilgrimage to Herzegovina. He returned with a firm resolve to alter his life. And, lo and behold, he altered it…
"I am happy here," he says.
Judging by the sparkle in his blue eyes, he doesn't seem to be lying.
"Father Dietmar, who else among the parishioners has an interesting conversion story?"
Dietmar confidently recommends an elderly Catholic named Aleksandr Petrovich.
"Oh, his destiny is so remarkable! He was confined in a German concentration camp, survived the Soviet gulags, and fought on the front lines. He says he pulled through solely on account of his faith—the Mother of God saved him. He is quite old now, and his wife is very sick. The parish helps him constantly. I either send the youth to run errands to the shop or the women to sit with his sick wife while he is away from home. Sometimes we pitch in with groceries, or even money."
;The old man is short, frail, and sharp-eyed.
Igor and I decided to record his soundbite right inside the parish house so we wouldn't have to haul the equipment too far.
Our guest was seated, lit up, and Aleksandr Petrovich proceeded to thoroughly recount his heroic biography. Judging by how confidently and without a single hitch he spoke, it was clear that our veteran had polished this speech at more than one school assembly.
"…The occupiers lined us up in a row and interrogated us one by one. I began to pray aloud: 'Matka Boska, Cz;stochowska, save me'…"
"Are you Polish?" I decided to clarify.
"No, Ukrainian," he replied, and continued: "…And by some miracle, the Germans didn't shoot me; they let me go…"
As a result of wandering, devastation, and administrative chaos, Aleksandr Petrovich lost all his documents, so in the end, he was arrested by his own people.
That was how he landed in a Soviet camp. Prison wasn't easy for him either—for instance, some hardened criminals almost wagered him away in a card game. But here, too, prayer saved him.
And later, Aleksandr Petrovich was sent to the front lines as part of a penal battalion...
Father Dietmar listened with his mouth open to this narrative of a war in which his own ancestors had participated on the opposing side.
"My tape is about to run out," Igor warned.
"There's a museum nearby; my tin mug from the war is kept there, along with a mess kit pierced by a bullet, and there's a book about me on display," Aleksandr Petrovich said. "If you like, we can go there."
You bet we did. For the segment, it was exactly what we needed.
;The museum was open but empty of visitors. The staff kindly escorted us to the hall dedicated to the Great Patriotic War and even allowed us to retrieve the artifacts from the display case.
"Stand right here, turn the mess kit this way," Igor commanded. "Alright, got it."
"Aleksandr Petrovich, would it be alright to film you in your home environment as well?" I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders, then nodded.
“It would be wonderful to film him against the backdrop of his beloved Icon of Cz;stochowa; it must be hanging in the most prominent place,” I daydreamed.
;It turned out to be a one-room apartment in a shabby, prefabricated five-story building.
Igor and I entered the hallway following our host. Suddenly, a stout, disheveled woman rushed toward Aleksandr Petrovich, whimpering.
"Now, now, that's enough, that's enough, I'm right here with you," the old man embraced his wife, murmuring words of comfort. "She lost her mind, regressed into childhood," he explained apologetically.
The mad woman cast a blank stare at us and hid her face against her husband's chest.
"Don't be scared, they're our people," he coaxed her gently.
"We'll just film you against the backdrop of the icon and be on our way," I said, hurrying things along.
But looking at the walls, I didn't notice any icons whatsoever.
"I don't have any," the old man shook his head.
"Well, alright, then at least cross yourself for the camera, for the visual," I came up with an alternative.
Igor switched on the camera. For some reason, the old man stood with his back to me. Something wasn't right…
"Let's do another take," Igor announced, and Aleksandr Petrovich raised his hand once more.
"Well, thank you, God bless you!" we said our goodbyes and left.
;"…Igor, please show me those last frames where he crosses himself," I requested.
He rewound the tape right inside the camera, and I pressed my eye to the viewfinder.
Good grief! How on earth did I not realize it sooner!
The glance the old man had cast at Igor—which meant straight into the lens—was highly eloquent: it held the raw malice of a cornered animal. He never actually traced a cross; his hand simply moved up and down. How could Igor have missed that! That’s just how our studio cameramen shoot: you could show them a middle-finger gesture and they’d swallow it whole…
Those sad, slightly ironic eyes… As if I didn't recognize them! That elongated skull shape with a well-developed forehead… Exactly like my dad's.
I felt a terrible wave of vexation: for three hours, this swindler had been pulling the wool over our eyes! The segment was a total letdown.
;"...Father Dietmar, how could you not realize that he isn't a Catholic at all?" I walked out into the common room where Father Dietmar was sitting.
"What do you mean, not a Catholic? Then who is he?"
"A Jew. To be precise, a Judaist."
"How do you know?"
"Well, I just know. He refused to cross himself. And besides, the whole story is highly suspicious. If he's Ukrainian, why does he pray in Polish? And he is no more an Aleksandr than my grandfather was an Aleksandr, but rather..."
;Try as he might, Father Dietmar could not conceal his disappointment. Who wants to look like a fool who is being used? The priest grew upset, almost to the point of tears.
And suddenly, I remembered that mentally ill wife of Aleksandr Petrovich. How tenderly, with what genuine love, this old man had comforted her! And he takes care of her, he doesn't abandon her…
To hell with the segment. I just hope I haven't caused any harm to this old rascal.
"Father Dietmar, will you continue to help him?" I asked tentatively.
"Well, of course," the priest sighed. "He has no one else left but us, after all."
;…All things considered, God has a peculiar sense of humor. Could a boy from a small Jewish shtetl have ever imagined that in his old age, a "pure Aryan" would be the one taking care of him and his family? A German brought to these freezing lands by the Matka Boska?
“But the Mother of God actually did save him back then,” I reasoned to myself. “When he started shouting aloud, 'Matka Boska, save me,' the Germans naturally believed he wasn't Jewish. Something like that could absolutely have happened. I don't think he lied about that.”
Be it unto thee according to thy word.