“Picasso”: Sin and Mashen'ka

Time: 1992
Place: Kyiv
Characters: Fr. Alexander Kaminsky; Misha Kaminsky, his son; Masha – his daughter; Nastya Ishchenko, Misha’s girlfriend; Oleg Belkovich and their classmates.

Nastya had not lied when she said she loved Misha. That foolish kiss with Belkovich had been nothing more than an irritating and truly accidental mishap. She had been drying the dishes, stacking them neatly on the table, then leaned for a moment against the wall to rest – and at that very moment Oleg had come up, said something funny, and suddenly, without warning, embraced her and began kissing her. It was so unexpected, so insistent, and so... well, she simply couldn’t resist it. Her lips opened of their own accord, her hands encircled him of their own will – and then, bang... Misha! Damn that Belkovich!

She was frightened in earnest. This was not some Valentine card or a pair of theatre tickets – this was something far more dangerous.

I could lose him... Misha... What do I do?

Nastya tried with all her strength to prove to Misha that what had happened in the cafeteria meant nothing. She told him a thousand times she loved him, called constantly, never left his side at school. She really was terrified of losing him.

“Misha! Please forgive me. Misha! Let everything be as it was before. How can I prove to you that I love you? Misha!”

But Misha was torn apart by jealousy and – yes – by the same fear of losing her. With all his heart he wanted to forgive, but...

I saw it myself. I saw everything.

* * *

One day, in the midst of these torments, his classmate Georgy came up to him.

“Listen, brother. I want to ask you to read the Gospel with me and pray for my father. You know, a prayer by agreement.”

Misha nodded – he had heard of it, though he had never done it himself.

“You see,” Georgy continued, “they fired my dad. The factory shut down. Mom’s the only one bringing money home now, and Dad’s started drinking out of despair. He looked and looked for work, but where can you find any now? So he started drinking again.”

Misha nodded sympathetically and thought: Strange... no money, and he’s drinking. On what?

“Anyway, help me. Let’s read the Gospel every day – each of us at home – and remember the servant of God Vasily in our prayers. Let’s read forty Gospels together, all right? Otherwise, he’ll be lost.”

“All right,” Misha agreed.

The reading of the Gospels, among other things, distracted him a little from his gloomy thoughts about Nastya. But it turned out to be a difficult task. Sometimes he didn’t want to begin at all – as if someone were forcibly stopping him. Yet for his friend’s sake, Misha made himself persevere.

* * *

Belkovich strutted about like a peacock, basking in his supposed success and charm. He no longer bothered Nastya – who now avoided him as if he were a leper – but he often said to Misha with a mocking grin:

“You’ll see, priest’s son, she’ll come to me herself. Just give it a little time and... Women are all the same. I’ll bet you anything – she’ll come running.”

How could one not judge him! Misha didn’t just judge – he hated him with a burning hatred.

Easy for Father to preach about not judging, he thought bitterly. Pray for Belkovich? When he’s stealing what’s dearest to me? Pity him? Not a chance! And why should I ‘be allowed to fall into the same sin’? Am I seducing anyone’s girlfriend? Doing what he does? Even to think of it makes me sick. And Father says, “Fear it!” – he should try being in my place.

Misha was so irritated by his father’s sermon on non-judgment that he told him nothing about his troubles with Nastya. Fr. Alexander, of course, saw that something was wrong with his son, but hesitated to press him.

Gradually, the thought “How could she do that to me?” was replaced by another: “What if she really goes to Belkovich?” The idea was terrifying. Only now did Misha begin to realise how deeply he loved Nastya.

Let her... let her leave me. But Belkovich... if she falls into his hands, what will he do to her? He’ll seduce her and cast her aside, then boast about it to everyone. And she... Oh no! No! Nastya! If I push her away now... Oh, what will he do to her then!

But then, again and again, the image of that kiss in the cafeteria rose before his eyes – and despair returned.

How could she? How could she do that?

Nastya too was losing her mind with grief and did not relent in trying to win him back. But Misha remained unyielding – or at least so it seemed to her.

At last, she decided on a final step.

May Day holidays were approaching, when everyone traditionally went to their dachas or to relatives in the countryside to plant potatoes. On the eve of May 1, after classes, Nastya approached Misha, took his hand between hers, and looked into his eyes. Misha flinched – her gaze was so earnest, so grave.

“My parents and brother are going to the dacha tonight,” she said quietly. “I told them I’d stay, that I need to prepare for graduation.” She paused, still searching his face. “Come to me, Misha... Come for the night, do you hear? I want you so much.” Her eyes did not leave his.

Misha felt his heart pounding. He shifted from foot to foot. Here it was – the very thing his father had warned him about. Here it was. But... what eyes she had!

“What shall I tell my parents?” he managed to mutter, and immediately felt how petty that sounded beside the courage of what she was offering.

Nastya released his hand and said with a hint of hurt, “Think of something – you’re a man.” She turned to go, but looked back once more and repeated with emphasis: “I want you so much! Do you hear?”

Misha thought he nodded.

At home, he could find no peace. He felt that the situation had reached that very brink where the question “to be or not to be” looms in all its weight and inevitability. On one side of the scales was Nastya – her love, her fate, her future. Misha wrung his hands. Belkovich wouldn’t let her go; of that he was sure. And on the other side was a small, plain word of four letters – “sin.” Such a small word...

“I’ll bet you anything she’ll come running...” No! I can’t reject her! I’d never forgive myself.

Misha groaned under the weight of this choice. He paced back and forth, feeling with his heart how the clock’s hand was mercilessly counting down the minutes. He couldn’t even pray – what for? To ask God whether he should sin or not? Oh, if only someone would decide for him!

And Misha decided to tell his father everything.

Yes! Let it be as he says!

His mother and his younger brother Serhiy had also gone to the countryside to plant potatoes. His father stayed home to watch the younger children – Olga, Andriy, and two-year-old Maria, the darling of the family. Misha had been excused this year: exams were ahead – school finals and entrance tests for the seminary.

Fr. Alexander listened attentively to his son but did not relieve him of the burden.

“No one, do you hear me, no one can make this decision for you. Once the Lord said to His disciples: ‘Do you also want to go away?’ He didn’t decide for them, didn’t command them. He simply asked. Just as He asks you now.”

Then he went into the children’s room, leaving Misha in torment and confusion.

What do I do? I have to say ‘no’... But then what? She’ll never forgive me. Belkovich... she’ll be lost, lost!

Around nine o’clock the phone rang. Misha went to it, his legs heavy as lead. He lifted the receiver slowly – it seemed to weigh twenty kilos. He knew it was Nastya.

“Hello.”

“Misha, is that you?” Her voice was calm, but he could sense the effort it cost her.

“Yes.”

“Are you coming to me, Misha?”

There was no insistence in her tone, no seduction, no ultimatum. She loved him and was offering him something she could never give another – as though she were leaping from a height into his arms, and it was up to him alone to catch her or let her fall.

And he said: “Yes.”

At that moment he thought of nothing – not the Gospel, not his father... He did not remember his calling to the priesthood or the moment he had once come to know that God exists.

He set down the now weightless receiver and repeated to himself:

Yes.

And at that very instant, he heard a heart-rending scream.

It was Maria, whom Father had just put to bed. Everyone in the apartment rushed to her. She was sitting up on the bed, clutching her stomach and screaming with such pain that everyone froze in terror.

“Masha, what is it?”

She couldn’t answer. She writhed in agony, her eyes wide with confusion and silent pleading for help. The pain was so great that there were no tears left.

Father was the first to act. He ran to call an ambulance, gave the address, described the symptoms, begged them to come quickly. But it was 1992 – the country was in chaos, and ambulances didn’t come fast.

He ran back to the child. The two-year-old was screaming herself hoarse, the sound turning into a rasping cry. It was unbearable. Misha held her hand, whispering helplessly:

“Masha, Mashenka, it’s all right... it’ll be all right.”

The others did the same, holding her little hands and feet. Father began to stroke her belly, but that only made the pain worse.

“Misha, run upstairs to Aunt Tamara on the third floor. She’s a medic. If she’s home, ask her to come – to bring something for the pain. Quick!”

Misha ran. Aunt Tamara came immediately, but refused to give any painkillers. She examined the child, asked questions. But what could Masha answer? She only cried, pointed to her belly, nodded or shook her head, probably at random.

“Tamara!” Father cried. “Do something! Give her something for the pain! You see what’s happening!”

To witness and hear it was unbearable. Their hearts were tearing apart at the cries of that innocent child, while they stood helpless – Father, Misha, everyone – ready to bear anything themselves if only she might be spared.

“Tamara!” Father seized the poor medic by the shoulders. “If you don’t inject her right now, I’ll... I’ll... You’re a doctor, after all!”

But Aunt Tamara was no timid soul. She broke free and shouted back:

“That’s just it – I’m not a doctor! I’m a feldsher! And until the doctor arrives, I’m not allowed to do anything but an enema. Do you understand that if I give a painkiller now, the doctor won’t be able to make the right diagnosis? It could be anything! Most likely appendicitis, but it could be an intestinal twist, inflammation of the ovaries – who knows! Wait for the ambulance!” She tried to shout above poor Masha’s screams, then added more softly: “Wait and pray.”

“Forgive me,” Father said. “Forgive me... Children, go to the other room and read the akathist to Saint Panteleimon.”

Andriy and Olya, who had only recently learned to read, went. Misha stayed. He couldn’t let go of that trembling little hand or tear his gaze from those pleading eyes.

Masha quieted for a while.

“Why is the ambulance taking so long?” Father looked at the clock and began pacing. “Tamara, let’s at least do the enema, all right?”

She went to fetch her Esmarch mug. Masha lay on her side and fell completely still. Misha covered her with a blanket, still holding her hand.

“Forgive me, Mashenka... forgive me...” he whispered through tears.

Aunt Tamara returned, and she and Father began the procedure.

“Where’s that ambulance?!”

Father grabbed the phone again, called, begged, promised to pay whatever it took. They snapped back rudely that he wasn’t the only one in trouble, that they had no petrol, that there were almost no vehicles, that salaries were delayed, that doctors were quitting – and so on.

Five minutes after the enema, Masha’s pain struck again. Her voice was gone from screaming; now it was only a moan, an animal sound that tore the heart apart and made one wish to sink through the floor rather than hear it. Again everyone crowded around her bed, powerless.

“Masha... Mashenka...”

Her eyes moved from Father to her brothers, and it was unbearable.

“Papa!” cried Olya. “Papa, why is Mashenka suffering so? For what? Why does God...”

“That’s enough!” Aunt Tamara struck the table with her hand. “Stop snivelling! Get ready – we’re taking her ourselves to Okhmatdyt! Quickly!”

They wrapped Masha in a blanket and carried her to the car.

“Misha, stay with the little ones. Pray! Do you hear? Pray!” Father commanded.

But Misha couldn’t pray. He alone knew why Mashenka was suffering. He couldn’t look at the icons, couldn’t even make the sign of the cross. He crouched in the kitchen corner, sobbing uncontrollably.

“And Peter remembered the word of Jesus, who had said to him, ‘Before the cock crows, you will deny Me three times.’ And he went out and wept bitterly.”

“Misha, don’t cry – come, let’s pray. That’s what Papa said.”

He felt little Andriy tugging at his sleeve.

“Let’s go.”

In the room, he tried to read the akathist, but spasms gripped his throat. The echo of Mashenka’s screams filled his ears, and his heart was torn by his own words:

Lord! Why her? A small, innocent child! It’s me who’s guilty! Me! Why does another suffer for my sin? Lord, why?

Then his eyes fell upon the Crucifix on the wall – and he lost consciousness.

* * *

They brought Mashenka to the hospital just in time. The duty doctor had only just finished with another patient. She quickly and professionally did everything necessary, confirmed the diagnosis – appendicitis – and ordered the child prepared for surgery at once.

“All right – an enema was done? Very good.”

The operation went smoothly. The doctor, tired but pleased, came out into the corridor and reassured Father:

“Everything went well. Don’t worry now, it’s all right. The child is weak, but she’ll recover soon. It was an acute appendicitis – everything developed so fast... You might not have made it.” She said more about diet, visits, physical restrictions later on.

Fr. Alexander returned home near dawn. The news was good. Despite his exhaustion, he served a thanksgiving moleben, fervently thanking God that all had turned out well. Then they all slept a little, after which Father gathered some things and went back to the hospital. By noon, their mother had rushed from the village, having been told everything by phone.

Only by evening was Misha able to go to Nastya.

She was home alone – but she opened the door only to say everything she thought of him.

“You destroyed me! Trampled me! I waited for you. I loved you – and you...”

Misha tried to explain, to speak of purity, chastity, love, of everything his father had advised him to say. But it was already too late. And in life, everything must be done in time.

To be continued...

The previous episode of the book is available here.