Russia’s Uncommon Prophet: Father Aleksandr Men and His Times

TO KAROL

Christ built His Church on the foundation of freedom—we never see Him on the side of power. . . . In Him there is nothing totalitarian, dictatorial, obtrusive—[but] always freedom.

—Fr. Aleksandr Men

At Novaia Derevnia a small flame flickered in an icy world; unfortunately, it left hidden in the shadows the forces intent on extinguishing it.

—Michel Evdokimov

Note on Transliteration

I have used the standard Library of Congress system of transliteration throughout this book, but have altered some Russian spellings of proper names. Russian surnames that are well known to an English-speaking public are given in their common spelling (for example, Tolstoi becomes Tolstoy, Iakunin is transliterated as Yakunin). In the text, Fr. Aleksandr Men’s family name is written in its English form as Men. In the case of published works in English, I have used the writers’ spelling of his name when they have written in English Alexander Men. The name Aleksandr Men has been used throughout the book, in the text, notes, and bibliography. The only exceptions are Russian language titles of books and articles.

Northern Illinois University Press, DeKalb 60115

© 2016 by Northern Illinois University Press

All rights reserved

Printed in the United States of America

25 24 23 22 21 20 19 18 17 16 1 2 3 4 5

978-0-87580-733-1 (paper)

978-1-60909-194-1 (ebook)

Book and cover design by Shaun Allshouse

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Daniel, Wallace L., author.

Title: Russia’s uncommon prophet : Father Aleksandr Men and his times /

Wallace L. Daniel.

Description: First [edition]. | DeKalb : Northern Illinois University Press,

2016. | Includes bibliographical references and index.

Identifiers: LCCN 2016004798 (print) | LCCN 2016005154 (ebook) | ISBN

9780875807331 (pbk. : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781609091941 (ebook) | ISBN

9780875807331 (paper)

Subjects: LCSH: Men, Aleksandr, 1935-1990. | Russka͡ia pravoslavna͡ia ͡tserkov’­—Clergy­—Biography. | Orthodox Eastern Church­—Russia

(Federation)—Clergy—Biography.

Classification: LCC BX597.M46 D36 2016 (print) | LCC BX597.M46 (ebook) | DDC

281.9092­—dc23

LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2016004798

Contents

Preface

1­—Murder in the Semkhoz Woods

2—Swimming against the Stream

3—The Stalinism That Entered Into All of Us

4—A Different Education

5—Aleksandr Men in Siberia: The Formation of a Priest

6—First Years as a Parish Priest

7—The First Decade: The Writer

8—The Transition to Novaia Derevnia

9—Fr. Aleksandr and the History of Religion

10—Novaia Derevnia: Reaching Out to a Diverse World

11—Under Siege

12—Religion and Culture (I)

13—Religion and Culture (II)

14—Freedom and Its Discontents

15—This Was Not a Common Murder

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Notes

Bibliography

Index

Preface

During the first half of my academic career, my research and writing focused on Russia in the eighteenth century. This research mainly centered on the social and economic history of the turbulent and colorful period of Empress Catherine the Great, a subject I had always found deeply engaging. But beginning in the mid-1990s, a much different topic became increasingly compelling. Concurrent with the end of the Soviet Union and Russia’s attempts to redefine itself, I became interested in its efforts at reconstruction, and particularly in the role of the Orthodox Church in this process. Long suppressed, the victim of nearly seventy years of state opposition, and often viewed as an anachronism and an unnecessary holdover from the past, the Church had suffered one of its greatest assaults in modern European history. After the end of the Communist state, how the Russian Orthodox Church recovered from years of oppression, particularly its efforts to recover its cultural memory and reclaim its heritage, seemed to me to be significant, largely unexplored aspects of its national story. What parts of its historical memory the Church aspired to regain—whether the autocratic, xenophobic elements or those that were nonauthoritarian and outward-looking—would have a large bearing on how the country developed.¹

Convinced that the subject warranted more attention than it had received in my field, I sought topics that were concrete, revealing practical, day-to-day realities. These endeavors led to a close look at individual parishes, the struggles of certain priests and their parishioners to rebuild, and their efforts to reconceive themselves during the years following the end of the Soviet Union. Whether these attempts either contributed to or undermined the creation of civil society became a primary subject of my research.

From October to November 2005, while in Moscow to participate in two international conferences on religion and society at the Russian Humanities University and the Institute of Sociology of the Academy of Sciences, I began thinking about the possibility of the present topic. I became interested in Fr. Aleksandr Men while researching my book on the Russian Orthodox Church and civil society.² Fr. Aleksandr’s name and activities came up multiple times among leading proponents of civil society. I was intrigued by his story, and the more I read about him, the greater my interest became.

Returning to Moscow in the summer of 2006 for several weeks to do research in the National Library of Foreign Literature, I met Ekaterina Genieva, the distinguished director of the library and a close friend to Aleksandr Men, and Fr. Georgii Chistiakov, head of the library’s research center on religious literature. Before his untimely death in June 2007, Chistiakov provided me with a great deal of assistance. A kindly, learned, and greatly respected Orthodox priest, Fr. Georgii was a disciple of Aleksandr Men. He allowed me several interviews, which have turned out to be extremely important to my study, particularly his discussion of the theme he considered most significant in Fr. Aleksandr’s work: his ecumenical vision. This theme, Chistiakov claimed, was largely unexplored in writings about Fr. Aleksandr.

Chistiakov introduced me to Pavel Vol’fovich Men, Fr. Aleksandr’s younger brother, the director of the Aleksandr Men Foundation in Moscow, and a rich source of information about the late priest. In the last decade, the foundation has published a large number of Men’s lectures, papers, and letters, as well as his memoirs, which Pavel Men provided to me before their publication. These materials, inaccessible to previous biographers, contributed a great deal of information about Fr. Aleksandr’s personal relationships and primary influences.

Since his death in September 1990, public interest in Aleksandr Men has not diminished, but rather has greatly increased. I have witnessed three events that surprised me with the breadth and depth of the desire to keep his memory alive and to explore the significance of his life and thought. The first took place in New York, in June 2007, at a conference organized by Seraphim Sigrist, then bishop of the Orthodox Church in North America. Devoted to Fr. Aleksandr Men’s legacy, the gathering attracted about forty people—scientists, artists, priests, professors, writers, and others—most of them from New York, but also included some who had traveled from Russia and Great Britain to attend. This, it turned out, was an annual event attended by people who met to explore Fr. Aleksandr’s teachings and writings.

The second and third events took place in Moscow and Moffat, Scotland, respectively. The former was a celebration convened on a frigid evening in January 2010, the eve of what would have been Fr. Aleksandr’s seventy-fifth birthday. Held in the Great Hall of the Library of Foreign Literature, about four hundred people of all ages gathered that evening, large numbers of them arriving an hour-and-a-half early. When the program began, the crowd filled the auditorium to overflowing, with people standing two deep along the walls. Music, speeches, poetry reading, and reminiscences about Fr. Aleksandr completed a program that lasted nearly four hours, with most everyone remaining until the end.

The third event took place in September 2012. Held in the southern Scottish town of Moffat, the conference on The Life and Significance of Alexander Men was truly an international gathering, featuring participants from multiple countries, including Russia. Organized by Elizabeth Roberts, Ann Shukman, and Donald Smith, with the support of Ekaterina Genieva, the conference explored the contemporary religious and cultural relevance of Fr. Aleksandr’s ideas. No one left Moffat without a greater awareness of this remarkable Russian parish priest, whose significance extended far beyond the country in which he had lived and served.

A common perception of the Russian Orthodox Church is that it has played only a marginal role in Russian life for most of the last century. Inward-looking and cut off from political and public affairs, the Church, according to this view, operated with little or no influence beyond its narrow, decaying walls. Its priests were an unimpressive lot—docile, poorly educated, and interested in preserving a defunct tradition—and they are often depicted as backward-looking, tied to the government, and with little to say to the modern world. But these general depictions of the Russian Orthodox Church neither tell the full story nor capture the lives of the men and women who moved in a much different direction. Such people present a more complex and paradoxical picture than the stereotypes commonly found in popular Western accounts.

One good reason for writing a book on Fr. Aleksandr Men (1935–1990) is that he challenges the common view of the Russian Orthodox Church as passive and submissive. There are also other reasons. He offers a way of looking at Russia’s national story for most of the twentieth century other than strictly through the prism of politics and economics. Growing up during the Stalin era, where fear and ideological conformity dominated nearly all of Soviet life, he had every reason to accommodate himself to the regime. That he refused to take this route, choosing instead to follow an alternative course and to construct his own separate path, is a tale of uncommon strength of mind and spirit. Russian scholars speak of the process of looking inward, pursuing one’s own version of truth, as internal immigration from the regime. Aleksandr Men represents an example par excellence of that phenomenon. Yet his story is compelling for still another reason: he cast his vision not only inward, but also outward—at his society, the struggles of other people, and the Church as an institution. In the United States, with few exceptions, Aleksandr Men remains nearly unknown. I am hopeful that the present work, in some small way, will help fill that gap.

This book is a study of Aleksandr Men’s life and thought, particularly as it relates religion to science, culture, the state, Russian society, and freedom. But the present work also has a broader focus than simply the study of ideas. It adheres to a chronological framework, tracing Aleksandr Men’s origins and early life, his evolution as a person and as a seminal Russian Orthodox writer and thinker. It examines how a person, born as an ethnic Jew in the darkest years of the twentieth century, became a Russian Orthodox priest who commanded a large following.

I have not attempted to write a theological study, nor do I claim that this work is a definitive account of Fr. Aleksandr. A complete review of his voluminous writings and talks would require a lifetime of study, and some of the documents relating to his parish are still in the process of discovery and publication. This study is concerned, however, with the communal context in which his ideas evolved, his relationships with certain individuals who influenced him, his love affair with books and people, and his legacy.

Alexandre Men, un témoin pour la Russie de ce Temps, written by the French diplomat and scholar Yves Hamant more than two decades ago, is the standard biography of Fr. Aleksandr and the most accessible to an English-speaking public.³ Translated into Russian, German, and English, Hamant’s book is a warmly written appreciation of Fr. Aleksandr that primarily focuses on his relationship to the Soviet state. Since its publication, two additional biographies of Men have appeared, both written by members of his parish at Novaia Derevnia: Zoia Afanas’evna Maslenikova’s Zhizn’ ottsa Aleksandr Menia (Life of Father Aleksandr Men) and Andrei Alekseevich Eremin’s Otets Aleksandr Men’: Pastyr’ na rubezhe vekov (Father Aleksandr Men: Pastor on the boundary of centuries).⁴ Both volumes contain many valuable first-hand observations of parish life. Both, especially Eremin’s account, heavily incorporate Fr. Aleksandr’s own words. My work has a different focus, although all three of these biographies offer a wealth of primary and secondary source materials from which I have drawn.

In recent years, particularly in the last decade, the Aleksandr Men Foundation in Moscow has published a large number of primary materials on the subject of my study. I have made extensive use of these primary sources, which include Fr. Aleksandr’s lectures on Russia’s philosophical/theological writers, as well as his household conversations, letters, and public interviews. In addition, as I learned while writing my earlier book on civil society, face-to-face interviews with primary participants, when used with much care, offer important insights into thoughts and motivations. Such interviews with people who knew Fr. Aleksandr well have benefitted my own understanding of his life and the circumstances in which he served.

Aleksandr Men saw himself foremost as a parish priest, but his contributions went far beyond that designation: he was a social critic, a thinker of national and international importance, a primary interpreter of Orthodoxy and world religions to the Russian people, and a religious leader who commanded a large following and whose influence transcended his death. He was an apostle of freedom in Russia and a believer that Christianity is a religion of freedom, which rejects authoritarianism and paternalism as antithetical to the spirit of faith.⁵ In professing this belief and refusing to be ruled by fear, Fr. Aleksandr and his teachings have significant implications for Russia’s future, and such implications go far beyond Russia’s national boundaries.

On a personal level, the life of Aleksandr Men offers a window into themes the Russian Orthodox Church lived through in the twentieth century: its struggle to survive despite overwhelming political circumstances seeking its destruction; its efforts to speak convincingly to a people searching for historical, cultural, and religious roots in a world turned upside down; its attempts to regain its memory in a sea of competing voices; and more broadly, its relationship to a changing social and political landscape at the end of the Soviet period and beyond. His is an inspiring story of perseverance and triumph against formidable odds.

1

Murder in the Semkhoz Woods

On most days, the winding path through the woods near the village of Semkhoz, close to the city of Sergiev Posad (Zagorsk in the Soviet era), presents a peaceful scene. The footpath, cut long ago from the railroad to the village, enables Semkhoz inhabitants to walk to the station and await the train connecting them to the outside world. Tall grasses and wildflowers grow on each side of the narrow path for several feet before merging into thick woods and their leaf-covered floor. Elegant birch trees, with their white bark and rich, green leaves, appear sporadically along the edge of the woods. In the early morning, with the sunlight coming through the tree branches, their autumn leaves golden, this is a lovely site, the stillness interrupted only by an occasional foot traveler going to the station or taking an early morning walk. In early September, with the fall season fast approaching, the warm days of summer have already begun to fade.

Between 6:30 and 6:45 a.m. on September 9, 1990, Fr. Aleksandr Men left his home at Semkhoz to walk to the station and travel the short distance to his nearby church at Novaia Derevnia where, for the last twenty years, he had served as priest. He fastened the gate at the edge of his yard and turned down the path through the woods to take the quarter-mile walk to the station. He had a long day ahead—the liturgy, confessions, baptisms at his church, and then another lecture scheduled in Moscow in the afternoon. He carried a leather briefcase, which held a manuscript on which he had worked for several months. It was a Sunday morning, and Fr. Aleksandr had arisen early to prepare for the services that morning and, as he had done since he was an adolescent, to spend some time in silence and prayer before the activities of the day began. The previous week had been an extremely busy time, each day filled with meetings, public talks, and scheduled discussions, mostly in Moscow. He relished the time to gather his thoughts, the quietness of his surroundings, and the peacefulness that this early morning walk normally provided. He did not hurry. He left in plenty of time to think and to walk at a normal pace along the pathway. He was unaware that this would be the final time he would traverse the wooded path to the station.

Aleksandr Men was fifty-five years old, an energetic, robust, and life-loving man, who was constantly in demand and who never had enough time to accomplish everything he wished to do. His reputation, especially among young people and intellectuals, had skyrocketed in the last five years. During Gorbachev’s period of perestroika, and particularly following the end of state repression of the church in 1987–1988, his activities seemed to multiply. His appearances attracted large crowds of people who, heretofore, had showed little public interest in religion.

Extremely learned, articulate, and courageous, Fr. Aleksandr represented the spiritual voice of a democratic, nonauthoritarian Christianity. His actions and his words, including his vision of Orthodoxy, spoke sharply and eloquently against the ultranationalistic, anti-Semitic, and reactionary tendencies within the official church and certain political circles. He had not compromised either with the government or the police, even during the years when many church officials had done so. He was a strong, principled, and thoughtful advocate of the renewal of Orthodoxy at a moment in time unique in his life and, perhaps even more so, in Russia in the twentieth century.

On the previous evening, September 8, Fr. Aleksandr had delivered a major address at the House of Culture and Technology in Moscow. The lecture served as the culmination of a series of talks he had given on world religions that spring and summer, and it led to his final argument that Christ represented the conclusion, the ultimate product, of God’s revelation. Fr. Aleksandr, according to Russian historian and librarian of Congress James H. Billington, was the greatest preacher of his generation, who appeared in many ways to be a prophet of the Russia we had seen emerging in the late 1980s.¹

As Fr. Aleksandr set out early the next morning along the same path he had walked the night before, he could see no one coming toward him. But the evidence suggests that two men, who had likely waited for him in the woods sometime during the previous night, soon stepped out of the shadows. It appears that they approached him from the rear, called out to him, and showed him some printed materials.

As best as the scene can be reconstructed, Fr. Aleksandr took his glasses from his coat pocket and bent forward to read the materials. As he did so, one of the men struck him hard on the back of his head with a sharp instrument resembling a small axe, like the one sometimes carried by members of Russia’s special forces. His glasses fell to the ground by the side of the path, where they would be found later. Fr. Aleksandr stumbled forward, bleeding profusely from his wound, and began walking toward the railway station, but then, as if understanding the severity of his wound, turning to painfully stumble back along the path to his home. Nearing the gate he had unlatched only minutes earlier, he fell against it, his robust body crumbling to the ground, his head and shoulders lying against the wooden fence, and his left hand trying to grasp the fence’s siding.

Still asleep inside the house, Nataliia Fedorovna, Fr. Aleksandr’s wife, was awakened by the groans and cries of a person lying outside, at the front. The window in the room where she slept opened onto the street, and she could hear the sounds clearly. Half asleep, unsure of what had happened, and unable to see distinctly through the gaps in the fencing, she saw a blood-soaked man lying in the road. She did not know that this man was her injured husband. Frightened by the evidence of violence, instead of opening the gate, Nataliia Fedorovna went back into the house and immediately called for an ambulance. It took nearly a half-hour before the ambulance arrived to find the body of the man lying against the fence. He was no longer alive.²

In the following months, many testimonies appeared both in the Russian and international press eulogizing Fr. Aleksandr Men. One of the most incisive of these post-mortem assessments came from Abkhaz native Fazil Abdulevich Iskander, author of The Goatibex Constellation (1966) and other well-known novels and short stories. Iskander was known in the former Soviet Union for his fictional depictions of Caucasian life and sharp satirical portraits of various social problems. He had met Fr. Aleksandr on several occasions, knew of his growing importance, and had witnessed firsthand his actions as a public figure. In his short account, Iskander focused on a recent conversation he had with Fr. Aleksandr at a social event, held in a private house, at which many other guests were present. Portraying Aleksandr Men as a charming person, easily met, and completely unpretentious, Iskander also described a man of penetrating intelligence and impressive aesthetic sensibilities.

How is it, Iskander had wanted to know, that the priest of a small church near Moscow had developed the capacity to write so compellingly for the Russian people? Use of language and ability to speak across the divisions of class and educational levels were unusual. Iskander felt himself in the rare presence of an independent mind, a person of great learning but also entirely natural, without the pride of self esteem and in possession of a unique spirit. The two men talked about humor and its importance for human beings; Fr. Aleksandr claimed humor to be among humanity’s greatest and most distinctive gifts, an essential part of what it means to be human. They conversed about literature, particularly about Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s works and Mikhail Bulgakov’s Master and Margarita, which Fr. Aleksandr knew well. As Iskander recalled their discussion, Aleksandr Men viewed Russia’s renewal as greatly dependent on restoring the connections to its rich cultural and philosophical traditions, which looked outward, across religious and national boundaries, to the deepest expressions of the spirit. It was this aspiration, Iskander maintained, that also provoked in some people a frenzied hatred.³ Iskander said Fr. Aleksandr left the meeting early that evening. The priest had remembered his promise to visit one of his parishioners, who had recently fallen into depression, and Fr. Aleksandr hoped to raise his spirits.⁴ He departed about 9 p.m., going out into the rainy, windy night, even though he could easily have waited for another, more comfortable time. Fr. Aleksandr’s departure that evening incited anxiety among some guests about his safety and the possibility of an attack on this solitary figure, walking along a dark, isolated road to call on a friend. But what struck Iskander most deeply was Aleksandr Men’s care for people and his uncommon ability to reach out to them. On later occasions, while walking with Fr. Aleksandr near his parish, Iskander observed how his parishioners stopped him, hailed him from a distance, almost ran to him to discuss some problem in their lives.⁵ Such a learned academic mind paired with a unique capacity to relate to people of every social rank presented a rare combination. He was the light of our Homeland, Iskander concluded, the light whose power will show itself only in the future. And if again darkness envelops our country, we will understand that from whence came the darkness, came also the murderer.⁶

The questions Iskander raised in his eulogy have resonated long after Fr. Aleksandr Men’s death in the late summer of 1990. How did the Stalin era, known for its extreme violence and terror and its attempts to reeducate the entire Soviet population, somehow produce this prophetic figure who offered such a different view? How did this priest, who spent much of his career serving in a small village parish, develop a voice that spoke compellingly to such large numbers of people across social and religious boundaries? Upon what sources within Russian Orthodoxy and within Russian culture did Fr. Aleksandr draw, and which did he rediscover, and relate to the present? How did Fr. Aleksandr’s vision of the church and its role in society compare and contrast with the view of the official Orthodox Church? With whom was he in conflict, both inside and outside the church, and was this conflict political, religious, or both? In reference to Iskander’s concluding statement about the light and the dark, from whence came this darkness that produced Fr. Aleksandr’s murderer? What is his legacy in present-day Russia: religious heretic or sacred martyr?

The pages that follow examine these interrelated questions about Fr. Aleksandr Men and the Russian Orthodox Church.

2

Swimming against the Stream

The second half of 1977 was a perilous time in Fr. Aleksandr Men’s life. In the fall, he began a series of experimental meetings in the Moscow homes of several of his parishioners. These sessions, clandestinely held, brought him a great deal of joy, but they also created much personal anxiety, given the circumstances in which he operated. Such meetings allowed him to expand his ministry beyond the boundaries of his church at Novaia Derevnia on the outskirts of the town of Pushkino, northwest of Moscow and near the traditional religious center of Sergiev Posad. At Novaia Derevnia, he had served for seven years as the second priest. While he worked in this small village parish, his ministry had already become well known among a significant number of the intelligentsia and other city people, many of whom traveled to Novaia Derevnia on Sundays to participate in the church’s activities. News traveled quickly by word of mouth about this unusual Orthodox priest during one of the darkest periods of Soviet history. His ministry also attracted the attention of the KGB (the Committee for State Security, or Komitet gosudarstvennoi bezopasnosti ).

Aleksandr Men called the sessions gatherings, since to hold meetings without government approval constituted a crime and its participants would be arrested. Gatherings connoted something different, an informal, unplanned get together of friends, usually to celebrate birthdays or holidays, to share food, drink, and conversation. Held in someone’s flat in one of Moscow’s ubiquitous apartment buildings, these gatherings, to some, might have emulated the illicit meetings of Russia’s prerevolutionary circles of the intelligentsia, although Fr. Aleksandr’s gatherings had much different goals; they had their roots in Russia’s catacomb church, the underground church that began in the late 1920s in an effort to preserve Orthodox traditions of worship during a time when the Bolshevik government unleashed a violent assault against all forms of religious expression.¹

The gatherings Aleksandr Men organized existed in no less threatening circumstances, and the people who participated took precautions. They came separately, with no more than two of them arriving at the same time. They also departed at different times. Meeting weekly, gatherings rarely took place in the same apartment on consecutive weeks. Participants took special care not to attract attention, either by their dress or demeanor. The collection of men and women in an apartment resembled an informal, impromptu coming together of family members or friends who could easily be dispersed, should circumstances demand such action. But they seldom did, and the suspicious official or member of the police who followed a young, suspected member of the group had little reason to think that he or she had come to gather for an illicit discussion. The assembly of people did have a familial atmosphere, as the individuals, packed together into a small room, sat on the bed, on chairs, or, most often, on the floor. My two sons were little at the time, and friends would bring their own children, too, recalled a participant in one of the earlier gatherings, held in his single room on Garibaldi Street. Father [Aleksandr] would speak amid the sound of clanging cups and forks, and the cries of infants, a background symphony that seemed not to disturb him.²

While the young men and women who participated in these group sessions may have feared coming to Novaia Derevnia in the late 1970s and early 1980s, Fr. Aleksandr Men took the church into the city. This was a time, particularly in the early 1980s, when the Communist Party intensified its efforts to eradicate religion in the Soviet Union. KGB pressure on active church parishes, such as the Novaia Derevnia parish, grew more oppressive than it had been earlier in the 1970s, and Fr. Aleksandr faced multiple interrogations by the police. The leading antireligious journal Nauka i religiia (Science and religion) constantly hammered on the theme of science’s superiority over religion, proclaiming religious belief as superstitious, a pillar of Russian backwardness that the Soviet state aimed to overcome.³

At the Moscow gatherings in 1977 and thereafter, Aleksandr Men aimed to expand the conversation about religion. He wanted to develop a new way of understanding the world, one much different from the teachings the Soviet state had sought to impart since the early 1920s. Education constituted one of his primary tasks. He knew that the participants in these sessions hungered for different approaches to life than those that the present educational system and the media sought to inculcate in Soviet citizens. A great deal of his voluminous teaching and writing aimed to reconnect his followers with a religious and cultural heritage whose organic process had been broken. The fact that whole generations in our country were cut off from traditions, including ethical, religious and philosophical ones, dealt society a grievous blow, he said. But since ‘the oxygen was cut off’ our culture became unbelievably impoverished.⁴ In such an intellectual environment, he faced a daunting task.

The gatherings Fr. Aleksandr organized had another purpose that related to one of the main themes in his understanding of Orthodox tradition. He deeply believed that the church ought to foster a strong sense of community among believers, both within and outside the boundaries of the church. Since the state prohibited such groups from organizing without special permission and closely oversaw the church’s own activities, Fr. Aleksandr had to find another way to provide this community. He wanted to connect individuals to each other, providing them support and a channel for dialogue, which he believed lay at the core of the church’s mission.⁵ He needed to find the means to overcome the atomistic, self-reliant existence in which individuals operated. He wanted to build trusting relationships.

As they grew in number, the gatherings focused on specific subjects, each of them designed not only to offer the opportunity for worship, but also to fill in the large educational gap. These subjects included the teachings of the church fathers, church history, theology, Biblical criticism, and Orthodox traditions. Fr. Aleksandr actively took part in the first sessions of each of the gatherings, during which he set the framework for their discussions. As the internal dynamics of the group developed, he moved to the site of another gathering, helping it become established. While they had no direct relationship, the gatherings Fr. Aleksandr created resembled the small groups founded in Western countries in the late 1970s, following the apostolic exhortation of Pope Paul VI, which set forth the guiding principles for local Roman Catholic communities, and kept such communities firmly attached to their local church.⁶

In Russia, however, the gatherings developed under different circumstances than in Western countries. They had to be kept hidden from the watchful eyes of the police. Most importantly, Fr. Aleksandr well understood that unless newcomers to the church had additional networks of support, they would find it nearly impossible to develop their knowledge in a vast ideological sea that assaulted them every day with very different ideas.

If Aleksandr Men had relied exclusively on his intellectual abilities to connect Orthodoxy with the lives of individuals who came to him, his success as a parish priest might well have existed only as a temporary phenomenon. He knew that the exploration of religious ideas was an overt challenge to Soviet ideology and could take place only in the most tenuous and dangerous circumstances. At the gatherings, Fr. Aleksandr introduced the idea of the church as a fellowship, a community not governed by an external power, but which bore witness to an internal authority. Here, he spoke about the presence of the Mysteries. . . . so that our witness may not be a witness about ideology, but of the living presence of God in us.⁷ His teachings addressed a different way of seeing the world than the members of the community had been taught elsewhere.

Fr. Aleksandr attempted to provide the framework and to offer the encouragement for participants to engage in a simple but difficult task: to discover the divine source that existed within each of them. Such an approach lay deep within Orthodox tradition, and Aleksandr Men had discovered it early in his life. He elaborated on that process in the gatherings and, extensively, in his parish activities. But, in addition, as Fr. Aleksandr modeled them, the gatherings were channels of exploration and discovery, places where the mind could be unfettered. This belief had little in common with the Western notion of independent thought, individualistic beliefs, or a consumerist religion that, later, he would sharply criticize. Rather, the quest for the divine spirit in each person took place within the fellowship of others, and the gatherings and the community he developed aspired to offer that fellowship.

To participants in these meetings, living in such difficult times, Fr. Aleksandr did not give comfort. What he offered was hope. He stressed the importance of imagination and the need to look at the world differently than through the materialist underpinnings that Soviet education emphasized as the proper means of interpreting society. In the social context of his times, Fr. Aleksandr was an outsider, a rebel who rejected the established social and political order. While he may have physically lived in that order, he existed apart from it mentally and spiritually, and the hope he projected called for a new way of being and relating. As the Russian Orthodox priest Alexi Vinogradov has pointed out, Fr. Aleksandr also lived in a world much different than that of Russian émigré theologians who taught and wrote in an atmosphere of relative intellectual freedom in Western Europe; In Russia, however, unique figures like Fr. Aleksandr Men were lonely fish swimming against the stream.⁸ He would not be the first in his family line to move in that direction and to challenge the social and religious surroundings in which he existed.

Family Heritage

Aleksandr Men traced his family roots to Poland, but he and other living family members knew few details about their predecessors or social circumstances. He belonged to a long line of Jewish families whose heritage extended into this region. It is likely that the partitions of Poland, which divided up the former sovereign state during the second half of the eighteenth century, incorporated the family into the Russian Empire during the reign of Catherine II (1762–1796), when the Russian government gained large swaths of Polish territory. In the second partition (1793), which aimed at preventing Poland from becoming a future military threat to Russia and Prussia, Russia acquired more than 100,000 square miles of new territory and more than three million citizens.⁹ Russia absorbed this population in the second and third partitions (1795) and included large numbers of Jews, estimated at 289,022.¹⁰ They came with religious traditions different from those of the Russian population, and over time proved difficult to assimilate. Having a long history of political and economic autonomy, they did not readily fit into the legal social estate categories that Catherine II and her immediate successors—Paul I and Alexander I—sought to enforce. These Russian rulers did not harbor religious prejudices against the new inhabitants, either in their rhetoric or in their state policies, at least until 1815, but such prejudices would not be long in emerging in the nineteenth century.¹¹ Separated from the rest of the population by their dress, their speech, and their religious practices, Jews came to be treated with both distrust and condescension. Protesting competition from Jewish traders who developed commercial networks between cities and villages, in 1790, the merchants of Moscow petitioned the government to restrict registration of Jews in the merchant guilds of the city.¹² In the mid-nineteenth century, the Pale of Jewish Settlement evolved, which fixed residential places and occupational choices for Jews, and, in the 1880s, further discriminatory legislation permitted Jews to secure permanent residence only in certain urban centers.¹³ Although the application of the laws remained fluid, subject to individual appeal of these restrictions, thousands of Jews were expelled from their residences in the countryside. The imperial Russian government sought to segregate and isolate Jews from the larger part of the Russian population. Over time, a social and economic context evolved that led to anti-Jewish violence on a large scale in 1881–1882 and 1905–1906.¹⁴

In the Vasilevskaia family, his mother’s line, one of Aleksandr’s forefathers had already established himself in Russia in the early nineteenth century. He, therefore, left more information about himself than did the family members on his father’s side. This individual served as an artilleryman in the reign of Alexander I (1801–1825), and his son spent twenty-four years in the army of Tsar Nicholas I (1825–1855). The Russian military thus played a significant role in Aleksandr’s mother’s side of the family, service that gave it an orientation different from the lineage of his father. He tells us little about that orientation, but it is likely that the family’s life in the city exposed it to a larger cultural and educational world, as well as a chance to mingle with people of different nationalities and ways of thinking. The military service of this predecessor permitted his children to live in the capital city, unlike those who, because of their Jewish heritage, were excluded from the privilege of owning a place of residence in Moscow.

In the Vasilevskaia family, several personalities and events stand out as playing a significant role in shaping the family’s memory and heritage. Aleksandr Men’s great-grandmother Anna Osipovna (Iosifovna) Vasilevskaia was one of the personages whose life became an important part of family lore.¹⁵ A strong-willed, spirited, and highly principled woman, Anna Osipovna lived in the Ukrainian city of Khar’kov. She had seven children, four boys and three girls, ranging in age from three to eighteen years of age, when her husband died and left her nearly penniless. She managed to raise them by virtue of hard work, steadfastness, and an indomitable will to persevere, despite the multiple hardships she faced. While still a young, widowed mother, Anna Osipovna had to deal with a life-threatening illness that caused her severe pain and anxiety. She developed a large lump on her breast, which continued to grow and to spread. Despite numerous consultations with local medical specialists, she found no one who could relieve her suffering or offer her proper treatment.

In 1890, the renowned Russian Orthodox priest Fr. John of Kronstadt (Fr. Ioann Kronstadtskii, 1829–1908) visited Khar’kov. Well known for his ministry among the poor of Kronstadt, the island naval base off the coast of Saint Petersburg, Fr. John’s arrival created a stir among the townspeople, and large contingents of people greeted him wherever he appeared. A neighbor of Anna Osipovna’s convinced her that she should attempt to approach Fr. John, despite Anna’s Jewish religion. On the day of the priest’s appearance in the city’s center, an enormous crowd gathered around him. As Anna related the event, her friend pushed through the crowd, taking Anna by the hand and leading her to Fr. John. He looked at her, listened to her friend’s pleas for help, and then said to Anna, I know that you are Jewish, but I see in you a deep faith in God. Fr. John offered to pray with her for her health and assured her of God’s help, saying to Anna that within a month your illness will pass from you.¹⁶ In the story passed down to Anna’s descendants, her swelling tumor began to recede, and after a month nothing remained of it.¹⁷ In this family story, Fr. John had looked beyond the narrow religious distinctions that people commonly made and had reached out to the sick woman. He had recognized only her humanity, her belief, and her need. The healing ministry that he projected would take a similar and yet different form in later generations of Anna’s descendants. Fr. John’s reception of the distressed Anna, his prayers for her, and the healing that resulted became part of a larger family story that would be retold many times.

Despite her meager economic resources, Anna Osipovna Vasilevskaia managed to educate all her children, three of whom became engineers. They were men of great physical strength, with a good enlightened character, as Aleksandr Men later described them.¹⁸ The last of her children, Tsetsiliia, would become his grandmother. All of Anna Osipovna’s children became freethinking members of the Russian intelligentsia who grew up at a time when positivism and rationalism dominated university life, and most of Anna Osipovna’s children fell in with these general trends. Few of them actively practiced their Jewish faith; not one learned Hebrew.¹⁹ They were strongly attracted to the sciences and aspired to contribute to a world being rapidly remade through technology and the physical sciences.

Like her older siblings, Tsetsiliia, too, grew up in an environment where study of the sciences became a preeminent goal. In her schooling, she developed a passionate interest in chemistry, soon committing herself to this field for her life’s work. Serious-minded, determined, and talented, she proved to be an excellent student, who, after completing her secondary education, earned a scholarship to study at the University of Berne, one of Europe’s leading centers for research in the physical sciences. At the university, Tsetsiliia met Solomon Tsuperfein, a young man from Odessa who shared her love of the sciences. The two of them became fast friends, often studying together and talking about their future plans. Soon, their relationship developed into much more than friendship. Shortly thereafter, the two aspiring chemistry students married, promising to live in total commitment to each other and to their life’s work. As Aleksandr Men recalled, his grandfather adored Tsetsiliia and would do so to the end of his life.²⁰ The young couple finished the university at the same time in the chemistry faculty, both with doctoral degrees. In 1908, while students in Berne, they had a daughter (Elena), the future mother of Aleksandr Men, and, in 1912, a son (Leonid).

During the years preceding World War I, Switzerland became a home for many of the revolutionaries who had fled Russia after the 1905 Revolution and the government’s ensuing harsh reprisals against all revolutionary political parties. In Russia, both liberalism and the revolutionary movement were in retreat as ultraconservative organizations, such as the Union of the Russian People, spearheaded a forceful, often violent assault on the advocates of constitutional government. Jews became the targets of these ultraconservatives, who used them as scapegoats for Russia’s internal unrest. In 1911, the sensational case of Mendel Beilis, a Jewish citizen living in Kiev, drew international attention. Beilis was accused of the ritual murder of a young Christian boy, following the discovery of the boy’s dismembered body. The case incited anti-Semitic, monarchical political parties, and extremist groups such as the Black Hundreds attempted to provoke mass anti-Semitic pogroms in the country then and after Beilis’s acquittal by jury trial in October 1913.²¹

In these prewar years, while living abroad, Vladimir Il’ich Lenin often came to Berne, where he occasionally spoke and met with members of the Bolshevik Party. In 1909 he published Materialism and Empirio-Criticism, which he wrote during the political struggle with his rival, Aleksandr­ ­Bogdanov, a biological scientist, for the intellectual leadership of the Bolshevik Party. Materialism and Empirio-Criticism would later become a classic of Marxism-­Leninism, a text that defined Lenin’s approach to knowledge and laid out certain key principles of his materialist philosophy. In this work, Lenin sought to refute his opponents, whose orthodox views he challenged. Bogdanov argued that the physical world, as well as society itself, evolved from the human mind; without the human desire to form community, society would not have developed. Lenin branded such thinking as idealist; he dismissed the view that society had come into being as an expression of consciousness, and he claimed the primacy of matter over mind.²² The exterior world, he maintained, existed independently of the mind’s capacity to conceive it. Citing Friedrich Engels, whom he accused his opponents of misunderstanding, Lenin distinguished the materialist from the idealist, the pure thinkers from the impure thinkers.²³ He laid the foundation for his materialist worldview, a philosophy that rejected the scientific basis of religion.²⁴ In Berne, Lenin applied his materialist philosophy to the living and working conditions of laboring men and women, whose sufferings at the hands of the ruling class of exploiters the Bolshevik leader proposed to alleviate.

In Switzerland, Tsetsiliia Tsuperfein heard Lenin speak and found herself strongly attracted to his materialist philosophy.²⁵ She soon became totally and sincerely pro-Soviet, and while Aleksandr Men’s reminiscences did not reveal the revolutionary party that his grandmother supported, he underscored her sympathy with Lenin’s empirical approach and with issues of social justice.²⁶ Politically, she strongly disagreed with the social and economic policies of the Tsarist government and its repressive agencies.

After graduation, Tsetsiliia and her husband planned to settle in Paris. But before they moved, they decided to make a trip home to visit their relatives, intending to give them a first view of their five-year-old daughter, Elena, and her younger brother, Leonid. The family left Berne in the early summer of 1914, traveling by train across the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Like most other people, they could not have known the future course of events that lay immediately before them and the unfortunate circumstances that would change the world forever. When World War I began on July 28, they were in Ukraine, caught behind the lines of battle that quickly developed and interrupted their plans to return to Western Europe to pursue their careers in the sciences. Solomon was recruited into the Russian army, and Tsetsiliia and the children remained in Khar’kov in order to be near her family. There she spent the war years, working to sustain herself and her two children during these years not only of war, but soon of revolution.

In 1914, on the eve of World War I, Khar’kov was Ukraine’s second largest city, with a population of 244,700.²⁷ As a major industrial and railroad center, the city had seen rapid economic growth early in the twentieth century, especially in mechanical engineering, mining, and steel processing. During these years of war, revolution, and civil war the city and its surrounding areas witnessed intense fighting from all sides—from pro- and anti-­Bolshevik armies, German units, Ukrainian national forces, and anarchists. In 1920, after the Red Army defeated its opponents, Khar’kov became the capital of Soviet Ukraine, a position it continued to hold until 1934, when the Soviet government returned the Ukrainian capital to Kiev.

In coming to power, the Bolsheviks championed a collective way of life in which private interests were to be sacrificed to the interests of the whole community. In part, the primary importance of the collective came out of the Bolsheviks’ struggles with their enemies, first the Tsarist regime and later the oppositional forces of the revolution. But the focus on collective consciousness reflected the Party’s ideological goals. The Bolsheviks fought for the liberation of humankind from social and economic oppression, aspirations requiring the submergence of the personal into the larger social good, as the Party conceived it. The New Soviet Man and Woman would be selfless, obliterating the distinction between private and public life. In his visit to Moscow from December 1926 until the end of January 1927, the German writer Walter Benjamin was struck with this new approach to social activity, this withering away of private life.²⁸ Everything is being rebuilt and every movement poses very critical questions, he wrote. The tensions of public life—which for the most part are actually of a theological sort—are so great that they block off private life to an unimaginable degree.²⁹ He described the small amounts of living space, the communal apartments, and lives lived essentially in the office, the club, and on the street.³⁰ The Bolshevik ­Party’s assault on the traditional family and on the Russian Orthodox Church aimed to destroy the roots of private interests and dissolve the self into a communal existence.

Thus, as recent scholars have pointed out, a large majority of diaries and memoirs written by Soviet citizens in the 1920s and ’30s demonstrate, even glorify, this emphasis on the collective.³¹ Private concerns and personal sensibilities play little role in these writings. Soviet diaries and memoirs attempt to set the individual in the context of political events, connect the person to those events, and highlight his or her contributions to Party successes. They show the drive to internalize the physical, external world, rather than to allow one’s internal thoughts to determine one’s actions.

In the life of Aleksandr’s mother Elena Semenovna, who would become a major influence on him, the reverse was the case.³² She, too, wrote a memoir about these years, although she composed some of it later in the Soviet period. Her memoir offered a rare, private view of her struggles. Unlike other such writers, she seldom spoke of external political events. She offered a personal recollection of her internal life, her thoughts and feelings in the process of self-discovery, her family, and her attempts to survive in a world outwardly hostile to her way of being.

In their studies of Soviet autobiographies from the 1920s through the 1940s, historians Igal Halfin and Jochen Hellbeck speak of an inner transformation that took place in the lives of the writers of these works. Both historians focused on language, the medium that molds the new consciousness of individuals, to show that such individuals shed their old individual selves and became members of an elect, the makers of a selfless, forward-looking, classless society.³³ In describing their conversion experiences, autobiographical writers proudly proclaimed how they extricated themselves from religious superstitions, how the state became the source of their new identity, and how they learned to think correctly.³⁴

In contrast to Halfin’s and Hellbeck’s analysis, Elena Men’s autobiography offers a portrait of a young woman’s personal experiences (entrance into adulthood). Like Halfin’s and Hellbeck’s protagonists, she writes about a personal transformation, but one that bears little resemblance to the worlds they describe. Elena Semenovna does not speak of a new social identity. She came to a new way of understanding the self and a different means of perceiving the world and her purpose in it. She sought to obey, she writes, not an external authority, but to listen to an inner voice, and she speaks of an independence of soul that characterized her life.³⁵ She does not recognize class enemies, the social and economic divisions that featured in the autobiographies of Party members. It is, therefore, not surprising that ­Elena’s favorite Russian writer is Fedor Dostoevsky, whose protagonist Alyosha Karamazov she calls her favorite literary character, and whose love for all people and selfless service she greatly admired.³⁶ She would not have said that she learned to think correctly. She had an innate sense of mystery about everything, including her own world.³⁷ She presents a more nuanced, more complex portrait than those found in the autobiographies that Helfin and Hellbeck describe.

A Different Road

In November 1917, when the Bolsheviks came to power, Elena Semenovna Tsuperfein was eight years old. That fall, she entered the private gymnasium in Khar’kov, matriculating into the oldest preparatory class in her school. The regimen of the school continued to follow the same plan as it had in the past, starting with religious instruction in the fundamentals of the Orthodox tradition. In the beginning of the lessons, she later recounted, the priest explained the foundations of the Orthodox faith, and offered to teach us the prayers.³⁸ The first class consisted of study of the Old Testament, and the second dealt with the New Testament. Not all students in the school were Orthodox, a distinction the teachers respected, allowing non-Orthodox students like Elena to leave the classroom during religion sessions and stand in the hallway outside or go down to the floor below, where an instructor gave them dance lessons. Although she was Jewish, Elena elected to remain in the classroom, where she listened attentively to the explanations of the priest, fascinated by his discussion of the Trinity, which she absorbed, she said, and took into my heart.³⁹

At home, Elena’s mother offered private French and German lessons to children and occupied herself all day and into the evening with her students. Needing the money to feed herself and her children, as well as her own mother, who lived with them during these difficult times, Tsetsiliia worked extremely hard to make ends meet; she left the household duties and care of the children largely in the hands of the grandmother. One day, near the end of the spring term, a student of Tsetsiliia’s forgot a copy of the New ­Testament after it inadvertently slipped down behind her chair as she departed. Several days later, Elena discovered the book, but her mother’s pupil had already gone to the countryside for the summer holidays, thus leaving it in Elena’s safekeeping for the following several months.

In her memoir, Elena Semenovna describes her reading of the New ­Testament that summer and how it opened before her a whole new world, which she had only glimpsed before in the school instructor’s talks. During the summer, she read the book herself, as she wrote, fascinated by the stories it contained. But even more than the biblical stories, Elena felt herself moved by the words and what they proclaimed, a feeling she had not experienced before: The more I read, the more I became attracted, drawn to its [the New Testament’s] spirit, and the more the love for Christ grew in me.⁴⁰ Elena claimed to have found that summer a different approach to other people and to herself than she had known previously. In part, her grandmother’s tender disposition—the same grandmother whom Fr. John of Kronstadt had allegedly healed—had prepared her for this moment. Living in the same household as her grandmother for several years had given Elena many opportunities to observe her kind demeanor and rich spiritual life. It was nothing explicit that her grandmother taught her, Elena noted, but the example she set through her relationships with others, which