When I was in prison and sentenced to eight years for “exceeding permissible religious propaganda,” I realized that I had embarked on a path of suffering for my faith, as many had. It was very difficult, but God always helped me spiritually.
I was transferred six times from prison to prison until I was eventually imprisoned in a camp where I was to serve those eight years. Conditions in the prisons were harsh, but in one of them they were appalling. The cell was overcrowded, the prisoners literally slept on top of each other. If someone had to stand up, they would step on their feet and hands. That’s why I heard terrible abuse all the time. It was hell.
I fell asleep from fatigue without praying. And I have a dream: an old man looks at me with a gray bifurcated beard. And I recognize him: this is Seraphim of Sarov. Are you dull? Why are you so worried? I have arranged for myself such a life that the old, sinful man in me should die and the new one should rise again; and you have received this, not arranged it yourself, but received it. Be happy, be happy. Christ is Risen!
I’m awake. It was different. Outwardly, nothing has changed, but internally I have become different. This was the day, so cleverly, that we were given, for the first time in months, paper to write letters home. I could not resist and, despite the risk, wrote in the margins: “This night Seraphim came to me and strengthened me.” Probably no one noticed this poster or understood its meaning. But my wife received this letter and was glad for me.
But what happened to my Marousia at that time? After my arrest, she was summoned by the headmaster of the school where she worked, and with tears in her eyes said that the order had come to dismiss her, because the wife of the enemy of the people could not bring up youth. She came home, she was waiting for our two sons, a native and adopted. They were all very upset, of course. And Marusya came to the iconic corner and began to pray.
At one time, as a little girl, in Kursk she went to the church of the Kazan Mother of God, which was built by the parents of St. Seraphim. She saw the place where little Prokhor Moshnin fell from the bell tower and remained unharmed. My wife came there because she loved Seraphim. And she began to pray to him and ask for help.
“Suddenly,” she said, “I felt that there was no mediastinum between me and the other world, that it was here.” I felt someone standing behind my back saying, ‘Don’t be afraid, I’m taking him under my protection.’ I looked around, there was no one physically there. I realized that it was Reverend Seraphim. Then I cried and said, ‘Oh my God, I’m not worthy of this.’
After a while, one of the parents of her students comes and says, “Would you like to give private lessons?” Then other parents came, and she was better paid than in the gymnasium, so she even had the opportunity to send me parcels, and they helped me survive.
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