Blood of the Enemy

1

The hot summer of 1916 for the peasants of the village of Ivanovka in the N province was filled with painful anticipation. The front line passed nearby, and although the battles in these places were sluggish, positional in nature, and grain was ordered to be sown and harvested anyway, the question of who would get the harvest remained open. The peasants worked carelessly, often gathered in small groups in the shadows and discussed for a long time the advantages and disadvantages of life “under the Germans.” Every day, airplanes circled in the air, arousing curiosity and giving rise to rumors about spies dropped from the sky. According to incomprehensible Russian logic, Fyodor Petrov, an evangelical preacher and founder of a local Baptist community, who settled in Ivanovka with his large family several years ago, became a victim of such rumors.

His “non-Russian faith” was felt immediately and in everything: he does not keep icons in his house, he has never crossed his forehead, he will not give a glass of wine to anyone and will not accept it from anyone, he works in the crappy field allocated to him as if it were his own, sparing neither himself nor his wife and children. And on top of that, with charming speeches he lured several Orthodox souls into the sect, who now run to his house at the crack of dawn, learn to read the Gospel in order and bow there to the “German” God.

For a long time the parish priest, Father Luke, puzzled over how to stop this disgrace. Even before the start of the war, having chosen an opportunity, he complained about the restless sectarian to the governor-general himself and, at the same time, to his own church authorities. But then nothing good came of it. Neither the civil authorities nor the spiritual authorities, in the person of the bishop, stood up for the priest and the Orthodox faith. They say that your Fyodor Petrov did not commit any criminal offenses, and as for faith, His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Nikolai Alexandrovich, has now graciously granted freedom of conscience to all sectarians... So, wait, Father Luke, until that Baptist steals something or, having gotten drunk, begins to brawl, then, they say, it will be possible to evict him from the village to somewhere far away.

Everything would be fine, but the trouble is that this Antichrist doesn’t drink or steal anything. He is not a saint, of course, good parishioners complain about him from time to time, but all this is some kind of nonsense, there is nothing to cling to. But that was before the war. And now the time is different, the time is serious. Now they promised to respond properly to his patriotic signal: it’s no joke, in Fyodor Petrov’s house the other day he received a German, another Baptist preacher named - God gave him a name, you’ll break your tongue, one word - spy! - Wilhelm Friedrichovich Hoppe. Now that’s it, now it’s Siberia, for at least five years. Glory to Thee, Lord, that the “mystery of iniquity” has finally been revealed!

2

- Fedor, run! Well, run, for Christ's sake! - Seeing his son Petka waving the conventional sign through the window, the wife screamed and pushed the pre-prepared bundle of things into her hands.

“Can you really run away from them, Katya?” – Fyodor answered hesitantly and thought about it.

– Run, through the gardens and into the mountains! – the wife begged again. – When the war ends, you will return to us... I beg you! Perhaps we alone will not be touched... Fyodor hugged his wife.

- My poor thing, how will you live without me?

- The Lord will help.

Fyodor ran through the gardens when the police on foot were already approaching the house. Katya did not open the door for a long time, giving her husband the opportunity to go as far as possible. Sensing something was wrong, the police walked around the house and saw a man running. The area was open, the nearest mountain was quite far away, and the fugitive was no longer young.

“We’ll catch up without shooting,” Sergeant Gromov decided and commanded the three privates accompanying him, “run after me!”

The policemen ran across the field, holding checkers dangling from their sides. However, despite the youth and agility of the pursuers, the distance between them and the fugitive was reduced extremely slowly. It soon became obvious that the sectarian managed to reach the mountainside. The police were breathing heavily. Gromov was about to shoot, but seeing almost vertical cliffs in front of him, with no signs of vegetation where he could hide, he decided to continue the pursuit.

Fyodor knew these places well, which had become home to him, and although he felt the approaching pursuit with his back, he hoped that he would be able to get away from it as he climbed. The mountain in the village was called Krivukha, and among its bizarre shapes and outlines it hid many surprises and dangers for climbers who did not know it. Having reached the first large saving stones, Fedor, despite fatigue, began to deftly climb up the barely noticeable path.

- Forward, follow him! - the constable ordered, pointing his index finger upward. - Catch the spy!

Three policemen, grumbling under their breath, climbed up the mountain. Gromov himself remained below and, having caught his breath, chose a convenient place for observation.

Soon enough, the two pursuers stopped on a steep climb, expressing their inability to climb higher. With purple faces, they spread their trembling hands and looked guiltily in the direction of the police officer. And only the third, the most resilient policeman, who undoubtedly grew up somewhere in the mountains, confidently continued his ascent. “What a great guy! He won’t leave Kravchuk!” – Gromov thought with satisfaction, seeing how the distance to the fugitive began to shrink again.

Meanwhile, Fyodor’s strength left him, he leaned against the stones in exhaustion and began to cry out to God in despair: “Lord, help!..”

The nimble policeman, drawing his saber, was inexorably approaching.

“Give up, spy!.. Now I’ll chop you down!” the pursuer laughed fervently, he was already only slightly lower than his victim. - God won’t help you, he won’t help you!

Fyodor closed his eyes, not wanting to see his enemy rise, frighteningly knocking his sword on the stones, getting closer and closer to his feet with a sparkling blade. “Thy will be done...” - Fyodor’s lips quietly uttered the conclusion of the prayer. And then something extraordinary and unexpected happened.

The already triumphant policeman suddenly stumbled and fell down. He flew only a few meters to the ledge from which he had threatened Fedor two minutes ago, but that was enough. Having hit his head on a rock, the pursuer lost his balance and, barely having time to grab the edge of the rock, hung over the abyss. The now useless saber lay not far from him, sandwiched between the stones.

Sergeant Gromov below frowned with displeasure. The police officer's order to arrest the sectarian preacher Petrov was under threat of non-fulfillment.

- Come on, Kravchuk, get up! – he shouted encouragingly from below.

But Kravchuk’s head was pierced and his neck was cut, blood flooded his eyes, frozen in horror, flowing in a scarlet stream onto a small stone platform, onto which, with the last of his strength, he pulled himself up with his hands and tried to climb.

- Oh, Lord! – that’s all Fedor could say, opening his eyes and assessing the instantly changed situation with one glance.

Now he was no longer in danger. It was possible to go further into the mountains. But what to do with a policeman and leave him like that? He won’t hang on for long, he’s about to fall... I remembered how his pursuer had just been swaggering, aiming his sword at his legs, and now he, with the last of his strength, is holding on to the stones with whitened fingers, and the handle of his once formidable saber is rapidly quickly plunging into the bloody puddle growing before his eyes.

Fyodor sighed heavily and began to descend towards his unlucky persecutor. Sergeant Gromov and two policemen below watched the sectarian’s actions with surprise and wariness. Fedor's feet soon stood on the platform, covered in the blood of the enemy. At that moment, Satan, tempting, invisibly approached the preacher, whispering the words of Scripture in his ear: “See how what was predicted has come true: “The righteous will rejoice when he sees vengeance; He will wash his feet in the blood of the wicked” (Ps. 57.11). Your enemy wanted to laugh at true faith, but here is God’s retribution! Push him into the abyss, as it is written: “Blessed is he who dashes your little ones against a stone!” (Ps. 136.).”

Fyodor even went cold from such terrifying thoughts, but after hesitating no more than a moment, he grabbed the unfortunate policeman with both hands and, catching his breath, pulled him towards him with the words of the Gospel: “Get away from me... Satan. It is written... also:... love... your enemies... bless... those who curse you...” (Matthew 5.44).

The next minute, the fugitive and his pursuer, hugging and happy, were already sitting on a tiny ledge of rock and praising God together. Fyodor, taking off his shirt, bandaged the wounded man’s head. For a while, they forgot about the purpose of their stay on this mountain. The sky embraced them from all sides.

Sergeant Gromov also smiled below. This did not stop him, however, from looking sternly at the two awkward policemen stuck in their climb up the mountain and giving them an unambiguous sign to quickly climb up. Those who had time to rest a little, at first bravely continued their ascent, but when they came closer to a dangerous, almost vertical place, where it was unclear how Petrov and Kravchuk were sitting on a rock, they stopped again, fearing to break their necks.

Then Gromov became darker than a cloud and, throwing his head up, shouted loudly.

- Kravchuk! Well, how are you there?

- Nothing... alive, thank God! – Kravchuk answered not according to the regulations.

Indeed, his bleeding had miraculously stopped.

He was still in the exalted and ecstatic state of a man who had just escaped certain death.

- Kravchuk! – Gromov then continued harshly. – Listen carefully to my order... I order: arrest the sectarian and bring him down... If he resists, cut him down with a saber!

Petrov and Kravchuk looked into each other’s eyes. Their faces became serious, but there was no reflection of fear or hatred on them.

- I can’t, Gromov... he saved my life! – Kravchuk shouted, continuing to look into Fedor’s eyes.

- Kravchuk! – the policeman’s voice sounded powerfully and ominously again. “If you don’t carry out the order right now, according to the law of war you will be shot!..,” and, after a little hesitation, Gromov added. – And let your Samaritan take this into account, if he feels so sorry for you...

Kravchuk lowered his head.

“Run,” he said quietly to Fyodor.

- You will be shot.

- And you will be sent to Siberia.

“And people live in Siberia, it’s still better than execution,” Fyodor smiled, it was already clear to him what to do next.

Policeman Kravchuk looked at him in surprise.

- And you will go into exile because of me, although you can run?

“Let’s go downstairs,” Fyodor put his hand on his shoulder, “we can’t sit here forever...

Kravchuk, turning pale and holding onto the stone wall, rose to his feet, then in desperation kicked his saber. She flew into the abyss, grating something angrily as she left.

Fyodor Petrov suddenly and loudly sang a Christian hymn—the stones around him seemed to ring—and, helping the wounded policeman, began to go down. At the same time, the weakened Kravchuk sobbed like a child: “Forgive me, friend... forgive me for God’s sake!..”

Below, the police watched with emotion at this almost biblical picture. Even the stern Gromov quietly said some kind of prayer and barely noticeably made the sign of the cross.

3

A week after the events described, Fyodor Petrov, as well as his wife and six children, deprived of their property, along with a group of other sectarians from front-line villages, were sent under escort to Siberia. They were accompanied by several desperately brave fellow believers. Next to them, behind the last cart, where Fyodor Petrov’s family was sitting, a man in military uniform and with a bandaged head walked for some time. Those mourning him took him for a wounded soldier from the German front. He cried all the time and quietly repeated something. Those who were close to him said that his words were: “There is God, there is!.. He will protect, He will help!..”

2001