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Chapter V
An Encounter with Zheka, the 'Holy Father'

The next day, Arthur left his apartment early to buy groceries and deal with some things. Hardly had he gotten out the door when he heard the church bells ringing. At the beginning of the 90s, this was a new, unusual occurrence in Moscow, one to which Muscovites hadn't quite adjusted. He remembered that not far from him was a church that was opened a few years ago, and which now had a large, active membership.

Apparently there was some kind of festival – the closer Arthur got, the larger the crowd of people. Someone was coming out of the church towards him. Several women wore long dresses and scarves which surprised him a bit.

He didn't have any particular attitude about church in general. He would sometimes go in, place a candle, and stay for some of the service. As a child, his great-grandmother had him baptized and she would talk a lot about the orthodox faith. Once in the past he had gone there to pay respects to her. He heard an elderly woman loudly complaining and scolding other people, adding to the gloomy atmosphere hanging over everyone's head, spoiling the impression of his visit. He didn't want to go there ever again.

Various articles in newspapers described how there were virtually no priests who hadn't been connected to Soviet power and not worked for the KGB. That, together with The Gulag Archipelag, had put a nail in the coffin for his belief in them and the church.

* * *

He was just walking, enjoying the beautiful sunny day and the birds' singing. To his surprise, he saw a priest coming his way, rather young, bearded, with long hair, looking fixedly at him. He felt ill at ease from the stare. He tried to avert his glance and sped up his step, but all of a sudden he heard the man calling him by name, "Arthur! Arthur!"

He hadn't imagined that the priest would call him by name. But when he heard him say in a singsong way, "Oh, Art," he knew the man was calling him. He had often been called 'Art' in his first years at the institute. Almost everybody had a nickname of sorts. Arthur stopped; without a doubt he was being addressed. The priest, smiling broadly and warmly, asked him, "Art, don't you recognize me?" And then, all at once he remembered, as if someone had thrown him in a cold shower.

"Zheka?" Arthur asked.

That had been our nickname for Eugene. Zheka came from the Vologda region. His father had been a manager of a large firm there and he had done everything he could to get his son into an institute of higher education in the capital. But his son wasn't very studious and was expelled for fighting and drinking in his second semester. He hadn't left a good impression of himself. Even worse, he was suspected of petty theft among his fellow students, and that had been the lowest thing to do. He wasn't caught in the act, but twice while he had been posted for security duty in the dorm some money and valuables disappeared. They weren't able to prove anything but there hadn't been anyone else on that floor.

All in all, Arthur couldn't call to mind any good impressions he had of Zheka. Looking at him now and trying to smile in return, he felt perturbed and thought to himself, "Good God! If these are the kinds of people that have now entered the church…"

For a fraction of a second, images of the past came to mind. He hesitated, not wanting to have anything to do with this 'holy father', as he was mentally calling Zheka.

They exchanged pleasantries and Arthur asked, "So, how can I call you? Father Eugene, most likely?"

"Oh, come on, stop it," Eugene good-naturedly objected. "Not really, but that doesn't matter right now. I'm just glad to see you. I understand what you are thinking. I'm sure you don't have any good memories of me. I can imagine. Still, I'm glad to see you. If you'd like, we can talk. You know, I'm indebted to you. Once at a lecture you raised a very important question about the meaning of life. Your argument with the teacher deeply influenced me. It had come to my mind again when I was under fire."

Arthur didn't pick up on Zheka's 'under fire' comment. But he did remember bringing up important questions about life and arguing at lectures on philosophical points until the group's party youth leader hinted to him that if he wanted to graduate, he had better stop doing it.

It was uncomfortable to refuse a bit of conversation, but he really didn't want any. Yet something inside of him told him to agree. So, mostly out of politeness, he said, "Sure." They went into a cafe that had recently just opened and sat at a table outside. Arthur gave a quick synopsis of himself – "Ahh, you know, nothing interesting," – and then asked Zheka to tell him about his 'religious transformation. He began talking and Arthur pretended that he was listening, but all the time he was thinking about the end of this chit-chat with the 'holy father'. They ordered some deserts and Zheka, in his quaint Vologda accent, told his story.

The more he talked, the more intriguing he sounded. They spent about three hours talking. Arthur, after coming back home, again returned to his diary to write down (as faithfully as he could recall) what he had heard. He wanted to show it to his future children.

* * *

Zheka explained that he was in Moscow only for a few days and was just passing through. He served in a small parish where there were not enough clergy. The parish membership was increasing and many new churches were opening.

He had come here for church celebrations, meetings, and training. He had a fiancée – a god-fearing, honest, and faithful young woman.

After he was expelled from the institute, his resume, showing his education and work, were very poor. His own father didn't even want to help him, saying, "Go on now; serve in the army. I served; now it's your turn. So, you didn't want to study? The army will help you to learn." And even though his father could've bought his son a way out of serving at all, or set him up in a comfy job somewhere, he did nothing of the sort. He had pretty much soured on his son.

The Spring recruitment round⁴ called up Zheka to serve. After his physical test, the Lieutenant-Colonel went up to Zheka and roughly addressed him, "So, you like to fight. You're a hot number, huh? What I'll tell you: let's just send you somewhere you'll get enough fighting and make good use of your talent. Do you want to be in the paratroopers? Not afraid?"

"No."

"Well, then, happy trails and God bless."

He was sent to join the Fergana paratrooper regiment in Turkistan. While they were on the train a few days later, they found out that most likely they would be sent to Afghanistan. In Fergana there was a boot camp and a regiment on active duty in Afghanistan.

Zheka had a terrible feeling about it all because – both in his home town as well as in Moscow – he knew a lot of people who had been wounded or killed, or who had lost someone in Afghanistan.

Newspapers weren't saying much about it, or if they did, they wrote articles of glory, and only people who could read between the lines in Soviet papers understood how badly things were going.

Chapter VI
Afghanistan

What awaited him in Fergana was an intensive boot camp,⁵ where soldiers trained, studied, and prepared for about three months before being sent to Afghanistan. It was no way out of it; it was tough, not least because of the strict boot-camp instructors. Their sergeants meted out severe punishment for the slightest infraction. Soldiers and sergeants called the officers jackals because of their even higher demands. Yet their grueling discipline was fairly justified since all officers and sergeants had gone through many field operations in actual battle. They would fly in for new recruits to refresh their ranks. They knew what would wait these greenhorns.

They were trained in firearms, hand-to-hand combat, parachute jumping, a number of desert combat scenarios, and went through extreme physical training. Then they were sent for a few weeks to the mountains, where Zheka thought he would die from exhaustion. Sometimes they would hike for 20–30 km. in full battle gear while still carrying on various battle engagement scenarios and shooting practice. His feet ended up looking like one big callus of blood and pus however he would try to wind socks around them. They got a half canteen of water a day.

But the real hell and torture began three months later when they were sent to Afghanistan.

* * *

Arthur's notes didn't contain the exact names of all the cities or people. The only ones written down were Kabul, Kandahar, Zelenka, and most of all – Bagram. On the one hand, it was easier in Afghanistan because there weren't any combat drills pulled on them in the middle of the night. On the other hand, there was continual psychological tension combined with a backdrop of steady, heavy physical labor.

The first two months they were stationed at a large base. Their part of the camp was fired on from the neighboring mountains in the first week and two from the first company died and several were injured. This was their baptism by fire and he understood – it was no joke.

Zheka began praying to God with the first shots: "God protect me. Save me if you are there!" He had not expected this to be coming from him of all people. After all, he had only heard of God from his old grandmother, way back in his childhood. She hadn't really told him a lot, just general sorts of things – how to pray, to cross your heart, and who Jesus Christ was.

Few months later, he got severe intestinal pains and after a couple days in the hospital, he was sent to another battalion whose duty was to maintain security over a remote region. They had to hold several high ridges in their hands, guarantee the security of various convoys, and carry out reconnaissance raids.

These were tough times in every way. Even though it was fall, it was hot and dry and it became windier every day. In November, strong sand storms kicked in and the nights became colder and colder. But the hardest thing to get used to was the heavy losses to the Soviet army. Death, injury, and missing in action were commonplace.

The mujahedeen were getting more experienced, trained by American mercenaries who provided them the most modern weapons. 'Stingers' were the most dangerous – they easily shot down helicopters. Shooting on convoys or laying down punitive fire on the paratroopers' motorized brigades was now the norm, using American and captured Soviet rockets.

The hardest thing to take was that everyone understood the senselessness of the fighting and that the so-called 'international aid' was not what this country needed.

Planes returned to the USSR full of wounded or with 'load 200 , as the zinc caskets were called. When there wasn't room, the caskets sat under the hot sun for some time before take off.

Many soldiers in this battalion who had been on repeated tours of duty with only a month left to serve did whatever they could to be able to return home alive and in one piece. It was considered to be the worst thing to have served two years in this hell and to be injured or killed just before being sent home.

For the battalion, the last year was the hardest of the whole Afghan campaign. About half of them either died or were wounded and those that survived suffered from infections. As a result, a lot of new soldiers and officers were brought in who mostly hadn't seen battle yet.

Zheka had a year and a half left to serve. It seemed to last an eternity, as every day for him stretched out painfully and despairingly. As if things weren't bad enough, he fell asleep on sentry duty one night, which had extremely unpleasant consequences. The battalion's guard cussed him out roundly, and after he was dismissed, the sergeant gave him a professional knockout punch, telling him, "Because of people like you, whole companies get cut to pieces." In the morning the battalion commander roared at him, "So, you like to sleep on guard duty? We'll pack you off to Parkhomin's unit. You won't fall asleep there."

And so he was sent to join a hard-core marine unit under the command of Parkhomin. This lone platoon carried out the most difficult assignments and was always engaged in battle.

* * *

It was not hard for Zheka to remember meeting with the platoon commander – his demeanor lent itself to ready friendship. The lieutenant was sitting on his bed, reading the arrival papers of a new soldier to his command. He said in a warm, fatherly tone, "We're so glad you're here. Tell me something about yourself." That fatherly manner just about did Zheka in; he almost cried. No one had talked to him in that way for so long. His own father had been quite brusque with him when he sent him off to the army.

Zheka told him about himself, Parkhomin showed him where the mess hall was, and left him with some parting words: "Strive to serve well. We all depend on one another here and your little mistake could cost many their lives – your fellow soldiers and those we are trying to protect." He then gave him some important manuals and sent him off to sergeant Zubin.

And so began new battle routines for Zheka. They would get an emergency call, for example – a convoy had been ambushed so it would be their duty to fly out there. They would pull dead and wounded from the ambush site, lie waiting for several days in case the mujahedeen returned, accompany the rescue vehicles back to the hospital, and a number of similar tasks. By the end of spring, he had turned into a seasoned fighter.

He was a good shot, could easily go on 20-kilometer mountain marches fully suited up, quickly found the safest places to be during an engagement, could move silently, and could take his sleep in 30-minute sessions. He took life as it came – day by day.

All this time in the platoon no men were lost, which was surprising because losses in the battalion as a whole continued. Much of this was due to their platoon commander, who, in addition to his valuable experience, also had a certain 6-th sense, an intuition which saved the soldiers on numerous occasions.

* * *

One time they were returning to base after a two-day march, totally exhausted. They were about six kilometers out and intent on getting back before sunset. The path stretched out downwards and the lead men were jogging ahead because they wanted to eat, drink, and rest before morning. This area was considered to be safe territory – their own. But suddenly Parkhomin shouted, "Hold it! Don't move." He moved ahead slowly with a sapper.⁶ And literally in ten meters they discovered a trigger-wire, a string attached to a bomb. If they had pulled on this string, a grenade would've rolled down and in a few seconds exploded. This had been calculated to be for a group heading down a narrow path. There was no time to defuse it, especially since another trigger-wire was found. He gave the command, "Walk around it, carefully."

They took up positions on high ground and noticed some mujahedeen getting settled on a neighboring ridgeline to shoot down on a convoy which they could already see below. The shooting started and the commander led the operation from cover. Suddenly he called to the machine-gunner on the radio, "Get out of your spot now! Leave your position immediately. Go 30 meters to the ravine. Fast! And cover your head!" In a minute you could hear a rocket-propelled grenade and it exploding right where they had just been. Even though they were a bit deafened by the blast, everyone lived. And this was far from the only such instance.

He also had a certain 'sense' about people. He always seemed to know who to send where and for what. He had chosen Saulyus, a Lithuanian, as radio operator, even though Russian was not his mother tongue and he spoke with a strong accent. A couple of sergeants had considered the matter once during a cigarette break: "So, will this Lithuanian be able to speak Russian while we're under fire? You know, what if he forgets how to speak Russian?" Once, they had been coming down from a mountain with him and some shooting erupted. Saulyus fell down, sprained his foot, and rolled down the hill, accidentally hitting the walkie-talkie a few times on rocks and it stopped working. Mujahedeen were trying to surround them and they urgently needed to call for help. But he sat down, started fixing the radio, kept a cool head, and in five minutes he had it working again. They called for help and two helicopters arrived, laying down fire on the encroaching mujahedeen. The artillery joined in, hitting the mujahedeen positions on the ridge from which they'd been firing. The attackers had to withdraw. One soldier was wounded, though not serious – some stray shrapnel – and he returned to duty in a few days.

Parkhomin was an officer that even soldiers from other divisions respected and would not refer to as a jackal, as they did to other officers. He could be harsh and demanding, but he was courageous and always saw to the needs of his own men.

For instance, he might call the regiment's administrative chief and demand replacement of expired soldering rods or a shipment of more foodstuffs. He might speak roughly, too, even though the person at the other end of the line was a major. He would do whatever it took to get the best for his men.

A lance corporal had been seriously injured (before Zheka had joined) and was sent back to the base hospital. Shrapnel had caused severe lesions in his right thigh. The shrapnel there hadn't reached the bone but gotten close to the knee and was touching the tendon. Other shrapnel had hit him in the side in his ribs. The corporal's name was Andrey Velichko. He lay in the hospital several weeks before his transport back to the Soviet Union, and Parkhomin, when he was on base, brought him his mail, his things, food. He gave him words of support and encouragement and thanked him for his service. His care meant exuded concern and support, and everyone felt it.

But Zheka felt this man's courage was his most striking aspect. He was lecturing two Dagestan soldiers who had been placed to hold a vital position – covering troop disembarkation. They had left their posts abruptly while under fire, giving the attackers the opportunity to fire on the whole group. Everyone lay down as the helicopter, which hadn't dropped off the whole contingent, took back off again. It was just a miracle that no one was hurt. When they got back to the barracks, Parkhomin hollered at them: "You pigs! Scum! Lowlifes! Cowards! I'm going to write to your whole family, so that your grandparents and parents know that they have raised cowards. He cussed them out unreservedly and said that next time, if someone dies, they will have to write the words for the soldiers' last rites and explain to their parents in their own broken Russian, "I am so sorry, mothers, I chickened out and ran, and they killed your son…"

This went on for some ten minutes after which he said that such low-lives would even ruin administrative or support operations. They tried to say something in their defense; their nostrils were flaring. They were from the Caucasus, hot-blooded, not used to anyone daring to address them in this fashion.

They were ordered for a month, every time after returning from maneuvers, to bring in all additional ammunition and to clean the latrines. The behavior they had shown couldn't, in principle, be permitted. The mujahedeen were a big enough problem to deal with. But now, you might have to worry if your own people were going to shoot at you – whether in the foot or the body – because you had been too harsh. Just knowing that the people covering your back hate you increases your psychological stress, and that was already at a high enough level.

To their honor, these soldiers never again exhibited their cowardice.

* * *

At the end of spring, Parkhomin took a month's leave. During that time, their unit was largely left alone. They only went on two big jobs and even then, they were attached to the whole recon company. Zheka noticed how everyone was feeling a little off, missing something or someone. They were all missing their officer.

Parkhomin returned from leave refreshed and enthused, but at the same time sad and self-reflective. While he had been on leave, an order had come through promoting him to captain.

He had a two-year old son and a wife whom he hadn't seen a year because his leave was always getting delayed. No one was available to replace him while he was gone, a problem that often occurred in the outlying areas in Afghanistan.

His parents had died in a car accident when he was in his last year of high school. That was one of the reasons why he chose a military academy to study at: the government paid for room and board. He graduated from a school specializing in English with good grades and was easily entered a military academy.

He had only six or seven months left to serve out in Afghanistan.

About the end of August some extremely serious fighting began. The mujahedeen were actively engaging them daily through arms fire and bombings. Hard times were setting in. Again, they heard rumors that they would be sent back to the Soviet Union.

Instead, they remained and continued to suffer greater and greater losses, and their battalion was no exception, however Parkhomin worked hard to protect them. Approximately two months after he'd come back from leave, they were sent in a paratrooper armored troop transport to rescue a scout unit.

All of a sudden, a town on the other side of the canyon was laying down heavy machine-gun and rocket-propelled grenade fire. There was supposed to be a local Afghan (Soviet-aligned) army garrison there.

The mujahedeen used a very dirty tactic, especially in the last years. They would enter local residents' homes, set up battle positions, and shoot. The residents weren't permitted to leave. And so, when return fire came, many civilians died. The mujahedeen would photograph this and use it as propaganda against the Soviet Army. It also helped them win new recruits anxious to avenge the deaths of relatives.

The Soviet soldiers who had been sent to help had gotten pinned down – some behind a tank, some behind various stones – and could hardly move. One tank finally blew up under the intensity of the large-caliber machine-gun fire and from the rocket-propelled grenades.

They had called for assistance on the radio. Now, on the other side of the gorge, the helicopters were dropping off the paratroopers. They were encircling the town and beginning to fight back, aided by volleys from helicopters. Two of the tanks were shooting with their 30-mm guns. Virtually all the Soviet soldiers were actively shooting at the mujahedeen, whose fire had diminished.

Parkhomin's troops began to fire back with their rocket-propelled grenades and were steadily eroding the mujahedeen positions.

This was a fairly dangerous, well-armed contingent; you could call it a mujahedeen 'special forces unit' that had trained in Pakistan.

In the end, the division coming down from above took the village by nightfall. No one got away – two wounded mujahedeen were taken alive and sixteen killed. Unfortunately, several families of the local civilians died.

Parkhomin said, "What can we do about it? They chose to bring their people to death. If their religion, their world view lets them use their people as a living shield, what can we do?"

Their regiment's commander implemented a new tactic – shoot to kill even if the shooting came from residential homes. Before, only snipers had been allowed to do this. This new method saved countless paratroopers' lives but increased the civilian deaths. Of course, soon this worsened relations with the local population.

It was a bad scene – many dead and wounded, especially among our intervening forces.

In their platoon, six had died, among them Sergeant Zubin, who'd had so little time left to serve out and who had rescued wounded during the engagement, dragging them behind boulders. At the end of the battle, a dazed engineer had jumped out of a burning tank and Zubin covered him with his body. He received a posthumous Order of Glory. His mother and a girlfriend, whom he had loved from school days, were left to live without him in Leningrad.⁷ He had studied with his girlfriend at the Polytechnic Institute and they had planned to marry. Later, when Parkhomin spoke of him, he said that only such a man, who could love truly, could honestly be called a hero.

Ten were wounded, virtually all seriously. Their radio operator, Saulyus, had lost his leg below the knee. He groaned and came in and out of consciousness. There was only one doctor, trying to help everyone. Helicopters started arriving, receiving the dead and wounded. In the half-collapsed mosque they found a large cache of weapons, mines, and books.

Zheka had earlier prayed to God, asking for his protection, but this time he turned to Him with despairing questions: "Why? Why do the innocent suffer? Why do the young become cripples? What is this useless war for? What did these good men do that displeased God so? Why are the mujahedeen become crueler the more religious they get? Tell me God, why is it happening? What good is our suffering to you? Why am I here, and Saulyus, and Zubin? I wasn't wounded but these good men, who have loving young women, and parents, and who studied well, were. I want to know – why? And, I want to do something so that it will never happen again."

They returned to base. Morale was low; everyone was despondent. They were given two days off to recuperate. There were 15 new soldiers, straight from boot camp, coming in as replacements. The second lieutenant brought some hard liquor to drink in memory of those fallen, and everyone drank except Parkhomin. He never drank or smoked and didn't encourage it. Bad habits make a person a slave and weak in every way, he was sure. But this time he didn't bother them about it; he was very busy and hardly ever left his quarters.

Two days later they received another assignment – establish a position at a high elevation and report on all enemy activity, trying not to engage them. They headed to a deserted village and took up positions. Already the next night some mujahedeen tried to enter the village. When they got close enough, they were shot. Two were killed but a third managed to escape. It was clear it had been a scouting operation and now the mujahedeen knew where they were.

And in fact, early the next morning they were back, shooting. This turned into a grim battle. Parkhomin took Zheka, two other experienced men, and the radio operator into an empty house standing a bit higher than the rest apart. This afforded the best vantage point from which to see the attacking mujahedeen and coordinate battle orders.

Parkhomin ordered them to hold their positions, to conserve their rounds, and only to shoot when they were sure. They were told that reinforcements would arrive, but hours went by and – nothing. As it turned out, that morning two helicopters had been shot down and an entire convoy destroyed. So now, the soldiers were shooting back as best they could, yet, slowly but surely, they became encircled.

The mujahedeen made subtle advances under cover of continual machine gun fire, making the fight very challenging. It was clear that they were seasoned fighters.

The village's houses had virtually no roofs and one mujahedeen who had been able to creep up closely enough undetected was able to throw a grenade in.

As Zheka was telling this part of his story, he blushed, closed his eyes and said, "I've heard people in similar situations say how at such times you feel an intensity to what is happening, and that everything slows down. That's how it was with me. Everything started going as if in slow motion."

The mujahedeen were attacking from the east and south sides, the sun was blinding, and then something flashed. Zheka looked up and saw the grenade flying slowly, to the side, a little closer to Parkhomin. He watched it spinning in the air, slowly falling. He was paralyzed with fear. His whole life literally flashed before his eyes and he knew, this was it – death.

He saw that he hadn't done anything in particular in his life, that it had been useless. He was afraid. Moments passed as slowly as syrup; everything had stopped. He looked at Parkhomin, then at the grenade. Parkhomin shouted something to the radio operator and suddenly noticed the grenade. Zheka saw a giant wave of fright in his eyes to be replaced a moment later with regret. He briefly glanced at the clay partition in the shelter. He still had a chance to save himself, but the other two – Zheka and the machine gunner – didn't stand the slightest, even theoretical chance. What's more, if the grenade blew up it would most likely tear through the thin clay walls and bury anyone in the other room.

There was only one thing to do. Parkhomin's face showed his clear decisiveness as he threw himself on the grenade. Zheka repeated several times, "I remember it clearly. Everything was in slow motion."

Just as in a rugby match, Parkhomin grabbed the grenade and curled up with it under a small table – a simple, wooden one, but solid. He yelled, "Lay down!" Zheka and Ruchnikov, both from the Ryazinski region, threw themselves down and covered their heads, as they had been trained, and then a deafening blast let out. They walked away from it without a scratch, just some temporary deafness. The mujahedeen aborted their attack on the house, having decided that everyone had died.

A little bit later you could see something flashing in the sky – helicopters, forcing back the mujahedeen advance. Reinforcements had arrived and they were saved.

The next events were a bit foggy for Zheka. He knew that Parkhomin had saved them from sure death by paying a dear price – his own life. Sappers from the reinforcement group laid mines through the village and everyone was ordered back to base. Back at the base, the wounded, and those who had carried them onto the helicopters, said that one man had died, but that they couldn't really carry him back because his body had been torn apart. They presumed he was the radio operator or a commander. No one wanted even to think that it might be Parkhomin. When it came out that it had indeed been his body, everyone took off their helmets and many soldiers cried openly.