{"id":1816,"date":"2009-06-01T01:10:14","date_gmt":"2009-06-01T06:10:14","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/paganpages.org\/content\/?p=1826"},"modified":"2009-05-28T12:10:38","modified_gmt":"2009-05-28T17:10:38","slug":"greetings-from-afar-3","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/paganpages.org\/emagazine\/2009\/06\/01\/greetings-from-afar-3\/","title":{"rendered":"Greetings from Afar"},"content":{"rendered":"

The Evil That Men Do<\/strong><\/p>\n

Author’s Note: Due to the Public Image and celebrity status of the person in question, the name of the “American” has been withheld at his request.<\/em><\/p>\n

The man was gaunt, almost skelital. His height, well over six feet, made his appearance even more severe. He was balding, with a drooping moustash and a scraggly beard clinging beneath his lower lip and to the base of his chin. He was dressed like a “bombzh”, a homeless man in an old army greatcoat, military trousers and worn jackboots. A visored cap rested on the bench next to him has he sat calmly and fed the pigeons in the little park and watched a group of children from the neighboring orphantage at play. Occasionally, he would smile at one of the children who ran by him, but as a whole, he was somber in his appearance. He had a somewhat sad look on his stern face, a look of longing. It was the look of a man dreaming of the past\u2026 of what “might have been”.<\/p>\n

The American lived in an apartment building on the opposite side of the park. It was one of four monsterous, towering blocks of flats that formed a sort of wall around the pentagon-shaped seculed green area that contained a playground for the local children and a shaded grassy field for those who simply enjoyed the outdoors. As a rule the American used the well manicured little green as a convenient place to walk his dog. It was a safe place, and the little dog could run free for the limited time that he had to take her on such outings.<\/p>\n

The park was fairly empty that day. There was an old man, sitting alone on a bench feeding the pigeons and a group of children from State Orphantage No. 4, which formed the fifth \u201cwall\u201d in the row of buildinds surrounding the park. The American had seen the old man sitting there before. He was almost always there when the children from the orphanage were at play. But\u2026 this was the first time they had actually been in the park at the same time. He let his little dog, a black and tan Miniature Dachshund named Angel, off of her leash and casually walked over and sat down beside the man as he watched the dog run and play with some of the nearer children. It was a beautiful, warm spring day in late May. The grass was green and lush and the first of the flowers in the park\u2019s manicured beds were beginning to show the first signs of color. The American was in no particlar hurry. For a change, the first time in some weeks, he had all day, and intended to relax and enjoy the newly arrived warm weather.<\/p>\n

With nothing better to do, he decided to try out his newly acquired Russian Language.\u00a0 His company, the one he was under contract to at the moment, had invested quite a sum in his lessons. The film that they were shooting, on location in Moscow, required \u201crealism\u201d. That required some work on the American\u2019s part, and he had often wondered, as he sat through the two-hour long daily sessions, why he had not bothered to learn the language from his grandparents when he had the chance. Of course, that was in the past now. Nothing could be done about it.\u00a0 It was a lot of trouble, he thought, to go through for a single film, but perhaps there would be others. Now seemed to him to be a good time to put his newly acquired skills to the test and see if those lessons had been effective. “Dob-rei Deen” he stammered to the man beside him on the bench.<\/p>\n

” And a good day to you, too.” The tall, thin man said, in slightly accented but almost flawless English. “American?”<\/p>\n

Definately not a “bomzh” the American thought. He was far too literate, and definately not drunk. He was probably a pensioner who lived in one of the adjoining buildings. The old man had probabaly come out to get a bit of fesh air, watch the children, feed the birds and look for the chance of some company as was the habit of many retired Russians who suddenly found themselves with a great deal of time on their hands. “Yes, in fact I am”.<\/p>\n

“There seem to be quite a lot of you here, now. There used not to be so many. Not many at all in fact”.<\/p>\n

“I know,\u201d the Amerian replied, becoming slightly more confident now that he was speaking his own language. \u201cThings are different, now. Better “.<\/p>\n

“That depends on how you look at it,” the man said. “Those children, for example\u2026”<\/p>\n

“Yes, I see them here almost every day. They’re orphans,” the American said flatly. Then he shook his head knowingly and said, “I know”.<\/p>\n

“Not just that. Look at them. There isn’t a one of them that doesn’t look hungry. Look at the clothes they\u2019re wearing\u2026 no better than rags. It wasn’t that way, once. It\u2019s disgraceful. We didn\u2019t permit it. Even in the darkest days of the Civil War, we managed to find food for the children. Some didn’t like our methods, we didn\u2019t expect them to\u2026 Honestly didn\u2019t care whether they liked them of not. But the children, after all, are our future”.<\/p>\n

The American looked at the man carefully, intently. He was old, by local standards, but he wasn\u2019t that old. Russian men tended to look older than their years, he thought\u2026 It was especially true of the generation born during, or just after, the \u201cGreat Patriotic War\u201d, as the Second World War is known in Russia. This man seemed to be in his fifties, certainly not older than that. “You don’t look old enough to remember the Civil War,” the American said “let alone the Revolution. That was seventy some-odd years ago”.<\/p>\n

“I remember them all right. You might say that I remember them too well.” That wistful look crossed his face again, as though he were bringing back bitter, but possibly bittersweet memories of\u00a0 a time long past.<\/p>\n

“You must have been a small child, then\u2026I\u2019m sure that it was a difficult time”.<\/p>\n

“No” the answer was simple and matter of fact.<\/p>\n

The American considered the situation. It just wasn’t possible that this man was that old. He had to be a little off in the head Maybe he had been a child, a very small child, at the time, but it was impossible that he could have been more than that. He almost certainly couldn\u2019t possibly remember those times. Maybe he was dredging up stories that his parents had told him.<\/p>\n

“You know, my wife and I we lost our only child” he mused “That ‘s why the orphans have always been special to me”.<\/p>\n

“That’s sad,” the American said . It must have been a terrible experience. I\u2019m not married myself\u2026 no children. But\u2026I can understand how you feel, though\u201d.<\/p>\n

“Yes” the tall man said as he rose to leave. “It was very sad. It was a terrible time, the worst of my life. We were never able to have other children. That’s why I did all that I could, all that was in my power, to make their lives better\u201d. He gestured toward the playing orphans with a broad sweep of his long thin arm and almost skelital hand.\u00a0 \u201cThey needed everything, schools, homes, doctors and medicine, kindergartens, training for jobs and useful work\u2026 They needed food and warm clothing\u201d. He rattled off the baleful litany in quick order. There was no doubt that the old man had strong feelings about the parentless children. \u201cThey need it all, and our Revolution needed willing hands to build the future\u2026 a better future, we thought\u2026 for all of us. We got it for them. We got all of it for them. It cost us dearly, but we did it, and they built our future, or tried to”.<\/p>\n

Things were getting stranger and stranger. The man had to be “off his rocker”. He was claiming credit for things that had been done three quarters of a century before. He looked at the strange old man again. He couldn\u2019t have been more than a toddler back then, if he\u2019d been born at all\u2026 He couldn\u2019t possibly have had any part in what he was describing. Maybe he had been one of those orphans\u2026 It was hard to tell.<\/p>\n

“Well, I must go,” the old man said. “I only have so much time each day that I can spend here watching them. I\u2019ve really not much time at all. That\u2019s rather funny,\u201d he mused quizically, \u201call things considered. But\u2026 you know how it is. You know what they say, “no rest for the weary and no peace for the damned”.<\/p>\n

“That’s right,” the American smiled. That was something that he could understand well enough. There was never enough time for anything in post-Soviet Russia. In the last year or so, Russia had undergone a transformation, and it was still going on. Things were in a state of near anarchy, and no matter how hard one worked, there never seemed to be enough time to get everything done. There were certainly never enough hours in a given day. This very day was proof of that to him. It was the first day off that he had enjoyed in six weeks, and he had at least another six exactly the same to \u201clook forward\u201d to. “No peace for the damned” he repeated softly.<\/p>\n

“Why don’t you do me a favor? If you are going to be here for a bit longer, would you mind walking across the street with the children when the Matron calls them in? The streets here are dangerous now not like they once were\u201d.<\/p>\n

The American thought about it for a moment, then agreed. It couldn’t hurt, and the man looked so concerned\u2026 Even if he was a bit eccentric, his heart was in the right place. “Certainly, ” he replied. \u201cI\u2019d be glad to\u201d.<\/p>\n

“Thank you,” the man replied as he rose to leave. \u201cYou know, only a few years ago, this was a quiet street. We didn\u2019t have so many automobiles then\u201d. He used the quaint term \u201cautomobile\u201d as though it was used every day. He stood, stretched, and put his cap on. A shock of his thinning hair protruded from under the visor. He turned up the collar of his long wollen coat as though against a non-existent wind. Then, without another word, he sank his hands deeply into his pockets and walked slowly away. The children didn’t seem to notice him at all, even though he walked right through the midst them as they kicked a scarred soccer ball around the center of the park. The American glanced away briefly when he heard his little dog bark. When he looked back up, the old man was gone. He must have already entered the nearest building, about 50 meters away. Funny, the American thought, he hadn\u2019t seemed to be walking that fast\u2026<\/p>\n

A few minutes later, the matron of the orphanage, a shortt, plump wonan in her mid-forties with a harrassed and harried, but motherly look on her face, behind her tiny wire framed glasses, called out for the children to stop playing and come “home”. She said that it was time for supper. The American, noticed that this woman, obviously rather senior in the orphanage\u2019s heirarchy, was hardly dressed better than her charges, and that her hair, tied in a severe bun at the back of her head, looked prematurely gray.\u00a0 True to his word to the strang old man, he rose, called his little dog, put the leash back on her, and slowly walked across the street with the departing children. He continued with them until they were through the rusting wrought iron gate that guarded their home, and inside the austere brick walls of the orphanage compound. The place, he thought, had obviously seen better days The stucco was cracking and falling from the brick wall and the paint was fading, the stucco on the walls of the buildings themselves was cracked in many places. In places, the chipped orange-red bricks were visible thorough holes in the vanier. The place, he thought, had the look of one that had once been lavish by Soviet standards, but had fallen on hard times… very hard times. But, he mused, that could be said of much of Russia of late.<\/p>\n

It was there inside the walled compound, surrounded by the aura of past prosperity, that he received the greatest shock of his life. There, in the midst of the courtyard, atop a small marble pedistal surronded by a tiny, but well groomed and tended flower bed, was a bust. The American\u2019s heart skipped a beat. There was no possible doubt as to what he was looking at. It was the likeness of the man he had met in the park. A sudden chill ran through him as he surved the scene before him.\u00a0 On the pedistal beneath the bust, aninscription read “Our Founder”. Below it, was yet another inscription\u2026 one that literally made his blood run cold\u2026 It said “Felix Edmundovich Drezhenski, 11 September, 1877 – 20 July, 1926”.<\/p>\n

The American\u2019s thoughts went back to the days that he had spent with his grandmother\u2026 years before as a small child and the stories that she had told him about her homeland across the sea\u2026 He knew who this man was\u2026<\/p>\n

Felix Drezhenski\u2026 Son of a Polish Aristocrat, who turned on “his own”. Drezhenski, one of the “headliners\u201d and architects of the “Great October Revolution\u201d. For years, Drezhenski was the most awe-inspiring name in Russia\u2026 loved by the honest, feared and hated by the criminal. He was the utterly incorruptible and honest cop. “Iron Felix”\u2026 the man who could not be bought, the ideologue, the founder and guiding light of the Cheka, charged with cleaning up and bringing order to revolution and Civil War torn Russia. It was Drezhenski\u2019s organization that later, after his death by poisoning at the hands of Stalin, inadvertently became the predecessor of the infamous NKVD and KGB.<\/p>\n

Felix Drezhenski was the man who brought the post-revolutionary black market to its knees with a fist of steel. He was for the whole world, “Iron Felix”\u2026 the man who unwittingly became a symbol of freedom when his statue was toppled one night in August of 1991. He was a man who, after his death, had become a scapegoat for a dictator who hated and feared him for his honesty and integrity. Under Josef Stalin\u2019s careful orchestration, Drezhenski\u2019s name became synonymous with evil incarnate. But, the people did not forget. They knew that he was also the man who founded Russia’s fine system of Children’s Homes, kindergartens and orphanages. He was the man who often worked 18 hours a day on nothing more than a few slices of bread and a glass of water so that the children in the homes he founded could eat the meals that he denied himself. He was the man who would trudge wearily home at the end of the day, in any kind of weather, because he refused a driver or car\u2026 more money saved for \u201chis children\u201d. On the way, he would stop at the nearest orphanage and deliver the food that he had carefully hoarded in a brown paper bag, then stand by and watch it distributed among the young people that he had taken it upon himself to guard and protect until they reached adulthood. He was the man who denied himself a decent suit of clothing and new boots, so that the money he saved could be sent to the foundlings who, in his heart, had replaced his own dead son. He and his wife had lost their only child to Typhus in the horrible, deadly winter of 1906. They had lost the light of their lives, and forever mourned him. But\u2026like “Mr. Chips” of fiction, Drezhenski had other children\u2026 hundreds of them. And\u2026that\u2019s what they called themselves, \u201cDrezhenski\u2019s Children\u201d. Most of them, those who actually knew the man, are gone now, but a few still survive. They will tell anyone who will listen about their \u201cfather\u201d. They will tell anyone who will listen how they stood in line in the blazing summer sun for hours for a chance to pass by his coffin as he lay in state, and how surprised they all were to see him, for the first time that any of them could remember, wearing a pair of new boots as he reposed in death.<\/p>\n

Shakespeare, the immortal Bard of Avon said it best “The evil that men do in their lives goes on after them; the good is oft interred with their bones” Of course, the Bard had never met Felix Edmundovich Dreshenski .<\/p>\n

The American stood there in the courtyard of State Orphantage No. 4, for the longest time, in absoulte silence. If anyone had seen him, they would have sworn that he looked for all the world as if he\u2019d seen a ghost\u2026<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The Evil That Men Do Author’s Note: Due to the Public Image and celebrity status of the person in question, the name of the “American” has been withheld at his request. The man was gaunt, almost skelital. His height, well over six feet, made his appearance even more severe. He was balding, with a drooping moustash and a scraggly beard clinging beneath his lower lip and to the base of his chin. He was dressed like a “bombzh”, a homeless man in an old army greatcoat, military trousers and worn jackboots. A visored cap rested on the bench next to him has he sat calmly and fed the pigeons in the little park and watched a group of children from the neighboring orphantage at play. Occasionally, he would smile at one of the children who ran by him, but as a whole, he was somber in his appearance. He had a somewhat sad look on his stern face, a look of longing. It was the look of a man dreaming of the past\u2026 of what “might have been”. The American lived in an apartment building on the opposite side of the park. It was one of four monsterous, towering blocks of flats that formed a sort of wall around the pentagon-shaped seculed green area that contained a playground for the local children and a shaded grassy field for those who simply enjoyed the outdoors. As a rule the American used the well manicured little green as a convenient place to walk his dog. It was a safe place, and the little dog could run free for the limited time that he had to take her on such outings. The park was fairly empty that day. There was an old man, sitting alone on a bench feeding the pigeons and a group of children from State Orphantage No. 4, which formed the fifth \u201cwall\u201d in the row of buildinds surrounding the park. The American had seen the old man sitting there before. He was almost always there when the children from the orphanage were at play. But\u2026 this was the first time they had actually been in the park at the same time. He let his little dog, a black and tan Miniature Dachshund named Angel, off of her leash and casually walked over and sat down beside the man as he watched the dog run and play with some of the nearer children. It was a beautiful, warm spring day in late May. The grass was green and lush and the first of the flowers in the park\u2019s manicured beds were beginning to show the first signs of color. The American was in no particlar hurry. For a change, the first time in some weeks, he had all day, and intended to relax and enjoy the newly arrived warm weather. With nothing better to do, he decided to try out his newly acquired Russian Language.\u00a0 His company, the one he was under contract to at the moment, had invested quite a sum in his lessons. The film that they were shooting, on location in Moscow, required \u201crealism\u201d. That required some work on the American\u2019s part, and he had often wondered, as he sat through the two-hour long daily sessions, why he had not bothered to learn the language from his grandparents when he had the chance. Of course, that was in the past now. Nothing could be done about it.\u00a0 It was a lot of trouble, he thought, to go through for a single film, but perhaps there would be others. Now seemed to him to be a good time to put his newly acquired skills to the test and see if those lessons had been effective. “Dob-rei Deen” he stammered to the man beside him on the bench. ” And a good day to you, too.” The tall, thin man said, in slightly accented but almost flawless English. “American?” Definately not a “bomzh” the American thought. He was far too literate, and definately not drunk. He was probably a pensioner who lived in one of the adjoining buildings. The old man had probabaly come out to get a bit of fesh air, watch the children, feed the birds and look for the chance of some company as was the habit of many retired Russians who suddenly found themselves with a great deal of time on their hands. “Yes, in fact I am”. “There seem to be quite a lot of you here, now. There used not to be so many. Not many at all in fact”. “I know,\u201d the Amerian replied, becoming slightly more confident now that he was speaking his own language. \u201cThings are different, now. Better “. “That depends on how you look at it,” the man said. “Those children, for example\u2026” “Yes, I see them here almost every day. They’re orphans,” the American said flatly. Then he shook his head knowingly and said, “I know”. “Not just that. Look at them. There isn’t a one of them that doesn’t look hungry. Look at the clothes they\u2019re wearing\u2026 no better than rags. It wasn’t that way, once. It\u2019s disgraceful. We didn\u2019t permit it. Even in the darkest days of the Civil War, we managed to find food for the children. Some didn’t like our methods, we didn\u2019t expect them to\u2026 Honestly didn\u2019t care whether they liked them of not. But the children, after all, are our future”. The American looked at the man carefully, intently. He was old, by local standards, but he wasn\u2019t that old. Russian men tended to look older than their years, he thought\u2026 It was especially true of the generation born during, or just after, the \u201cGreat Patriotic War\u201d, as the Second World War is known in Russia. This man seemed to be in his fifties, certainly not older than that. “You don’t look old enough to remember the Civil War,” the American said “let alone the Revolution. That was seventy some-odd years ago”. “I remember them all right. You might say that I remember them too well.” That wistful look crossed his face again, as though he were bringing back bitter, but possibly bittersweet memories of\u00a0 a time long past. “You must have been a small child, then\u2026I\u2019m sure that it was a difficult time”. “No” the answer was simple and matter of fact. The American considered the situation. It just wasn’t possible that this man was that old. He had to be a little off in the head Maybe he had been a child, a very small child, at the time, but it was impossible that he could have been more than that. He almost certainly couldn\u2019t possibly remember those times. Maybe he was dredging up stories that his parents had told him. “You know, my wife and I we lost our only child” he mused “That ‘s why the orphans have always been special to me”. “That’s sad,” the American said . It must have been a terrible experience. I\u2019m not married myself\u2026 no children. But\u2026I can understand how you feel, though\u201d. “Yes” the tall man said as he rose to leave. “It was very sad. It was a terrible time, the worst of my life. We were never able to have other children. That’s why I did all that I could, all that was in my power, to make their lives better\u201d. He gestured toward the playing orphans with a broad sweep of his long thin arm and almost skelital hand.\u00a0 \u201cThey needed everything, schools, homes, doctors and medicine, kindergartens, training for jobs and useful work\u2026 They needed food and warm clothing\u201d. He rattled off the baleful litany in quick order. There was no doubt that the old man had strong feelings about the parentless children. \u201cThey need it all, and our Revolution needed willing hands to build the future\u2026 a better future, we thought\u2026 for all of us. We got it for them. We got all of it for them. It cost us dearly, but we did it, and they built our future, or tried to”. Things were getting stranger and stranger. The man had to be “off his rocker”. He was claiming credit for things that had been done three quarters of a century before. He looked at the strange old man again. He couldn\u2019t have been more than a toddler back then, if he\u2019d been born at all\u2026 He couldn\u2019t possibly have had any part in what he was describing. Maybe he had been one of those orphans\u2026 It was hard to tell. “Well, I must go,” the old man said. “I only have so much time each day that I can spend here watching them. I\u2019ve really not much time at all. That\u2019s rather funny,\u201d he mused quizically, \u201call things considered. But\u2026 you know how it is. You know what they say, “no rest for the weary and no peace for the damned”. “That’s right,” the American smiled. That was something that he could understand well enough. There was never enough time for anything in post-Soviet Russia. In the last year or so, Russia had undergone a transformation, and it was still going on. Things were in a state of near anarchy, and no matter how hard one worked, there never seemed to be enough time to get everything done. There were certainly never enough hours in a given day. This very day was proof of that to him. It was the first day off that he had enjoyed in six weeks, and he had at least another six exactly the same to \u201clook forward\u201d to. “No peace for the damned” he repeated softly. “Why don’t you do me a favor? If you are going to be here for a bit longer, would you mind walking across the street with the children when the Matron calls them in? The streets here are dangerous now not like they once were\u201d. The American thought about it for a moment, then agreed. It couldn’t hurt, and the man looked so concerned\u2026 Even if he was a bit eccentric, his heart was in the right place. “Certainly, ” he replied. \u201cI\u2019d be glad to\u201d. “Thank you,” the man replied as he rose to leave. \u201cYou know, only a few years ago, this was a quiet street. We didn\u2019t have so many automobiles then\u201d. He used the quaint term \u201cautomobile\u201d as though it was used every day. He stood, stretched, and put his cap on. A shock of his thinning hair protruded from under the visor. He turned up the collar of his long wollen coat as though against a non-existent wind. Then, without another word, he sank his hands deeply into his pockets and walked slowly away. The children didn’t seem to notice him at all, even though he walked right through the midst them as they kicked a scarred soccer ball around the center of the park. The American glanced away briefly when he heard his little dog bark. When he looked back up, the old man was gone. He must have already entered the nearest building, about 50 meters away. Funny, the American thought, he hadn\u2019t seemed to be walking that fast\u2026 A few minutes later, the matron of the orphanage, a shortt, plump wonan in her mid-forties with a harrassed and harried, but motherly look on her face, behind her tiny wire framed glasses, called out for the children to stop playing and come “home”. She said that it was time for supper. The American, noticed that this woman, obviously rather senior in the orphanage\u2019s heirarchy, was hardly dressed better than her charges, and that her hair, tied in a severe bun at the back of her head, looked prematurely gray.\u00a0 True to his word to the strang old man, he rose, called his little dog, put the leash back on her, and slowly walked across the street with the departing children. He continued with them until they were through the rusting wrought iron gate that guarded their home, and inside the austere brick walls of…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":7,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"iawp_total_views":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1816","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/paganpages.org\/emagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1816","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/paganpages.org\/emagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/paganpages.org\/emagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/paganpages.org\/emagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/7"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/paganpages.org\/emagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1816"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/paganpages.org\/emagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1816\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1808,"href":"https:\/\/paganpages.org\/emagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1816\/revisions\/1808"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/paganpages.org\/emagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1816"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/paganpages.org\/emagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1816"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/paganpages.org\/emagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1816"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}