The St. Petersburg Confessions

It’s St. Petersburg, right before the fall of Communism. Father Fedor, an Orthodox priest at St. Catherine’s Cathedral, is locking up after the late-night mass when he hears a stranger’s voice call out to him.

The man begs to confess right away, afraid that he will become a lost soul if he waits.

Of course, Father Fedor accepts, but what he doesn’t know, what he isn’t expecting, is that this madman has committed the same heinous sin ninety-nine times.

St. Petersburg, Russia, 1991

Picked nearly clean, the carcass of the roasted hen lay on its side next to a bite of boiled potato. Father Fedor Yakunin had had his fill; he pushed the greasy plate away. He picked up a glass laden with oily prints and drained the last of the sweet Georgian wine before setting it next to the plate. It was a wonderful meal, one he had not had in a long time. He would have to remember to thank his friend.

Father Fedor got up from the wobbly table for one and walked across the tiny room. The light from the oil lamp on the table did very little to follow him as he disappeared into the darkness. Tiny shuffle steps until he found what he wanted: a cot, where he sat and eventually lay down. 

Rays of moonlight would snake their way through the window when the trees outside allowed it. Tonight, they did not. While Father Fedor waited patiently, he thought about the words that he would soon speak. It was important that he not leave out even the tiniest detail, should he wish to change his circumstances. Only time would tell whether he had done his job right.

Outside of his room, somewhere in the building, a priest moved hastily down the institutional hallways. His black, ankle-length cassock fluttered behind him like a flag. He was late. 

The large golden cross around his neck hung down to the middle of his chest and swung back and forth with every step, reminding him of its presence. Both hands were steadily cupped behind his back. The click-clacking of his shoes on the cold tile floor echoed through the hallways. Soon the man who sat outside of Father Fedor’s room would be able to gauge the visitor’s distance. He would be heard for quite some time before he would be seen. 

Father Dmitry Vladimirovich had traveled from Moscow to St. Petersburg, the renamed Leningrad, after receiving a letter from his old friend, Father Fedor. He had arrived a few days ago by train, coming as soon as he could. It was a little unclear as to why he was being summoned at the last minute. He even questioned whether there was anything he could do.

It had been a little over ten years since the two priests had last seen each other, though it was normal for them to exchange a few letters a year. The twelve-hour train ride had become a physical obstacle for both. Neither of them wanted to endure it, until now.

Father Dmitry rounded the last corner in the maze of corridors. The gentleman posted to watch over the priest was already standing, waiting for him. As soon as Father Dmitry entered the room, the heavy door shut behind him.  

“Fedor,” Father Dmitry called out.

A soft voice rose out from the darkness. “Over here, my friend.”

The priest moved toward the sound of the voice until he felt his leg bump against a cot. He sat down and leaned in a bit.  “Fedor, it’s me: Dmitry.”

“I know. Who else would be visiting me?”

“How are you?”

“I am fine. A little tired,” said the priest, giving up a few coughs.

Dmitry motioned to the table. “Not tired enough to feed yourself though. You always had an appetite.”

Fedor laughed at the man’s feeble attempt to cheer him up. “And you’re still the jokester,” he said.

It had been so long. Father Dmitry finally asked, “Why am I here?”

“I have much to tell you. It will take some time.” He felt for the other priest’s hand and gripped it. “It is important that you hear it all. Are you willing to accept this?”

Father Dmitry made himself comfortable near the bottom of the cot. “I am.” I think.