The Stundist in Siberian Exile AND OTHER POEMS, William Fetler, 1922

re seems to sing the song of resurrection, my imagina¬ tion is flooded with the memories of my early childhood. I cannot help giving way to them, and I find myself once more in a large country house, where I spent the first twelve years of my life. Easter is coming ! There is no greater event in the whole year. It is indeed the festival of all festivals 1 The Russian people, with very few exceptions, prepare themselves to meet that great day by forty days’ partial fasting, confessing their sins to the priest and taking Holy Communion. All this was strictly observed in our home. What joy it was to meet the first day of the great Lent in our home! We children just loved it. The absence of meat, butter and milk during the meal-times, the special Lenten dishes, the clean, scrubbed floors, something in the very ss 96 MEMORIES OF MY CHILDHOOD atmosphere, turned our home into an entirely new world. Every child in turn used to read about three chapters of the Gospel at night, while mother rested on the sofa and the other children gathered around. It was an unrealized dream of my mother, the dream of her life, to go one day on foot with a party of pilgrims to that wonderful land of Palestine and to worship at the holy places—the scenes of Jesus’ birth, of His childhood, cruci¬ fixion, resurrection and ascension. She used to tell us endless stories in connection with it. I remember myself many times sitting in the twilight at the window, and watching the clouds being swiftly carried by the wind in the same direction, as if they were in a hurry to get some¬ where in time. I have thought: Where do these clouds go ? Maybe they go to that fairyland of Palestine. A moment more, and I myself was flying with the clouds—far, far away over land and sea, feeling the gentle fresh spring breezes. Imagination worked more and more, and already I saw the River Jordan, like a broad blue ribbon, and the massive groups of trees in Gethsemane. I held my breath for fear of disillusioning myself, until mother’s voice, calling me for supper, awoke me from my dreams. . . . The Saturday before Palm Sunday is called Lazarus’ Saturday, in remembrance of the raising of Lazarus from the dead. On the eve of that day we used to go in the meadow, where MEMORIES OF MY CHILDHOOD 97 stood an old willow, from which we plucked the tender budding branches, to meet the Lord in the temple the next morning. What delight it was to go in the dark, with a little lantern, to that old tree ! On Good Friday, towards evening, a great Church ceremony takes place, viz. the opening of the Holy Sepulchre. The sufferings of Christ end and He gives up the ghost : the veil which divides the Holy Place from the Holiest of Holies, where the priest stands at the open sepulchre, is torn in twain. A large ikon, representing the body of Jesus, is carried out from the Holiest of Holies, and the burial procession takes place with ch