JOURNEYS Mennonite Stories of Faith and Survival in Stalins Russia, John B. Toews, 1998

e Lord prevented this from happening. I was sent home only to be called again the next evening by the same persistent knocking on my window. I turned to my sister who was living with us and said, “Agnethe, I can’t go on like this anymore. I feel as if I’m going insane. If they go at me like they did yesterday, I’ll lose my mind — I just can’t take it.” 34 JOURNEYS Several women from our village had in fact gone insane and were wandering around the villages. “You stay home; I’ll go,” said my sister. “I still have a few rubles. I will take them to the office and explain that you no longer have anything.” My sister went in my stead, and although the agent did not want to believe her, he left me alone after that. Working long hours in the sugar beet fields was almost un¬ bearable. Quite often in the evenings we had to go and shut off the grain-cleaning machine. When it was my turn, I would place little Alfred in the wagon and drive to the threshing floor, a con¬ siderable distance from the village. The summer passed in this routine way. We spent the rest of the year digging canals to irri¬ gate the fields. It is impossible to describe everything we had to do for the collective. Suffice it to say, what machines can do to¬ day, we women did with our hands and hoes. My father, who was still with us and who often encouraged the women by giving them counsel, was arrested on January 4, 1942. He was a teacher who had been denounced on account of his faith. Just before he left with the two policemen who came to get him, my father took down the Bible and read us the story where Jesus came walking toward the disciples on the sea, and they thought that he was a ghost. He explained to my mother and the rest of the family, “It may appear that a ghost is coming to¬ ward you and you are afraid, but don’t be afraid because it is the Lord and we must all trust in Him.” My father prayed a short prayer and then calmly and confidently left with the police. As he was moving out the door, I asked him, “Father, are you calm?” He replied, “Yes my child, I am completely calm, but try to comfort Mother.” With these last words, he was taken to prison in Frunze. As he was leaving the village, the “widows” and others stood by the roadside calling, “Peace has left the village!” Four months later, we received news that he had died. In prison, however, he had been a blessing to many. A teacher who had been with father in prison and translated the sermons that my father preached in prison into Russian, arrived in our village inquiring if anyone knew Mr. Peter Jansen. He gave tribute to my father with these words: This man, displaying no timidity or fear, confronted government officials with the Gospel. The first time I translated for him with ease. The second time I found it REMINISCENCES 35 difficult. The third time I cried, and was told I had been recruited to translate, not to cry. The prison officials did