Easter in Old Russia ~ Catherine de Hueck Doherty

Catherine was brought up in Russia and had many fond memories of her life there….a life that reflected simplicity, family, religion. After fleeing Russia during the Communist Revolution, she eventually came into the Catholic Church. Catherine prayed much that her motherland would be freed from Communist rule so that people could once again openly practice their faith.

We must pray for Russia.

As Catherine says:

May she cover the Russians with the blue mantle of her love and bring them safely, in its gracious folds, back to the house of their fathers… I, a Russian, pray to her daily for that end. I pray to her under her best known title, Spouse of the Holy Spirit and Mother of the Father’s Word… Will you, friends of America, join me in that prayer?

By Catherine de Hueck Doherty, My Russian Yesterdays, Madonna House Publications

Easter in Old Russia

We would do well to make Lent and Easter very special and holy times in our families….with the traditions of our own faith coming out even more in these special liturgical seasons!

The evening service was over. The people were leaving. The church was dark again, with only the altar lamp and the vigil lights adding color to its dimness.

I was kneeling at the altar rail saying a few last prayers, the smell of incense heavy in my nostrils, when it seemed as if the church walls had dissolved and I was back again in the Russia of my forefathers … and it was Easter.

Easter in old Russia-the feast of feasts! More celebrated in that country than Christmas in the West. To the Russian, who went to confession and Communion but four times a year at the most, Lent, the preparation for Easter, was a very holy, serious, and important time. It was a time of mourning, of cleansing, and of reparation, at all of which the Russian excels, as witness our literature with its deep analytical spirituality.

That is why, during the somber, tragic days of Lent, Russia became busy with nothing but the spiritual and the mystical. Life slowed down, became subdued. All ornaments were laid away.

During the first and fourth weeks and Holy Week, all public amusements ceased. Theaters, and such movies as there were, closed their doors. Even business made way for spiritual needs and practices, for the services during Lent were many and long. Offices, homes, and factories speedily adjusted their business hours, making special allowances for church attendance by their employees during the working day.

The fast was rigid, permitting no meat at all through the forty days. Fish was used on Sundays and a few weekdays, but not on Wednesday, Fridays, or Saturdays. In penance, prayer, and fasting, the Russian Lent passed slowly, mournfully. Holy Week drew near. Throughout Russia the atmosphere grew tense. Business stood almost at a standstill. All thoughts were with the Lord-in His Passion and in His Crucifixion.

Yet among all these spiritual exercises, every free minute was used for the physical preparations for the great day of the Resurrection. Not content with the cleaning done during the week of preparation for Holy Communion, all Russia washed and scrubbed and cleaned feverishly, for everything had to be resplendent for the joyous day of days, Easter.

The kitchen, too, teemed with activity. For Easter, food was very special, and it had to be cooked ahead of time. The koolitch, a special rich bread, needed a lot of kneading and working at. I should like to meet the foreigner who could enumerate the ingredients that went into its making! And no matter how rich a family might be, how many servants it might employ, each member took a hand. Mother supervised the cooking, Father helped with the kneading, Sister shelled the almonds, Brother cleaned the raisins. All happy, flushed, and excited.

And the paska – what is it? I wonder. Cottage cheese, sugar, butter, eggs, all beaten and thoroughly mixed together by every hand in the family until it was a creamy white delicious whole. Then the mass was put in a special mold and under a heavy pressure, from which it emerged, days later, firm, about eight to ten inches high, with a cross clearly etched on each of its four sides and the letters IX (Jesus Christ in Greek) interwoven in it.

Then, oh joy, eggs were dyed! All the children, even baby, took part in this. Yellow, green, red, gold, silver, they were the first notes of color in the grayness of Lent, the forerunners of joy and spring – and of Easter and the Resurrection, Alleluia!

Yet all during these activities involving foodstuffs, not once was  the fast broken. Impossible as it may seem, it was true. Although I must admit that the heavenly smell of a koolich baking is almost more than a person can bear, yet such is the strength of faith and custom that I never have heard of anyone’s succumbing to temptation.

Holy Thursday. Memories of long ago. In the evening the family went in a body to church. Each person carried a slender wax candle. This would be lighted during the long three-hour service of the “Forty Gospels,” when the life of Christ was read. Then everyone went home shielding the candle from the wind, for it had to be brought safely back, to light the perpetual fire burning before the ikon of our Holy Mother.

Many a Russian artist has rendered that home-coming of Holy Thursday night. The dark streets, the shadowy figures coming out of church, the lighted candles shielded by their hands, the light reflected on faces, old and young. A beautiful scene, worthy of the best talent, yet hard to paint because of the expressions on those faces. For how can men paint God glimpsed in the faces of other men?

Good Friday. God is dying. It seems as if Russia died then too. Business closed down completely. No hustle or bustle in the streets. A hushed silence fell over the country. Government buildings were decorated in violet and black, the color of mourning.

Only the churches were full to overflowing. In the middle of each stood a silver coffin surrounded by flowers offered by the faithful, symbolizing the death of the Savior. An orderly, endless procession of people entered, approached the coffin, knelt, and kissed the cross on its sides. Princesses, chambermaids, workingmen, and courtly officers all mingled in the greatest democracy of all-that of Christianity.

At last Holy Saturday. This was also a day of fasting that would end only at midnight, which in old Russia was considered the hour of the Resurrection. But the fast could not suppress the air of great expectancy, nor take the glow of happiness from human faces. From ten at night until midnight multitudes, dressed now in the joyous colors so beloved by the Russian peasants, or in their best finery, made their way to the churches.

The midnight Mass started at last. It began with the antiphon of Lauds for that day. In a loud, penetrating voice, the priest proclaimed: Christ is risen! The whole congregation answered: Truly, He is risen. Then the priest, turning around, kissed the deacon, who then passed the kiss of peace down the clerical line.

At this point a Westerner would have been sorely puzzled, for everyone in the church turned around and kissed his neighbor, exchanging over and over again the joyous salutation of the priest: Christ is risen! Truly, He has risen!

At that moment all the church bells started ringing freely, with a song of great gladness as if repeating, “Yes, Christ is risen! Rejoice all ye faithful! Love has conquered death! Christ is risen! Truly, He is risen!”

Beautiful and unforgettable was the sound of the “forty times forty” bells of Moscow. A boastful historian once said that they could be heard beyond the seas. I wondered. Could they? All I knew was that they echoed in every Russian heart, no matter where he was, at Easter time, bringing joy and gladness even to exiles.

The service over, one more task was left: that of securing for the paska and koolich and eggs, that had been left in the sacristy, a special blessing. Then home through the illuminated streets. A jubilant town, filled with multicolored, hungry throngs, singing, kissing each other, wishing each other “Happy Easter,” and hurrying home to eat, at long last, to repletion.

And at home all was ready. The house was clean and full of flowers, with a big table set in the middle of the dining room, the koolich in the center of it with two paskas at each side. Further down the table were the multicolored eggs, then the roast turkeys, chickens, hams, the wine, the fruit, the candies. Food enough for three days of rest and rejoicing!

And the presents were lying there too, for, in Russia, Easter was present-giving time even more than Christmas.

And last, but not least, was the fun of seeing “big sister” blush and blush again as a score of young men, having formed a queue, were claiming the kiss of peace from her pretty lips. For, as you know, no one could refuse that kiss in Russia at Eastertime. So the only thing left for one was to wish she were young and bold and pretty and in Russia during that holy season. Easter was youth’s time. So the elders laughed a lot, teased a little, and let it go at that.

Now Father would cut the koolich, the symbol of the Bread of Life- Christ. And then a scoop of the paska, which symbolized the Lamb led to the slaughter. Thus were blended the Old Testament and the New. Now an egg, the symbol of infinity, of life eternal. Mother, bowing low, passed the plate with these three to family, guests, and servants, for all were gathered at the festive board. With these foods the Russians broke their fast, for it was symbolic food – food that had had a liturgical blessing.

Yes, Easter was the feast of feasts, the day of days.

Someone was gently touching my shoulder and whispering that it was time to go. The church was being closed for the night. I looked around. It was all dark. The vigil lights were all out. Only the altar light glowed blood red against the darkness. The sexton was speaking to me. I arose and left for home – but only part of me got there. The other part was listening to the “forty times forty” bells of Moscow, that, I knew now, really could be heard beyond the seas.

Treat your boys as young men. You want them to grow up to be hardworking and confident. Is it not true, that the more productive we are, the better we feel? Then structure your children’s day to be active and busy—they will thrive under these conditions. -Finer Femininity, Painting by Mark Keathley, 1963

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