n the late 1960s I served as administrative assistant to U.S. Representative Jerry Pettis in the United States capitol. I soon learned that Mary Marcoot, our office manager, was of Russian descent. As I told her about my Russian heritage she told me about a Russian farmer from Virginia who, each Thursday, pushed a large produce cart through the halls of the congressional office buildings, greeting members of Congress and offering for sale a variety of fruits and vegetables, along with fresh eggs and a selection of wholesome baked goods.
“He’s an interesting fellow,” said Mary, a veteran congressional staffer. “He enjoys making friends of legislators and their aides. I suspect he’ll want to meet you.”
Surprised, I responded, “How can he do this? Are vendors allowed in Congress?”
“No, vendors aren’t allowed; but, by a special legislative act, this old farmer has been granted a license. People like his produce, and they seem to like him.”
Connecting With the Past
The next Thursday Mary announced: “Your Russian is in the hallway.”
She introduced us. I examined the heavily loaded cart. It was January, but I was impressed with the variety of produce. He must have a hothouse, I thought. I ordered a dozen brown eggs. While he put them in a bag, I said, “Mary tells me you’re from Russia.”
“Yes,” he replied modestly, “I am.”
“My dad’s from Russia.”
“Where in Russia?” he asked. “It’s a big country.”
“From Georgia, down near Turkey,” I said.
“I know where Georgia is,” he said with a grin. “I’m from Georgia,” he said, his interest showing. “Where in Georgia did your dad live?”
“A small town about 60 miles from Armavir, according ?to my dad.”
“Near Armavir? What was the name of the town?” he pressed.
“Alexandrodar, about 160 families; Mennonites and Seventh-day Adventists mainly. My great-grandfather was the mayor, I think. According to my dad he had a pretty good farm.” I added, “Rich soil, great crops.”
The vendor seemed curious. “What was your great-grandfather’s name?”
“Gerhard Isaac,” I replied. “Dad says he was a big man.”
“And what was your dad’s name?”
“Jacques, John Jacques. In Russia, he was known as Ivan Bogdanovich Dzak.”
“I’m from Alexandrodar,” he explained. “Dzak, yes? I know your family! I knew them all! Yes, your great-grandfather was a big man; not just big physically, a truly great man, a great Adventist, a pioneer Adventist.”
As I choked with emotion, the vendor trembled with excitement. “Our Adventist church was on his estate!” he exclaimed.
“Yes,” I replied, “the first Seventh-day Adventist church building in all of Russia, I’m told; members felt safe from persecution. I guess the people and the authorities respected Papa Isaac.”
“He was the town’s banker, wasn’t he?” the vendor continued. “Yes, yes, I knew him. I knew your great-grandmother. I knew your grandparents! They were from another village, but were often in Alexandrodar. I remember your uncles and cousins.”
Both of us were moved by the surprise reunion; time for an emotional hug.
“Say,” the vendor exclaimed, “I have an old photo of the church with some of its members. I’ll bring it next week.”
As the vendor pushed his cart down the corridor, I told Mary about the meeting. “I wish I knew more about my relatives,” she said.
Proof Positive
The next Thursday I wondered if my Russian friend had remembered to bring the photograph. My secretary called me to the door. “Here’s the photograph we talked about ?last week,” said the vendor with a smile. Pulling it out of an envelope, he held it where we could both study the faces; some 60 people, counting children. Church members are gathered against a brick building with a rounded doorway.
“I’d like to see my great-grandfather,” I said eagerly.
“Sorry, I think he had died before this was taken, but here’s your great-grandmother.” He pointed to a little woman in the center of the photo.
“How about Dad’s parents, my grandparents?”
“Not included; not in Alexandrodar when the photographer was in town. They lived in the hills, a day’s journey to the south.”
“I’m looking for my dad,” I said hopefully.
“Not in this picture,” said the vendor. “I think he was a seminary student at Friedensau in Germany; then he was an Adventist minister in southern Russia. Wasn’t he later exiled to Siberia? But his relatives and friends are here; your relatives, I guess. I’ve forgotten some of their names. It’s been a while.”
“I wish my dad could see this,” I said. “May I make a copy?” My Russian friend assented.
Mary and I looked at the Russian faces, sober faces. Most of the men bearded. “I guess having one’s picture taken in those days was serious business.”
“You can ask Nicky to make copies,” exclaimed Mary. “He’s the official photographer for the House of Representatives; and he’s Russian!”
I ran downstairs to Nicky’s photo lab. When he heard that I needed reprints of an old photo from Russia, he wanted to know the story. I told him about my ancestors, my great-granddad, the church, Dad’s Siberian exile, and his harrowing escape. Nicky reached for a handkerchief.
“Most of my folks got out just in time; some didn’t make it,” he said. “How many copies do you need? I’ll have them tomorrow.”
The next day I called for the six prints I requested. “Thanks, Nicky, what do I owe you?”
“You owe me nothing! Let me know if you need more.”
Familiar Faces
Wasting no time, I sent a copy of the photo to Dad. He was ecstatic, and soon identified virtually every adult in the picture, which was probably taken shortly before his arrest and exile. In addition to the face of his grandmother, there were sisters, uncles, aunts, cousins, several of whom had accepted Adventism as a result of his first evangelistic effort.
On sheets accompanying the photo, Dad sent me brief notes about those pictured; snippets that told of family relationships and revealed personal characteristics, accomplishments, or problems of the church members. But first, he wrote a tribute to his grandfather.
“Grandfather Isaac died soon after I returned from Friedensau. He had furnished land and facilities for the church. He was a constant, faithful Adventist. Others wavered, but he remained true, come what may.”
What Do You Think?
1. What stories do you know about your Adventist ancestors? If you're a first-generation Adventist, what do you want your descendents to know about your spiritual pilgrimage?2. Whom in your life, or in your current congregation, do you regard as "spiritual giants?" What characteristics make them so?
3. What special responsibilities or obligations are yours as a member of God's remnant church in your community? What life choices demonstrate that you take your responsibilities seriously?
4. Do you think about the reputation you're going to leave behind? What one word do you wish people would use to describe you?
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Of his grandmother he wrote: “My dear grandmother Isaac, in whose bedroom I hid one night [after escaping from exile, but still deep in Russia] for fear of local detectives. During the night she and Aunt Margaret made the quilt for my escape journey [that he used to survive the Manchurian winter].”
In the notes are personal comments about an assortment of uncles, aunts, and cousins, along with each of the church members. After nearly six decades he remembered each one. The faithfulness and talents of each member were noted; elders, choir leaders, Sabbath school teachers, etc. There were comments about cobblers and servants “who preach well”; even a highly educated uncle who frequently publicly confessed to a nasty temper; as well as a member “struggling with a liquor habit.”
I came across a snippet about “Marie Xanke, a fine girl I was to have married had I not gone into exile.” He was uncomfortable about “marriage plans,” because my mother’s sister, Helena, became Marie’s stepmother when she married the widowed John Xanke. “It almost seemed like marrying one’s own cousin or sister,” he said.
Another pretty girl is described as “timid.”
Then there’s the face that reminds him of the pastor “who baptized me in the River Kuban, which flows from the Caucasian mountain, Elbruz” (from which, incidentally, one can see Mount Ararat).
There’s “Bernard Penner, brother of Uncle Leonard Penner, whose sons you well know.
“John Penner, son of Uncle Bernard Penner.
“My own sister, Lora, or Lenora.
“Brother and sister Mitzoff, a cobbler, but a very earnest and active man in church activities. His wife is sister to Elder Loebsack, leader of the Adventist Church in Russia until his death in a Moscow prison.
“And finally, the boys and children whose names I can’t remember.”
Honest Questions
Looking at the photo, I studied the honest faces of the hardworking believers who, nearly a century ago, worshipped in Alexandrodar. I wondered how many survived the persecution of the empire’s long-suffering noncomformist Christians; persecution accelerated and intensified by Rasputin, the drunken womanizer who, during the Great War, wielded mysterious, insidious power over Russia through the influential, but tragically seduced, Czarina. He initiated the pogrom intended to send my dad to die in the northernmost exile camp in western Siberia; the pogrom that drove some members of the congregation to seek freedom to worship and serve their church in America.
How many survived the relentless genocides conducted by Lenin and Stalin? My precious, bighearted grandparents, charged with being “rich kulaks,” were dragged from their comfortable home, only to die of typhus after two weeks in the stinking hell of a Communist prison. George, Dad’s only brother, died after five years of slave labor in the gulag.
I peered into the sweet face of Marie, the gentle girl who was to have married Dad. What became of her? The well-behaved, innocent children, what happened to them?
But there are other, more relevant questions: Do our lives measure up to the example of the devoted, courageous, pioneer Seventh-day Adventists who worshipped in my great-grandfather’s little church in the bucolic village of Alexandrodar? How does our experience compare to the witness of thousands of faithful Adventists who now worship in virtually every part of the once great Russian empire?
The history of the Christian church is still being written. Our stories are being told.
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Oliver Jacques, now retired, lives in Fallbrook, California, after a career of serving the church is a pastor, evangelist, missionary, and administrator. This article was published January 21, 2010.
