I

The T

1
  
Good Soil

Your    Excellency,    you    are    the    auxiliary    bishop    of    Kazakhstan   

and    yet
you have a German name, which points to a very interesting family history
—one    that    encompasses    the    persecution    and    tribulation    these    two
countries experienced. You, too, have personally suffered from the effects
of this persecution. Please tell us about your family history.
It is a story that dates back centuries. I belong to those Germans who
are called the Germans of Russia (Russlanddeutsche), who were farmers in
the Russian Empire in two large settlements of German people; they had
been invited by the Tsars. They were farmers who cultivated the land. The
first group was the so-called Volga Germans, who had come already in the
second    part    of    the    eighteenth    century,    especially    under    the   
Empress
Catherine    the    Great,    who    was    German    and    invited    them    to   
settle    on    the
Volga    River.    The    second    group,    the    so-called    Black    Sea   
Germans,    came
later in 1809–10 and settled on the shore of the Black Sea. I belong to this
latter    group.    They    came    from    southwest    Germany    and    my   
ancestors
specifically—I    know    them    all    by    name    going    back    two    hundred 
years—
came        from        Alsace-Lorraine.        This        area        was        German-
speaking        but
sometimes    belonged    to    France,    sometimes    to    Germany.    My   
ancestors    on
both sides came from villages in northern Alsace, north of Strasbourg.
How did you learn all the names of your ancestors?
There    was    a    book    published    about    sixty    years    ago    by    a   
German
historian, who was also born in Russia. It contained all the names of those
people, where they came from, where they were settled, and so on. I know
my    grandmothers,    and    they    knew    their    grandmothers.    In    this   
historical
book, I learned the family names of those who had immigrated, and so I
was able to make the connection. They were all Alsatian Germans on both
sides    of    my    family,    and    they    established    German    villages    there   
with
German    names.    My    mother’s    village    close    to    Odessa,    for   
example,    was
called    Elsaß—and    then    there    are    villages    with    the    names   
Straßburg,
Karlsruhe,    Mannheim,    and    so    on.    The    German    culture    was   
transplanted
there    and    those    German    farmers—thanks    be    to    God—were    deeply
Catholic. Their faith was simple but very deep; they passed on the faith to
us.    In    these    German    villages    they    built    beautiful    churches    with   
all    the
necessary furnishings. They also had their own German priests and spoke
only their German dialects in the villages. A diocese was even erected by
the    pope    in    the    nineteenth    century    for    these    Germans—Tiraspol   
was    the
name—and it was for all the Germans in South Ukraine and on the Volga
River. The bishop resided in a town called Saratov on the Volga River, and
there    was    a    cathedral    and    seminary    there    until    the    time    of    the
Communists, so they had their own clergy.
Their bishop was also German, chosen from among their own people?
 Yes—from among their own people. The last bishop, Aloysius Kessler,
died    an    exile    in    Germany    after    the    Communists    expelled    him   
in    1922.
When    Communism    began,    there    were    over    two    hundred    German   
priests
from    this    diocese.    What’s    beautiful    is    that    no    one    apostatized.   
Not    one.
Almost all of the two hundred priests from the diocese, with the exception
of a few priests, were killed or imprisoned. So, there was a very strong and
very deep Catholicism in those German villages. I knew my grandmothers,
and    I    am    so    thankful    to    God    that    they    and    my    parents   
transmitted    the
Catholic    faith    to    me.    They    lived    there    until    the    Second    World   
War.    The
Communists imprisoned the priests in the 1920s and 1930s and closed the
churches. Many of the beautiful churches were destroyed or converted into
dance-halls    and    stables    or    were    used    for    other    similar    purposes. 
The
horrible    years    were    in    Stalin’s    time    from    1936    to    1938,    which   
are    called
the Dark Years, the terror years, though Stalin cynically called these years
the time of purification. It was a purgation, a “cleansing,” Stalin said. The
Communists killed primarily priests, wealthy people, and intellectuals, all
of whom were seen as potential enemies. There was a genocide, and what’s
incredible    is    that    history    is    almost    silent    about    this.    In    these   
two    years,
Stalin killed millions upon millions of innocent people—his own people,
not foreigners. It is a proven historical fact.
Stalin’s military carried out this genocide against his own people?
Yes. My grandfather from my father’s side was also a victim because
he owned land; it was reason enough for him to make their list.
Was he exiled? Killed?
He    was    killed.    He    was    a    young    man,    twenty-seven    years   
old—
Sebastian Schneider—and my grandmother was made a widow at twenty-
five, with two little children. My father was seven and his brother was two
years old. The Communists came in the night, with a vehicle already filled
with men waiting to be shot, and they took him away. The men were then
brought to a    central place and killed there. So, he was taken in the night
and my grandmother was running after him to protect him. When he was
already    on    the    truck,    he    said    to    my    grandmother,    whose    name   
was
Perpetua,    in    his    simple    German    dialect:    “Perpetua,    remain    as   
you    are!”
(Perpetua,    bleib    wie    du    bist!).    My    grandmother    interpreted    this   
as    him
saying not to marry again—to remain as she is. She instantly understood
his words in this way.
St. Paul tells widows “it is better to remain as you are” (cf. 1 Cor 7:8).
Yes,    “as    you    are.”    That    is    what    he    said    to    her.    But    in   
her    later    years,
grandmother said to me that he wanted to tell her that she had to remain
the    faithful    Catholic    that    she    was.    She    became    a    widow    at   
twenty-five
years old and lived seventy-four years as a widow.
Like the prophetess Anna (cf. Lk 2:36)...
She    lived    to    ninety-nine    and    died    on    her    birthday    in   
Germany,    where
she    lived    with    my    uncle,    my    father’s    younger    brother.    And    I   
buried    her.
She    was    still    alive    when    I    became    bishop    and    she    was    still   
very    sharp.
Rarely    in    my    life    have    I    seen    someone    who    prayed    so    much.   
It    was
incredible. She prayed almost day and night.
How    did    you    perceive    that?    Was    it    because    she    had    the   
Rosary
constantly in her hands?
Yes, the Rosary. She had a thick old prayer book that she prayed with,
and she would tell us: “Today I woke up at four o’clock in the morning and
just started to pray.” We all knew that she woke up very early. She would
pray at least three hours in the morning. Then she did her work, and then
she stopped and prayed an hour. Then in the afternoon, and in the evening,
she prayed three hours.
 A life of domestic monasticism...
Yes! We saw this. With her books, she prayed in a simple way: litanies,
novenas,    all    the    rosaries,    and    so    on.    And    so    she    lived    always   
in    the
presence of God.    When    I    was    a    child,    she    always    gave    me    a   
blessing    as
grandmothers    do    for    their    grandchildren,    making    a    small    cross   
on    my
forehead. After my episcopal consecration in 2006, I visited her. She saw
me    for    the    first    time    as    a    bishop    and    asked    me    to    give    her   
the    episcopal
blessing.    I    blessed    her    and    then    I    said,    “Now,    grandmother,    you
have    to
bless    me.”    She    was    sitting    (she    couldn’t    walk    well).    I    knelt   
down    before
her and then she spoke a word, the likes of which she had never said before
—this was not her style, as she was a very simple woman with only two or
three years of schooling. When I knelt down, she became very solemn and
made a cross, not like how she had done when I was a child, but a really
big cross over me like a priest, very solemnly, and she said, “Mit Gott und
für Gott sende ich dich in die Welt.” “With God and for God, I send you
into the world.” I wrote this in my Breviary. I consider it so precious, this
blessing—it’s a great and special gift of God to have received this blessing
from my grandmother, who lived seventy-four years as a widow.
Returning to the story of your grandfather and his apprehension by the
Communists,    did    the    townspeople    like    your    grandmother    know   
that    their
husbands, fathers, and sons were being taken away to be executed?
Yes, of course. A couple of weeks later, the police came to check her
house.    She    had    holy    pictures    everywhere    on    the    walls,    which   
was
forbidden    during    this    time    of    “purging”—when    people    had    to   
live
according    to    the    new    Communist    lifestyle.    The    police    entered   
and    asked
her: “Why do you have these pictures? You know it is not permitted. You
have    to    take    down    these    pictures.”    She    did    not    obey    the    order,
so    the
policeman went up to the wall and wanted himself to rip them off the wall.
At    that    moment,    she    shouted    at    the    policeman    in    a    loud    voice:
“You    did
not put that picture up on the wall and you do not have the right to take it
down!” The policeman was shocked, taken aback. At that moment, he did
not    touch    the    image    and    quietly    left    the    house.    In    this    time   
of    terror
everyone    was    afraid.    It    was    a    miracle,    I    think,    because    God   
protects    the
widows    and    their    little    ones.    Furthermore,    it    was    not    common   
for    my
grandmother to shout, because she was by nature a timid person, and she
never spoke loudly. Never in my life did I hear her shout loudly, she was
very mild.
It sounds like the casting out of a demon.
Yes. Then, some years later, she had to work in the “kolkhoz” system
—which    was    a    Communist    abbreviation    for    “collective    economy”   
in    the
village, where nothing belongs to you, and you have to work in the fields
—and she was expected to work on Sunday. She refused, even though her
husband    was    killed    and    she    herself    was    a    target    of    the   
tyrannical
authorities. The chief commanded her: “You have to work on Sundays in
this kolkhoz!” Whereupon she answered: “You can kill me because I will
not work on Sundays.” And then they left her in peace. I consider this the
second miracle. This is an example of the soil from which I was born.
What about the other side of your family?
My    grandmother    on    my    mother’s    side    was    also    a    very   
pious    woman.
My grandfather from my mother’s side was killed by a bomb in his house
during the Second World War. My mother’s parents were farmers and had
seven children. My grandfather went to the stable where the cows were. He
always went with his little son, the brother of my mother, but this time he
said, “I’ll go alone.” He felt something. “I’ll go alone, and you stay here,”
he said. So he went out to the stable, and then the German military flew a
plane    overhead    and    dropped    a    bomb    on    the    stable    and    he    was 
killed
instantly. My grandmother and all her children were watching. It was very
traumatic for them. She was alone with seven children on the farm. It was
very small—because it was kolkhoz—and the people said that the children
would die because at the time there was no food. But God helped, and they
all survived.
During the Second World War, the German army occupied this part of
Ukraine.    When    they    drew    back,    they    evacuated    all    of    these   
Germans    to
East Germany, close to Berlin—about three-hundred thousand people.
How were they transported back?
First by horse-drawn carriages or on foot to Romania, and then by train
to Berlin. Then, when the Russian Army occupied Berlin—they were not
in    Berlin    but    settled    close    to    Berlin—they    arrested    all    of    these   
Germans
from Russia and brought them back for forced labor in railway trains used
for cattle transport. They were relocated to several places.
Transported like those who were taken away to concentration camps?
Exactly.    It    was    the    same    form    of    transportation.    One    part   
went    to
Siberia; one part went to Kazakhstan; one part to the Ural Mountains. My
mother and father went to the Ural Mountains.
And your grandmothers?
They were together with the whole family. They were taken there.
How old was your mother at the time?
She    was    almost    fourteen    and    my    father    was    sixteen:    they   
were
teenagers.    Twenty    percent    of    the    people    died    on    the    way—of   
hunger,
disease, and the cold. My father’s train (he was not in the same train with
my    mother,    they    hadn’t    met    yet)    was    brought    directly    into    the   
forest.    In
the    Ural    Mountains    there    are    very    wide    rivers    and    they    were   
brought
directly to the forest by tugboats. There, they had to cut trees, large trees,
by hand. People died of this work. It was inhuman work.
How cold was it?
 Oftentimes in the winter it was forty degrees below zero Celsius.
How did they survive?
Many people died! They froze to death. It’s a miracle that my family
survived. They were brought there into the forest, and during the day some
people always died because they had very little food and had to work the
entire    day.    The    extraordinarily    hard    work    exhausted    many   
persons.    They
would fall in the snow and then they froze to death.
No one knew whether he would return in the evening alive. The exiles
were all Germans. Some were Catholic, others Lutheran. When they were
walking    in    the    morning    in    the    snow    to    their    work,    the   
German    Catholics
would begin to pray the Rosary in a loud voice—and the Lutherans joined
them.    The    Lutherans    joined    because    in    the    presence    of    death,   
even
Lutherans    invoke    Our    Lady.    As    for    my    mother,    she    was   
brought    to    the
German ghetto in a town where they had to remain and were under control.
There was no free movement. They had to live in barracks, entire families,
and they had no beds and so had to sleep on the floor.
Did the whole family have to work? Or just the men?
The    women    also.    My    mother    had    to    work    when    she    turned 
sixteen.
Everyone had to work once they were sixteen, even the girls.
Cutting down trees in the Ural Mountains?
She    was    in    the    city    along    the    river    and    her    task    was    to   
take    big    tree
trunks from the river with a rope—which was heavy work for a man—and
she    had    to    do    this    at    sixteen    years    old.    Sometimes    the    water   
was    frozen,
and    she    had    to    carry    these    trees    through    the    snow,    working   
outside    in
temperatures    sometimes    thirty    to    forty    degrees    below    zero,    having
had
only    three    pieces    of    bread    to    eat    for    the    entire    day,    no    more. 
In    the
morning,    her    mother    made    her    these    pieces    of    bread    with   
butter    and
nothing    else.    She    had    these    in    her    pockets    and    during    work   
the    bread
froze! They had only thirty minutes of a break all day and she would have
to warm up the bread with her breath in order to eat it. They had so little
food.    There    were    seven    children,    she    was    in    the    middle,    and   
there    were
three younger children. And she also had to take care of them.
Would there have been any priests in that area?
Unfortunately, they had to go ten years, more or less, with no priests.
But    the    families    transmitted    the    faith,    and    every    day    they   
prayed.    For
example,    in    Lent,    on    Fridays    in    the    evening    after    this    hard   
work,
neighboring families came together and prayed the Stations of the Cross in
a room. Even after an exhausting day, they prayed the Stations of the Cross
in    Lent.    And    then    priests    came    secretly.    In    particular,    there    was 
a
Ukrainian    priest    in    exile    in    Karaganda,    Blessed    Fr.    Oleksiy   
(Alexij)
Zarytskyj, who travelled a distance of two thousand kilometers to the Ural
Mountains.
Why was he in Karaganda?
It was a gulag in Kazakhstan, one of the most infamous concentration
camps in the Soviet Union. He was there in the gulag and then was freed
and put under a kind of house arrest. He was not allowed to move beyond
the city limits but nevertheless he escaped and traveled to see Catholics,
knowing that if he were found, he would be put back in the gulag. He came
to    my    parents    in    the    Ural    Mountains,    secretly.    He    was    such    a 
holy    man.
My    father    and    my    mother    both    always    talked    to    us    about   
Blessed    Father
Oleksiy Zarytskyj. Both of them said that they had never in their lives met
such    a    holy    priest.    He    really    gave    himself    totally.    At    night    he 
heard
confessions,    because    they    were    ten    years    without    a    priest.    He   
would
celebrate Mass and give Holy Communion and so on. Sometimes he would
go    two    days    without    eating,    because    people    came    continuously—
thousands of Germans who were Catholics. They came secretly to confess.
Was he ever caught?
Once, Father Oleksiy began to celebrate the Holy Mass and suddenly a
voice cried out, “The police are coming!” My mother, who was attending
the Mass, said to the priest, “Father, I can hide you; let’s flee!” My mother
led    the    priest    into    a    house    outside    the    German    ghetto    and    hid 
him    in    a
room, also bringing him something to eat, and said: “Father, now you can
finally eat and rest a bit; and when it gets dark, we will flee to a nearby
city.”    Father    Oleksiy    was    sad,    because,    though    all    had    made   
their
confessions,    they    could    not    receive    Holy    Communion;    the    Holy   
Mass,
which had just begun, had been interrupted by the police raid. My mother
said: “Father, all the faithful will make a Spiritual Communion with great
faith    and    much    devotion,    and    we    hope    that    you    will    be    able   
to    return    to
give us Holy Communion.”
When    evening    came,    preparations    were    made    for    his    escape.   
My
mother left my eldest brother, Josef, who was two years old, and my eldest
sister, Maria, who was just six months, with my grandmother. They called
on Pulcheria Koch, my father’s aunt. The two women took Father Oleksiy
and led him twelve kilometers through the forest, in the snow and cold, in
30    degrees    below    zero    weather.    When    they    arrived    at    the    little   
train
station,    they    bought    a    ticket    for    Father    Oleksiy    and    sat    with   
him    in    the
waiting    room;    the    train    was    not    due    for    an    hour.    Suddenly,   
the    door
opened.    A    policeman    entered    and    spoke    directly    to    Father   
Oleksiy:
“Where are you heading?” The priest was not able to respond, out of fear
—not for his own life, but for the life and fate of my mother. My mother
responded to the policeman: “This is our friend, and we are accompanying
him.    Look,    here    is    his    ticket,”    and    she    handed    the    ticket    over 
to    the
policeman. The policeman, looking at the ticket, told the priest: “Please do
not enter the last car, because it will be dislodged from the rest of the train
at    the    next    station.    Have    a    good    trip!”    The    policeman    exited   
the    waiting
room. Father Oleksiy looked at my mother and said, “God has sent us an
angel! I will never forget what you have done for me. If God will permit it,
I will return to give all of you Holy Communion, and in my every Mass I
will pray for you and your children.”
So    your    parents    were    married    before    they    met    Fr.    Oleksiy.   
How    did
your parents meet?
It’s    an    interesting    story.    They    married    in    1954.    My    maternal
grandmother—who        had        five        daughters        and        two        sons—
said,        “My
daughters, don’t be worried about your future husbands. God has already
determined    a    husband    for    each    one    of    you.    You    have    only    to   
pray.”    My
grandmother    Melania    Trautmann    told    her    sons    and    daughters    that 
they
would not find their future spouses at dancing parties. She did not consider
it appropriate for a Catholic to look for a future spouse at dancing parties,
so the children obeyed. My parents met during the time they had to work
in the Ural Mountains. And so, Joseph and Mary—my father is Joseph and
my mother is Mary—married on May 31, the last day of the month of Our
Lady, in 1954. My parents first met Blessed Fr. Oleksiy one year later. He
often came to my parents and was their confessor.
Who celebrated the marriage of your parents?
They    were    married    according    to    Church    law.    When    there    is   
no    priest
for one month, people can still marry.
It requires their mutual consent...