so that we can pass the baton...

From the letter of Fr. Alexander Men

At the end of the twentieth century, an exhibition of icons of Sister Joanna (Reitlinger) opened in one of the halls of the Rublevsky Museum.

Entering from the threshold was stunned by the spirit of joy, joy, depth and truth that the icons breathed. It was a manifest Presence, and the one who entered was overwhelmed by the joy of recognizing the Light.

I first saw her icons in the Moscow homes of Father Alexander Men's parishioners, whose circle I entered in the mid-70s of the now last century. It happened like this: you entered a room and from the threshold you recognized the hand of an iconographer you did not yet know. You ask your friends, and they explain to you that there is such an old woman, a nun, who has returned from emigration, lives in Tashkent, and visits us in Novaya Derevnya in the summer. Or, they say: we don't know who wrote it, Father Alexander gave it to us for the wedding. In Father Alexander's office there was, apparently from the same letter, a fiery Elijah in the wilderness. I remember how a new icon appeared on the analogion in the church on Palm Sunday, from which it was impossible to depart, "The Entry of the Lord into Jerusalem," and it was painted by the same hand.

And then the day came when Father Alexander introduced us, leading me to her with the words: "Yulia Nikolaevna is also an artist. She doesn't hear, so write notes." And we began to talk – or rather, she spoke, and I wrote the beginning of the sentence in her notebook – she guessed about the continuation, and I listened to her answer (or question).

It was a happy communion — in a state of almost intoxicating joy, the nearness of the Kingdom, the sky, joy — something else, dear to eternity, secretly peeked through the simplicity of the visible: the shutters open to the courtyard, the oilcloth on the table, the dull-colored tea that was still served to us at that time ("but it does not spoil the complexion," Father Alexander joked), the pale green wooden gate, the rowan tree in the window.

A kind of cheerful power emanated from her, and her voice was festive, akin to the singularity of the place where we had the good fortune to meet. It was different. From your own far away — and all here, you were included in the conversation in that world, as it were, where there is only the main thing. I almost don't remember what the conversation was about (I think she asked about my studies, about the university), but I remember the state of happiness clearly. And her whole life, not yet known to me, stood up behind her back.

In those years there was usual talk of leaving. He left, they leave. They let me out, they don't let me out, they applied for an exit visa... Moscow was emptying, there were gaping holes in houses where you could not come, because the owners, it was clear, would never return. Someone then started a saying: "Russia is great, but there is no one to call."

Странницы и пришельцы на земли…

Она была вестником иного. Я знала о ней, что она вернулась из Франции.

Из той России — из Франции — в наш убогий СССР, где отдельной территорией, островом Царства Небесного, была Новая Деревня, и она была ему, этому Царству, сродни.

* * *

Обликом — странница: до полу юбка, котомка, посох. «Она исходила босиком всю Францию». Мы говорили, и в поле зрения попадало то привычное, что было на стенах «сторожки» (так называли дом при церкви, где был крошечный тогда кабинет отца Александра; в ожидании разговора с ним народ сидел в комнате побольше, что была рядом): Петр и Павел Эль Греко, большой карандашный Серафим Саровский, черно-белая фоторепродукция — двойной портрет Нестерова «Философы». На портрете двое идут по тропе — отец Павел Флоренский, худой, в белой рясе, посох, голова слегка наклонена, лицо светится миром, — и будущий отец Сергий Булгаков, плотнее, в темном сюртуке, в лице будто бы мятеж, его давно тревожит что-то, о чем они беседуют или молчат, идя по тропинке. Будто в этой точке расходились пути: уехать или не уезжать, разделив общую участь. Мне всегда этот двойной портрет в сторожке на общем «отъездном» фоне десятилетия виделся знаком выбора.