By all accounts the Pope got a better reception in the Orthodox Church than I did. Of course as the first Roman Pontiff to visit the Eastern Church since the schism of 1054, it was no surprise that he was given a rapturous reception at the Patriarchal Cathedral in Bucharest during his three days in Romania. My less joyous encounter with Orthodoxy was in the 1960s when the Soviet Union was still the Soviet Union and the leader of the Communist Bloc. The Pope and I were both in the same Orthodox area, north of the Danube and west of the Dnieper, if not exactly in the same parish at the same time.
While the Pope was there with intent, I was there more or less by accident. There were two of us, both from the Dublin Branch of the National Union of Journalists, sitting in the huge Russiya Hotel at the bottom of Red Square in Moscow as the guests of the all-powerful Soviet Union of Journalists, quaffing our duty-free Jameson with a high official of the union and our interpreter, a reporter from Tass, recently returned from Somalia after doing a stint for the Soviet news agency under the African sun or spying for the KGB or whatever Russian journalists did in those days.
Silk Road
The official was keen to demonstrate that there was freedom of movement in the Soviet Union. "Tell us where you want to go and we will make the arrangements", he said. "Samarkand", I ventured, with a vision of travelling the golden road of the silk traders of old. "You would be most welcome in Samarkand but I'm afraid it's not possible at the moment," said he. "There has been an earthquake in Uzbekistan recently and communications are bad," (as was indeed the truth).
He suggested the Baltic States: "You're from a Catholic country and there are many Catholics there". My colleague, a practising Roman Catholic, was about to agree to this suggestion. An under-the-table kick on his shin swiftly halted his march to Lithuania. "No," I said. "We would like to see something different."
"Well, have you any suggestions?"
"Moldova, how about Moldova?" I had done some reading in advance about the Soviet Union and knew that Moldova, bordering on Romania, was one of the smallest and most backward members of the Soviet family.
He left the room and the Jameson to make some inquiries. Within a quarter of an hour he returned. "Yes," he announced, "our comrades in Moldova would be delighted to receive you." Next day practising colleague, interpreter from Tass and I were on an internal Aeroflot flight to Kishinyov. And the local comrades were indeed delighted to receive us.
We were the first (and maybe the last) guests of the Soviet Union of Journalists to opt to visit Moldova. Nikolai Viktorovich Podgorny himself could not have received a grander welcome. At breakfast in the hotel (the best in town) each morning, the table was arrayed with two bottles of the local champagne, a bottle of red wine and one of white, a bottle of vodka and a bottle of brandy (Moldova is a wine growing region). There was also some food.
Speeches and pledges
Our odyssey included the inevitable tours of factories, collective farms, hospitals, schools etc. Everywhere there were meals, fraternal speeches, pledges to strengthen the (nonexistent) links between Ireland and Moldova and toasts . . . and toasts and toasts. Came Sunday and practising colleague expressed a desire to go to Mass.
Did I mention the language difficulty? In Moldova they speak a patois of Romanian. Our man from Tass did not have the local tongue. He had enlisted the services of the editor of the local edition of Pravda. So everywhere we went we had a relay of translations: English to Russian, Russian to Romanian and back by the reverse journey. Phone calls from Tass and Pravda failed to unearth a Roman Catholic Church in Kishinyov. "But we have an Orthodox Cathedral", said Pravda via Tass, anxious to show there was freedom of religion in the Soviet Union.
Elaborate rite
Practising colleague decided, schism be damned, that Orthodoxy would serve, so off we all trooped to the Cathedral. It was well-filled, mainly with elderly women accompanied by children. The four of us stood, as is the custom, among the congregation while the elaborate rite proceeded. It must have been a special feast day. There were at least a dozen priests on the altar, all adorned in splendid garments. The choir chanted in mighty harmony.
The sun danced through the stained glass. A beautiful composition of colour to be captured on camera. "Is it all right if I take a photograph?" I whispered to Tass. "Is it all right if he takes a photograph?" he inquired of Pravda. "Of course," said Pravda. I set the flash, focused the lens and clicked. No sooner had the flash dissipated when I received a forceful blow on the back of my head. I turned to find a stern-faced grandmother lifting her umbrella in a threatening gesture. The camera was quickly returned to its case. I stood quietly, with head throbbing, for the rest of the ceremony.
Outside, I rounded on Tass. "I thought you said it was all right to take a photograph in the cathedral?" He turned to Pravda. "You said it was all right for him to take a photograph." Pravda, an elderly, erudite comrade, was most contrite. "I thought it was ok," he said, "but I've never been in a church before."