In Exile with Metropolitan Anthony

The memoirs of Father Kiprian (Kern) on Metropolitan Anthony (Khrapovitskii) are well known and have long been valued as a vivid and authoritative witness to his life and thought. The recollections of Father Gregory Lomako, presented here, are no less remarkable distinguished by their literary quality, breadth of perspective, and depth of analysis. Yet, unlike Father Kiprian’s work, they have remained largely unknown.

The present publication seeks to bring these memoirs into wider circulation. Their preservation and initial publication are owed to the efforts of Father Ilya Solovyov in Moscow, who prepared the text and supplied it with detailed scholarly notes. [1] Церковно-исторический вестник, 24-25 (2017-2018). Through the assistance of Professor Antoine Nivier in Strasbourg, a copy of this edition became available to Father Ilya for further study, and Father Ilya generously granted permission for its use.

An additional copy, held at the Bakhmeteff Archive of Columbia University, was obtained by Nicolas Mabin of London, a collaborator and friend of ROCOR Studies. On the basis of these materials, Dr. Walker R. Thompson in Heidelberg, Germany has prepared the present English translation for ROCOR Studies. Many thanks to both of them!

Protodeacon Andrei Psarev, June 27, 2026

Lord, bless!

It is the thirteenth year since I left my native parts. The vividness and recentness of the experience are gone. Much is likely forgotten or, if it has not been forgotten altogether, is diminished, the force of its direct experience diluted. While I still have my strength about me, while I am still alive, I shall attempt to write down all that happened during these endless years (only 29, yet for a human life, that is quite a lot) of my peregrinations. Within the past few days, I received the message from Nice that P. S. Miasnikov (a Russian Army lieutenant, and in recent years a cantor at the Russian Cathedral in Nice) had suddenly died. That evening, he had still been sitting there, writing, talking with those around him. He said his prayers, lay down in bed – and passed away at 4 a.m. I took the information of his death as an advance notice and reminder. Shall I manage to finish what I have begun? May the Lord help me!

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Ekaterinodar, February, 1920. The defeat of General Denikin’s armies. An unremitting flow [of people] from the North to Novorossiisk and the South Caucasus. Most were headed to Novorossiisk: to the sea, steamships, the distant, unknown lands abroad, where the oppressive terror of impending Bolshevik rule would be gone. Bishops huddled together in the diocesan house. The house is small: it is the former metochion of Lebiazhii Monastery. [2] St. Nicholas Monastery in Lebiazhii Ostrov near Briukhovetksaia and Pereiaslovskaia Stanitsy [lit.”stations”; a type of Cossack settlement and administrative unit in Southern Russia] It had obviously obtained the ability to stretch out, so many people fit inside. It was here that Metropolitan Pitirim [3]Metropolitan Pitirim (Oknov 1858, Riga — 1920, Yekaterinodar). From 1896 he served as Bishop of Tula; from 1906 as Bishop of Kursk; and from 1914 as Exarch of Georgia. Beginning in 1915, he headed … Continue reading and Bishop Feodor (a vicar bishop of Kharkov Diocese) died. Among those living there were Archbishop (later Metropolitan) Evlogii, Bp. Mitrofan, Bp. Gavriil, and Bp. Damian. Also residing there was Metropolitan Antonii, who was the administrator of the Diocese of the Kuban at that time. Yes, at the time. Everything collapsed and went hurtling toward the sea. MetropolitanAntonii was receiving the refugee priests (the most wretched of them all), consoling them such as he was able; holding audiences with the atamans of the stanitsy and the church wardens and giving orders to some soldiers who were always thronging his antechamber; and hearing reports about the objectives of the Supreme Church Administration and Diocesan Council. It was blatantly clear to everyone that Denikin-era Ekaterinodar was living out its last days. However, as the most junior member of the Supreme Church Administration, I had to travel both to conduct an inspection of the Black Sea Diocese (together with Bishop Mikhail of Alexandrov, Vicar to Abp. Agafador of Stavropol) and to pick up wax that had been purchased during the war by the Holy Synod’s Committee of Diocesan Candle Factories for the Needs of the Russian Church. The inspection came down to sorting out disputes and discontent between Bishop Sergii (Petrov) of the Black Sea Diocese and Archpriest Vladimir Lvov, the rector of Novorossiisk Cathedral (né Gofman, the godson of [Procurator] Vladimir K. Sabler). Siding with Bp. Sergii was Archpriest P. Belovidov, the former rector of Sukhumi Cathedral, who had now joined his bishop in Novorossiisk. Our “inspection” did not yield any results, nor could it have. A week after the “inspection”, Bp. Sergii and Archpriest P. Belovidov departed (“were evacuated”) for Serbia. [PAGE 3] Archpriest V. Lvov stayed where he was in Novorossiisk. Several days after this trip, I had to travel again to fetch the wax that had arrived from England. This wax had been purchased during the war by Archpriest G. Leonchukov (died in Paris as Bishop Ioann Leonchukov of Khersones, prior of St. Sergius Metochion), the President of the aforementioned Holy Synod’s Committee of Diocesan Candle Factories for the Needs of the Russian Church. Since Archpriest G. Leonchukov was from Odessa and Metropolitan Platon had been the bishop of Odessa after the Moscow Council, this precious shipment (30,000 puds of wax, 13,000 puds of incense, and “Metr. Platon’s possessions”), had been sent from Liverpool to the address of the Holy Synod in Odessa. At the time, Odessa was occupied by the Bolsheviks. In Sevastopol, where the (American) steamship stopped, nobody knew about any Holy Synod, but they said that there was something of that nature in Ekaterinodar. The steamship arrived in Novorossiisk. Count Vasilii V. Musin-Pushkin, who was at the time residing in Novorossiisk, informed the Supreme Church Administration of it. I was sent to search for this steamship. This was in late February 1920. I was not to see Ekaterinodar again.

Novorossiisk was teeming. I was staying with Deacon Evlampiev of Novorossiisk Cathedral, sometimes spending time with the T[ar]letskiis, with whom I was acquainted from St. Petersburg. In the night from March 12–13 (O.S.), I slept over with them. The day before, I had been with MetropolitanAntonii, who had come there from Ekaterinodar. There, I encountered T. A. Ametistov my fellow classmate from the Theological Academy. [4]Tikhon Alexandrovich Ametistov (1884, Saint Petersburg — 1941, Paris), church and public figure. A graduate of the Saint Petersburg Theological Academy (1905), he subsequently entered military … Continue reading

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April 12/25, 1953

March, 1920. Novorossiisk. My God, how long ago it all was! I remember that March 18 was a clear sunlit day. A mass of people on [Admiral] Serebriakov Street. A huge bay full of ships. Beyond the pier were the gray colossi of the English Iron Duke and the French Waldeck-Rousseau. Next to them, a little to the north, was an Italian cruise ship. The Greek destroyer Ierax was also there. On the morning of the same day, I had been visiting Metr. Antonii, who had been getting ready to depart on the Greek steamship Elevsis. The elder Metropolitan, who had not wanted to leave Russia, had been persuaded by us saying: “You shall plant a cross at St. Sophia in Constantinople.” [5]After November 1918, when Constantinople (Istanbul) was occupied by Allied forces (French troops entered on 12 November and British troops on 13 November 1918), some Greek and, more broadly, Orthodox … Continue readingThe ceremony of the planting of the cross had incited the Metropolitan to agree to depart. At the Metropolitan’s, I encountered T. A. Ametistov, who was energetic and full of joie de vivre. Come evening, Metr. Antonii was meant to get on the steamship destined for Constantinople and Athens rather than Crimea, but we kept on attending to the affairs of the Supreme Church Administration, of which I was a member. I recall that I signed two decrees: one awarding the epigonation to Archpriest N. Kartashov, my fellow-minister from Ekaterinodar, and one appointing His Eminence Germogen of Aksai to the See of Ekaterinoslav. Archpriest N. Kartashov remained in Ekaterinodar, while I – as president of the Committee for the Evacuation of the Clergy – arranged a place for Bp. Germogen and his son on a steamship sailing for Thessaloniki, from whence the ship’s passengers were supposed to set off for Serbia, at the time in the Kingdom of Serbs, Croats, and Slovenes. Whereas we in Novorossiisk were busy signing decrees! It was a strange state where time could not be felt at all.

I had breakfast that day with the Terletskiis (he was the director of the Novorossiisk branch of the State Bank), whom I knew from Saint Petersburg. We took no thought of the morrow. And suddenly there was a call from Metr. Antonii saying that an evacuation had been declared and the Greek steamship Elevsis was being boarded, and asking me what I thought we ought to do. I replied to him suggesting that we remain in Novorossiisk, in the hope of returning to my family in Ekaterinodar. The Terletskii family, from whose home I took the call, likewise decided against evacuation. Our tranquility had been perturbed. I went out onto the street and was struck by how empty it was. I looked out toward the bay: it was completely empty, though it had just recently been full of ships. The only ships left were two docked next to the cement factories and, at the coastwise pier, the Elevsis, a magnificent beauty, where Metr. Antonii was already on board. The Iron Duke, the Waldeck-Rousseau, and the “Italian” were “looking on.”

I went to the people with whom I was staying, and heard them insistently suggesting that I leave. “It will be better both for us and for you, Father.” There was nothing that could be done. I took my suitcase and went out onto the street. There, things got frightful. There were no authorities. In one place, some volunteers were trying to string up an Oriental man, but the rope kept snapping. Elsewhere, a gang of ragamuffins were setting upon an officer cornered against a wall and holding a revolver in his outstretched hand. Around the corner, Col. Turkul was recruiting local youths to swell the ranks of his battalions. [6]Colonel (later Major General) Anton Vasilievich Turkul (1892–1957) was one of the most prominent commanders of the Drozdovsky Division of the White Army. A veteran of the First World War, the … Continue reading I passed by all of these scenes carrying my suitcase, heading toward the bay in the hope of getting on some steamship or another after all, even if I had no grounds whatsoever for this hope. At the station, shells were already exploding: from the Whites, or the Reds? I went up to the bay shore. In the huge, by now totally empty bay, there was only the white beauty of the Elevsis next to the coastwise pier, and beyond the pier, its escort, the Greek destroyer Ierax. The distance from the pier to the ship was 150 fathoms [lit. ‘sazhens’, a unit of measurement –transl.]: at once both near and unattainably far. There was no little skiff, or rowboat, or dinghy that could get me to the steamship. And yet there it was, so very close, within view, all white with a yellow smokestack and two masts tilting backward. I imbibed the sight of it thinking about how I could get there. Suddenly, from the left, a little ways behind me, I heard the patter of oars: someone was pulling up to the bank on a boat. I turned around. A fisherman, about 45 years in age, was towing a boat up onto the shore. I raced up to him. “Please, dear Sir, won’t you take me out to yon steamship? You see, the white one with the yellow smokestack. It’s not far. I’ll pay you…” After he had towed his boat all the way out, he slung his oars over his shoulder and, with his back to me, said to me in his succulent Black Sea patois: “Oi, our boys is on the way with Budionnyi. 50,000 sabers. Oi, when they’s come they’ll show you ‘ow to get there ‘n all…” [7]Semyon Budyonny (1883–1973), Soviet cavalry commander and one of the first Marshals of the Soviet Union, closely associated with the Red Cavalry during the Russian Civil War. In émigré and … Continue reading And, without speaking another word, he walked off toward the town. I remained standing there in my solitude, utterly crestfallen after such an expressive foretelling of what was to come, in total perplexity. What was I to do? At that moment, I noticed that three young lads, boys about 10–12 years in age, were floating my way on some kind of box-shaped trough – one could not in the slightest have called the construction a boat – along the coastwise pier, to the end of the pier and back, gripping the pier with their hands and thereby imparting motion to their frigate. If they can get to the end of the pier and back, they can get to the steamship, I thought, if only they had something like an oar. In the next moment, I was already at the water’s edge, near these seafarers. “Lads, won’t you take me out to that steamship with the yellow mast?” “Sure, 30,000.” “Fine, I’ll pay you.” “We’ll have the money upfront,” the crew told me. I handed them 30,000 roubles in Don bonds, chucked my suitcase into the trough and jumped in myself. “You just keep pouring the water out, ‘cause it’s a-leaking right ‘ere,” the captain of the ship told me, arming himself with a piece of a board that took the place of both a rudder and an oar, and using it to push off the pier. “Right ‘ere” water was indeed leaking in from all around. We had barely sailed out a fathom before water started to pour in numerous little fountains and streams out of all the cracks that had previously been above the waterline but sunk down under the weight of me and my suitcase. I started ladling it out using an empty sardine can, but that did little to help the matter. “Keep pourin’ it out, ‘cause we’ll drown!”, one of the shipmen shouted to me. And I could indeed see that the water was coming in; the soles of my feet were already in water, up to my ankles.

(To Be Continued)