The Devil and Father Josef
I give the parents my assurance. They are good Russian folk, and I speak the best Russian I can, although they probably find my Georgian accent almost incomprehensible. The father is a school teacher, an educated man bringing Russian culture to people perhaps not so grateful for his instruction. Many of my own parishioners despise Russia’s rule of Georgia. The wife looks tired, but she is pious and hopeful. After they say a prayer with me, I leave them and walk to their daughter’s room.
Their home is modest; the Tsar does not pay his teachers well, but this family is more comfortable than most of my parishioners here in Tbilisi. As I approach the door, I feel the temperature drop to a winter chill. Inside, the Devil waits.
I take a deep breath to steady myself. O false world, thou art like Satan, none can know thee, or thy treachery. The verse is not from scripture, but an epic poem — the Georgian poet Rustaveli’s The Knight in the Panther’s Skin, in which the hero Tariel attacks a fortress full of demons to rescue a princess. Appropriate that the verse should come to mind at this moment; I open the door, hoping to rescue a princess.
The girl is floating above her bed. Even possessed, she is a beautiful fifteen year old girl. The room smells of urine and brimstone. My mustache bristles, my heart races. The girl’s eyes are bright red, and in the dark her long brown hair moves like a serpent. I hold the Euchologion in my weak left hand and the cross in my right. I begin the exorcism.
“I expel you, primal source of blasphemy, prince of the rebel host, originator of evil.”
“Soso, you ugly, pockmarked monster!” The Devil responds not with a girl’s voice, but a man’s. I recognize it as my father’s. He died when I was ten years old, but I remember the voice clearly. He always called me “Soso,” a diminutive for “Josef.”
My father Vissarion was a brutal man. He beat me constantly. I was terrified of him, and the Devil uses that terror against me. But I forgave my father years ago when I found God’s peace. Vissarion may very well be in Hell, but he is not in this room.
“I expel you, Lucifer, who was cast from the brilliance on high into the darkness of the abyss on account of your arrogance.”
The Devil tears off the girl’s dress and discards it on the bed.
“I will rip open my shirt and show my breast to the moon, and with my raised hands worship her who shares her light with the world.” The voice is that of my mother Ekaterina, who died two summers ago. The words the Devil uses are my own, from a poem written when I was fifteen, the same age as the girl.
It is a sophisticated attack. Lucifer uses the voice of my mother to horrify me. He uses the naked body of the girl to arouse my sexual desires. And he uses my poetry to stoke my vanity. The poetry stings most. That poem was my first success as a young writer, published back when I wanted to be a great Georgian poet, like Rustaveli. But God had other plans for me. I am His instrument, fighting the Devil.
“Be gone and depart from the servant of God.”
“So ugly, with your scarred face and crippled hand. Why did God give you such misfortune? Why do you follow such an ungenerous master?”
It hurts to hear my mother’s voice ask such questions. She was a poor, devout woman who prayed that her precocious son would become a priest in the Orthodox Church. She never lost her faith in God. Or me. After smallpox scarred my face as a child, she never thought I was ugly. Despite my crippled left arm, always weaker than my right, she was never ashamed of my handicap. Her faith was strong, and so is mine.
“I expel you in the name of Him who created all things by His Word.”
The Devil vomits snakes from the girl’s mouth onto the bed.
“Have you no courage? The people starve, while the Russians rape Georgia! You can make a better world, but you hide behind your hymnal!”
Vissarion’s voice again. The Devil seeks to snare me with my old political aspirations. Yes, I once wanted to fight the corruption of the Russians. While I was in the seminary, it’s true I dabbled in socialist politics. I was not the first young man who dreamed of making the world into what he desired. Thanks to God, I saw the folly of those worldly distractions. The communists are all in jail, the Tsar is on his throne, and God is in Heaven.
“I expel you in the name of Him who created all things by His Word.”
“Hell borders all realms, all possibilities, Josef Dzhugashvili!” the Devil screams. “You are meant to serve me. In all realities but this one, you are a monster. You are Stalin! I will corrupt your soul!”
“I expel you in the name of Him who created all things by His Word!” I shout the words with all my heart and will.
The Devil abandons the girl. The parents run into the room and comfort their daughter, who is now crying naked on the bed. The snakes are gone.
I kiss the cross, and reflect on the Devil’s words. The Devil called me “Stalin”; in Russian, the name means “steely” and suggests strength. For some reason, I find the name both familiar and chilling.
After years spent hunting monsters and fighting ninjas, Reed Beebe has retired to a quiet village to write. His work has been published by Heavy Metal, Chilling Tales for Dark Nights, and Nothing But Comics.
You can learn more about this reality’s Josef Dzhugashvili here.
