‘Then permit the Watchtower to welcome you, O my beloved Brother Artyom!’ droned Fatso, and Artyom was again amazed that he too did not seem to notice the unbearable stench that had now permeated his entire being.
‘And now,’ cooed Brother Timothy, as they were making their leisurely way through the first car, ‘before you meet the brothers in the Hall of the Kingdom, you have to clean your body, for Jehovah God is clean and holy, and expects his worshippers to maintain their spiritual, moral, and physical cleanliness, as well as cleanliness of thoughts. We live in an unclean world,’ he said, glancing sadly at Artyom’s clothes, which were certainly in a deplorable condition, ‘and serious efforts are required of us to remain clean in God’s eyes, my brother,’ he concluded, and hustled Artyom into a nook that was decked out with plastic sheets, set up not far from the entrance to the car. Timothy asked him to undress, and then handed him a bar of grey soap with a nauseating smell, and five minutes later ran water for him from a rubber hose.
Artyom tried not to think about what the soap was made out of. At any event, it not only ate up the dirt on his skin, but also destroyed the disgusting smell emanating from his body. After the procedures were complete, Brother Timothy gave Artyom a relatively fresh robe, like his own, and looked disapprovingly at the cartridge case hanging around his neck, perceiving it to be a pagan talisman, but limited himself to a reproachful sigh.
It was also surprising that on this strange train, stuck, who knows when, in the middle of a tunnel, and now serving as a shelter for the brethren, there was water, and it came out under such strong pressure.
But when Artyom asked about the strange water that was coming from the hose and how it was possible to build such a structure, brother Timothy only mysteriously smiled and declared that the aspiration to please Lord Jehovah really moved people to heroic and glorious acts. The explanation was more than a bit foggy but it would have to suffice.
Then they went into the second wagon where long, empty tables were built between rigid lateral benches. Brother Timothy walked up to a man who was conjuring something over a big cauldron from which a seductive steam was rising, and he returned with a big dish of some kind of thin gruel, which turned out to be quite edible even though Artyom couldn’t work out what it was made from.
While he hastily scooped up the hot soup with an old aluminium spoon, Brother Timothy watched affectionately, not missing a chance to proselytize:
‘Don’t think that I don’t trust you, brother, but your answer to my question about belief in our God didn’t sound very solid. Can you really imagine a world in which He doesn’t exist? Surely our world can’t have created itself, not according to His wise will? Could the infinite variety of forms of life, the beauty of the earth,’ he gestured around the dining room with his beard, ‘could all this be just an accident?’
Artyom looked around the wagon attentively but didn’t see any other forms of life in it apart from themselves and the cook. Again, he bent over his bowl and only issued some sceptical rumblings.
Contrary to his expectations, his disagreement didn’t embitter Brother Timothy at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. He had visibly enlivened, his pink cheeks were lit with a fervent, fighting flush.
‘If this doesn’t convince you of His existence,’ brother Timothy continued energetically, ‘then think about it in a different way. If this world isn’t a display of divine will then it means…’ his voice froze, as if from fright, and only after several long moments, during which Artyom completely lost his appetite, did he finish his thought: ‘Then that means that people are left to their own devices, and there’s no point to our existence, and there’s no point in prolonging it… It means that we are completely alone, and no one cares for us. It means that we are plunged into chaos and there isn’t the slightest hope of a light at the end of the tunnel… And it’s frightening to live in such a world. It’s impossible to live in such a world.’
Artyom didn’t say anything to him in reply, but these words made him think. Until this moment he had in fact viewed his life as total chaos, like a chain of accidents without connection or sense. Though this oppressed him and the temptation to trust any simple truth that might fill his life with meaning was great, he considered it cowardice and through the pain and the doubt, he gained strength in the thought that his life was of no use and that each living thing should resist nonsense and the chaos of life. But he didn’t feel at all like arguing with the gentle Timothy right now.
He felt a satisfied and benevolent feeling, and he felt sincere gratitude to the person who had picked him up, tired, hungry and stinking, and who had spoken warmly to him, who now fed him and had given him clean clothes. He wanted to somehow thank him and so when the man beckoned him to join a meeting of brothers, Artyom stood up readily, showing with his every mannerism, that he would go with pleasure to this meeting and wherever he was led.
The meeting was to take place in the next, that is, the third, carriage. It was full of all sorts of people, mostly dressed in the same overalls. In the middle of the carriage there was a small scaffold and the person standing on it towered over everybody at floor level, almost resting his head on the ceiling.
‘It’s important that you listen to everything,’ Brother Timothy told Artyom instructively, clearing their path with gentle nudges and leading Artyom to the very middle of the crowd.
The orator was rather old, and there was a handsome grey beard falling down his chest, and his deep-set eyes of an indeterminate colour looked down wisely and calmly. His face wasn’t thin or round, it was furrowed with deep wrinkles but it didn’t portray an old man’s weakness or helplessness but rather a wisdom. It radiated an inexplicable force.
‘That’s Elder John,’ Brother Timothy whispered to Artyom in a reverential voice. ‘You are really lucky, Brother Artyom, as soon as the sermon begins you will receive teachings at once.’
The elder raised his hand; the rustlings and whisperings stopped immediately. Then he began in a deep and sonorous voice:
‘My first lesson to you, my beloved brothers, is about how to know what God is asking of you. To do this you must answer three questions. What important information is contained in the Bible? Who is its author? Why should we study it?’
His speech differed from Brother Timothy’s meandering manner. He spoke absolutely simply, plainly navigating short propositions. Artyom was at first surprised by this, but then he looked from side to side and saw that the majority of people there were only able to understand words like this, and the pink-cheeked Timothy had no more effect on them than the walls or the table. Meanwhile, the grey-haired preacher informed them that God’s truth lay in the Bible: who He is and which were His laws. After that he turned to the second question and told them that the Bible was written by about forty different people over 1600 years and they were all inspired by God.
‘That’s why,’ the elder concluded, ‘the author of the Bible isn’t a person but it is God, living in the heavens. And now, answer me this, brothers, why do we need to study the Bible?’
And, not waiting for the brothers to answer, he explained it himself: ‘Because to know God and to do His will is a pledge of your eternal future. Not everyone will be pleased that you are studying the Bible,’ he warned, ‘but don’t let anyone prevent you!’ He cast a stern look around the congregation.
There was a moment’s silence and then the old man, having taken a sip of water, continued: ‘My second lesson to you, brothers, is about who God is. So, give me an answer to these three questions: Who is the true God and what is His name? What are His most important qualities? What is the right way to worship Him?’