Who comforts the comforter?

[Times photo: Jamie Francis] The Rev. Miloje Raicevic, priest at St. Sava Serbian Orthodox Church in St. Petersburg, was the driver in an accident in November that left Jacqueline Gericke dead. He has found little solace since, despite the efforts of his parishioners and others to console him.

By SHARON TUBBS

© St. Petersburg Times, published December 14, 2000

Many Serbian parishioners depend upon the Rev. Miloje Raicevic for spiritual sustenance, for making their way in a new culture. He cannot let personal anguish get in the way of being a good shepherd.

ST. PETERSBURG -- It was the morning after the tragedy, and the Rev. Miloje Raicevic left his home for the solace of the altar. He opened the heavy wooden doors, walked down the red-carpeted aisle and, as daylight crept through panes of stained glass, lit a candle in honor of the woman who died the night before.

She was a stranger to him then, not much more than a petite body he saw lying on the asphalt. Still, quietly, he prayed, with no one around but himself and God.

"Forgive her and me for everything that happened," he said.

Later in the day, a guest choir from Nebraska arrived at Raicevic's church, St. Sava Serbian Orthodox in St. Petersburg. Parishioners had planned a weekend of merriment for their guests -- a banquet one night, a concert the next.

They didn't know what had happened. The first newspaper account, published that morning, was just five sentences and included no names: "A woman was hit and killed by a car Thursday night on Dr. M.L. King (Ninth) Street N at 15th Avenue N . . ."

Raicevic knew the rest of the story. It was his car that left Jacqueline Gericke dead. Witnesses told police she stepped into Raicevic's path. His headlights were on. He was not speeding and no charges were filed. The police told him it was not his fault. He was free to go.

For 41 of his 66 years, Raicevic had been a priest, the one who counseled, consoled and, in many ways, protected. After a tragedy such as this, he thought, maybe it was time to retire. True, it was an accident. But there was no getting around it: A woman was dead; he was the driver.

Raicevic told few people of the weight on his heart. If he grieved in public, everyone would feel sorry for him, he said. His job was to inspire, not to burden.

So, on the day after, he greeted his parishioners and out-of-town guests warmly, his smile a fitting mask.

"I was just driving slowly. I was not in a hurry," Raicevic says. He had headed home after choir practice about 8:15 the night of Nov. 9, no sound in his car except the choir still ringing in his head.

He did not hear people yelling to Mrs. Gericke, "Stop!"

"I just heard at once, I heard some terrible noise. What happened? I see no cars in front of me, no cars beside me, no cars behind me. . . . All of a sudden some object flew on the hood of my car that moment when I heard this noise. She flew on my windshield. . . . You know, all of this came in one second in my mind.

"I hit the brakes to see what this is."

Raicevic got out of his Buick and scrambled to the body lying in the street.

"I see it was a person," he recalls. "I said, "Oh, my God. Oh, my goodness, where did this person come from?' "

People rushed over from the art exhibit Gericke had checked out at Ambiance Galleries on King Street.

"They touch her pulse, no pulse," Raicevic remembers. "They say that she is dead."

A few witnesses approached Raicevic, assuring him he had done no wrong. They said they would tell police exactly what happened: Mrs. Gericke was walking toward the street when they yelled at her to stop. But, for some reason, she began trotting forward, right into his path.

Police arrived.

"Did you drink tonight or anything?" Raicevic remembers them asking. He had not drunk anything.

Raicevic was wearing casual slacks and a shirt. As officers questioned him, out of habit, he introduced himself as a priest.

"Father, you have nothing to do with this," one officer told him.

Later, he was standing behind the yellow police tape when a distraught-looking man walked by, escorted by an officer. Raicevic asked the man if he was related to the woman.

"I saw a gentleman standing outside the tape," Bill Gericke says. "He asked me if I knew this woman. I said, "Yes, she was my wife.' He was just wringing his hands, and he kind of put his hands over his face.

"It couldn't be anyone else but the driver," he thought, after seeing Raicevic's reaction. "He was feeling as awful as he possibly could. He was standing out there all by himself, no one there to support him."

Back at the Gericke home that night, Bill Gericke was trying to piece together what happened. His 60-year-old wife had left the house while he was watching TV. Apparently, she had walked down the street to see what was happening at the art gallery, where music was playing.

Gericke asked officers about the man he saw standing by the tape, the driver. Who was he?

Officer Mike Jockers knew.

He told Gericke that Raicevic was a priest he first met a year ago. A man had crashed his car, killing his wife and their 15-month-old baby. The family was Serbian, members of Raicevic's church. They spoke little English and, for six or seven hours, Raicevic translated for the family and police. That's how Jockers had learned what had happened -- that the baby was sick, that the family was rushing her to the hospital, that the wife was screaming, that the husband panicked and crossed the center line into oncoming traffic.

Raicevic agreed to be one of two people to identify the bodies. He helped police and the family make arrangements for services. He counseled the husband for days.

Officer Jockers recounted all this to Bill Gericke. That night, the Gericke family sent a friend to find Raicevic, who was still at the scene, "to tell him, in essence, we didn't harbor any ill will," Gericke says. "We knew it would be a terrible burden he would have to bear the rest of his life."

Jockers took Raicevic's statement the night Jacqueline Gericke died. Something the priest said gnawed at the traffic homicide officer.

"He started saying that he would no longer be able to be a priest anymore because he took a human life," Jockers says. "He has a gift. Anybody who is able to touch people the way I saw him touch people last year. . . . For him to have just said, "Okay, I can't be a priest anymore because I took a human life . . .' "

Jockers, himself a Christian believer who plays bass for the children's ministry at First Baptist Church of St. Petersburg, tried to dissuade Raicevic from leaving the priesthood. He suggested Raicevic call relatives to pick him up and take him home.

Raicevic is married and has two grown sons. (He married before entering the priesthood.) His 25-year-old son was home the night of the accident, but Raicevic wanted to shield him from the tragic scene. He would not allow Jockers to call anyone for help.

The fire department came, bleached Raicevic's car and hosed it down after police finished investigating, Jockers says. Police officers put the keys in the ignition, held open the door and ushered Raicevic into the driver's seat. It was after 11 p.m.

Jockers recalls, "He said he was fine."

The first news account was brief. The second story, which ran two days after the accident, was more detailed, including Raicevic's name and the name of his church.

People started calling. They still do. They tell Raicevic they're praying for him. They are staffers at doctors' offices, the Social Security office, Serbs he has met over the years. He has come to know many of them while translating for Bosnian refugees and other parishioners at his church, about 80 percent of whom don't speak English.

He thanks them for their prayers.

About a month after the accident, Raicevic sits in the church sanctuary with a reporter, dressed in priestly garb, black pants, black shirt, black suit jacket and white collar. It is his first time speaking at length about the accident with someone other than his wife, Sloba.

He thinks back to last December when he tried to console the church member whose wife and daughter died. "I told him that he had to stop thinking (about it), take care of himself, pray for them. That's all he could really do."

Can Raicevic take his own advice?

"For some reason, I was much more successful to console the others than myself."

He doesn't think seriously about retiring anymore. Jockers was right; he can't quit now. Raicevic's church is one of few Serbian Orthodox parishes in the area. Priests are scarce; there would be no one to lead the congregation.

Soon after the accident, Raicevic called his bishop near Pittsburgh, Pa. The conversation was brief. Raicevic described the accident and the bishop asked him to send him a copy of the police report.

Perhaps the strongest salve was the invitation he got to meet the Gericke family. He went to see them the day before Mrs. Gericke's funeral. They chatted about his Yugoslavian background and talked about Mrs. Gericke. She was a Christian -- Episcopalian.

"That she was, in general, some kind of a Christian, that does give me relaxation," Raicevic says. "There is good hope she'll go to the right place."

At every service since, during the time set aside to remember the dead, Raicevic has said a private prayer for Mrs. Gericke. Though he knows the accident was not his fault, he remains troubled.

"Nothing in this world would bother me as much as someone flying in front of my car, to be killed by my car," Raicevic says. "I was driving."

People say that time heals.

"So, (I will) just wait for the time which will bring me some kind of better feeling and some more enthusiasm."

Meanwhile, Raicevic has not missed a Sunday sermon, an appointment to drive a Serbian-speaking parishioner to the hospital, to the dentist, the Social Security office or the airport.

He keeps smiling. "In order to protect them, I'm hiding how I feel."

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