The House by the Dvina (32 page)

It has been said that haemophilia was one of the links in the chain of disasters which brought on the revolution and changed the face of the nation. Some guardian angel may have watched over the throne of Britain, for Queen Victoria, the carrier of the deadly gene, only passed it on to her youngest son, Leopold. The future King Edward and his other brothers escaped it, but two of her daughters were carriers and succeeded in spreading haemophilia over the royal courts of Europe.

The Tsarevich was the only son and heir to the Russian throne. The Empress cannot be blamed for turning to the only man who could save her child! If only RasputinТs activities had been confined to curing the child! But power corrupts and the miracle worker overreached himself. He began to interfere with the running of the country and the war. Men of integrity and high ability, who disliked Rasputin, were constantly being removed and replaced by men of a lower calibre and less credibility. The Empress, firmly believing that this was the voice of God speaking through the “holy father”, followed his advice and rebuked those who criticised him adversely. With a determination which brooked no opposition she demanded that the Tsar should obey RasputinТs recommendations. The Tsar, weak and uncertain, gave in to his neurotic wife for the sake of their child.

There was only one solution. Rasputin had to be destroyed. Enticed to the house of Prince Yusupoff, the husband of the TsarТs niece, and assisted by other conspirators including Prince Dmitry, the TsarТs first cousin, Rasputin was murdered. His body, pushed through the waterhole under the ice, was found two days later.

There was great rejoicing in Petrograd and a general feeling of relief over the country. Yet, there was something ominous in the fact that members of the Royal family were implicated in the murder. It was as if in this Royal hive, the queen bee herself was being attacked by her own kind.

An act that seemed to indicate an approach of a greater disaster.

Christmas came and went and there was still no news of SeryozhaТs whereabouts, but with the dawning of the fatal year of 1917 a brief message arrived saying he was well, but was expecting to be moved to another destination. From these words it was surmised that it might be the Silesian front.

1917

I remember one early morning in March walking along the slushy pavements to school. The snows of a hard winter were disappearing. Only the high snowdrifts flanking the footpaths, overlaid by a fine tracery of soot, remained, slowly shrinking. As I approached the school a procession of men and women tramping on the road overtook me. A forest of crimson flags fluttered in their hands to the triumphal strains of the Marseillaise.

They passed me by and vanished in the direction of the Cathedral Square.

Inside the school, upstairs in the hall, there was the usual assembly for morning prayers. Each class, formed in pairs, stood facing the altar.

Behind us were the teachers grouped around the principal, Nataliya Pavlovna. Members of the choir took up their position on the dais. The priest stood waiting for the sign to start the service. All remained still, aware that something unusual was taking place. Nataliya Pavlovna spoke to us: “Girls, most of you perhaps have heard that a revolution has taken place in our country. There will be no more singing of the national anthem at the end of the services. That is all,” she added, unable to continue. On the walls where only the previous day had hung portraits of the Tsar and his family were blank spaces. A new era had begun.

In our house the news of the revolution was received with mixed feelings Ч

sadness, uncertainty and resignation to the inevitable. Overriding all emotions was the fervent hope that, under a democratic government, the war would be brought to a successful conclusion, bringing an end to the frightening slaughter.

During the first months of the revolution there was great excitement and optimism in our town. Processions, concerts, plays took place and in our largest cinema a film on Rasputin and his evil influence on the Empress ran to packed houses. In one of the concerts organised in aid of funds, the boys and girls of the gymnasiums took part. Dressed in our national costumes, we stood in groups around the stage. When the curtain rose “Old Mother Russia”, portrayed as an old witch Ч the wicked “Baba Yaga” of our fairy tales Ч was seen slowly sinking through the floor and as she vanished a beautiful young girl, dressed in a red sarafan, rose through the same cunningly disguised trapdoor. The new young Russia unfortunately had some difficulty scrambling through, clutching her unwieldy crimson flag. No sooner did her pretty head appear above the floorboards, than we, the chorus, burst into a fervent rendering of the Russian version of the Marseillaise. Various scenes followed. I was chosen to take part in one of them, where the girls linked together and faced the boys on the opposite side. It was one of those bantering songs and dances Ч the girls advancing, teasing the boys, retreating back, with the boys following suit. The dance, accompanied by a balalaika orchestra, was vigorous and joyful, only slightly marred by my petticoat becoming undone and slipping below the sarafan. This aroused unseemly mirth in the audience and helpless fury in my motherТs breast, forced to watch her daughter in gay abandon galloping up and down the stage with the petticoat flopping around her ankles. At the end of the concert all the performers gathered on the stage to receive a standing ovation. The Marseillaise was sung once more with the same fervour as was sung the national anthem for the Tsar three years earlier when my young Aunt Marga stood resplendent in the traditional dress of old Russia, surrounded by her allies.

Meanwhile, with each passing day, Russia, like a rudderless ship, was moving closer to disaster. The renowned oratory of Kerensky failed to inspire the troops to go on fighting. Soldiers continued to desert.

Estates and houses were being plundered, owners murdered and officers shot out of hand. These excesses had not, as yet, reached our part of the country, so that the minds of the people tended to be occupied by their own immediate problems. The shortages of the barest necessities were more acute than ever. In the market the peasants still offered milk and butter, at a price, but there was a great scarcity of flour, meat, sugar, tea and even soap. Our family was luckier than most, for as long as we had our black-faced ewes we didnТt have the same meat problem as others and were even able to help our friends. However, we had had an unexpected blow when the ram died and, because of the war, could not be replaced from Scotland.

No one in the family, or anywhere around, knew anything about sheep farming, as only cattle were kept in the district. Mitka Shalai came to the rescue. “You want a ram. IТll find you a ram.” A “ram” duly arrived.

It was enormous, smooth-coated, and with a peculiar head and long, flapping ears. The ewes recoiled in horror. Though scorned and rejected, the ram trotted eagerly behind them to their haunts by the river. One day, finding the ram more bothersome than usual, the ewes simply tossed it over the boulders and down into the river. That was the end of the story. The silly things paid for their conceit. One by one they perished, and for a time there was a surfeit of mutton. During the summer of the first revolution, Babushka decided to spend a short holiday in the historic small town of Kholmogor, lying some thirty miles up the river, beyond Archangel. Kholmogor is also known as the dairy of the north through her famous castle, first brought there from Holland by Peter the Great, Babushka, believing that an abundance of fresh milk, butter and better feeding would do Ghermosha and me some good, took us with her.

As Vera, SeryozhaТs mamka, lived in Kholmogor, it was arranged that Ghermosha and I would stay with her for a few days and then join Babushka in the guest house of the ancient convent. Vera, in her early days, after losing her first child, took on the job of nursing Seryozha. She and her husband saved all the money they earned. Later, out of their joint capital, they bought a two-storeyed solid house and turned the ground floor into a profitable eating-house. The entire floor was devoted to kitchen premises and one large room, where, on a long sideboard, stood a bubbling samovar and trays laden with a variety of VeraТs baking Ч curd cakes, pirozhkis filled with mushrooms, chopped eggs or cabbage Ч all protected by fine clean linen. At the beginning of the war, VeraТs husband, a shrewd peasant, seeing the coming shortages, purchased various commodities Ч especially sugar, tea and flour. Glasses of tea were still accompanied by jam prepared from wild berries and served in little portions Ч a luxury no longer available in Archangel. There were also barrels of “kvas” Ч the cool drink made from rye bread. On each of the small tables at all times sat containers filled with salted squares of crisp black bread. VeraТs daughter, Shura, had to prepare them daily. I enjoyed helping her cutting the bread into tiny squares, drying them in the oven and sprinkling them with salt. Patrons nibbling these salty titbits became thirsty and drank more kvas and that in turn helped to swell the kitty.

We spent several days with Babushka in the conventТs guest house. The convent was a hive of industry as all the work, the tending of the cattle, the labouring in the fields, was done by nuns. Every room was spotless, scrubbed and polished every day. We were allotted a spacious and comfortable room which we shared with Babushka.

The meals, served in the refectory, were only allowed to be attended by women and girls. Men and boys were not admitted. Their food was brought to the guest house, where Ghermosha joined all the male guests.

In the refectory stood long tables with stools placed round them. In the centre of the room, standing at a praying desk, a nun read passages from the Bible throughout the meal. The first course, I remember, was a rich fish soup known as “ukha”, with pieces of the fish and potatoes floating in it. I might well have enjoyed it if it wasnТt that each bowl had to be shared between three and more people. I didnТt mind so much sharing the soup with my immediate neighbour, a fresh young nun, but facing me sat an old and not particularly clean-looking pilgrim, who dribbled and loudly smacked her lips as she went on pulling out the best pieces of the fish.

This course was followed by two bowls Ч one containing buckwheat porridge, with a little well in the centre filled with melted butter; the other filled with rich, fresh milk. There again we had to share the bowls.

Although fond of buckwheat kasha, there came a moment when I decided that such delights were not for me, and quietly laid down my spoon. From that day I joined Ghermosha and the boys for meals. Babushka, being deeply religious, succeeded in overcoming her repugnance and continued attending the refectory. “We are all GodТs little children,” she reproached me later, a statement, like the kasha in the refectory, I found difficult to swallow.

The kindly Abbess invited us to tea one day. In her sunny room, the table spread with an embroidered linen cloth was laden with an abundance of fine baking accompanied by bowls of wild strawberries and cream.

The gentle soul insisted that we should take something from each plate until we were more than satisfied.

This was the time of the sacred festival of the Assumption. Attending the morning service we found that because of the great mass of worshippers, it was difficult to move inside the church. Leaning against the wall was a small, shrunken old woman. On the black cloak and hood covering her frail body were embroidered skulls and crossbones. She was one of those saintly beings, entirely dedicated to God, living somewhere in the depths of the convent, praying all day long, sleeping in a coffin and existing only on bread and water. The shrivelled, parchment-coloured face, half-covered by her hood, already had the stamp of death upon it. People were coming up to her begging to be blessed. She did it mechanically, her claw-like hand making the sign of the cross over them, never raising her head.

In the evening there was a torch procession. Led by the priest, the chanting nuns and people circled round the convent carrying high their lighted torches. The white nights were already over. The mass of flaming shafts reaching out to the skies, the showering sparks like clouds of flitting fireflies and the floating pools of light upon the smooth waters of the moat, lit up the gathering darkness. Young people, children running to and fro, their shadows dancing on the walls, were laughing and calling to each other. Fascinated and absorbed by this ancient ritual, we ran behind them.

The news on our return was not cheerful. General BrussilovТs victory on the Austrian front had brought hopes only to be dashed when defeat followed, the Germans bringing up reinforcements.

KerenskyТs oratory was useless to inspire the exhausted troops to continue fighting in the face of the slogan coined by the Bolsheviks Ч “Peace, land, all power to the Soviet”. There was a general rout, the soldiers casting aside their guns, rushing to get away from the fields of carnage; the officers tearing off their epaulettes, and those trying to rally the men being murdered. “Po kolyenam” … “Aim for their knees,” was the brutal order as they shot the officers through the knees and finished them off with bayonets.

In late August, Kapochka left our house. In the town there was a well-to-do businessman named Ukropov whose wife and lover had run off, leaving him with two small girls and a boy. Their father, not knowing to whom to turn for help, was in complete despair. The sad bewildered children required someone special to love and care for them to fill the void left by the heartless mother. Kapochka was approached, and Babushka as well. Kapochka was offered a far higher salary than she had at present, but what was more important she would be taking charge of the entire household, all the servants and, in short, be her own mistress.

Furthermore, her future would be assured and when the time came for her to retire there would be a home of her own and with it a liberal pension. In all fairness to Kapochka, Babushka advised her to accept this post.

Kapochka, being only human, did accept it.

At first it was unbelievable to me that Kapochka could ever go away. How could Kapochka leave me, I argued with self-centred egotism? Kapochka who, when Mother left, took care of me. Brushed and braided my hair, sewed the white bands around the neck of my school dress and laid it out night after night. Kapochka who on a winterТs night sat beside me telling wonderful stories or singing softly in the gentle light of the lampada Ч