The House by the Dvina (43 page)

Before leaving, Maisie called on several people offering to take letters Ч

an offer which was eagerly accepted as no letters were coming through from Britain. She also made no secret of what she thought of the Bolsheviks and was determined to tell Britain all about them. Mother, fortunately, refused to give her any letters for our grandparents and warned Maisie that this was a dangerous activity Ч a warning Maisie chose to ignore.

Meanwhile we continued grappling with our problems, which were increasing with each passing day. The main worry was to find food in any form. Every day, from early morning we took turns to stand in long queues to receive our meagre rations. It seemed strange that in a large district previously rich in dairy produce none was now available, that a river and the sea nearby abounding with every variety of fish provided nothing for the people. One day it was rumoured that fish was being sold in one of the co-operatives. I was sent to fetch some and after a long wait returned with a piece which was only half salted and smelled to high heaven. We ate it just the same and somehow survived.

The savage reprisals continued. People we knew vanished from the face of the earth. Those living near the outskirts of the town saw, in the early hours of the morning, prisoners taken by back streets to the woods, and heard the sound of shots as they were summarily executed.

Searches of our house went on with a regularity to which we got accustomed. There was the day when the soldiers arrived following a report that we had hidden a hoard of silver. The whole house was turned out, pillows and cushions ripped. Not finding anything, they returned the next morning and this time transferred their activities to the frames and greenhouse which housed BabushkaТs plants. Seedlings of cucumbers planted in frames were dug out, the soil scattered on the ground. Frustrated once again, they had turned the flowerpots upside-down, smashed them with their heavy boots and trampled the rare, irreplaceable plants.

After that, Babushka lost heart and never attempted to grow them again.

Difficult to contain calmly, was the blatant insolence of those indulging in daylight robberies. One day some men arrived and produced a slip of paper which, they explained politely, gave them the right to confiscate our piano. They were the representatives of a group of workers who had formed a club where it was found necessary to have a piano. They had some difficulty in carrying our grand piano through the double doors of the front entrance and Seryozha had to assist them. The last we saw of our old piano, which had witnessed so many happy scenes, was it precariously shaking on a cart while being driven out the gates.

Some time later Madame Raiskaya and her family decided to leave our house for more spacious quarters. Before leaving she said how ideal MotherТs three-mirror dressing-table would be for her as an actress and how in the past she had always admired this fine piece of furniture. Mother admired it also, but had to stand and watch in silence as it was carried out, with the little dressing-table stool thrown in for good measure.

Outrageous as all these acts were, there was no option but to accept them.

The empty space left by the removal of the grand piano was occupied by DedushkaТs writing desk. A small round table with a mirror replaced MotherТs dressing-table.

June was wonderfully warm that year. The river resounded with the voices of children bathing, of men and women gathering on the pier. One of my favourite ploys was to go swimming in the late evening when the river was deserted and the water, heated by the sun throughout the day, was warm and as soft as silk. One such evening when I returned to the house, everyone was sitting on the balcony watching the crimson disc of the sun gliding on the low horizon.

Dedushka looked tired. From the time he had returned from prison, he was kept busy in the hospital working late into the evening, and that day had not been different from the others. Now, enjoying the tranquillity of the surrounding scene, he was quietly talking to Babushka. Marga was engaged on some embroidery with happy concentration. I joined Seryozha and Marina leaning against the railings and stood with them watching the progress of a small boat rowing across the river. The peace was suddenly shattered by the resonant ringing of the front-door bell, Marga, dropping her sewing, rushed through the ballroom to the hall and opened the door.

Two men, in plain clothes, but armed, entered the hall. They demanded to see Dedushka and when he came forward they explained to him in courteous tones that they had been ordered to take him to a nearby prison, from where he would be sent into exile. It would be necessary, they continued in dispassionate tones, for Dedushka to pack the clothing he required, but the packing had to be done quickly as they had no time to waste.

Stunned, unable to think clearly, we all ran around gathering together DedushkaТs belongings. Throughout the stress and anguish, only Dedushka himself remained calm. He helped Babushka, who could not contain her tears, to pack the old Gladstone bag with his clothes, a small Bible, and the medical instruments he thought he would require.

In the hall where the men were waiting, he blessed and kissed Babushka and in the same way said his goodbyes to us all, at times even passing a little joke. He then went to the nursery to embrace Father, and finally, turning to the men, said, “IТm ready, friends Ч let us go.”

Ghermosha and I ran to the nursery window. We saw the three of them walking in the middle of the road, Dedushka carrying his bag, striding firmly, towering above the men on either side of him.

That was my last glimpse of Dedushka. I never saw him again.

1920

Gradually with each passing day the structure of our way of life was crumbling. The daily routine, observed for years, was abandoned. Although the samovar was carried in each evening and some gathered round it, no table was set for lunch or dinner. The family split up and were eating any time, anyhow, whatever was available. Potatoes were the mainstay, with some cabbage, dressed in white sauce when milk and flour were available.

Our three feathered friends, in spite of their own hardships continued faithfully providing a few, much welcomed eggs.

One day someone remembered that there were carp in the pond. A long fishing net was found and stretched across. Seryozha and Yura, wading up to their waists, dragged the net the length of the pond. A great mass of struggling fish was scattered on the path. All the eager onlookers were delighted to receive a share of the catch.

We made the traditional fish soup with onions and potatoes, but in the end, hungry as we were, the revolting taste of stagnant water, combined with the knowledge that some neighbours used to drown the kittens in the pond, proved too much.

Mother became acquainted with a woman who was anxious to learn conversational English. Her husband was employed in the Customs Office. By some means, which Mother didnТt question, she paid Mother for each lesson in kind Ч a little sugar, salt and some flour. Soap was one of the many commodities which were not available at any price. The few cakes of soap that Mother had brought from Scotland were treasured and used sparingly.

The mother of the family who had taken over the flat once occupied by Uncle Sanya used to come to the kitchen to do her washing. “Oh, for a piece of soap,” she would exclaim, as she scrubbed her childrenТs clothing with the ashes from the kitchen grate. Once in some shed in the town we found a pile of string. The balls were eagerly bought up and slippers were crocheted from them. They proved to be useful during the summer and preserved our shoes and boots for the winter.

Yet, in this twilight world of chaos, starvation and accumulating horror, all was not tears and sorrow. Looking back over the long passage of years to that hungry summer, there still remains the bright memory of the companionship of the children in our street.

The meeting place was the boulders, lapped by the warm water of the river.

There we spent long happy hours, darting in and out of the water, sitting in the sun having long discussions or making plans for embarking on some adventure. We named ourselves “The Olonetskaya Companiya”, after the name of our street and we strongly resented any intruders into our own special circle. There were some nine of us. Our leader was Tolya Mammantov. The son of a local joiner, strong, resourceful, clever, with a natural ability for leadership, no one deserved this place more than him. In the years to come he became an important commissar, which was not surprising. In the group were also the three children of the executed General Zaborchikov, Volodya, Vera and little six-year-old Shurik. The most popular member was a flaxen-haired boy, Petya Skroznikov, the son of the janitor of the adjoining Technical school. His good nature, lively, humorous remarks, endeared him to us all. There was also Nina Duletova, the serious young daughter of the headmaster of the boysТ school. Finally there was Petya Karelsky, the son of the stoker of the Technical school. He was usually referred to as Petka to differentiate him from the other Petya.

Allowed more freedom than under normal circumstances, we stayed out of the way of our elders and spent the time foraging for ourselves. On the lush banks where once roamed our black-faced ewes, we found many edible plants Ч wild celery, the juicy stalks of angelica, the tiny pods of wild peas.

We made excursions to the woods as in July the golden maroshka berry arrived again and mushrooms appeared below the birches. All these were gathered in pails and baskets and brought back to our delighted mothers.

Mushrooms fried with potatoes and onions made a delicious and sustaining dish. Once, while crossing a field on the way to the woods, we saw to our amazement a cow grazing. In our parts, in those times, this was a rare and wondrous sight. We came to the conclusion that it may have been delivered from a village to a commissar or some such importan person. When we approached, the cow made no attemp to bolt away, but gazed serenely back with her large docile eyes. White-breasted and golden-coated she was с

handsome beast, but even more entrancing was the sighi of her enormous udder, ready to burst and begging to be milked.

None of us were acquainted with the art of milking; but undaunted, if somewhat apprehensive, I knelt and placed the bucket in position. A trifle overawed by the close proximity of the great rotundity and four teats, I began to tug, squeeze and pull in all directions. Nothing happened. After a few more vain attempts and detecting signs of displeasure in the cowТs manner, Vera took my place. Her little hands achieved success. The sound of milk spurting into the bucket brought shrieks of jubilation and further encouraging remarks of “Stick it, Vera Ч youТre pulling fine Ч thereТs more to come.” But just as Vera was getting into her stride and the bucket was filling up the cow, tired of our antics, gave a sudden swish of her tail and galloped off to the other side of the field. As we had no mugs or cups, the bucket was passed round for each one to sip a mouthful, all watching carefully that no one swallowed more than the other.

A few days later we spotted a goat on the river banks. No one knew where it came from, but like the cow she was also in need of milking. This time the operation was difficult. The goat, struggling and making loud protesting noises, had to be dragged from the banks to our stable, where, with me sitting astride, and firmly held by the others, Vera, by now an expert, milked her dry. When in the end we opened the stable door, the goat, still plaintively protesting, rushed back to the river. The warm strong-flavoured milk, shared out in even cupfuls, was much enjoyed, but as the goat was never seen again that was the end of our free milk.

During the summer soup kitchens were opened in various parts of the town.

By handing over our ration cards we were allowed to have a two-course meal each day. Our “companiya”, with bowls and spoons, raced along the hot wooden pavements to the kitchen and hurried back to the river where we sat enjoying our meal. However, it was a poor affair, this meal, consisting of a kind of meatless stew and a bowl of kasha. One day we took it into our heads to have a picnic on Moisief island. This island, adjacent to the main island of Solombala, was planted out in trees during the time of Peter the Great and was a place where people liked to stroll, sit in the shade, and admire the river. Now, after two centuries of spring floods, it was reduced to a deserted narrow strip of silver sands. A few days earlier we had observed a rowing boat lying on the shore, complete with oars and a few old rusty tins. It was on this boat that we decided to embark for the island. The day began hot and sultry with not a ripple on the burnished surface of the river. In the distance, the outline of the deserted island seemed to be beckoning. With our rations from the soup kitchen and a basketful of berries, seven of us piled into the boat and with Tolya rowing strongly were soon dragging it on to the sandy shores. There we had our picnic, gave full vent to imaginative games, built a bonfire from the splinters washed ashore, and swam in a delightful pool surrounded by stunted willows.

I canТt recall who first noticed the dark cloud on the horizon drawing nearer. A sudden flash of lightning tore the sky apart, followed by a roll of thunder. Large drops of rain began to dance on the surface of the river. We hurried to the boat and made for the mainland. A solid wall of water poured down from the heavens on our ancient, overloaded boat.

Lightning and thunder increased with every second. To the punishing storm was now added the horror that the seams of the boat were opening up.

Desperately, with tins, bowls and with our hands, we began to bale. It was hopeless. The leaks increased, swamping the boat. Sitting waist deep, faced with the almost certainty of drowning, we turned to our only recourse of praying in loud voices to kind Jesus to save his little children from a watery grave. Only Tolya remained calm. Rowing for dear life, he kept on encouraging us, constantly repeating not to give up, but to keep on baling. We were almost there, he went on assuring us. Through a thick curtain of rain the familiar boulders were now seen to be drawing closer, but suddenly there was no boat. We found ourselves struggling in the water between oars, planks and baskets. Luckily we were all swimmers of different degrees and, although out of our depth, were not far from the shores. One by one we scrambled up the stones and sat there silent and dejected, yet at the same time thankful to be alive.