The House by the Dvina (37 page)

Men walking on the boulevard never gave a passing glance. Now foreign soldiers appeared from nowhere, jostled, pushed to reach the railings so as to have a better view, and made no pretence of hiding their delight at seeing so many ladies bathing in the nude. At first the women suffered this intrusion into their privacy with patience, but as more and more men arrived, they became resentful.

One scorching day when I was bathing with the others under the gaze of numerous spectators whose remarks could be well imagined, the women became incensed. With threatening gestures, they began to hurl abuse at the onlookers, except for one sturdy lass, more tolerant than her companions.

“What are you going on about?” she asked. “These poor souls are far from home, their wives and sweethearts Ч what do you have to lose if it gives them pleasure?” With these words, she turned to face the soldiers spreading wide her arms. “Have a good look, my darlings Ч gaze to your heartТs content if it makes you happy!” The appreciative cheering, shrill whistling and applause only served to infuriate the women further and after hurling the offender into the river, they marched off to the authorities.

The following day a sentry appeared on the scene. His orders were to remain on duty, standing with his back to the river. Any optimistic passerby showing signs of loitering was smartly ordered to continue walking. Shortly after this incident, Mother was sitting on the balcony with her close friend Lidochka, Uncle VanyaТs daughter. While they were happily chatting about this and that, they saw two riders cantering in their direction. These turned out to be two dapper British officers, who dismounted, tied their reins round a lamp-post, and walked towards the railings. “LetТs have a look at these Russian bathing beauties,” Mother overheard one saying. Whereupon she stood up and called out loud and clear in English, “DonТt go far out, Ena!” The effect of this acted like magic.

“My God, Freddie, thereТs an Englishwoman here,” and with this they hurriedly mounted their horses and galloped out of sight.

Of course there was a more serious side to the Intervention. Shortly after the troops landed, many were struck down by Spanish influenza. For some strange reason it particularly affected the American boys. In spite of the strict policy from Washington for the troops to be deployed only for garrison duty, guarding the port and stores and not for any active service in the interior, many of the American soldiers did fight and were killed in action. Yet it was known that those who perished from influenza far exceeded the number who died fighting.

Daily, throughout the whole summer, the funeral processions were seen winding along the Troitsky Prospekt on their way to the cemetery. We got to know the sad refrain of the funeral march, the solemn beat of the drum.

At times, while playing, we would hear the approach of the procession and, dropping everything would run to the top of the street to watch the cortege pass by. With the callous indifference of children we were at the same time always curious to know which flag covered the coffin. Was it the Union Jack, our own Imperial flag, the tricolour French one, or the Stars and Stripes? There were always more of the latter. The boys usually followed the cortege for the sole purpose of collecting the spent cartridge cases after the final salute had been fired. One afternoon Sergeant Grey called. He was a young man of a cheerful disposition, always ready to laugh and joke. I have a happy memory of him bringing all the ingredients and demonstrating the best method of producing the famous American doughnuts. Now he was neither laughing nor joking, but instead was grieving over the loss of a close buddy who had caught the Сflu and died a few days later.

On hearing this, Babushka hurried down to the garden and brought back an armful of flowers from which she fashioned a beautiful wreath. From that day there was a steady stream of soldiers requesting flowers. No one was ever turned away. There was not a day that Babushka wasnТt seen, surrounded by cut flowers in the dining-room, busily engaged in making wreaths, crosses and sprays. She refused to be paid for them but accepted small tokens of gratitude in the shape of a tin of fruit, sweets, tea or coffee. The garden, usually a riot of colour, was emptied of all flowers, but there was many a wreath placed on the coffins and graves of soldiers.

One sunny morning, Marga announced that she and Frank had decided to become engaged. After breakfast Frank called for Marga and they set off to our local church for the ritual of a betrothal. When they returned, they were wearing each otherТs future wedding rings according to the old Russian custom.

Although in the American forces there were a few cases when permission was granted to get married, Frank wasnТt one of the lucky ones. It was then arranged that once Frank was back in America and discharged from the army, Marga would join him. The plans included a wedding in a Russian church followed by Marga settling down to a married life in America. Meanwhile a small family celebration took place.

My grandparentsТ reaction to these arrangements was one of mixed feelings.

Marga was happy, but America seemed so far away, the times were uncertain and they knew very little of FrankТs background.

Added to this was anxiety for Aunt Olga and her family in Finland. After the revolution, Uncle Oscar had to report to KerenskyТs Government in Petrograd to receive instructions about his position. He took with him two of his daughters, Ariadna and Zlata. While they were there, the Bolsheviks took over and Kerensky fled. Uncle Oscar and his daughters found themselves stranded in Petrograd with no position of any kind and nothing to sustain them. | In Finland, Aunt Olga, left with the younger daughters land little son Igor, was existing by selling her precious antiques.

Beyond this worrying news, written by my aunt almost a year earlier, and with Petrograd now being cut off, no one knew what was happening to the family.

At the beginning of July, the school authorities decided that the children should have an educational trip up the river, lasting for a week. No one discovered which of the learned fathers conceived the idea of an expedition with such a lighthearted disregard of any constructive planning, but needless to say all the schoolchildren flocked to have their names placed on the list. As the Bolsheviks had removed most of the paddle-steamers and the remaining few were utilised by the army, only a small steamer was available, which could carry no more than fifty passengers. The first names on the list were picked, and included our little company of Vera, Volodya, Elena and Boris, Ghermosha and me.

Our parents were informed that although there were no cabins, mattresses would be provided. It would be no hardship, sleeping on deck during our lovely summer nights. We had to bring our own towels, soap, toothbrushes, mugs, plates, forks and spoons and a change of underwear. Simple food would be supplied from the various villages on our way, including health-giving milk straight from the cows. The villagers, we discovered later, had other ideas.

On the appointed day we duly arrived, carrying our little bundles.

Although not instructed to do so, our fond parents prepared a few pirozhkis, cookies and cakes. At the last minute I pushed into my bag the little pillow known as “Dumka”, without which I have never travelled anywhere throughout my life.

At first everything went smoothly. It was pleasant meandering between wooded banks, villages, with their isbas and nestling churches, but as the day wore on and the merciless rays of the sun beat down upon the crowded deck, we passengers began to feel the heat. The large barrel of tepid kvas was soon emptied, the pirozhkis and cookies eaten. We were luckier than most in finding a small corner where we were able to fashion out of our towels a kind of tent, which offered us some shade.

We sat there longing for the glad moment when we would go ashore to that hospitable village where we were promised simple food and health-giving milk. No such thing happened. The villagers were aghast at such an invasion and totally unprepared to feed a multitude of children and their teachers. In the end they gave us what they could. Some ate boiled potatoes, others buckwheat kasha, but there was not enough milk to go round. After we had strolled around the village and talked to the children, the trip continued. The promised mattresses never materialised.

During the night a chilly wind sprung up from the river. We took down our little tent and rolling ourselves in the towels, slept the best we could on the bare deck. I was thankful to have my “Dumka”.

In the early evening of the next day we arrived at an old monastery.

Unexpectedly, the monks were prepared for our arrival and had several horses and carts awaiting us on the landing stage. The evening was cool and peaceful. The long line of carts moved through fields of ripening corn, grassy verges, the sweet-smelling pink clover. Someone in front began to sing a well-known folksong, the rest all joined in. The countryside with its numerous lakes, tall ancient cedars, dark against the white trunks of the birches, the dignified geese ambling beside the lake left an impression of a scene depicting ancient Russia. That night we were accommodated in the large airy bedrooms of the guest house. The mattresses on the floor were clean and comfortable, the pillows and sheets spotless.

The following morning we were meant to go further up the river to another monastery, but after sailing for a few hours, we ran aground and in spite of all the efforts of the crew there we remained stuck fast in the blazing heat. After what seemed a long time, during which the anxiety of the crew and teachers began to transfer to us and we all became frightened, rescue came from an unexpected quarter. It was no less than the British Navy which saved us. A destroyer sailing down the river observed our plight.

Lowering their lifeboats, the crew took us all aboard. This proved to be the most exciting part of the whole expedition.

The sailors were delighted to have us in their midst and couldnТt do enough. We were feted and given what was, to us, wonderful food Ч sausages and beans, tinned peaches and cocoa. We spent the night aboard, in hammocks rigged up by the sailors, which was, of course, a great novelty for all of us. As the ship was on its way to town, we arrived there the following morning in great style.

On returning home we were greeted with the news that the detestable Vakhonin had at long last vacated the lodge. There had been a few more unpleasant incidents, culminating in Vakhonin being told to leave. We no longer were under a Bolshevik government which might have sprung to his defence so that, as the old saying goes, the holiday was now in our street. Irisha had been with the family many years and was a good woman, well liked by us, but being married to Vakhonin she, naturally, went with him. We never saw them again.

A few days later another family arrived to settle in the lodge. They were refugees from the south of Russia. The man had been an overseer on an estate belonging to some princess who, after the revolution, fled to France. The estate was plundered and destroyed. The overseer, finding himself destitute and his life threatened, decided to seek refuge in the north. There were many more like him. Between the foreign troops and refugees the town was bursting at the seams. Whole families were living in garrets and in single rooms, suffering great privation.

YuraТs friend, Mitya Danilov, called one day. He was now going off to fight the Bolsheviks. The British officerТs uniform, issued to the recruits, sat well on his massive shoulders. A few days later Yura joined up too, and returned wearing the same uniform, complete with “Sam Browne”

belt. Most of the boys, having finished their schooling, joined the White Army. All were young, all had high hopes for their future. Many had planned, like Yura, to enrol at the universities of Petrograd or Moscow.

All these aspirations were now discarded for the joint effort to defeat the Bolshevik menace which threatened to engulf not only Russia but the whole of the world.

As the summer wore on, rumours began to spread. It was said that our allies were not always of one mind. Mutinies and desertions were taking place, with British and Russian officers being murdered. In our local barracks, after the men refused to obey the order to proceed to the front, thirteen of the ringleaders were rounded up. General Ironside signed the death warrant for their execution. Worrying as these rumours were, they were overshadowed by our own personal tragedy. For some time I had noticed Mother laboriously reading the newspapers to Father and imagined she was practising her Russian until I saw Seryozha or some other person doing likewise. I was reminded of how Father had asked me to match the skins for motherТs cape, which for an expert such as he was seemed a strange thing to do. Father was obviously requiring glasses.

One afternoon Dedushka arrived with another gentleman who, I discovered later, was an eye specialist. Both, with Mother and Babushka, vanished into FatherТs bedroom, while I remained, hovering anxiously, in the hall. When Babushka came out, put her arms around me and told me Father was losing his eyesight Ч I did not cry. I simply couldnТt take it in.

That Father, deprived of the use of his legs, was now condemned to lie in darkness, never again to see the brightness of the sun, the faces of his friends, his children, was beyond my understanding. Realisation came later. Pain stabbed each time I saw his eyes, blue and perfectly clear, looking beyond me, or when his slender hand searched for some small article on the bedside table. There was one small consolation. Father was never alone. He at all times was surrounded by loyal and loving friends.

He himself, perhaps given some inner strength, remained cheerful, always ready to joke, to laugh and at times quietly to hum one of his favourite songs. He was 38 and I thirteen when he lost his eyesight. From that time I formed my own philosophy. Not understanding why the all-powerful, all-loving God should have allowed this to happen, I came to the conclusion that He could only be one or the other. I have never had, since then, any reason to change my mind.

Our American and British friends continued calling. They often gathered round the piano with Mother playing the popular war songs. At other times, with Frank and Marga joining in, there was waltzing. The garden was also a great attraction with its summer houses, shady walks, romantic setting, the scent of fading flowers. But over all there hung a sense of foreboding. Sooner or later, we all knew the Allied forces would be returning to their own lands. What would happen then? Those who knew the answer remained silent. The civil war was now in its second year and still there was no sign of any definite defeat of the Bolshevik forces.