The House by the Dvina (38 page)

Only Marga was full of happy optimism. She was gathering together all her belongings and packing them inside a trunk brought down from the garret.

Marga, like a little squirrel, liked to collect things, especially those connected with our Van Brienen ancestors. She was friendly with two old ladies who were the last of the Van Brienen family. After visiting them, Marga never returned empty handed. There was the old ivory fan, a miniature, a snuffbox or a precious piece of porcelain. Marga treasured them all. Her best acquisition was a half-length portrait of one of our female ancestors, painted by a Dutch Master about the end of the seventeenth century. The portrait was hung on the wall of MargaТs bedroom, which she shared with me. It depicted a fine-featured, faintly smiling face framed in dark ringlets in the style of that century. The bare shoulders are draped in lace and crimson velvet. Now the portrait was carefully being crated in readiness for its journey to that wonderful new world Ч America. Some members of the family resented this, especially Seryozha who said he did not mind which one of us possessed it, as long as it didnТt leave Archangel. Marga, however, refused to entertain any ideas except her own and wasnТt slow to point out that the portrait was hers and hers alone. Her plans were carefully prepared. When she got a letter from Frank after his return home, she was to set off for Britain and from there cross over to America. It all sounded simple and somehow not quite real.

What was rumoured, what was feared, had happened. Our allies were preparing to abandon us. One by one friends called to bid goodbye. The marines, like happy schoolboys going on holiday, were leaving with the first batch. Almost a year had passed since the war with Germany had ended. There was peace in the West. Yet they had continued doggedly fighting on this foreign soil, plagued by mosquitoes in the swamps, tormented by the heat of summer and the terrible frosts of an arctic winter. Britain had done her stint. Of the three main allies it was the British who had the largest contingents in the north, did most of the fighting and suffered the most casualties. Their graves scattered in woods and marshes have left no mark and are long forgotten.

One morning a chain of ships, half-hidden by the early mist, slowly stole past our shores and vanished behind the island on its way to the White Sea. Only a year earlier these ships had been met with great rejoicing and now they were slinking away in silence. We watched them from our windows.

Only Seryozha passed a bitter comment. “Why did they come at all? We shall pay a heavy price for this.” The Allied Intervention was over. There was no hope of any reinforcements or supplies. The decision for the evacuation of all British and non-Russian forces was kept secret and the departure of the troops had to be accomplished in a manner so as not to attract the attention of the White Russians.

Everyone knew, of course, the main reason for the Intervention. The Bolsheviks had to be defeated so that Russia would continue fighting Germany and in this way save the seriously threatened Western front. The other reason for the Allied presence in Murmansk was to prevent the Germans attacking Russia through Finland and gaining control of the sea.

Once Germany was defeated, there was another reason, but only in the minds of those who fondly imagined that the Allies did not wish to see a communist regime in Russia. In reality the Allies did not care what government took over Russia. No one appeared to realise that Lenin and Trotsky were not ordinary revolutionaries bent on freeing Russia, but men passionately intent on imposing their doctrine over the whole world. The Allied Intervention has been described as an unmitigated disaster; a disaster paid for by the needless loss of Allied soldiers and savage reprisals against millions of White Russians.

A civil war differs from all others in that people of the same nation are locked in bitter conflict over an opposing ideology, and when one side is supported by a foreign power, the trump card is automatically handed over to the opponent. To LeninТs slogan of “Peace and land” was added the clarion call, “Down with the foreign invader”. After the Bolshevik revolution the White Army remained loyal to her allies, determined to fight the Germans to the bitter end. To achieve this aim help was required to defeat the Bolshevik menace and when it came in the shape of the Allied Intervention, they were duly grateful. But this support should have had a more diplomatic approach, a little more of an equal partnership. Instead, the Russians found themselves completely under the control of the British in the north, and the French in Siberia. General Miller, a man of great integrity, loved by his officers and men, was subordinate, along with every Russian, to General Ironside, and Admiral Kolchak, the Supreme Commander, subordinate to the French General Janin, who in the end did nothing to save Kolchak from being murdered by the Bolsheviks.

This was perhaps only one factor amongst more important others, but is there any wonder that there were mutinies and wholesale desertions of even able officers to the Bolsheviks?

Uncle Adya called one evening. He was now running the family timber business, which was causing grave anxiety. There had been a fire in the mill and valuable timber, lying in readiness for export, went up in flames. Sabotage was suspected, but difficult to prove. We saw the crimson glow splashed across the skies, while men continued fighting and finally succeeded in averting a disaster of an appalling magnitude had the blaze spread to the long line of neighbouring mills.

Uncertain of the situation in the town, Uncle Adya had decided to send his wife, Natasha, and baby son to England. His sister, Fanny, was likewise leaving with her small twin children. UncleТs other sister, Margunya, was accompanying her husband Lieutenant-Colonel Dilakatorsky, to Murmansk where he was now in command of the forces fighting in that region.

The town was gradually emptying. So many of our friends and relatives were leaving for the safety of Europe. My patrol leader in the Girl Guides, a movement no longer functioning, was also sailing away. Her whole family, having sold their possessions, were emigrating to America. I went to see her off. The landing stage was crowded with men, women and children. There were last-minute exchanges between them and the passengers, hanging over the railings, soon interrupted by the shrill sound of the siren and the ship slowly edging away from the pier. As the gap widened, there were the final desperate attempts to have some contact, messages that had no meaning, tears, the waving of arms, handkerchiefs and last farewells.

Little did I realise that my parents had decided that Mother should take Ghermosha and me to Scotland.

When my young brother and I heard the news we became wild with excitement.

To everyone we met, to all our playmates we kept proudly saying, “What do you know? We are going to Scotland.”

One morning Mother and I set off to arrange our booking. From the shipping office a long queue stretched out on to the street. A young British officer was sitting at a desk. When at last our turn came he told Mother that the two classes on the ship, due to leave shortly, were completely booked. However, on hearing Mother speaking in English and discovering that like himself she was a Scot, he asked us to wait a moment while he made further enquiries. He returned and, smiling broadly, informed us that after all there was one available cabin left in the first class. The ship was due to leave on 11 September. We had barely a week to get ready for the journey. Mother began to pack our trunks. She took with her some of the things she treasured, her china, a few small pieces of silver, the ornament presented to her by Aunt Olga in St Petersburg.

In the town, numerous sales were taking place inside the houses of the people who were leaving. Babushka and I attended one at which the owner was selling a valuable collection of books. Seryozha, now working as a librarian, accompanied us in the hope of purchasing a few on behalf of the town library. As a parting gift, Babushka presented me with a selection of our Russian classics, including the handsome crimson-bound works of Pushkin and Lermontov. On the fly-leaf of PushkinТs book she wrote: “To my beloved granddaughter Jenya who is leaving for Scotland on the llth of September in this heavy year of 1919. With deep love from Babushka.” After sixty years and more, the cover of the book is worn, the writing faded. It has traversed countless miles over continents and tropical seas, but has never left my side.

My brother also had something special to take with him, in the shape of a tiny carp which he had caught in the pond the previous summer and now flatly refused to leave behind. This little fish, fed on breadcrumbs, continued to survive, circling aimlessly around inside a large glass jar, and was now setting off for Scotland.

During the excitement of all the preparations, the running and calling here and there and perhaps with the lightheartedness of youth, the knowledge that Father was being left behind was pushed aside. There was, of course, the firm belief that the Bolsheviks would be defeated and this separation was only a temporary measure. The full impact of what it meant for Father came when everyone assembled in the old nursery before we left.

According to the Russian custom, we all sat down for a few seconds of silence. I rose and knelt beside my fatherТs bed. Silently he blessed me with a small ikon of the Mother and Child. I raised my head and saw his tears and utter desolation. The Videck was packed with refugees: some going to England, others on to France, many hoping to reach the south of Russia where the White Army was achieving some successes. Our four-berth cabin was shared with an attractive young woman, Sonya, who had large brown expressive eyes and masses of curly hair. Sonya was engaged to a handsome American officer called Jack. Both were planning to go on to America where they were to be married.

Ghermosha and I slept on the top bunks. Sonya occupied the one below me.

Sonya, not suffering from any inhibitions, used to perform her morning ablutions in a frank manner which fascinated me. Donning a fetching dressing-gown she would depart for the bathroom and on her return, after stripping herself to her waist, proceeded to sponge her body with eau-de-cologne and rose-water. This exercise aroused my young brotherТs curiosity who would hang over the side watching every movement until Mother ordered him to turn his face to the wall. Even more fascinating was the making up of her face and the tiny mole placed on her cheek which she kept in an equally tiny box. Her lovely black locks required the least attention. She merely gathered them together and fixed them with a Spanish comb.

Sonya and Jack were passionately in love and were not interested in anyone else. We only saw her in the late evening when she returned to the cabin.

One day, however, when I was alone, dozing in my bunk, trying to ignore the seasickness to which I was inevitably prone, Sonya and Jack quietly entered and thinking I was asleep crawled into SonyaТs bunk. Although I didnТt see anything, I certainly heard plenty.

Late one evening, just as I had fallen asleep, there was a frightening crash. The ship shuddered. There was pitch darkness. After a second of dead stillness came the terrified screams of women and children. Of what happened in our immediate surroundings, memory has retained a rather disjointed picture. Of Mother calmly trying to find our clothing, helping to dress us. Ghermosha, having been thrown out of his bunk, crying with fright. Sonya hysterically rushing out of the cabin. The crew, carrying torches, going round the cabins telling the passengers to put on their lifebelts.

The lights coming on again calmed the situation and prevented any panic Ч

at least in our part of the ship. We walked up the staircase to the deck, but no sooner did we reach it than we were told to go to the saloon and wait there for further instructions. After some time, it was announced that the Royal Navy was coming to our aid and we could return to our cabins. There was some difficulty in communications between the crew and passengers on account of the crew being English and the passengers Russian. Mother proved helpful as an interpreter. It was thought at first that the Videck had struck a floating mine, but later it transpired the ship had gone aground and was holed in two places. All available men were commandeered to assist in pumping out the water from the flooded hold.

Fortunately the crew succeeded in freeing the ship. The following morning in the brightest of sunshine and accompanied by the navy, we limped into the safety of the Wick harbour in Caithness. No sooner did we dock than two divers appeared to inspect the damage. Later, a member of the crew told me that although there were two holes, the largest was blocked by a piece of rock which minimised the flooding in the hold. During the morning a thanksgiving service for our safety was held in the saloon, at the end of which a special vote of thanks was extended to Mother for her assistance.

We were the first passengers to disembark. So, after an absence of eight years, Ghermosha and I stepped once again on to the shores of Scotland.

Everything around was bathed in sunshine Ч the busy harbour, the fishing boats sailing out to sea, the silver-winged seagulls, with their piercing crying, darting over the clear waters.

The small station from where we had to catch the train to Inverness was an unusual sight to us Ч clean, orderly, laid out with lovely flower beds.

The journey to Inverness was of absorbing interest. The passengers sharing our compartment were a bit amused hearing our peculiar mixture of Russian-English as we excitedly pointed out the various scenes and landmarks. “Look at all these sheeps. The reindeer on the mountain Ч he is so smaller than our own.” All was strange, all was beautiful.

It was late evening when the Inverness train steamed into Dundee. A kindly taxi driver arranged our trunks. Thankfully we climbed inside. Ghermosha was still clinging to his fish, which had somehow survived its ordeal on the ship.

The taxi took us through the brightly lit streets of the town where people in groups were standing on the corners holding conversations with each other Ч a novel and curious sight for us. After a short and pleasant drive in the soft darkness of a warm autumn night we arrived, hungry and exhausted, on the steps of our grandparentsТ house. Our grandparents, not expecting us to arrive that night, were just going off to their bedroom when we surprised them. In the morning they had read a brief notice in the paper saying that a ship carrying refugees from the north of Russia had gone aground, but somehow didnТt connect us with it. We were warmly and emotionally welcomed. My youngest aunt, Vicky, came rushing out of her bedroom in her dressing-gown, followed by her sleepy six-year-old son, Charles. As my auntТs husband was with the army of occupation in Germany she was living with her parents. In the morning I leaped out of bed and hurried to the window. The sun was up. The garden was ablaze with masses of roses and chrysanthemums. Blackbirds were cheerfully plundering the apple trees. Across the silver waters of the Tay, flowing serenely past the house, I saw again the green and brown hills of the shores of Fife.