The House by the Dvina (42 page)

In schools the old order was replaced by a new system. Prayers in the halls and classrooms were abolished. The priests, in their flowing black robes, who used to flit from one classroom to another imparting religious instruction to the young, were seen no more.

On account of the overcrowding in the city, the girlsТ school was requisitioned and its pupils moved to the boysТ school. We girls commenced work at eight oТclock in the morning and after a short break, when we were provided with a small roll, continued until one p.m. The boys arrived fifteen minutes later and studied until six p.m. We were growing up now and this arrangement was a source of intriguing conversations, especially about the boys in the top form. We got to know the names of those we imagined were more outstanding than the others.

My attention was focused on a handsome, rather sophisticated boy in the top form named Alexei Anisyev, who was not even aware of my existence nor yet of any of my classmates. At the same time I caught the eye of a bear-like youth in the same top form called Sanka Chekayevsky. Sanka excited only antipathy. The silly poetry and notes left inside my desk, I found repulsive. Having once introduced himself he continued to pursue me on the slightest pretext, trailing alongside like a sad-eyed old St Bernard, but not so pleasing. In normal times a literary evening used to take place each year in March. Our headmistress, undaunted by the prevailing troubles, decided to repeat the custom. The boys and girls gathered together in the hall and sat divided by a centre passage. The evening commenced with an ardent boy reciting the famous poem by Lermontov, The Battle of Borodino. This he did with great style, accompanied by emotional gestures, the rising and falling of his voice much appreciated by an audience who already knew it all by heart. A senior girl climbed on to the stage and sang a moving song all about love and white acacias. This was followed by a short comedy presented by boys only.

When all the performances were over and the chairs cleared away, the boys and girls, joining hands, started a Khorovod Ч the chanting circle moving round a single figure. After a little while I was chosen by some boy and stepped into the centre. As I danced, I noticed Alexei Anisyev circling with the others. This was a chance I could not miss and, as soon as the chanting stopped, I rushed up to my wonder boy and kissed him on the cheek. He laughed and took my place. The Khorovod began again but next time whom did he choose, but my best friend Shura. After this I lost all interest in the Khorovod and sauntered over to a long table where refreshments were being served. In days gone by we used to be offered hot sweetened chocolate with foaming cream, open sandwiches of various kinds, cookies full of raisins and spices Ч now there was only watery cocoa to be had and a single roll per head, which, being young and hungry, we still relished.

The moon was high when we were winding our way home. A fresh fall of snow blanketed the sooty snowdrifts and lay thick on the pavements, crunching pleasantly under our feet. In the group was my faithful friend Valya, Nina Duletova and her father, Duletov, the headmaster of the boysТ school, who were our close neighbours. Soon, hurrying to join us, was Sanka, who lived in the street before ours. I chose to ignore him and continued my conversation with Valya, who unfortunately soon left us to turn into her own street. When we arrived at the point where Sanka should have turned towards his own home he, instead, continued with us down Olonetskaya Street. I became apprehensive. At the entrance to their house the Duletovs said their goodbyes and disappeared inside, leaving me alone with Sanka.

Between the DuletovsТ gate and our own was the long length of wall. For a few seconds we walked in silence, and then, deciding on the only course left for me, I took to my heels and ran. I had almost reached the gates when he caught me. There ensued a struggle during which we fell and landed in a snowdrift. The scuffling continued with Sanka determined to kiss me and I, like a wildcat, kicking, scratching, spitting, until suddenly out of the blue came a loud gruff voice saying, “What the devil are you playing at?” Standing above us, holding his rifle, was a soldier. Thankful for my deliverance I scrambled up. “I was only seeing her home,” began Sanka, “And a fine way that was,” the man interrupted. “Get,” he added, pointing his rifle. The last I saw of my brave cavalier was him scurrying like a scalded cat to the top of the street.

“Where do you live?” The soldier turned to me and on being told, pointed to the gates saying, “They will allow you through.” I looked up at the house. Every window was ablaze with lights. I realised that a search was taking place. Soldiers guarding the gates and back entrance allowed me to pass. Upstairs in the hall were more men guarding the door leading to the nursery. I was ordered to go inside where all the members of the family were congregated as well as Katinka and Sashenka. Only Mother was missing.

She, it transpired, was going round the house with the men, unlocking presses and drawers, and was now in the garret.

No one knew what the men wanted, but suspected they were looking for arms.

YuraТs gun, which he used for shooting game, was hidden somewhere, but only he knew where it was. In a few minutes came the footsteps of the men stamping down the stairs from the garret. We were shepherded into the dining-room. The soldiers carried in a large wicker basket containing a bundle of flags. They were big flags which in days gone by were hung outside the gates during celebrations of royal birthdays. There were also flags of our allies which had been flown on special occasions during the war. The basket was turned out, the flags spread on the table. The leader of the group, in his sheepskin jacket, sat down and after careful scrutiny of each flag laboriously marked something on a sheet of paper. We stood around wondering idly what was the strange purpose behind this confiscation. There they were. The old Imperial Russian flag, French, British, Belgian, Italian and finally one with the faded Lion Rampant. The man stared curiously at it.

Fifteen years ago on a bright winterТs morning that flag had fluttered its welcome to a happy Scottish bride driving through the gates to begin a new life in a strange country. And now here it was again spread out before her. This royal flag of Scotland Ч her Scotland.

She moved closer to the table. “This flag,” she began, calmly placing her hand on it, “is the flag of Scotland. It is the flag of my country Ч you cannot have it.” There was no reply. The man raised his head and stared.

He saw no sign of fear in the eyes gazing serenely back Ч no trembling of the hand. In the oppressive silence, even his men were tensely watching.

He was the first to drop his eyes. Bursting into loud laughter he turned to his men. “HereТs a wench for you, lads,” he called, and, pushing the flag towards Mother, added in a tone that was insolent and yet admiring, “You can keep your flag.” She did keep it. Many years later I found it amongst the few things she treasured.

The basket was carried down the staircase. I ran to the window and watched the soldiers in the moonlight dragging it through the snow on the river front.

Later, when we were sitting around the samovar, I heard Babushka say, “Nelly, you were foolish,” And I who had always leant heavily on the Russian side, for once was on my MotherТs. Foolish perhaps Ч but how magnificent!

The first signs of spring. Snow slipping off the rooftops, icicles shattering like glass on pavements, shrinking snowdrifts, slush under our feet, the sun shining longer. In the garden clumps of blue anemones are stretching their dainty heads to the sky through a blanket of snow. A warm wind is dancing through the trees. The firs shake and scatter the hoar-frost from their heavy laden branches. On such a day Yura returned.

After the final defeat, when many of his fellow officers were summarily executed, he, with the remaining handful, had been led away. Expecting to receive the same fate as the others, they were instead thrown into prison.

Yura rarely referred to his ordeal there, but did mention that one of the more horrific tasks he and his fellow prisoners were ordered to do, after being escorted to the outskirts of the city, was to open the graves of the men executed during the time of the Allied Intervention and remove the remains for reburial in a small public garden where eventually a monument was erected.

Although rejoicing in his miraculous escape, we were dismayed to see him as he was. Unkempt, unshaven, hollow-eyed, reduced to skin and bone, he presented a pitiful shadow of his old self. His once smart English uniform, now in tatters, carried the stench of the prison walls. The old rocking bath was brought once more down from the garret and placed in KatinkaТs room.

Yura and Seryozha vanished inside and when Yura emerged, shaven and his hair cropped close to his head, he bore some semblance to what he was before.

However, the relief of having Yura back was still overshadowed by the constant anxiety over Dedushka. As each day followed another, we still heard nothing.

On Palm Sunday the whole family went to church, carrying our decorated sprays of catkins. The church was packed, with people spilling out on to the parapet outside. On Monday Babushka began to prepare for Easter the best way she could out of the small store of food saved for the holy day.

Early on Friday morning, just as Katinka brought up the samovar and we gathered for our spartan breakfast, Dedushka quietly walked into the dining-room.

Dedushka had been imprisoned in a cell packed with other civilians like himself. The well-to-do owners of mills and shops, priests, members of the local government. Night after night, deprived of sleep, Dedushka was questioned about his activities in the town council before the takeover.

Dedushka stuck to the truth. He had never been mixed up in any politics and by the time he was approached for assistance to create some order in the chaos, it was too late for him to do anything at all.

The other prisoners in the crowded cell were questioned too. Gradually it was noticed that those called out in the early hours of the morning often didnТt return. Later came the news that they had been executed. Gradually the numbers dwindled. DedushkaТs turn came early one morning. He said goodbye to each remaining prisoner, and each in turn made the sign of the cross over him as was by now the custom. Calmly prepared for death, he followed the guards, but on reaching the room where he had been questioned for hours on end, he was told that he was free to go home, with the injunction that on no account was he to leave the town. Shocked by this sudden turnabout, Dedushka had walked along the empty streets with helpless tears streaming down his face.

No man can halt the ordained march of each successive season nor the lavish splendour of the sun melting the snow, warming the earth.

Again one heard the sweet murmur of little streams hurrying below the wooden pavements on their way down to the river. Once more people gathered to watch the awesome sight of swirling ice rushing out to sea. In our courtyard, the three remaining hens, jealously guarded by Vassily, are freed from their seclusion. They step uncertainly between the emerald blades of the drying green and blink their sleepy eyes in the dazzling sunlight. A plaintive note is heard in their usually contented clucking.

They are, perhaps, missing the fond caresses of their golden-breasted defender Ч sacrificed for the Easter table Ч whose resonant salute to the rising sun is heard no more.

One day in May, when Babushka with Yura and Marina were planting out young seedlings, they saw Mitya Danilov strolling towards them. Mitya had been fighting up the river. We all anxiously wondered what could have happened to him. He had lost his parents in early childhood and lived with his aunt who worshipped him. Babushka had called on her, but the aunt, it seemed, knew nothing either.

Mitya, it transpired, finding himself surrounded, slipped through the net and succeeded in reaching the isolated cottage of his grandfather Ч a well-to-do peasant and a member of the sect known as “the old believers”.

The land and cottage, surrounded by deep forests, marshes, lakes, was a small oasis where the old man lived alone, grew his own corn, kept a pair of horses, cows, hens, dogs and cats and was generally self-supporting.

He disliked the town and rarely went there. His only daughter, MityaТs aunt, attended to all the business transactions, the collecting of rents from the various properties he owned and had taken care of the orphaned boy. He remained with his grandfather until he thought it was safe enough to return. MityaТs luck held. No one searched for him or made any enquiries.

From that time, Mitya became a constant visitor to our house. The attraction, of course, was Marga. Marga had erased from her mind the romance with her erstwhile American fiance. Trunks had been unpacked, and the portrait of our distant ancestress, “Babushka Van Brienen” as we called her, was again seen hanging on the wall of MargaТs bedroom.

Marga, back to her old self, went about the house singing soulful folksongs which seemed to signify that another romance was in the offing.

In June they became engaged. June was a month of many happenings. There was the day when Maisie Jordan called to tell us that after many applications to Moscow she had at last received permission to leave Russia. She planned to travel with a young couple. The maiden name of the wife was Mariya Ankirova Ч a name which was to figure prominently in our own lives. Mariya had gone through a civil marriage with a young Dane, a marriage recognised by the Bolshevik government, but not by the TsarТs, who only considered it valid if the couple had been married in church. By marrying the Dane, Mariya automatically became a Danish subject and as such was allowed to leave Russia. This strange arrangement was only a matter of convenience, generously offered by the friendly Dane, to enable Ankirova eventually to reach France where she would be met by her true fiance and go through the proper marriage service of the Russian Orthodox Church.

Maisie called again, this time to say goodbye. She was leaving with her two friends the following day for Murmansk, where they were to board a ship for Norway. Once in Norway, the three companions planned to part and continue their separate journeys to their final destinations. Between Maisie and Billy was a secret arrangement. Billy also planned to escape and join Maisie in Britain.