The House by the Dvina (34 page)

One of my friends in the class, Shura Rubtsova, and I were chosen for the two main parts. I could neither speak nor think about anything else. It was called The Magic Mirror and was about a princess who is cruel and wicked until she sees her true reflection in the magic mirror and realises what she is. The dresses to be worn had to portray the ancient period of Russia. Babushka, with her usual resourcefulness, made mine from an old satin dress of a heavenly blue, complete with a high traditional headdress trimmed with imitation pearls and precious stones.

Shura was to me something special. She was everything I wasnТt. From the time when she was five years old, she had been taught music and now, at the tender age of twelve, played the piano, balalaika and the guitar with the ease of an accomplished adult. She was unusually talented, danced and sang in a fine contralto voice to her own accompaniments. Lessons came easily to her Ч she held her own against the cleverest pupil in the class.

The large grey eyes, the calm expression were particularly attractive and became more so as she grew older. The only child of her parents, she was bereft of her father when he was killed at the beginning of the war. Her widowed mother, undaunted, decided to let the top flat of their house while she, Shura, the old nanny and a cook moved down to the ground floor.

The flat above them was usually let to groups connected with the theatre who used to come from Moscow and Petrograd.

I loved to visit the house. The warm comfortable rooms, low ceilings, and small square windows draped in flowered chintz, combined together to offer a cosy intimacy. ShuraТs own room with the patchworked cover on the bed, prints of Russian fairytales hanging on the walls, shelves filled with our favourite books, the cat sitting on the chair beside the little table where she worked, the balalaika thrown carelessly across the bed Ч drew me like a magnet. At times the players would come down and join us in the living-room. They talked of plays, the parts they played in them. I heard such names as The Seagull, Uncle Vanya, Trilby, and was transported to the enchanting world of the theatre. One day, Shura and I were invited to play the parts of two children in IbsenТs play The DollТs House. Although the parts were merely confined to sitting at a table supping out of empty bowls, with no words to be spoken, we were enthralled with the idea of appearing on the professional stage. Later we were offered the parts of two children in the play The Bells. A few days before the opening night Shura developed a chill and was forced to cancel her appearance. After much persuasion and bribery, Ghermosha stepped into the breach. All members of the family decided to support us, even including Dedushka.

We were meant to represent two ghostly children. Dressed in white gowns, Ghermosha with a yellow wig sitting askew, we had to make our entrance from the back and walk slowly to the front carrying between us a large two-handled urn. We are approached by a man who, overcome by our appearance, enquires in trembling tones, “Who are you?” I had to answer, “We are your children.” Turning to my brother, he asks, “What are you carrying?” and he had to reply in soulful tones, “Our motherТs tears.”

This little piece of acting was rehearsed until we were word perfect, except that at times my young brother had the disconcerting habit of repeating exactly what I said. At last came the dramatic moment when we made our entrance. “Who are you?” asked the tall handsome man. “We are your children,” I replied, in that emotional drawn-out voice that I had often heard used on the stage. From immediately beside me came the echo in a loud assertive voice, “We are your children.” There was a momentТs hesitation and a fleeting smile from our supposed father. “What are you carrying?” he continued. “Our motherТs tears,” came again the loud-voiced answer, leaving no doubt whose children we were and whose tears were in the urn. This remarkably talented presentation, lasting a mere few seconds, was followed by deafening applause from the box occupied by our supporters to the astonishment of the rest of the audience. Behind the scenes there was a heated argument Ч little brother had stolen my thunder and hadnТt expressed the sensitivity I had.

At the end of April, the river, which only recently was a mass of swirling ice and water, threatening destruction to anyone who crossed her path, now reverted to her old sweet self, flowing serenely between her banks with scarcely a ripple to be seen. The bridge was thrown across to Solombala, the rails relaid on the wooden surface. The packed tramcars resumed their journeys, if only for the next few months. The old activity returned to the reconstructed pier. Small craft kept sailing to and fro, women brought their laundry, men stood in groups having long discussions, and once more the steady hum of voices was heard drifting over the water.

To the north of the pier, close to the riverТs edge, the boulders, heated by the sun, became a meeting place for the children in our street. Vera and Volodya came and brought their little brother, Shurick. There was no orderly now to take care of them. Their father, the general, had gone away Ч no one knew why or where. That summer we were joined by newcomers from the Ukraine, named Pento. The two elder children, Elena and Boris, were our own age, the other two Zina and Grisha, were much younger. All spoke in a strong Ukrainian accent; all, without exception, like their musical parents, played balalaikas and guitars and had splendid voices. They approached us a little timidly at first and had to suffer being teased on account of their strange accent, but later, when accepted, became members of our gang. We spent long hours beside the river, jumping in the warm water, coming out to sit on the boulders, only to go in again when others joined us.

To Father our activities by the river were always a source of worry, especially when the timber rafts arrived and the boys played the dangerous game of diving in the deep water between them, taking the terrible risk of being trapped below. Periodically the young maid, Katinka, would arrive and call down to us from the river front “Gherman Aleksandrovich says you must leave the river and play in the garden.” The garden, of course, was a fine place in which to play such games as “Cossacks and Robbers”, when we scattered all over the grounds, hiding in the old banya, summer houses, behind trees and bushes. Vassily, who imagined that he ow^ned the garden, would on occasions chase us with his broom, but that just added to the excitement of hiding, only to appear in a little while to begin our interrupted play. Most of the time we went hungry but that didnТt trouble us unduly. Children can make a world of their own and, looking back, I believe we were quite happy. One evening in late June, Petya Emelyanoff, our singer friend, called to say goodbye. He was leaving for Petrograd to join a group of operatic singers. Disquieting reports were circulating of open anarchy on the streets of Petrograd, of innocent people being arrested and executed. Petya was undaunted Ч this was to be the first rung of the ladder to success, a chance he couldnТt disregard.

We were joined by YuraТs closest friend, Dmitri Danilov. Everybody knew that Mitya was more than interested in Marga, calling at the house on the slightest pretext, but Marga was indifferent. When teased, she merely shrugged her shoulders saying, “HeТs only just a boy.” Although a year or two junior to Marga, Mitya was not just an ordinary boy, but a mature and handsome flaxen-haired giant of prodigious strength. I remember how overawed we all were when once, during a playful display of strength between Yura and his friends, Mitya laughingly bent down and gripping the leg of a heavy chair by one hand only, raised it high above his head. He belonged to a wealthy family of peasant origin who owned several houses in the town.

After tea, we all adjourned to the ballroom. For the last time we sat listening to Petya singing. The doors leading to the balcony were left open and when the last note died away, loud applause was heard coming from a group of passers-by standing below our window.

Later, we all went out on to the balcony and for a while watched the crimson disc of the sun gliding on the horizon. The white nights had returned with their tender, melancholy stillness. From a distance came the faint sound of music from a band playing in the summer garden.

We never saw our “Northern Nightingale” again. Through his sister we heard he had arrived safely, but soon the civil war broke out in earnest in our parts and we became cut off from Petrograd. After eighteen months contact was resumed, but he had disappeared.

One morning, during breakfast, I suggested to Ghermosha that we should search the garden for some mushrooms. The previous year, in July, mushrooms had been found, after rain, near the fairy summer house. Through the night there had been a heavy thunderstorm and I imagined that we might be just as lucky this year.

The sweet scent of lilac met us as we entered the garden. The sphere-like bushes guarding the gates were once again covered by deep purple blossoms.

After the downpour the morning was unusually bright. Each rain-washed flower was opening its petals to the sun. A silver mist was spreading over the lawn. Raindrops like tiny diamonds sparkled on the lacey twigs of the birches and beyond, beside the pond, the storm-ridden willows hung limply over the water.

We found no mushrooms, but while searching around the trees we were surprised to hear a strange grunting. We stopped to listen. The sound came clearly from the bushes growing close to the summer house. Forgetting all about the mushrooms, we dived into the undergrowth and there to our amazement were suddenly confronted by the rosy snout of a little pig, peeping apprehensively through the leafy twigs. There ensued a frantic tussle, accompanied by the shrill squealing of the pig and our own, “Catch it Ч hold it,” the despairing “You fool, youТve lost it.” “Fool yourself.”

“Grab its legs.” “Sit on it.” And finally, “IТve got it.”

We emerged covered in scratches, mud and leaves. The pig was dragged into the summer house, the door bolted and the next plan of action discussed. I was all for keeping the pig. “A pig can have two dozen piglets every year,” I lied shamelessly. “You need two pigs for that,” rejoined my brother, no longer green. “Well,” I agreed, “but Yura or Mitka Shalai could perhaps find a boy-pig in some village?” “How do you know what weТve got?” I didnТt and that was that. The pig was to be taken to the house.

The going was hard. Although not big, the pig was heavy. All my strength was being expended clutching it in my arms with Ghermosha supporting its plump behind, which dangled down my side. The pigТs earsplitting, agonising squealing continued throughout this epic struggle until step by step we reached the kitchen, passed the astounded servants, climbed the back stair and entered the nursery.

Uncle Sanya was sitting talking to my father. “You must return the pig to its owners,” Father advised us, after listening to our account. “YouТll be accused of stealing if you donТt.” I was indignant. “The pig came by itself Ч we never stole it and do not even know to whom it might belong.

Anyone could claim it, if once we started asking.” I was full of bright suggestions. “The pig could be housed where the ewes were Ч we could breed them and never go hungry again.” At this point Uncle Sanya intervened.

“The pig,” he assured me, “didnТt fall like manna from the heavens.” It belonged to someone. Vakhonin would be the first to report the matter to the authorities. We would then all land in serious trouble. Uncle Sanya and Father spoke in soothing tones. “Just leave the pig with us and everything will be alright,” they said and promised they would not give it away. In the end, feeling apprehensive, we decided to part with our little pig.

Father and Uncle Sanya kept their promise. Some days later the pig returned in the shape of tender chops, succulent hind quarters and various tasty bits. Vassily, who had a good idea where the pig came from, took part in some of the more unpleasant operations.

We had a feast such as we hadnТt enjoyed for a considerable time. Uncle Sanya and his family all participated. Every morsel was eaten up and not a trace of our little pig was left. The following day a young man called at the back door. He came from the adjoining land, where an important commissar had arrived and foisted himself on a family living in one of the houses. He had brought a pig with him from the country and was feeding it up so that he could eat it later. He was rather more than grieved when he discovered that the pig had vanished. The young man was sent to discover who might be responsible. Everybody pleaded ignorance. A few days later two stern-faced men from the militia appeared. Ghermosha and I were swimming in the river and so escaped all the questioning, which was perhaps just as well as we might have been frightened into giving the show away. The men demanded to examine the garden. They found no trace, as it had been raining and in any case found it irksome going over every corner of the garden. Just the same we were warned they would return and if proof was found that the pig was stolen by us, the consequences would be serious.

Providence sometimes works in a mysterious way. We were now approaching the end of July. Events of greater importance were looming ahead. The commissar suddenly left and we were spared all further enquiries. The file on the pig was closed. On the first day of August I awoke with a delightful sense of well-being as if something good was in the offing.

The day before rumours had been spreading that the Allied Fleet was sailing across the White Sea on its way to Archangel. An air of eager anticipation hung over the town. Yet, exciting as it was, my own concern was directed to a totally different matter Ч a leg of mutton.

During the previous evening, Uncle Sanya, whilst sitting with his cronies over a glass or more of vodka, was introduced to a man who happened to be a cook on one of the steamers plying up and down the river. He turned out to be a friendly soul, who as he sat, lending a sympathetic ear to Uncle SanyaТs tales of hardship, generously offered him a leg of mutton, an offer my uncle gratefully accepted. It was arranged that the following morning Uncle Sanya would collect the leg of mutton from the ship. As Uncle Sanya no longer kept a horse, and to carry such a rarity as a leg of mutton on a tramcar was to invite unwanted notice, he decided to borrow our old horse. Harnessing him to the trap he set off to the docks. At the last minute, he invited Ghermosha to keep him company. Ghermosha, needless to say, was delighted.