The House by the Dvina (36 page)

1919

The new year was met with glowing optimism. The Bolsheviks were on the run Ч it was only a question of a month or two for the final rout, so they said. Yet those who fought knew they were up against a determined enemy, who had the advantage over his adversary of having been born to stand up to the rigours of the Arctic weather. The war continued with the troops fighting in subzero temperatures. At times the thermometer dropped to -40∞C. The coffee in their mugs froze, their eyelids stuck, and any wounded left lying survived only for a short time. Life, on the whole, was good that winter. British, Americans and a sprinkling of French flocked to our house. In return there were invitations to receptions, parties and other functions. Mother and Marga usually attended them. It was at one of these parties that Marga met a young American officer who became a frequent visitor to the house and was obviously attracted by her. Frank was congenial, danced well, and had a certain panache which appealed to Marga.

In the heart of the city, the Canadian troops built an ice mountain, the like of which had never been seen before in our part of the country. From the top the tobogganist raced the whole length of the street, down the steep bank and finished up on the river. Steps led up to the high platform and the mountain and the slide were bordered by small conifers, embedded in the ice, which were decorated with colourful lights presenting a wonderful display in the early darkness.

This construction was built for adults only. On account of its being considered dangerous, all children were banned. A soldier, standing at the foot of the steps, kept a steady watch. Yet it drew us like a magnet and often, succeeding in distracting the guardТs attention, we dodged past him and, racing down, were followed by a volley of strange words which we later learned described us all as being born out of wedlock.

On one occasion Mother volunteered to accompany us and have a word or two with the guard on our behalf. The soldier, agreeably surprised to meet a nice-looking lady who talked in pleasant tones in his own language, allowed us to go up. We immediately bounded up the steps with our toboggans while Mother remained talking to the soldier. As we continued blissfully racing up and down, the frost hardened and Mother, waiting patiently, was overcome by the intense cold and began to shiver. The shivering persisted at home and the following morning she went down with a chill which developed into double pneumonia. Only DedushkaТs constant attention, assisted by a Royal Navy doctor, saved her life.

Soon after, Scotka went missing. In the past he had been known to go off on some amorous adventure and occasionally, when walking home from school, I used to meet him. He, after halting long enough to bestow on me a gracious nod and a friendly wag of his tail, would hurry on to his assignation. This was something different. His old friend the watchman, after missing Scotka5 s faithful presence, likewise became anxious and searched for him through the various courtyards while doing his rounds.

One day during my music lesson, with Madame Susanova keeping time while standing with her back to the double doors, I noticed one of the doors quietly opening and the figure of my brother crawling under the grand piano. He was pushing on the floor towards me a piece of paper which appeared to have something written on it. When it reached my feet I looked down at the brief message, “Scotka has died.” To Madame SusanovaТs astonishment, who had no reason that day to smack my fingers, I burst into loud wailing and rushed out of the room.

It so happened that a week earlier Vassily had occasion to do some work inside an old disused stable, utilised for storing garden tools and such like. On finishing his chores, he walked away and closed the door behind him. Going back a week later, he found Scotka lying dead behind the door.

It will never be known if Scotka had accidentally been locked in or if, seeing the door ajar, as it often was, he had gone in there perhaps to die. None was more saddened than the old watchman. “Scotka was my friend Ч

my only friend,” he wept.

It was impossible to bury Scotka in the frostbound earth. He was placed in a small box and kept in the same place where he was found. In the early spring Vassily dug a little grave beside the summer house and planted a young birch on top of it.

In the spring the watchman died too. The ancient custom of keeping a watchman walking up and down the street in the dead of night was abolished. The small stone hut was removed, leaving a bare patch of earth as a reminder that it was here that the old Russian peasant and his Scottish friend used to shelter.

Soon after the arrival of the Allied Intervention, a lively bartering grew up between a few of the more enterprising troops and the inhabitants. The forests of our countryside, rich in furs, offered an opportunity for any soldier to take back a handsome souvenir. As contacts were usually made through private houses, my father, being a fluent English speaker, frequently acted as a middle-man.

Peasants, arriving at our house with their precious bundles, invariably preferred to barter for such scarce commodities as sugar, tea, flour and even soap rather than cash. As time went on, the old nursery, which in the past had witnessed many scenes, became a trading station with Father presiding in his chair, surrounded by great heaps of valuable furs. Our two American friends, Sergeants Boverley and Grey, were the main source of supply of goods. No one questioned how this was achieved Ч we had been too hungry for too long. We only knew there was no better sight than the lorries laden with sacks of sugar, flour, tins of tea, coffee and whatever, rolling through the gates.

Easter was as joyful as the Christmas before it had been and held the same bright hopes for the future. Our British and American friends were invited to attend with us the midnight service and later came to the house for the Easter celebrations. It was decided that we would go to the Cathedral in the centre of the city, so that our friends would see the fine interior, hear the service presented by the Archbishop himself, and listen to the voices of the choir.

The Cathedral with its white walls, five golden domes and below them the unique frescoes depicting biblical scenes in glowing colour, was the pride of the town. It was destroyed a few years later by the vandals of the godless society. On that dreadful day, the citizens foregathered and stood watching helplessly. Men bared their heads and both men and women, going down on their knees, wept as the explosion shook the ground and the ancient church, treasured for generations, was reduced to a mass of rubble. But the monstrous crime which destroyed the Cathedral and planted in its place a theatre was as yet hidden by a curtain of dark, distant years. Meanwhile, inside the church, all was light and gladness. The ancient ritual of the procession, the triumphant Easter message, the glorious voices of the choir, were there to be remembered. We walked back to the house with our lighted candles, through a sea of twinkling lights to the joyful ringing of the bells from every church in town. Everyone gathered round the table which, if not as lavish as in the days gone by, was still sufficient to please our guests. Protocol was abolished. The American sergeants, officers, the Royal Marines all mingled together with our relatives, It was a memorable party which lasted well into the morning. At times I used to ask myself, where are they now, these boys who like birds of passage came from distant climes, lingered a while and all too soon vanished out oi our lives? There was one exception. Some time during the Сtwenties Sergeant Boverley returned and after some difficulty in finding where my grandmother lived, called on her. He was a member of a mission permitted by the Bolshevik government to take back to America the bodies of the men who died during the time of the Allied Intervention.

Knowing the prevailing scarcities. he brought a generous gift of food, just as he did on that distant autumn evening when we first made his and GreyТs acquaintance. The early days of spring went by and we were into summer when all schools closed, allowing us to roam a1 will. The sun was again slowly circling overhead, setting and rising almost in the same place. In the garden the warm scent of the young grass mingled with the fresh sharpness of the wild cherry racemes. The old poplar was shedding its crimson catkins.

In the parks the bands played well into the night. Couples strolled below the leafy trees, holding hands. The strange beauty of these nights, silent, with a hint of sadness, held their own magic. There were tender romances, a few weddings and many lighthearted affairs, the results of which are perhaps living in our parts still. Other activities, with less romance and a more down to earth approach, blossomed out. In the other end of the town there was a house known as “the house with the green roof. For some reason, which to me was mysterious, soldiers flocked there.

Travelling in packed tramcars, the men, like homing pigeons, knew exactly where to go. At times I used to see young ladies in flamboyant dresses sitting in the tramcar coming from the direction of that mysterious house.

Their painted cheeks, khol-rimmed eyes and fuzzed-up fringes never failed to fascinate me. In those days people travelling in tramcars were allowed to stand beside the driver. I remember one hot day, enjoying the cool breeze, standing there, leaning against the railing. Close beside me was one of those fascinating ladies, all dressed up in an eye-catching confection. A lorry, full of American soldiers, was travelling alongside.

Suddenly my companion became strangely animated and, rudely pushing me aside, began to make beckoning gestures, wink and point in the direction of the house. This was much appreciated by the soldiers who obviously got the message. I thought she was ill-mannered. On arriving home I related the incident, but this for some reason only aroused amusement. Although I had some knowledge of the facts of life, I didnТt know the purpose of that house and imagined it was some kind of club where there was dancing and perhaps a special entertainment. Enlightenment as to how entertaining it was came some time later.

A long chain of events followed that summer. There was the day of the great parade. All the troops assembled in the Cathedral Square where a short service took place, along with the traditional ceremony of welcome with the bread and salt. The various contingents then proceeded to march along the main street.

They were all there. Our own White Russian Guards with the old three-coloured badges on their caps, the British contingents, including the Green Howards, the Royal Scots and the Royal Marines in their white helmets. The French passed by. The Americans followed along with their marines. Then the sun-burned Serbians in grey uniforms and a small group of Italians in picturesque plumed hats. The bands played stirring marches, dying away and starting up again. It was one of these hot sultry days with the sun beating down on the marchers, winding their way along the cobbled roadway between the wooden pavements lined with watching crowds. I have a memory of myself dancing alongside a stout drum-major who was draped in a leopard skin. Ignoring the exhausting heat, his face drenched in sweat, he kept on stoically beating his drum, no doubt longing for the moment when it would all be over.

Another innovation launched by the British was the formation of the first group of Girl Guides and Boy Scouts in Russia. This was enthusiastically welcomed. I, along with other girls, hurried to be enrolled. We were divided into patrols with the senior girls chosen as our leaders. Each patrol was named after some wild animal, the name and coloured tab of which were sewn on the shoulders of our tunics. Our patrol was named “Beaver”. We had to wear khaki tunics over navy skirts. The uniforms we somehow managed to achieve, but the flat hats proved to be difficult until the Canadians came to our rescue by providing us with their hats, which we wore with the leather straps under our chins. We all had to have a small flag, representing the old three colours, stitched on front of our tunics.

They were fashioned out of ribbons, but in my case I wore instead a brooch depicting the old Russian flag done in coloured enamel on gold, given to Mother by my father when they became engaged. Under the guidance of an English lady, dressed in a navy blue uniform of the British Guides, we received the usual training, drilling, doing good deeds and such like.

There was even a jamboree, inspected by General Ironside. His tall, imposing, if slightly arrogant, figure passed the long row of girls and boys standing to attention. He stopped to say a word or two to some of us in his broken Russian. Beside him was our Russian General Miller, quiet and dignified, dwarfed by his tall companion.

There were bonfires, baked beans and sausages and some kind of pancakes, tasting all the better for being burned. Tents were erected as well as a large screen, which projected a Western film all about Red Indians chasing a stagecoach and scalping the unfortunate occupants. The film, drawing crowds, held for me a morbid fascination combined with the naive thought as to how lucky we were to be far away from America.

The jamboree continued well into the night. Mother, Marga and Frank, along with Yura and Marina, came in the early evening to watch the fun. At the end the tents were folded, the bonfires put out and the tired scouts and guides, after a happy day, returned to their respective homes. The summer was unusually hot that year. In the garden not a leaf stirred; no cooling breeze disturbed the still surface of the pond and the Dvina herself lay like a burnished sheet of steel with barely a ripple to be seen.

We children spent many hours by the river. The water was cool and soft as silk. Women came and brought their babies, who shrieked with excitement and delight when gently lowered into the water. It was to our quiet part of the town that the bathers flocked. There were no facilities for bathing higher up the river amongst busy wharfs and constant traffic of large ships.

In the south of Russia, no doubt, there were fashionable bathing resorts and people wore bathing suits. Here, no such thing was ever seen. As in the villages the women came to the part reserved for them, where they undressed, waded into the water, swam for a little while, came out, sat drying themselves, gossiped with their neighbours and eventually walked away. Needless to say my mother and Babushka didnТt indulge in such pastimes, although Marina on occasions joined us and Marga liked to join us in the early hours of the morning when no one was about. This custom, as old as the town itself, was repeated every year, drawing no attention.