The House by the Dvina (45 page)

The hours we enjoyed best were in the falling dusk of the autumn evening when the river was deserted and we collected round a bonfire to roast potatoes filched from various gardens, some deserted and some not. Sitting in the warm glow of the fire, eating our scorched potatoes, we talked of many things, of our past and present exploits, of the mysterious disappearance of the Ukrainian family while the town was changing hands, of Boris and Lena who used to be always with us, but who had left unnoticed without any warning.

Politics meant nothing and were never mentioned. Perhaps there was an unconscious desire to avoid anything that could cause pain or trouble. No one ever questioned Vera or Volodya about their father.

The conversation usually revolved around the entrancing subject of food and particularly something sweet. “Tell us more about the sweetie shops in Scotland,” they used to ask. “What is a sweetie?” enquired Shurick, who had never seen one. “We also had them long ago,” remarked Volodya.

“Perhaps they will come again,” he added wistfully. “Of course they will,”

Tolya would confirm with unfailing optimism.

By now the summer was over. The river became unfriendly. Cold Siberian winds lashed the shores, throwing amber sparks and smoke into our faces.

Some place offering more shelter was required. The choice fell on our garden. After all, Vassily didnТt bother chasing us any longer. Now we decided that if we only had a boat it would add to our pleasure. Petka Karelsky, full of bright suggestions and unburdened by any scruples, suggested that we should remove a boat from the Yacht Club and transfer it to our pond. “But that would be stealing,” Vera remonstrated. “Stealing nothing,” Petka, who disliked being contradicted, rejoined. “How could it be stealing if thereТs no one to steal from?”

The boat was carried through the garden on to the pond. For a short while we derived a lot of amusement out of it. Circling around under the overhanging branches of the willows, the pond became the Mississippi, the Amazon with Indians hiding in the bushes ready to strike us down. At times it was our own mother Volga with the accompanying ballad of “Stenka Razin”

and his cossacks, sung in ringing tones.

One evening Uncle Adya called. Uncle Adya, no longer his old debonair self, was bitterly regretting that he encouraged Natasha with their baby son to return on the Canada. Although his sisters and widowed mother were safely abroad, neither he nor Natasha were permitted to leave. The timber business, for generations in the Scholts family, was confiscated, as was the house of my late godfather. Adya was fortunate that he was not arrested and even executed, as some of the mill owners I had been. But the future held nothing Ч nothing at all. As both he and Natasha were talented people, he planned to join a group of actors and in this way perhaps eke out some kind of living. After talking for some time, he and Seryozha decided to take a stroll in the garden. On returning Uncle Adya remarked to Father: “Do you know, Gherman, my boat is sitting on your pond tied to one of the white jetties?” Our parents were furious and both Ghermosha and I not only received a good dressing-down but had to apologise to Uncle Adya for stealing his boat. He, not caring much about anything, wanted us to keep it, but Father would not hear of it. And so in the end the boat had to be carried back to the Yacht Club, no doubt to be stolen eventually by someone else.

Meanwhile, during the rainy days of autumn, the two main cinemas in the town offering free admittance were as good a place as any to find shelter and amusement. Each cinema on alternate days presented two films. In the “Edison” in the heart of the city, we watched Why America Declared War.

The next day there was a Russian film all about a brave young girl who, after being involved in revolutionary activities, is arrested and in despair hangs herself in her prison cell. It was called Ogonky Ч Little Lights, from the glowing lights in the eyes of the wolves chasing their victim when she tried to escape. In our part of the town, in the “Cino-Art”, we were shown the American classic The Three Godfathers and the mysterious The Man in Grey. The American films, souvenirs left by the forces, had captions printed in English which meant nothing to the Russian audience.

As these were the days of silent films, they had usually been accompanied by a pianist playing appropriate music, but now there was no such person to be found. At the beginning of each performance a disgruntled official would appeal to the audience for someone to come forward and fill the void. There was no shortage of enthusiastic amateurs, some of whom, with complete disregard to their lack of ability or the suitability of the music, would thump on the piano with all their might and main. The poor revolutionary hanging herself was often accompanied by the gay rippling of the CatТs Polka. One might think that constant repetition would have killed all interest, but no, we savoured each well-known scene, each gesture, every tear, and when at times there were no volunteers to play the piano we replaced the music with our own vocal efforts.

The three outlaws shuffling through the hot sands of the desert with the baby were encouraged to go on by the earthy ditty sung by our soldiers on the march. The final dramatic scene, with the last surviving godfather stumbling into the church with the infant in his arms, was greeted by the rousing chorus of the “International” Ч “This was our last decisive battle Ч forward, forward, forward.”

September. The mornings growing colder. With each passing day as darkness draws nearer the lamps have to be lit earlier in the evening.

Our annual visitors, the red-breasted bullfinches, are here again. With unbelievable speed and energy, accompanied by frenzied chirping, they dive into the elderberry bush and strip the crimson berries. The helpless bush sways and trembles under the onslaught of these tiny winged invaders, but in a day or more when there is nothing left to plunder they fly away. A peaceful silence descends upon the dying garden. In the town, after six months of living under our new government, conditions remain chaotic. The minds of the authorities are too occupied with establishing their doctrine and persecuting those who happen to have opinions contrary to their own, to bother with less important matters such as clothing and feeding hungry citizens.

Meetings are held all over the town. Even children have to attend to be regaled with passionate rhetoric on the glories of communism and the ever-repetitive promise of a bright future. We are tired of hearing about this “bright future” and ask only for something better in the present Ч a little more food and clothing.

The bread queues grow longer every day and often, after standing for hours on end, there is nothing left. As usual there is an abundance of rumours, based on wishful thinking leading nowhere, of some rare commodities, from sugar and tea to felt boots and soap, due for distribution in various parts of the city. One such was of apples. Apples indeed Ч a rarity not seen for years.

Marina and I set off one morning to join the lengthy queue outside our local co-operative, behind the locked door of which were the promised apples. Someone had actually seen the boxes marked with the magic word “Apples” carried into the shop.

We waited an hour or two, whiling away the time studying some of the numerous posters plastered on the walls. One I recollect was of a giant black cat standing on its hind legs and dressed in a red shirt, with trousers tucked inside long boots. In its claws, dripping blood, were small birds wearing crowns. In the background was an overturned throne and the same crowned birds lying dead beside it. The rhyme, in large scarlet letters, read to the effect that the TsarТs birds were singing a different tune now that the workerТs cat has caught them in her claws. There were more on the same theme, equally revolting, but they helped to pass away the tedious hours.

Eventually a plump woman appeared to unlock the door. “What are you waiting for?” she enquired. “Apples,” was the hopeful answer. “Apples,”

she echoed, bursting into astonished laughter. “YouТll find no apples here my friends Ч where do you think they would come from? Are you out of your minds? Away with you Ч take yourselves home.” And that was what we sadly did.

That day of the apples was a momentous day, however, for that afternoon word arrived from the authorities giving permission for Mother and her children to leave for Scotland on a temporary visit to her parents. With this permission came the strict instructions to detail every article we were taking with us, and also to send all photographs, pictures and postcards for scrutiny by the authorities in Petrograd. In due course the list of our belongings was returned with the official stamp. The photographs and cards were likewise returned in a sealed envelope with further strict orders for the envelope not to be opened until we reached our destination. (When we finally did come to open the packet, all was in order Ч except that a photograph of Maisie was missing!).

The following day Madame Ankirova called. She had received her exit visa too. Now our joint efforts had to concentrate on finding a ship which would take us to Norway. Meanwhile, Mother began to prepare for the journey. It was said that paper roubles bearing the head of Aleksandr III were still acceptable abroad. Although difficult to obtain, Mother succeeded in gathering together a substantial sum. This she hoped to exchange for foreign currency as soon as we landed in Norway. The money was put in a white cotton bag which Mother planned to tie round her waist.

Most of our belongings had to be left behind. In any event we could not have taken them with us as they had to provide Father with some means of bartering for food and other necessities.

The search for a ship to take us direct to Norway turned out to be more difficult than we imagined. Week after week went by without any success.

We were now approaching the end of September. In a matter of two or three weeks the river would freeze up and be closed to navigation.

Life continued to roll on. Friends and relatives called, usually in the evenings. Sashenka still presided at the tea-table at night when we drank an infusion of dried lime flowers gathered in the garden. It was not particularly pleasant, but kept us sitting and talking together round the table. Other people came to live in the house. MargaТs bedroom was now occupied by two young teachers. They were pleasant girls and occasionally joined us at the table. One of them, Masha, eventually married Seryozha.

One day, the lady who was taught English by Mother, mentioned that she had heard of a ship called Sever (North) due to leave for Murmansk at the end of the month. Further enquiries confirmed this and Mother and Madame Ankirova decided to take it. It was our last chance. From Murmansk, it being an ice-free port, we optimistically thought it would be comparatively simple to cross over to Norway.

Meanwhile Babushka was now ready to join my stepgrandfather in his place of exile in the depth of the country. On the evening before her departure, she asked me to spend the night with her in her room. The night was stormy, with wind and rain lashing the windows. I lay, curled up in bed, listening to the description of her journey to St Petersburg for an audience with Aleksandr II. In the morning the storm abated. A pale autumn sun filtered through the windows.

I still remember her standing in the back hall. She was wearing an old travelling cloak and shawl tied over her head, peasant-style. Amongst the relatives who came to see her off was Aunt Peeka, now frail and sad Ч the only witness left of BabushkaТs departure for her momentous journey four decades earlier.

Final farewells, laden with grief and tears, are heavy to bear. I, wishing to lighten the moment and in some way show my grandmother how much she meant to me, ran out of the hall and, taking a cake of soap from the two in MotherТs case, hurried back and pressed it in BabushkaТs hand. She threw her arms around me and held me to her breast. This was the last time I saw my beloved Babushka.

At the back door the old carriage was waiting. We all trooped out the back stair and stood watching Babushka settling down with her few belongings and Yura getting in beside her. Yura was to accompany her across the river and go on to stay for a while with his mamka in her village. The carriage rolled through the gates and on to the cobbled street. Babushka turned and waved her hand in farewell. After she left, the old nursery became the centre of our small world.

HOME

1920

Mother went to finalise the date and time of our own departure. She returned with the news that the Sever was sailing on the last day of September at four oТclock in the afternoon. The luggag e had to be brought aboard in the morning. The whole of the previous day was spent, well into the evening, doing the last of the packing. Mother, exhausted, went off to bed. Ghermosha also fell sound asleep in his corner of the nursery. I, for some time, sat talking with Father. He spoke of his youth, of the happy days he spent in Scotland and how important it was that I should learn to read and write in English and make my way in life. A life, he warned me, that would not be easy. I had the sad impression that he was already somehow reconciled to the loss of his wife, children and everything. I left him and crept into my bed in darkness. For a long time I lay wide awake tormented by unhappy thoughts. The broken home, of having to leave Father, and all those who meant so much.

In the morning our boxes were piled on the cart. Arsyeny set off for the docks. The ship was about two milesТ walk away. We followed on foot, planning to see the luggage safely aboard and then to return to spend the last few hours with Father. Madame Ankirova was already settled in. It was now midday. As we were leaving the ship the captain came over to have a word with Mother. There occurred one of these terrible mistakes that could alter the whole course of oneТs life. I distinctly heard the captain reminding Mother that the ship was leaving at the fourteenth hour. Mother, whose Russian was never perfect, misunderstood the time, taking it to mean four oТclock instead of two. “Mama,” I pointed out anxiously, “the captain says the ship will leave at two oТclock, not four.” “Nonsense.” Mama brushed this aside and I, perhaps wishing to believe her, didnТt argue. We still had time to return if we hurried.