The Kirilov Star (3 page)

‘No, we do not want to let everyone know we are fleeing, do we?’ Ivan said. ‘Leave everything looking normal.’

‘Normal!’ She gave a cracked laugh as the big horse began to pull. It was used to shunting heavy engines and the droshky was feather-light by comparison. ‘How can you say normal? I don’t know what that means anymore. All this hole-and-corner stuff. You’d think we were criminals …’

‘In the eyes of the Soviet, we are.’

They reached the end of the drive and turned south towards Petrovsk. It was only one straggling muddy street, lined with crooked wooden houses, which had thatched roofs and painted decorations around the doors and windows. The local Party headquarters on the square
was built of brick, and so was the library and the school which was on the far side of the town. The railway station was only a rough wooden building but it also housed the telegraph and post office. There were a few people about, all known to them, and they called out a greeting as they passed. ‘Good day to you, Ivan Ivanovich,’ they said, laughing at the plodding horse. ‘What have you got there? A sledgehammer to crack a nut?’

‘Andrei Mikhailovich must be taken to school,’ he called back. ‘And Mikhail Mikhailovich needed the carriage to visit Grigori Stefanovich on business.’

‘What’s wrong with their legs?’

‘Nothing. It is snowing, or had you not noticed?’

‘Pshaw, they should walk like the rest of us.’

Ivan did not answer but urged the horse to go faster to take them past the hecklers, but it was used to its own steady pace and ignored him. At the school, he drew up. ‘Am I to go in?’ Andrei asked.

‘No, but we will pretend you have. Get out and run round to the back, then cross the field. I will be waiting the other side.’

‘I never heard such nonsense,’ Tonya said. ‘For goodness’ sake, can’t we take the children where we like without all this fuss?’

‘No, we can’t. It’s the count’s orders. Off you go, Andrei, and don’t stop to speak to anyone.’

Andrei believed every word his father had said and had no doubt they would meet at Tonya’s parents’ house and was unworried. ‘I’m going with him,’ the governess said, as he jumped down. ‘I gave my word I would not let him out of my sight. If I’m stopped I shall say I have a message from Anna Yurievna for the teacher.’

Lydia was frightened and clung to Tonya’s hand. ‘You go on with Ivan Ivanovich,’ Tonya said, gently disengaging herself. ‘I shall only be a minute.’

She hurried after Andrei and Ivan moved on. He didn’t like it, he didn’t like any of it. If it were not for his long service to the count’s family and the fact that the countess had always been good to his wife and children, he would have nothing to do with it. The Reds were getting closer all the time, and if they overran the area, he did not want to be labelled a Tsarist or a White, or any other name used to denote an enemy of the state.

The road wound round the field and passed through a small copse of birch trees. One or two shrivelled leaves still clung to the branches, but most made a grey-brown carpet on a land rapidly turning white. Once hidden from the town Ivan pulled up and before long Tonya and Andrei appeared. They clambered aboard and they were quickly on their way again.

They could hear the rumble of guns in the distance and away to their left a plume of smoke rose above a slight hill. The fighting was coming nearer, might already have reached Grigori Stefanovich’s village which was only about eight
versts
distant from Petrovsk. He looked at Tonya and inclined his head in the direction of the smoke. ‘Whose house do you think that is?’

‘I don’t know and we had better not wait to find out. You know the count’s orders as well as I do. Tickle that horse into a trot, for goodness’ sake.’

He did his best and the horse lumbered on, dragging the droshky after it as if it were trying to free itself from a troublesome fly. The country hereabouts had once produced good grain, wheat, barley and oats, but the war
against Germany had put an end to farming; the men had all been away fighting and the women who were left could not work the fields in the same way. When the war ended, the occupying Germans had left and their own men drifted back, but then came the Revolution and everything was confused and no one knew what they were supposed to be doing. Today, the rolling fields were covered in snow, and though the outline of the road was still just visible, a few more hours of bad weather and that, too, would disappear under a blanket of white.

‘We should have harnessed the troika,’ Tonya told Ivan.

‘How could you, with only one horse?’ Troikas, as a rule, were pulled by three horses but they could be harnessed with only two. ‘Anyway, we are going south. If the snow turns to rain what good would a sleigh be?’

‘Perhaps Papa and Mama will catch us up,’ Andrei said. ‘They will surely be going faster than this.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘When are we going to have our picnic?’

‘Not yet,’ Tonya said. ‘Later we will find a shelter.’

‘There is a wood ahead of us,’ Andrei pointed out. ‘There might be a woodman’s hut.’

The road took them among the trees which, burdened by fresh snow, made the way dark as night. Most of the trees were conifers, but there were a few leafless deciduous trees. The last few berries which clung to them – orange rowanberries, wine-coloured elderberries, clusters of viburnum, some whitish, some purple – were being attacked by finches. Except for the creaking of the droshky the softly falling snow deadened all sound. Lydia shivered. ‘I don’t like it,’ she said. ‘It’s like being shut in the cellar. I don’t
want to stop here to have our picnic, even if we do find a hut.’

‘Be quiet and listen!’ Ivan said.

Lydia stopped speaking as the sound of galloping horses came to them from among the trees. Ivan did not wait to see who rode them, but whipped up their own animal into a lumbering gallop. The droshky swayed from side to side and they hung on grimly. Half a dozen horsemen burst from the trees onto the road behind them and one shouted for them to halt. Ivan ignored them. Tonya sat forward with her arms about Lydia, as gunshots spattered round them. ‘You had better stop, Ivan Ivanovich,’ she cried. ‘Before they kill us all.’

His answer was to go faster. The horsemen, who seemed to think chasing them was a great joke, continued to fire at the ground around them, laughing and shouting and not bothering to catch them up, which they could easily have done. Before anyone could stop him, Andrei had grabbed the shotgun and stood up in the swaying carriage to return the fire. It was the worst thing he could have done. The chase stopped being a joke, and although Tonya reached up and tried to pull the boy down, it was too late; they were subjected to a hail of bullets, this time not aimed to miss.

Andrei and Tonya both fell backwards and landed awkwardly on Lydia who screamed and kept on screaming, as Andrei’s blood spattered onto her face; she could even taste it on her lips. So much blood, sticky and black in the darkness of the forest, soaking her coat. Andrei did not speak, was incapable of speech. Tonya was groaning. Was some of the blood hers? Ivan looked back once and then urged the horses on, but the horsemen galloped up and surrounded them, forcing them to stop.

‘Why didn’t you stop when we shouted?’ one of them asked, riding close to the carriage and peering inside. ‘Who was it fired at us?’

‘The boy,’ Ivan said. ‘He did not understand. He is only a child. He thought he was defending his sister.’

‘Is he dead?’

‘I do not know.’

‘Get down and look, for God’s sake, and stop that child screaming. You’ll have the whole army down on our heads.’ Which army he did not specify.

‘She is frightened.’ Ivan clambered down awkwardly, knowing that the men’s guns were trained on him. He reached across and pulled Tonya off Lydia. Unable to sit up, the nurse slid to the floor. ‘Be quiet, little one,’ he told Lydia. ‘You will only make the men angry if you scream.’

Her screams became frightened sobs, which she tried valiantly to hold back, but the sight of Andrei laying across her lap with his head thrown back and his eyes wide and staring was enough to set her off again. Her coat had fallen open and the blood was staining her white dress, soaking through to the petticoat, the petticoat containing the Kirilov diamond. She remembered her mother saying bad men might try and take it from her and she supposed that was who they were. Ivan lifted Andrei out and held him out in his arms, as if to show him to the horsemen, none of whom had dismounted. ‘He is dead.’ Ivan’s voice was toneless.

‘And the other? Who is she?’

He was about to say their governess when he realised that admitting the children had a governess was not a good idea; it branded them as aristocrats. ‘A friend of the family. They were going to stay with her in Perekop while their parents went to Kiev. They have been summoned to appear
at some enquiry or other. I don’t know the details.’ The sight of Andrei, brave, foolish Andrei, had brought him near to tears himself and he could only mutter these untruths. ‘Let me take them on, comrades. We are no danger to you. We have nothing you want. The boy did not mean any harm and he didn’t hit anyone.’

The leader at last dismounted and came to look at Andrei, who was most certainly dead of a head wound. It had been a superb shot considering the smallness of the target and the fact that the droshky was travelling in a far from straight line; more of an accident than deliberate, if he were honest. ‘You should have stopped him.’

‘I couldn’t. I was driving. Tonya Ratsina tried to stop him and she is badly wounded. Let us go, comrade. The little girl is terrified, can’t you see?’

Lydia was no longer sobbing. She was staring with wide unblinking eyes at Ivan, who held her brother’s body across his hands as if in supplication. Andrei’s head lolled down one side, his legs down the other, unnaturally arched. She had always thought when people died they shut their eyes but Andrei’s were wide open. Could he see her still? The man leant forward and closed the dead eyes with one hand and turned towards her. She opened her mouth to scream, but he quickly put his hand over her mouth. ‘Silence, child! Your noise will not bring him back. I want to see the woman.’ He reached down into the vehicle and lifted Tonya’s chin. ‘No beauty by any standards.’ He let it fall, then picked up the picnic basket from the floor and flicked open the lid. ‘Food, comrades,’ he said, flinging chicken legs at them. They caught them deftly and began eating, obviously very hungry.

‘Take it,’ Ivan said. ‘Take it, with pleasure. And the
pancakes. And the cold tea. Take it all. Just let us go.’

‘We might. But who are you? Give us a name.’

‘Ivan Karlov, cousin to Grigori Stefanovich, the Chairman of the Workers’ Committee of the Petrovsk Soviet.’ It was said without hesitation; he had had a few minutes to realise telling his own name would not help and could lead to his wife and children. He hoped using Grigori’s name might influence the men for the good.

Tonya started to groan and cry out with the pain of her wound and both men turned to look at her. ‘She needs help,’ Ivan said.

‘It’s my view she is beyond help, but we do not make war on children. If the boy had not fired, you would be well on your way by now.’

‘Why did you want to stop us?’

The man laughed. ‘Our horses are spent, we thought we would requisition yours, but now we have seen that great carthorse, we have changed our minds. An unfortunate occurrence, comrade, but not our fault.’ He reached into the carriage and picked up Tonya’s purse. ‘We will have this instead. Now, on your way.’

Ivan did not need telling twice. He laid Andrei on the floor the other side of Tonya and covered them both with rugs, then picked Lydia up and set her up in front of him, wrapping a fur round both their legs. It was done without speaking, without looking back at the horsemen, though he knew they were still watching him.

Lydia did not scream, or even cry; neither did she speak. Her whole mind was numb, unable to absorb what had happened. The fur that wrapped her was warm, but she shivered uncontrollably. Not even when they left the forest behind, and came out onto open countryside again, did she come out of her lethargic state. It was better that way, Ivan decided; he could not cope with sobs and screams. The sun, rising over the snowy fields, bathed them in a rose-white glow, hiding the barrenness of the ground beneath them. They crossed a river and entered a small village, where Ivan stopped to ask if there was a doctor in the vicinity.

‘No, comrade, no doctor,’ the man returned. ‘There’s a midwife.’

‘What would I want with a midwife? It’s death not new life I’m concerned with.’

The man peered into the carriage. ‘What happened?’

‘We were attacked by Reds or bandits, hard to tell which these days.’

‘Reds? Here?’ He crossed himself fervently. ‘Has the war come to Ukraine?’

‘It is not far behind me.’

Tonya suddenly gave a huge sigh and then there was a gurgling in her throat, and an eerie silence replaced her rasping struggle for breath. There was a finality about it that was indisputable. The man looked into the carriage. ‘It’s a priest and a gravedigger you need, comrade,’ he said, ‘not a doctor.’

‘Then direct me to the priest.’

The man gave him directions, though he did not need them; the church dome was clearly to be seen at the far end of the street. ‘The child?’ the man queried. ‘Is she wounded?’

‘No, shocked that’s all. And can you wonder at it?’

‘No.’

Lydia did not speak while the arrangements for a double funeral went on around her. She did not hear, much less respond, to the sympathetic enquiries of the women of the village and shook her head dumbly when they offered her food. One of the older women tried to take off her bloodstained dress and petticoat, but she resisted silently and fiercely, with a surprising show of strength, and the woman gave up and went to fetch Ivan who was busy helping to dig the graves.

He came to Lydia and squatted down beside her. ‘Let the
babushka
have the dress, little one. She will wash it for you. You have another in your bag, don’t you?’ When she nodded, he fetched the bag and handed it to the old lady. ‘Change the dress. Leave the petticoat on. She needs its warmth.’

Lydia did not utter a sound as this was accomplished,
nor later when she stood by the open graves and earth was scattered on the coffins of her brother and their governess. She watched with vacant eyes as the gravediggers began filling in the dark hole, hearing, but not hearing, the clump of the clods of cold earth as they landed on the wood. Ivan paid for the funeral with one of the jewels taken from Andrei’s tunic, the rest he put in his pocket, then he picked Lydia up and took her back to the droshky which the villagers had scrubbed out. The bloodstains were muted, not so glaringly fresh, but the smell had defied all attempts to eradicate it. She fought silently against returning to it, kicking and struggling in his arms.

‘Little one, we have to go on,’ he said. ‘I must take you to Simferopol. Your mama and papa will be there. You want to see them again, don’t you?’

She nodded, her eyes full of tears, but she clung to him, hiding her face in his shoulder. He climbed onto his own seat, set her between his knees again and, encircling her with his arms, picked up the reins. ‘Try to sleep, little one,’ he murmured.

He was not an articulate man, did not know what to say to comfort her, and he did not try. Instead he sang an old Ukrainian lullaby, softly, liltingly, while the snow turned to rain and drummed on the vehicle, washing away the last of the blood. Exhausted by everything that had happened, she put her head back against his rough tunic, while the horse plodded forward.

They travelled in silence; Lydia sat leaning against his chest, her little brain so numb it had ceased to function. Perhaps it was just as well, he thought; he was finding it hard enough to come to terms with what had happened himself. He had been fond of Andrei; the boy had been intelligent
and lively and had not adopted the imperiousness of some aristocrats, believing themselves superior beings. That was down to the count, who was a man he could respect and trust. A man he had failed.

What would he say when he learnt of this terrible tragedy? His son and heir butchered by Reds or bandits, it did not make any difference which it had been. He would blame him and he would be right. It should never have happened. He should not have left a loaded shotgun where the boy could reach it. Now what was he to do? The count had given instructions for them to stay at a hotel, but how could he do that? A man and a little girl, not even a relation. It wouldn’t be right. He could not leave her in a room alone, not in the state she was in, and sharing a room was out of the question. Besides, they were well behind schedule, so he had better keep going all night. The count and countess would be there before him and be anxious about them.

The sun came up as they made their way down out of the hills and now it held more warmth. The snow had disappeared. The fields became fields again and the roads more clearly defined. Villages came and went. He bought food at one place, but Lydia would not eat; his efforts to make her speak failed miserably and he fell to talking to himself.

They arrived at Perekop in the early afternoon and by then the heat in the sun was fierce, making him sweat in his thick clothes. He stopped at a café which had tables under an awning, hitched up the horse and lifted Lydia down. She stood silently while he bought food and drink and took it to one of the tables in the shade. ‘Eat,’ he commanded. But she refused to open her mouth. It worried him. She had
been twenty-four hours without food or drink of any kind and that surely was not good. After half an hour they set off again and arrived at Simferopol in the evening. The air had a salty tang and was redolent with the scent of rosemary and pine, but he hardly noticed it. He was dog-weary and worried. He had met the Ratsins only once when they had visited Tonya and he was unsure of his reception. He had to tell them of their daughter’s death and then ask them to look after Lydia until the count arrived, if he had not already done so.

Finding the house was not easy, and then it turned out to be little more than a hovel on the edge of a village a couple of
versts
from the town, a log-built
izba
, with a dirt floor and a stove in one corner. There was a table in the middle of the room with a couple of benches. The beds were on the stove.

Lydia had never been in such a place before, but she was so numb she hardly took it in. Tonya’s parents welcomed her with hugs and kisses and brought out the bread and salt to bid them welcome. They had not seen the count and countess, they said. Ivan wondered whether to keep their daughter’s death from them, but that would be cowardly, and so he told them what had happened in his gruff, straightforward way.

They wept, of course they did, and when the weeping stopped, they began to question him. What had happened, who were the horsemen, why were the count and countess visiting them? Were the Reds coming? He answered as best he could, anxious to be on his way back. If those horsemen had been Reds, forerunners of the army, then they would soon be at Petrovsk, and he had left his wife and children there. He had obeyed his instructions in so far as he had
brought Lydia Mikhailovna to Simferopol, now his duty was to his family.

He looked across the room, where Lydia sat silent and blank-faced. Poor little mite. ‘May I leave the little one with you, Stepan Gregorovich?’ he asked. ‘The count and countess will be here soon, God willing. I am surprised they are not here ahead of us, but no doubt the weather in the hills delayed them. I have to return.’

The couple were alarmed at the prospect and would have liked to refuse; if the Reds were getting close, harbouring an aristocrat would cost them their lives. On the other hand, the money the big man was offering was more than they had ever seen at one time before and would enable them to move into better accommodation. And it was only for a few hours. They agreed and, having shared a meal of boiled mullet and fish soup with them, Ivan set off back to Petrovsk, leaving behind a child so traumatised, she was barely alive.

‘I don’t know how to entertain a countess,’ Marya Ratsina said between sobs for her dead daughter. ‘What would a countess expect? Where can I get food good enough for them?’ She looked at the money Ivan had given her. It was made up of gold and silver coins, not Kerensky’s paper money. Spending it would invite questions and they had to think of a good reason for having it. ‘Should I go and buy some food? And plates. You cannot expect them to eat out of wooden bowls.’ She went over to Lydia and peered into her face. ‘You, girl, what shall I do to make your mother and father welcome?’

She received no reply and set about cleaning the house with frantic haste, taking the rugs outside and banging
them against the outhouse wall, choking on the dust. She swept the floors, cleaned the one little window, stoked up the stove, shook out the blankets and squashed a few bugs, none of which made much difference. The place was still a hovel.

‘For God’s sake, woman, leave off fussing,’ Stepan told her, filling his clay pipe with strong-smelling tobacco. ‘They will probably not even come through the door, they are only coming to fetch the child.’

‘What’s the matter with her? Why does she not speak? I offered her soup and bread but she took neither. I shall be glad when they come and take her away, she is giving me the shivers, sitting there so still and staring. What is she staring at? Is she ill? Oh, I hope she is not going to be ill. I have no idea what to do …’

‘Do nothing. Get on with your usual chores. Feed the chickens, milk the goat, and be thankful we still have them. If the Reds come, they will have them off us in a twinkling.’

‘And if they find her here …’ She jerked her head towards the corner where Lydia sat on a small stool. ‘We will be arrested and probably shot for harbouring her. Do you think they really are coming? It must be very bad in the north. I saw hundreds passing by when I went to the market this morning. They have bought up all the supplies, inflating the prices so I couldn’t afford a thing.’ She sat down, suddenly deflated like a pricked balloon.

They waited the rest of the day. Stepan went on with his chores and Marya would sit for a while, trying to persuade Lydia to talk, and then would jump up and go out into the road to peer towards the mainland, hoping to see the Kirilov carriage. It did not come. They put the child to bed on the
floor. She refused to allow them to undress her, struggling silently, and when it looked as though they might succeed, she opened her mouth and screamed so loud and long they gave up and let her sleep as she was, which she did from sheer exhaustion.

The next morning Stepan went into Simferopol to see what was happening for himself. The town was milling with strangers, soldiers in tattered uniforms, civilians riding in an assortment of vehicles or making for the railway station on foot. Some were in furs, having come from the colder climate of the north, and they had servants with them. Others were less well clad and carried their own cases. They all looked desperate. There was a larger police presence than usual, looking at people’s papers, afraid Red soldiers might have infiltrated themselves among the refugees. The grand square in front of the railway station was packed with people, as was the station itself when Stepan managed to push his way through to it.

‘Your Excellency,’ he said, addressing a gentleman in an astrakhan coat and a shiny top hat, who was directing porters loading his luggage onto a trolley, while his wife, in a sable coat, and a boy in warm knickerbockers and belted wool jacket, stood watching. ‘Why is everyone leaving? Are the Reds coming?’

‘I fear it is inevitable,’ the man said. ‘If you have any reason to fear them, then I suggest you make your escape.’

‘No, I have no reason to fear them. I am a poor peasant, I have nothing but a few chickens and a goat. They can come, it won’t bother me, except that I have a child in my care, the little daughter of Count Kirilov. She was supposed to meet her parents at my house and they were going on to Yalta, but they have not come. I don’t know
what has happened to them, but what am I to do with her?’

‘Can’t you keep her?’

‘No. She is a little aristocrat, dressed like one too. What would I do with one like that? She isn’t used to work…’

‘I should think not!’

‘Her brother and nurse were shot dead in front of her eyes.’

‘Oh, the poor thing,’ the lady said.

‘The nurse was my daughter and my wife is grieving for her. Even if she were not, she would not know how to look after the child. Can you take her? When her parents come I can tell them you have her. She will be better with you.’

They looked at each other doubtfully, while he waited, cap in hand, looking from one to the other hopefully. ‘She is so sad, the little one,’ he added. ‘She has lost everything …’

‘Where is she now?’

‘At my place, less than two
versts
away. If you do not take her I shall have to take her to the orphanage.’

‘No, don’t do that,’ the man said, his voice sharp. ‘Fetch her here.’

Stepan darted off before the man could change his mind.

‘Pyotr, what are you thinking of?’ his wife asked him. ‘We have problems enough getting ourselves away without taking on someone else’s child.’

‘But we cannot abandon her. If she is the daughter of Count Kirilov …’

‘
If
,’ she reiterated.

‘We shall soon find out. I am sure the count would do the same for us if it were Alexei left alone. Just think about
that for a moment, will you? All alone and no one to take care of him. We can take her as far as Yalta and can make enquiries there for Count Kirilov. If he hasn’t turned up, the authorities will know what to do.’

She looked at her sturdy young son and gave in. ‘I hope she does not make us miss our train.’

‘It is not due for another hour and we shall be lucky if it leaves on time. Let’s see if we can find something to eat in the station canteen.’