The House by the Dvina (2 page)

People were constantly coming and going. Every time the door opened there was a stream of cold air and the clean smell of snow.

Suddenly there was a shrill sound of a clanging bell. A voice, loud and urgent, was calling out, “All passengers for Archangel!” Petya stood up.

“Time for us to go, Jenya,” he said. He took my hand and we went into the cold and frost. We walked slowly towards the train. I was suddenly possessed by an anxiety and fear that we might miss the train and perhaps never see Archangel. I would have run ahead if it wasnТt for the greater fear of being lost in the crowd. We reached our carriage door and Petya still kept talking to his friends. The second bell rang. I remember being lifted, kissed soundly, Russian-style, on each cheek, and pushed inside.

“Proshchaitye” … “Goodbye” … “Prieszhaitye v Arhangelsk” …

“Come to Archangel.” The usual farewells and invitations, sincere for the moment, for of course we never saw them again. The third and final bell rang its warning. The wheels began once more their monotonous dirge.

Tomorrow we would be in Archangel.

Our compartment was again shared by two young men. They played cards, talked a lot and ignored me most of the time. Back beside the window I watched the woods that seemed to get darker and more forbidding as we continued climbing north. At times the train halted at some wayside station. There would be a banging of doors, loud voices, some passengers leaving and others joining the train. The sun changed from a golden yellow to a deep vermilion and vanished somewhere behind the trees. Night came down. I peered into the darkness that seemed to come so early, but there was nothing to see beyond some pinpointed lights in the distance.

Petya had recognised a few friends and took me along to their compartment.

They, in turn, kept coming and going and as usual had endless discussions.

The hours went by so slowly. I climbed back to my bunk and played with my chocolate mice. They became a little soft and began to lose their shape. I cannot remember what happened to that precious box in the end. In the excitement of leaving the train I must have forgotten it and left it behind me.

I was awakened next morning by the sound of voices and the tinkling of glasses. Our two neighbours were up. They had pushed up the bunks against the wall, and sitting together with Petya were drinking their tea. “Nu vot, Jenya” … “Now then, Jenya,” Petya called to me, handing up a glossy kalach. “We shall soon be in Archangel.” How soon, I wondered? It was dark as night outside, although it was morning. We were travelling through the north where nature spreads her dark mantle over this land for the best part of the year and the sun comes out for just a little while.

It had been snowing through the night. The giant snowflakes clung to the window like some fluffy moths.

The passengers were gathering their belongings and preparing to leave the train. We too began to put all our baggage in order. The night before, as I settled down for the night, Petya had advised me to take off my dress and fold it neatly at the foot of my bunk beside my shoes. Now he brought everything down and pushed my bunk against the wall. After I was dressed, he removed a towel and soap box from my travelling case and ordered me to go to the end of the corridor and wash my face. He offered no assistance for he was aware that I had devised a system of my own that did not need any help. When I came back, he combed my hair the best he could and helped me to slip on my “valyenki”, the heavy felt boots that are the best protection against the intense cold and frost. Then we sat down to wait.

How awful is the slow passing of time when one is very young and impatient. How often did I bombard this patient young man with the everlasting question of how long did we still have to wait for that glorious moment of our arrival. How irritating I must have been, yet he bore with me, took care care of me to the best of his ability, never letting me out of his sight. Gradually almost imperceptibly, the steady rhythm of he wheels changed to a slower more drawn out tempo and stopped altogether. We were in Archangel.

Archangel, endlessly dear and lost for evermore. Faces that have vanished and voices forever silent.

1912

My paternal grandmother, Evgeniya Evgenievna Popova, the wife of Dr Aleksandr Egorovich Popov, my stepgrandfather, was awaiting my arrival in the Issakagorka Station, as it was called in those days. I can still see the tall, full figure dressed in a blue, fur-trimmed shuba, with a round fur hat to match, worn over a white lace shawl, tucked into her collar.

She carried a muff and another shawl hanging loosely over her arm.

I was only five years old when I had last seen her, yet I somehow instinctively knew that this tall, fine lady, with dark curly hair framing a round face and kind laughing eyes, could not belong to anyone else but me. She was my grandmother, my babushka. I ran towards her, stumbling in my clumsy boots. She hurried forward, spreading her arms wide and caught me up with muff, shawl and all, held me close and kissed me over and over again.

PetyaТs father, a thick-set elderly man, was also there, to meet his son.

They embraced and kissed in the traditional manner. For a short while they all stood together discussing the journey while I burned with impatience.

Babushka repeatedly thanked Petya for bringing her granddaughter safely home after what, she knew, must have been a burdensome journey. At last there were the final goodbyes and we walked over to our sledge. Standing beside the horses, stamping his feet, was a young fair-haired man dressed in a heavy padded overlapping coat, reaching down to his felt boots.

“This is Mikhailo,” Babushka said. “DonТt you remember him?” Mikhailo laughed. “How would she remember me?” he asked in turn, in his lilting peasant accent. “She was only so high.” He pointed with his knout to a few inches above the ground. Two small dogs rushed forward, barking a shrill welcome. I remembered them, or perhaps I imagined I did. My parents used to tell me many stories about them Ч Scotka and Borseek. Scotka was a black Scotch Terrier originally named “Scottie” but rechristened “Scotka”, a name which came easier to the Russian tongue. He was brought by my father from Scotland, along with a small flock of black-faced ewes. They arrived in a cargo ship when Scotka was only some ten weeks old. Everyone knew Scotka. After six arctic winters, his thick coat became much thicker and longer. He resembled a small ferocious bear. His appearance belied him. Below the overhanging eyebrows twinkled a pair of friendly brown eyes. He was intelligent, courageous and an expert rat catcher. No Russian rat was ever too big for this true representative of his small country!

His constant companion Borseek was found one Christmas morning by my father inside our gates. He was a tiny puppy and almost frozen. My father revived him with hot milk laced with a little vodka. I was only a few weeks old at the time. We grew up together and from all accounts he suffered patiently all my antics. He developed into a sturdy small mongrel with a soft russet coat and a bushy tail that curled over his back. Tucked away somewhere in his head was a very crafty brain. Favouring a chosen few, he looked at the rest of the human race through his amber eyes with lofty contempt.

The big woollen shawl Babushka carried was wrapped over my head, crossed in front and securely tied behind my back. I was completely enveloped, for Babushka had a real fear of frostbite. Through the whole of the journey she constantly kept pulling the shawl over my cheeks. We climbed into the sledge. Mikhailo tucked the bearskin rug over our knees and scrambled into his seat in front. “Nu … Poshawl,” he called out in that gay ringing voice so special to drivers, jerking his reins and waving his knout. Off went the horses to the jingling of bells and wild excited barking of the dogs running behind us.

The station is on the left bank of the river Dvina. All communications between it and the town on the other side are maintained in the summer by a ferry. In winter after the ice freezes to a great depth, the river bears all traffic.

We drove down a gradual incline on to the river itself. Wide and dazzling, it stretched before our eyes, disappearing into the distance beyond the island of Solombala on to the sea. To the right, sweeping away in a wide curve to the north, lay the ancient city of Archangel. The sun lit up the pastel buildings and played on the golden domes of the churches. High above, the crosses glinted against the blue porcelain of the cloudless sky.

How glad, how perfect was that morning. The sun, the crystal air, the clean smell of the snow. The horses breaking into a gallop skimmed the tight-packed surface of the river. “Get, get, get, my darlings,” Mikhailo kept calling out, and they ran faster and faster, their heads thrown back in wild abandon with flying manes and jingling bells. The little dogs raced at full stretch, sometimes keeping up with the sledge, sometimes falling behind. I sat close to my Babushka, muffled in my shawl, warm and secure, and laughed as only children can laugh when they are happy.

We reached the shores of Archangel and halted beside the road leading into the town. The dogs had fallen behind. They came running up, panting heavily, their breaths small clouds of steam. Babushka patted the bearskin and they leaped up joyfully into the sledge beside us.

The sledge drove slowly into a busy market place, past warehouses and stalls where peasants in heavy clothing were offering their produce. When we reached the crossroads, the sledge turned left into Troitsky Prospekt, the wide main street running through the whole length of Archangel. We drove on through the heart of the city, past the ancient cathedral with its painted frescoes on the white walls dominating the square in front. In spite of the subzero temperature the town was busy. Pedestrians, muffled in shawls and furs, hurried along the footpaths between high snow-banks heaped up against the pavements. At times only their heads were visible.

Sledges, small and big, of every style raced up and down.

Over all lay the deep snow and the great silence of an arctic winter. Only the sound of creaking runners and the bells or the sudden cry of a crow in flight broke the silence.

We turned into a street called Olonetskaya Ulitza and drove down towards the river. The horses suddenly quickened their pace. In the corner of the street close to the river stood the house. The double gates wide open.

Leaning on his broom, Vassily the old gardener was standing there.

Babushka laughed, waving her hand to him.

The horses raced through the gates. Straight ahead, I could see, sunk deep in the snow, the dark tips of a hedge separating the courtyard from the garden. Beyond in the garden on a small hill surrounded by pines and birches stood a white summer house fashioned in the style of a castle.

From the turret a flag fluttered lazily. The trees, like silent sentinels, guarded the castle. We swept past the two wings overlooking the courtyard, up to the front entrance. The sledge slowed down and stopped. Babushka helped me down and, taking my hand, led me through the double doors and up the crimson-carpeted staircase. Suddenly the inner doors on the top landing burst open. Looking down were the smiling faces of two young boys and a girl. Behind them in the hall stood a group of people.

I entered the house. It embraced me, holding me fast for the next eight years until the morning of my childhood was over.

It was a rambling house built on two levels. The long single storey overlooked the wide expanse of the Dvina. French windows led out into a balcony with wrought-railings. There during the long, clear summer nights, friends and members of the family sat talking or listening to the voices carried from the river as they watched the sun moving along the western horizon behind the dark line of the opposite shore. To the north lay the island of Solombala. All ships coming in from the White Sea skirted the island, appearing suddenly into view.

The two double-storeyed wings of the house jutted into the courtyard, facing east. Round the corner of the north wing was the front entrance and a few yards along was the second set of double gates leading out on to the river front. The ground floor of this wing housed a self-contained flat of two rooms, a kitchen and private entrance.

Some years earlier, an old nanny, who had been in the family for several generations and who had had the unique experience of seeing the remnants of NapoleonТs Grand Army retreating near the district of Smolensk, lived there. She was known as Nanny Shalovchikha. After she died, the flat stood empty for some time. When I arrived Uncle Sanya was living there. Uncle Sanya was my fatherТs younger brother, a young man in his twenties at that time. The private entrance of the flat suited my uncleТs bachelor activities. He led a gay life of parties with nocturnal visitors who came in shadowy drozhkis (hired cabs) gliding silently through the gates and out again after discharging their mysterious passengers. At times when the revels reached their crescendo and the loud sudden burst of laughter, the raised voices or the strumming of a balalaika would penetrate the thick floor upstairs, someone would laugh tolerantly, but BabushkaТs face always darkened. A large square balcony connected the two wings of the house.

French doors from the dining room led on to it. I cannot remember it ever serving any useful purpose except when during the summer Babushka would suddenly decide to go into town. She would then go out to the balcony, lean over the railings, cup her hands over her mouth and in a clear resonant voice call over to the lodge, “Mikhail-lo, poda-a-a-avai.”

Mikhailo would appear on the steps, call back and hurry down, fastening his coat as he ran to the stables. In no time the horse and carriage would be cantering towards the entrance.

A favourite game after lunch was to feed the chickens. Holding a plate filled with all the leftover food and bread, Babushka would stand, throwing handfuls over the railing and at the same time call to the chickens in a very special, drawn out, caressing tone “Tze-e- e-eep, Tze-e-e-eep meelenki-ya” … “Tzee-e-ep, tzee-eep, my darlings.” The magic effect of this never failed to throw me into fits of laughter. I myself would then start calling in unison with Babushka. The “little darlings” rushed across from all directions Ч chickens, hens, all colours and sizes with trailing wings and piercing cries, geese, turkeys appearing from nowhere. Ducks, only seconds before diving peacefully in the depth of the pond for weeds and little fish, were suddenly galvanised into hurrying up the bank, madly rolling across the lawns, in a frenzy working their way through the hedges stumbling and falling over themselves, inevitably to arrive too late.