The House by the Dvina (28 page)

“Please go on without me,” he was saying. “I will rest here for a little while and later take the ferry back to town.” We left him sitting and walked away in silence. For some time I kept turning and seeing him waving back with his hat on the end of his walking stick, but gradually the white blob grew smaller and eventually I could see it no more.

After traversing the moor, we took a path through a wood. There, inside, were shade and coolness, the pungent smell of earth, mushrooms, birch and pine all mingling together. Shafts of sunlight threw golden splashes on the sombre branches of the pines, the white trunks of the birches, the trembling leaves of aspens. We sat down to rest. Around us was the enchantment of the forest, the sweet cooing of the doves, the distant call of the capercailzie, the little unseen animals scurrying through the rustling leaves. Mushrooms grew in abundance. No Russian can ever pass a mushroom, and as we continued on our way Babushka took her kerchief and, tying the four corners, began to gather them.

The trees gradually thinned out as we came out on to a clearing. In front were smooth green fields where cows and horses were peacefully grazing. To the right lay a row of cottages and a small wooden church. We saw coming towards us the plump figure of YuraТs mamka, dressed in a sarafan. Ulyana had seen us and was hurrying across the field to meet us. She was a sturdy, smiling woman who adored Yura. From the time she left him to return to her own son, when Yura was two years old, she kept trekking back the long road to see him and always brought her own special brand of baking which she knew he liked. Ulyana hadnТt done too badly. She and her husband owned a bit of land, a few cows and a solid clean “isba” decorated by carved gables.

Waiting at the entrance were her three children, including YuraТs “milk brother”, Vanya, now a tall, strong boy, who had been left in the village soon after he was born so that his mother could earn money by suckling another child. The isba was spotless Ч the floors scrubbed white with sand, the table covered by an embroidered cloth and set with bowls and wooden spoons. Babushka, Marina and I were to share the “gornitza” Ч the best room, the walls of which were decorated with pictures of the royal family. In the corner was an ikon and, draped over it, an embroidered linen towel. As usual, the pride of place was occupied by an enormous double-bed piled high with feather mattresses and pillows. Yura and the children slept in the hayloft.

Ulyana fed us with her simple meals. Bowls of yoghurt topped by a thick layer of “Smetana” (sour cream), buckwheat porridge and her baking.

Especially good were the “kolobki”, which are made from fine oatmeal and butter, formed into balls and baked inside the pechka. Their fine, crumbly texture melted in the mouth. Little meat, if any, was eaten in our northern villages, but from the river there was a plentiful supply of fish, and the fish soups were delicious.

We spent a happy week in this peaceful village. I was accepted by the children and spent the time gathering berries and mushrooms in the wood or swimming in the little river. A slanting path led down to the sandy shore where all the children gathered. The river was very narrow, which enabled us to swim across and play with children from the opposite side. We were now in August. The villagers were harvesting the crops. Yura, Vanya and Marina were assisting them, working the whole day through in blazing sunshine. On the 3 August, a stranger arrived in the village and pinned a notice on a post. The people gathered round it and those who were able to read passed on the terrible news.

On the 1 August, Germany had declared war on Russia Ч in every town and village mobilisation was taking place. There had been a rumour earlier to that effect, but now it was confirmed and, like an ant heap disturbed by clumsy feet, it brought turmoil and anxiety. Babushka immediately decided to return to town and after packing our few belongings we left the following morning. This time we took the road that led us to the railway and walked along the line until we reached Issakagorka station. All I remember of that weary trek were the never-ending sleepers, the big steps we had to take across them, standing aside on the embankment until a train rushed by, and trudging on again. Late in the afternoon we arrived at the station. Troops were embarking for the front. A packed train was on the point of leaving. Inside, the young faces of the soldiers were cheerful.

They were singing rousing marching songs Ч songs that had been passed from one generation to another. The platform was a milling throng of mothers, wives, sweethearts and children seeing off their men to some distant front.

The whistle blew. The great wheels commenced their churning, gradually gaining speed. The women ran along the platform and along the track, hoping to catch that final glimpse of a loved face Ч until the thin wisp of smoke vanished in the distance and they were left standing, wiping tear-stained faces with the ends of their kerchiefs.

It was a relief to be back in TanyaТs house. I remember Babushka telling Tanya that we had covered seven miles along the railway line in the heat of the day.

We all slept late the following morning and after breakfast took the ferry back to town. On the landing stage we found Father and Mikhailo. Father, although still pale and leaning on his walking stick, was jubilant.

“Britain,” he announced, “is on our side Ч yesterday she declared war on Germany.” On account of Mother being Scottish the family had been wondering on which side Britain might come in Ч FatherТs news brought great relief.

When the carriage arrived at the house, I rushed out and bounded up the back stair to the hall. The first person I met was Sashenka. “Sashenka,” I cried out triumphantly, “Britain is on our side.” “No one is on our side,”

she replied scornfully. “Each one is for himself.”

A wave of fervent patriotism swept over Russia. Never, during these hot August days, was the Tsar loved more Ч and never were the soldiers so willing to fight and if need be die for him and their beloved country.

On the same day of our return from the village, Kapochka and I went off to the shops to buy things for the soldiers. I remember the excitement of packing the parcels with socks, soap and most important of all the little square packets of “makhorka” Ч the cheap tobacco so prized by soldiers.

With one I enclosed a little note saying, “This is from a schoolgirl called Jenya Ч come back safe.”

All over the town women were congregating round tables laden with clouds of gauze and piles of wool to knit and make bandages. Marina, no longer at school, dedicated herself to this work and went off every morning. Marga, due to join the university in St Petersburg, surprised everyone by announcing that she had decided to take a training as a nurse, in the hope that she might be later sent to the front.

Babushka became a member of a committee formed to raise funds by arranging sales of work, concerts, dances and other activities.

Meanwhile, school had begun again. To our morning prayers was now added the national anthem Ч “God save our Tsar Ч strong and all powerful Ч may he rule to confound his enemies Ч and render glory unto us.” On the walls the portraits of the Emperor and Empress took on a greater dimension. The eyes of Tsar Nicholas I looked down benignly Ч a faint smile on his lips.

The face of our beautiful empress was coldly distant. In the late autumn, when the red-breasted bullfinches arrived again to devour the crimson berries of the rowans, and over the garden lay the sadness of fading flowers and falling leaves, our Mikhailo received his calling-up papers.

No one had expected this to come so soon. Mikhailo left, and Glasha, grieving for her short-lived happiness, returned to the house. A new coachman came to live in the lodge. He was called Nikolai Ч a tall dark man with a saturnine expression.

A few weeks later, Irisha arrived at the house. Her husband had also been called up and she, with her little baby, had to vacate their quarters.

Driven by despair, with no one to turn to, she came to Babushka, and Babushka took her under her wing. It was decided that Irisha and her little boy would live in the lodge, while Nikolai would join Vassily in his quarters. Young Yashka, who had been the kazachok at the beck and call of everybody, left to better himself. Things fell into place. Not long after, I attended a performance organised in aid of funds for the war effort. It was held in the largest theatre. Every seat was occupied and people were standing in the passages. The scenes were numerous and varied Ч dancing, singing, recitations; but the superb final tableau vivant, representing all the allies, was the most memorable. Five girls were chosen, each representing one of the allied countries. My young Aunt Marga was chosen to personify Russia.

When the curtain went up, a sigh rippled through the audience. Against the background of all the flags on a raised dais stood Marga, dressed in the style of the ancient nobility. Her tall, statuesque figure was encased in a fitted dress of gold brocade. The front panel, studded with jewels, sparkled in all the colours of the rainbow. From the high headdress, trimmed with pearls and jewels and framing the typical Russian face, a gossamer veil fell in soft folds down to her feet. On either side were the girls representing Britain, France, Belgium and Italy, all wearing traditional costumes. As they stood motionless, illuminated by the constant changing lights of crimson, gold and green, the orchestra played the various anthems. The audience, rising to their feet, immediately responded by singing with great fervour and, long after the orchestra ceased playing and the curtain dropped for the last time, the applause continued. Never before had they witnessed such a scene of exaltation.

Meanwhile, after the disaster of Tannenberg where a quarter of a million men laid down their lives, many of the wounded were being sent to Archangel. Dedushka worked well into the night operating on the broken bodies of the soldiers. I was once taken by Marga to the hospital, where in a large sunlit room were two long rows of beds. Many of the soldiers were heavily bandaged. I saw the stamp of patient resignation on their faces. War was not the glorious thing I imagined it to be.

That year Father engaged a music teacher for me Ч an old lady known as Madame Susanova, who had spent her youth in France and had attended the Paris Conservatoire of Music. Father had also asked that her tuition should be conducted in French. With undue optimism he imagined that in this way my knowledge of the French language might improve.

In spite of her age, Madame Susanova was a formidable lady who had the nasty habit of striking my fingers with her pencil each time I played a wrong note. I enjoyed learning to play simple little pieces and detested the practising of scales. Madame Susanova came three times a week and, when I was finished with her, a young tutor, Nina Andreyevna, took over to assist me with my homework. Father, who was possessed by a strange fixation over my education, feared, not unjustly, that I would neglect my homework if there was no supervision over me. The homework kept us occupied until six oТclock when I joined the family at the dinner table.

During these winter nights, after dinner, everyone was engaged in doing something. Babushka went off to her committees, Marga and Dedushka, back to the hospital so that often I was left to my own resources with only Kapochka to keep me company. We would then retreat to the nursery; she with her mending, I with my books and little bits of sewing. A lamp overhead would cast a bright pool over the table. Except for the holy light in front of the ikon, in the corner, the room would be in darkness.

Outside, the snow and wind might beat against the windows, the frost increase until the rafters cracked above us in the garret, but we sitting together were safe and warm. Kapochka, a good story-teller, would talk about her childhood or the times she spent in St Petersburg. Sometimes, lifting a piece of mending, she would begin to sing. She sang with the ease of a nightingale or blackbird in the early spring Ч there was never a jarring note and there was not a Russian song that she didnТt know. Her voice was in a low key and held that special caressing timbre that is so often found in Russian voices. During these winter nights the weekly excursions to the banya were also something I enjoyed. I liked, too, to watch the preparations. Fresh, sweet-smelling linen packed in a basket along with soap, sponges and brushes, and, in another small basket, the crisp pasties, the bottle of “morse”, a cooling drink prepared from cranberries.

Outside the vozok awaited us. Square-shaped, like a box on runners, it had a special appeal as if it came out of some fairy tale. In front, dressed in his cumbersome coat and shaggy fur hat, sat the coachman, huddled like a bear.

The banya, a brick, two-storeyed building, was only a few streets away. A wide stone staircase led to the second storey, where a long corridor with numbered doors branched out on either side. We were shown into our rooms and each presented with a dried, leafy switch made from the thin twigs of the birch. The dressing-room was sparsely furnished with a table, chairs, and horse-hair sofa, over which were thrown clean white sheets. After removing all our clothes we entered the tropical heat of the washing-room.

Basins of water were thrown over the hot stove in the corner, creating clouds of steam. Hot water was also poured over the birch twigs to make them soft and pliable. My elders used them, whipping one another to increase the circulation, and bring to the surface of the skin any impurities. No one was ever allowed to indulge in that custom on my person and any advance was met with loud protests.

Polished copper basins and small wooden tubs were placed on forms running round the walls, and there were also several hot and cold water taps.

Beside the stove were shelves in the form of wide steps. The higher one climbed the greater was the heat. The top step was very popular with elderly people and considered hot enough to drive out many ills, from rheumatism to alcohol.

A curious feature were the small arches, some eight inches high above the floor, cut out from each dividing wall above the grating covering the drain. The stone floor gently sloped towards these drains, which were shared by adjoining rooms. These small arches had a strange fascination for the young. By lying flat on the floor, it was possible to peep through and see the bare feet of our neighbours. Being taken to a banya from an early age, I had no inhibitions and the naked body did not present any mysteries, but there was a lot of fun derived from trying to guess the owners of the various feet. On some occasions a person in the neighbouring room would be imbued with the same idea, and I would suddenly be confronted by a pair of curious eyes staring intently into my own.