The House by the Dvina (31 page)

Doctor Grenkov called twice a day and we all walked on tiptoes. To Babushka this was reminiscent of the time when she lost her first husband, my grandfather. Now she was again undergoing the same despair, never leaving DedushkaТs bedside Ч but he, possessed of a mould stronger than his predecessor, after fighting for weeks, in the end recovered.

When he was up and about again Babushka sent for our “batushka”, Father Aleksandr, who came to the house and held a thanksgiving service, sprinkling each room with holy water. We had reason to be thankful. Out of our family, four had been at deathТs door, but by some grace were saved.

There is a strange sequel to what I have described. A half-century later, while attending a service in the Russian Orthodox church in Edinburgh, I was approached by a small frail lady. “Is it true,” she enquired, “that you are from Archangel?” “Yes,” I said. “I am also from Archangel,” she told me, “and was employed as a nurse in the main hospital there assisting Doctor Aleksandr Egorovich Popov Ч you may have heard of him?” “He was my grandfather,” I rejoined. “In that case,” she went on, “you must be the people who owned the beautiful garden. I remember during one hot summer when we were working day and night, the doctor told me and my friend, also a nurse, to go to his house where his wife would provide us with tea and take us to the garden to rest a while. Your grandmother had the tea brought to the garden and we sat together for some time. It was a perfect day, bright and sunny. I have never forgotten that peaceful place nor the lovely flowers and wished I could have stayed for ever. During the epidemic of typhoid when the doctor was so seriously ill I stayed in the house to take care of him, but I also remember being sent some time earlier to nurse an English lady who was desperately ill and not expected to recover. There were two children there who had been ill as well. I believe the lady was the daughter-in-law.” “Yes,” I agreed. “The boy was my brother and I his sister Ч the lady was our mother.” “The world indeed is small and our roads are strange,” she remarked. Liza, as I knew her, died shortly after our conversation. The paths that she had trodden were indeed strange. In 1918 she escaped from Russia on an icebreaker, disguised as a young boy, and after many adventures eventually reached the shores of Norway and from there sailed to Scotland, where she settled down and later married.

In early June of 1916, our town was in the midst of preparations for an event of great importance. Lord Kitchener was arriving in Archangel from where he was to travel to Petrograd to meet the Tsar. No one knew what the mission was to be about, but great hopes were expressed that it might bring about an early conclusion to the war. Russia, having lost millions of her sons, was sick at heart and prayed for it to end. A civic reception was to take place. A triumphant arch was being erected and the great man was to be met with the traditional welcoming symbol of bread and salt. The inexorable hand of fate intervened. On 5 June, the ill-starred Hampshire, carrying Kitchener, struck a mine near the shores of the Orkney Islands and he was drowned. This tragic disaster was followed by others. Earlier the allies had applied to the Tsar for help. During the great offensive by General Brusilov, Germany was compelled to withdraw several divisions from the west and so abandon her riposte against the Somme offensive.

BrusilovТs attack, although effective was prolonged. In sacrificing herself for her allies Russia lost a million men Ч a loss that undermined her materially and, more important, morally. The flame of patriotism which burned in every soldierТs breast began to waver and eventually went out.

Revolution and anarchy followed. During that summer no one to my knowledge, although concerned with the war, was heard to express any fears of a revolution. Everyone was kept more than usually busy as the house was overflowing with a steady stream of visitors who came to stay for weeks on end.

My cousin Militza, Aunt OlgaТs eldest daughter, came with her husband to spend part of her honeymoon with us. She had married within months of leaving school a young officer Ч Volodya Pasternak. Militza was something special, blessed with an elusive charm difficult to define. Although all her sisters were pretty and attractive it was Militza who possessed this mysterious charisma Ч the way she moved, the way she smiled, the way she spoke and the endearing habit of being able to raise one eyebrow while slightly narrowing her eyes when listening to someone talking.

Aunt Olga with her two younger daughters, Zlata and Jenya, arrived as well. My cousin Zlata, a few months senior to me, was a golden blonde with large eyes like black cherries, thick dark eyelashes and finely arched eyebrows, which of course was considered unusually beautiful. She was Aunt OlgaТs only fair-haired child and my aunt, determined that ZlataТs hair should never darken, washed it constantly with camomile flowers. I was never again to meet Aunt Olga, but in 1949, after two wars and a revolution, Zlata, Jenya and I met each other in the Gare du Nord in Paris. After the second war, I got in touch with my cousins in Finland and discovered that Jenya, now married, was living in Paris, a member of the large community of Russian emigrees. Zlata was staying with her.

My husband, our two young sons and I, travelling to Scotland after a holiday in Switzerland, decided to meet my cousins in Paris. It was arranged that they would recognise us by our style of clothing, our sons wearing their kilts, and that Jenya and Zlata would have white buttonholes. They forgot to do this but I, running ahead of my husband and the boys, never hesitating, driven by some strange compulsion, recognised my cousins amongst a multitude of people. We had a happy reunion which was often repeated until such time as they both died, Zlata in Finland and Jenya in Paris. Jenya had become my dearest friend and my last link with our distant past.

That last summer before the revolution there were several naval ships of our allies lying in the harbour. We entertained many of the officers. To the young officers of the ship Champagne our house became their second home. French was spoken comparatively freely, especially by my father, and this delighted them being so far from their own homes. In return for our hospitality, Mother and other members of the family were invited to a dinner party aboard the ship. To my annoyance I was notincluded and the following morning, listening to the glowing account of the gay time they all had, tried to pretend I wasnТt jealous. Volodya was one who took no pleasure in the party. Being possessive over Militza, he became annoyed with one of the officers openly flirting with Militza in the best French style. There was some altercation when they returned to the house with Militza pointing out with her usual sweet charm that she should not be blamed if other men admired her.

Their marriage did not last. After a divorce she married the Finnish Consul called Laurison and for some time lived with him in Germany and later in Russia, which enabled Militza to travel to Archangel at a time when it became a forbidden city to all visitors. In this way she was able to pass on information about members of the family.

One evening at the table, Seryozha, who had arrived for his vacation, suddenly announced in a manner that brooked no opposition that he had given up the university and was going to join the army with the hope that he would soon be sent to the front. Russia, he pointed out, was in a bad way and was more important to him than his career or for that matter his own life. Being an idealist, he wanted to enlist as a private, seeking no privileges and sharing all the hardships. When he finished speaking everyone fell silent and no one attempted to dissuade him. Shortly afterwards he left for preliminary training at the recruitment centre.

In the kitchen changes had taken place. Dunya, who had been our cook for many years, was now failing in health and decided to return to her village. She was replaced by a sprightly little widow named Yenichka.

Yenichka, long past her youth, had a married daughter and a granddaughter of my own age called Leedka who, when visiting her babushka, liked to come upstairs to play with me. Unfortunately she had the quaint habit of skilfully removing any little object that took her fancy. This involved Yenichka having to go through her granddaughterТs pockets before Leedka returned home.

One morning, Ghermosha, dressed in the black uniform of a gymnasist, complete with leather belt and buckle, grey overcoat and military style peaked cap, set off accompanied by Yura to the Lomonosov Gymnasium. Memory has kept a picture of a small boy bowed down by his heavy coat, proudly striding out whilst trying hard to keep pace with his tall uncle. Life for Ghermosha as a full-fledged gymnasist had begun in earnest. In early winter we were surprised by a strange soldier at our door. It turned out he was IrishaТs husband, discharged from the army. Vakhonin, as he was called, had been wounded in the hand and had lost two fingers. Irisha, who was still living in the lodge with her little son, was overjoyed. She and her husband resumed their married life together.

He called one evening to see Father, who wanted to hear a first-hand account of what he had witnessed at the front. Vakhonin was bitter in his condemnation of bribery and corruption, the desperate lack of supplies and above all the wanton loss of life. Words flowed from his lips like an angry torrent. Rumours were rife amongst the soldiers of the “Nemka” (the German woman) influencing the Tsar through the evil monk Rasputin Ч they blamed her for all their ills.

“Gherman Aleksandrovich,” I heard him say, “some of us were defending mother Russia with only our bare hands Ч lucky to lift a rifle from a dead comrade.” He went on to describe how his contingent was ordered to advance and hold a certain position. After fierce fighting and an appalling loss of life, they took it and held on, waiting for the relief and more supplies Ч but nothing arrived. In the end forced to retreat, only a handful of men reached their lines. “I am glad IТve lost my fingers Ч IТve had enough, the stink of death, the rotting bodies, flies, maggots Ч and all for what? For nothing, Gherman Aleksandrovich Ч for nothing Ч Russia is finished.”

No one doubted VakhoninТs vehement account, for rumours of a similar nature were reaching Archangel all the time. Yet in spite of his barely healed wounds, the missing fingers, the ravaged face, there was also something about him that didnТt endear him to us. It was also openly said that his wound was self-inflicted.

He settled in the lodge with Irisha and his little son and all might have gone well if it had not been for Nikolai. He had been courting Glasha for some time and had hoped to marry her and settle in the lodge which had always been the married quarters for a coachman. Vakhonin, meanwhile, was settling down in a comfortable home, with free light and fuel. Babushka, of course, would never have had the heart to turn out a wounded soldier, his wife and child, when they had no place to go to.

All this irked Nikolai as he was not happy living with Vassily, it being winter and all the hens wandering around his feet. So he found another job in the timber mills and left us.

Nikolai was replaced by a young, good-natured giant of a man called Arsyeny. Unlike his taciturn predecessor, Arsyeny with his ready laughter, his little earthy jokes, his willingness to work on anything outside his own tasks, repair a sledge or fix a new strap on my skis, was very popular with us all. To our new cook, Yenichka, he held a special attraction, the full implications of which were as yet a closed book to me.

Yenichka, a grandmother, old enough to be ArsyenyТs mother, was overtaken by a passion that blossomed like a crocus in the winter of her life. For Arsyeny coming to the kitchen there was always a little bit of something to appease his appetite, saved by Yenichka out of her own portion, or pilfered from the larder. And, after all, who was he to refuse such offerings if it made Yenichka happy? The one who wasnТt happy was Glasha.

Having to share her bedroom with Yenichka, she resented this intrusion.

Once, while assisting Kapochka with sorting out the laundry in the nursery, and quite oblivious to my presence, Glasha gave vent to her resentment. “Kapitalina Semyonovna,” I heard her say “all these goings-on are really shameful Ч the other day I found the bedroom locked and heard Yenichka saying to Arsyeny, СWould you like it with my stockings on or off?Т.” At this point Glasha was interrupted by a sharp nod from Kapochka in my direction. After Glasha left the room I, overcome by curiosity, asked Kapochka what was it that Yenichka was going to give with her stockings off. “You just be quiet,” Kapochka retorted, “your ears are now so long you could tie them under your chin.” I was mortified and could not understand why Kapochka should wound me so.

Shortly after this conversation Glasha left to get married to Nikolai, who was making good money in the timber mill and had found a little house in the vicinity of Maimaksa. A peasant girl named Katinka replaced her.

Yenichka and Arsyeny continued working for us, but their affair, I think, must have died a natural death.

In November, Seryozha was granted a short leave before departing for an unknown destination. We saw a great change in him. He looked as if he had been through a serious illness Ч his face was white and thin, the coarse uniform hung loosely on his shoulders. Yet he was undaunted and never mentioned the hardships he had undergone, with the exception of criticising the abhorrent custom of having two or more men eating out of the same bowl. Finding this repellent and difficult to bear he at times preferred to do without.

His mamka, Vera, who lived in the historical little town of Kholmoger, came to see him off. Vera was deeply attached to him. I remember seeing her sitting beside Seryozha on the edge of his bed. Seryozha was earnestly trying to explain something and she, gently stroking his sleeve, was listening, tears streaming down her face.

As the dark days of December approached Christmas, startling news reached Archangel. On 16 December Grigory Rasputin, the Siberian peasant who wielded great influence over the Empress to the detriment of Russia, had been murdered.

Much has been written and said about this illiterate peasant. Some thought he was a saint, others that he was possessed by evil. He was known to be a lecher and a drunkard, but at the same time to have the gift of prophecy and healing. The prophecy may have been coincidental, but the strange power of healing has never been denied or explained. His fame as a miraculous healer travelled far and eventually reached Petrograd where he was introduced to the Empress. The young Tsarevich Alexei had haemophilia, a disease for which no doctor ever found a cure or was able to alleviate his suffering. In desperation the Empress turned to Rasputin in the hope that he would save her son and his future throne. Certainly many reliable witnesses had testified that the strange power Rasputin possessed saved the Tsarevich from the brink of death, not once but several times. What was this power? Some have said it was a form of hypnotism. Hypnotism may have alleviated the suffering, but how could it remove the ominous dark spots on the body, the swellings in the joints, the high temperature, the symptoms of approaching death? To this day no one has been able to give a convincing answer.