The House by the Dvina (35 page)

They arrived at the landing stage and boarded the steamer. The cook, faithful to his promise, produced the mutton and invited them to join him in the saloon. There, seated round a little table, they proceeded to hold an amiable conversation. Some light refreshments appeared, along with a bottle of vodka. While they were thus pleasantly engaged, a young member of the crew suddenly rushed in, in a state of great excitement. “The steamerТs leaving,” he shouted. “YouТll have to jump for it.” Uncle Sanya, grabbing the leg of mutton with one hand and Ghermosha with the other, made for the deck. The paddles were already churning and the steamer was swiftly moving from the landing stage. Not hesitating for a second, Uncle Sanya threw Ghermosha on to the pier, with the leg of mutton after him, and leaped across the widening gap.

The river was an extraordinary sight. All the paddle-steamers, every type of craft the Bolsheviks could lay their hands on, were hurrying up the river to the south. The Bolsheviks were fleeing. Uncle Sanya and my brother had barely escaped being carried away with them.

Thankfully they scrambled into their trap and turned homewards, but when they reached the main street they found themselves between two firing lines. Behind them the Reds were still defending the south end of the street; facing them were the attacking Whites. At this point, Uncle Sanya decided on the only possible course. Handing over the reins to Ghermosha and telling him to hold them as tightly as he could, he raised the knout and lashed the horse, which took off at full speed and galloped through the crossfire. He continued flying like the wind until he reached the familiar gates.

The sound of firing from the south went on throughout the afternoon but, by the evening, the town was in the hands of a strong underground force.

The old national flag was once again fluttering over the town hall.

That evening we celebrated the victory by a feast of roasted mutton followed by platefuls of “moroshka”, now ripening in the woods. The following morning more rumours began to circulate. The Allied flotilla was now supposed to be approaching the Dvina Delta. Throughout the day people gathered on the river front and by evening a great crowd had collected.

They were standing on the pier, sitting on boulders close to the water, on the banks and, higher still, closely packed against the railing of the boulevard. As from our balcony there was a perfect view of the river, many friends called and sat with us, waiting to see the first ship appear.

Ghermosha and I, wishing to be with the crowd, sat perched on the railings. Yura and Marina were beside us. The tension was increasing with every moment. Of course, even as we waited, people were saying that the ship sunk by the Bolsheviks, to block the passage, would take a week and more to remove. But they were mistaken. All obstructions had already been cleared with comparative ease.

I remember how clear and warm the night was, with just a gentle touch of autumn. A young schoolboy succeeded in climbing up a telegraph pole and called down to the crowd that he had seen a mast moving behind the island of Solombala. All eyes were now fixed on the island. The boy was not mistaken. As if entering the stage from the wings of a theatre, the first ship of the flotilla came into view. The others followed. They were all there Ч Russian, British, French, American. They sailed serenely, majestically, one after the other, in perfect formation, against the pink glow of the setting sun. There was a breathless hush followed by tremendous cheering, growing louder as each ship passed before our eyes.

The sound of our voices echoed across the water and reached the men crowding on the decks. They in turn cheered back to us and waved their caps. Never before had the banks of our river seen such a glorious armada.

I have never forgotten that stirring sight nor yet the old lady beside me, tears streaming down her face, crossing herself and repeating over and over again, “Slava Tyebye Gospodi” … “The Lord be praised.” The Allied Intervention had begun. Long after the last ship vanished out of sight people remained talking on the balcony. Now and again the silence was broken by the sudden spurt of the engine of a motor-boat scurrying up the river intent on some urgent business.

Lights moving on the road towards us from the direction of the town caught our attention. They were coming from a motor vehicle Ч a strange sight in our parts Ч which appeared to be in some kind of trouble as after puffing and steaming, it halted in front of our balcony. Two men got out and, speaking English in an accent which sounded different to my motherТs, held an anxious discussion. Father, on hearing them, leaned over the railing and enquired if he could be of any assistance. “It is good to hear you, sir, we sure are in trouble,” came the answer. It transpired this was the advance party of the cookhouse for the American contingent to be housed in the second girlsТ gymnasium. The water in the radiator of their lorry had evaporated and although they were close to the river they had no means of carrying the water to refill it. We immediately offered them all the water they required and extended an invitation to come into the house. The men, hot and bothered and uncertain of the road, gladly accepted our hospitality. The samovar arrived and all that we had was offered.

This was our first acquaintanceship with Americans. Memory has retained their names Ч Sergeant Boverley, a tall broad-shouldered man, and Sergeant Grey, smaller with a round face and humorous expression. Both came from Detroit and both, from that night for the whole of their sojourn in Archangel, became our friends and called constantly at the house. On seeing the poverty of our table, Sergeant Grey immediately hurried to his lorry and returned carrying tins of biscuits, jam and cheese. A happy gathering followed at the end of which, escorted by Yura to show the way, our new friends left.

The following day the lorry drove through our gates. The boys returned, bringing a sack of flour, sugar, bacon, lard and butter. All of us were too thankful and delighted to enquire how they were able to conjure up such goodies. During the next two months more troops were disembarked.

Five thousand Americans landed in September and in early October, before the river froze, General Edmund Ironside arrived, accompanied by French, British and Canadian troops. General Ironside, an imposing figure, was placed in command of all the Allied forces and billetted in a fine residence in Troitsky Prospect. The house belonged to a family named Desfontaines, who were wealthy timber merchants and related to us by marriage Ч the wife of my godfather and my fatherТs uncle were Desfontaines.

The town became crowded to bursting point. On the jostling pavements were now heard all the different voices of foreign soldiers Ч British, French, American and even Serbian.

In August, filtered through from Siberia, came the news of the slaughter of the Royal family by the sadistic thugs of the Bolshevik party. Horror and revulsion touched every decent thinking citizen in the town. To execute the weak Tsar and his neurotic wife in this barbaric fashion was bad enough, but to butcher the four young girls and the helpless boy was the work of mindless criminals. In churches people went down on their knees and openly wept as they prayed for the souls of the Tsar and his family.

Recently, the martyred family have been sanctified. “People will pray to them instead of praying for their souls,” it was being said. I cannot but think how much better it might have been had they been spared this martyrdom. At the time of the TsarТs abdication Britain offered him and his family protection which the Tsar gratefully accepted only to have the offer cancelled by the Government of Lloyd George, and the cancellation endorsed by George V. France likewise refused to suffer their presence.

Conveniently forgotten was the fact that when they had all begged him for his help, the Tsar responded by transferring his armies to save the Western front at the cost of sacrificing the flower of RussiaТs sons, his country and himself.

At the end of August, the weather rapidly deteriorated. Torrential rain poured down from leaden skies and a cold east wind blew from Siberia. Up the river, battles were being fought in woods and villages in the worst possible conditions, for as usual in the late autumn, the whole surrounding countryside became a vast quagmire, making the maintenance of supplies well-nigh impossible. This is the time of year when even our own hardy peasants try to avoid crossing the sodden wastes and prefer to wait until the frosts bind the earth together. Yet the ding-dong battles continued with soldiers struggling knee-deep in mud, fighting and dying in this foreign land.

We children, when the weather permitted, still gathered beside the river.

By now, white horses were galloping across the Dvina and the water was too cold for swimming. Instead we gathered large quantities of driftwood, lit enormous bonfires between the boulders and sat around baking potatoes in the glowing embers, having endless discussions, arguments and, on occasions, joining in some rowdy singing to the amusement of the passers-by above us.

One day, sitting by the river, we saw a large barge floating to the north.

Usually barges were accompanied by two or more men, but this one, rolling on the waves, appeared to be deserted. It vanished round the island out of sight and we soon forgot about it, but the following day it appeared again, this time sailing up the river. It continued floating up and down with the tide, sometimes vanishing from view only to appear once more.

Gradually it drifted a little closer to the shore, and so didnТt interfere with the traffic in midstream. By now our curiosity was aroused. There was something mysterious, something ghostly about this barge that made us wish we could inspect it closer, but it was still far out of reach and we had no means by which we could approach it. There was nothing we could do but hope that in becoming icebound it might present an opportunity to board it.

One day, peering through the frosted window panes, I saw in the distance the dark shadow of the barge firmly wedged in the river. Snowstorms and intense frost prevented any attempts to go near it, but one bright Sunday morning, Tolya Mammontov called at the house. Tolya had seen the barge and was rounding us all up. Donning our skis, we all set off down the incline to the river.

The day was perfect Ч the sun and frost, and the river dazzling white. In great excitement, laughing, shouting, we skimmed towards the black mass of the barge. The sides proved to be too high for us to climb over with any ease. After a long struggle of climbing, falling back, rolling in the snow and refusing to recognise defeat, we eventually reached the top and fell inside, landing on something soft. Lying below the snow we discovered large hessian-covered bales. Impatiently tearing the covers apart, we found to our astonishment the skins of precious furs Ч mink, sable and ermine. The barge was packed with these bales. We had stumbled on a treasure of great worth Ч or so we thought. But as each bale was opened and anxiously scanned, it became obvious that someone had been there before. The best of the skins had been removed, leaving those on the outside which, exposed to the weather, had rotted away. We were too late.

The puzzle of the barge remained. Where did it come from, who were the owners, and what forced them to abandon their precious cargo and allow it to drift away, perhaps for hundreds of miles? No one ever discovered. Many strange things were happening in those turbulent days.

As to the mystery of who had forestalled us, that was solved in the early spring. In our street there lived a family, named Duletoz, of six daughters and three sons. On Easter Sunday all the girls arrived in church wearing stoles, muffs and hats of mink and ermine. Their mother, Madame Duletova, excelled them all, appearing in a handsome sable jacket with muff and hat to match.

In November the long wished-for news arrived from Scotland. Mama was coming back on an icebreaker, and was hoping to be with us in time for Christmas.

For some months past, Father had been preparing to welcome Mother with a special gift which he knew would please her. It was impossible to find anything in the few shops still functioning, but peasants trading in furs often called at our house offering the skins of animals trapped in the woods. Father decided to order a mink stole for MotherТs arrival. The skins had to be carefully chosen and out of each bundle that the men brought only a few were picked. The shades likewise had to be matched and required careful scrutiny. In doing this, Father often appealed to me, which puzzled me a bit as I, of course, was not the expert he was. His eyes, he explained, troubled him at times. In the end enough skins were collected to be made up into a handsome stole by our local furrier. It was carefully put away for MotherТs arrival.

The ice breaker on which Mother was travelling was called Canada. It was considered to be the most modern and strongest of all the icebreakers in the group. On the day Mother was expected, Uncle Adya phoned from the mill to tell us that the Canada had now entered the middle channel and was travelling past the long row of the timber mills.

In the early afternoon the usual gloomy darkness took over, but in the evening the moon rose high, flooding the whole river with brightness.

Ghermosha and I, hardly able to contain our excitement, kept staring out the windows and were rewarded in the end when we saw the dark shadow of the icebreaker gliding past our house, its light flashing. We, in turn, signalled back, by turning on and off the lights in the ballroom.

Babushka, accompanied by Seryozha, immediately set off to meet Mother.

That evening there was a joyful reunion followed by one of our old happy gatherings, with Sashenka as usual sitting at the samovar pouring out the tea, Osa still with us, and everybody talking at once, laughing, asking questions.

Christmas was happy that year, with the touch of the old Christmases gone by. Mother had brought presents for everyone and now that there was no scarcity of sugar, Babushka had prepared homemade sweets and passed them round in attractive little boxes on which she painted colourful designs of flowers. There was food on the table and candles on the tree. It was the last Christmas party to be held in this house.