The House by the Dvina (41 page)

There were only some six of them, but they were well armed with revolvers, rifles and grenades, which they calmly placed, to our alarm, on the table.

They planned to try and reach the Murmansk region, if possible by train, if not, by walking, and to continue the fight from there. All this they knew was hopeless. The bravado was only to disguise the despair on their ravaged faces. When they left us, we watched the small group trudging through the snow until they vanished to the north. They didnТt get far.

All were caught and, for some reason, sent to Petrograd, where they were later executed. The following morning, Babushka and Arsyeny set off together on the sledge to the market. The food situation was critical.

Beyond buckwheat, barley and potatoes, there was nothing in the house. No meat, fish, butter or milk. The whole town appeared to be deserted. The marketplace was empty. Gone were the days when these same, now barren, tables used to be laden with a rich variety of food and when eager peasants tried to tempt Babushka by calling to her, “Barynya, Barynya, buy my fresh laid eggs Ч taste my curds, my smetana, my butter; I keep the best cows in the village.” Shuttered were the little shops that specialised in such delicacies as smoked salmon, caviar, salted herring, and where the vendor, cutting a pink slice of salmon, would offer it on the edge of his knife to Babushka, and to me as well if I was hopefully tagging behind her. Babushka wandered sadly around these empty places, finding nothing, until by chance she met one of her old vendors who took her to his closed shop and produced a generous piece of salted cod out of his only barrel. Half of this lucky find was eaten in the evening, the rest reserved for the following day. In the late evening, dark shadowy figures, fleeing to the north, passed our windows. Throughout the night, intermittent gunfire came from the south. The next day no one except Dedushka left the house. Dedushka, faithful to his patients, went to the hospital and later called at the Town Hall. After seeing there a lot of faces he did not know, he decided to return home.

Meanwhile, crouching with our eyes level with the window sill, we were watching the curious happenings on the river front. Groups of civilians, soldiers, officers, carrying rifles, were hurrying to the north. Mounted cossacks, lying low on their saddles and galloping madly, overtook them and vanished out of sight. In their wake, hot in pursuit, came the Bolsheviks. Soldiers, workmen, peasants. Some in tatters, feet wrapped in rags, some bareheaded and barefoot, heedless of the snow and frost, shouting slogans, running as if driven by some inner fire.

And now another drama was unfolding. From the town, moving down the river, sailed an icebreaker followed by two ships packed with the last of the refugees. At the end of our street some men were hastily placing guns close to the shore. The ships were now directly opposite our street.

Horrified, we watched, hoping for some miracle. A miracle did happen. The guns began to fire but instead of shattering the ships, the shells exploded harmlessly on the ice. While the frustrated and obviously inexperienced gunners were arguing with each other, the icebreaker and its two followers were gliding on, to disappear behind the Solombala island.

Shortly after, we were astonished to see our old friend the Canada moving full speed ahead in the wake of the escaping ships. Why was she pursuing the poor refugees, and where was Maisie Jordan? Then to our further amazement, the Canada returned to town. What was the reason for this turnabout? The answer to these questions came from Maisie a few days later. The shipТs captain had been ordered, against his personal wishes, to chase and attack the ships. Guns and shells were placed on deck and a group of Bolsheviks came aboard. Maisie, in her stilted Russian, had succeeded in putting across her indignation. For this impertinence she was put inside her cabin. When she attempted to come out, the guard used the butt of his rifle to push her back. For the rest of this exploit, Maisie С

was confined to her cabin with the guard keeping watch outside the door.

As the Canada drew closer to the fleeing ships, the men prepared to man the guns. To their helpless fury they found that by some strange mistake the wrong ammunition had been brought aboard. The Canada had no option but to return. Maisie by now had had enough of communism and was determined to get out of this unfortunate country and return to her beloved Yorkshire.

On that same day, Babushka prepared the cod according to a favourite recipe. Having had no food since early morning, we looked forward to that tasty dish, baked in the oven with potatoes and onions, and when Katinka brought it up, eagerly gathered round the table. No sooner had we sat down when we heard the stamp of heavy feet coming up the back stairway. Six men or more burst into the dining-room. Filthy, unkempt, some in black leather jackets and sailorТs caps, they were all fully armed. “I see,” one of them taunted us, “we are just in time.”

It all seemed like a nightmare Ч these frightening men devouring our only meal, while we stood, shocked into silence, helplessly watching.

Marga, meanwhile, had slipped out to her bedroom, where she removed from the dressing-table drawer her treasured rings and other bits of jewellery and hid them under her pillow. After these contemptuous creatures had cleared our table, they scattered over the house examining each room, touching our curtains, scrutinising each ornament, sometimes putting them into their pockets and sometimes replacing them. They were not the usual run of men who came later to search the house, but a band of hooligans, one of the many, who taking advantage of the situation roamed about the town, barging into houses, robbing and terrifying the citizens.

As soon as they eventually left, Marga ran to her bedroom and came out weeping. All her precious rings were stolen. None of us knew how to console her, if she had only left them in the dressing-table drawer and turned the key, she might have still had them. For some reason these men made no attempt to break any locks or open drawers.

Somehow even now, whenever I see that particular cod dish, which on occasions I make myself, I am involuntarily reminded of that first momentous day when the Dictatorship of the Proletariat was established in our town.

In the ensuing days, a semblance of order was organised. Tramcars resumed their running, children returned to school. Ration cards were issued, and co-operatives established in various parts of the town where the citizens queued for hours on end to receive their small portion of bread, grain and a little sunflower oil. Our existence depended largely on bartering with the peasants in the villages.

One day I was sent to a village across the river to fetch some milk from a peasant who, in the days gone by, used to come to the house with her dairy products. I donned my skis, took a silver spoon and, carrying a “pologushka” Ч the wooden bucket with the fixed lid used in our parts for holding milk Ч set off for the opposite side. Skiing as fast as my legs could carry me I soon approached the middle of the river and feeling breathless decided to lie down awhile. Around me was the great expanse of the river sparkling silver white. I lay gazing up at the lofty inaccessible sky, the rosy chain of fluffy clouds like pink swans following each other on a turquoise lake. When I got up again, I hurried on to the snowy banks of the opposite shore. A woman with an indifferent expression opened the door of her isba. After I told her what I wanted and showed her the silver spoon she, half-smiling, asked me in. “I remember,”

she remarked, pouring the milk into my pologushka, “working in the mill and how I had to run during the short break to suckle my child Ч and he poor mite, only days old, screaming with hunger. These were hard days for us Ч and now here you are, Baryshnya, begging me for milk.” She looked up with a faint malicious smile. “ItТs fine to have a bit of silver,” she continued, softening a little. “If you want some more milk just come back again and IТll see what I can do. Take this meanwhile,” she added handing over a lump of butter, an unexpected bonus.

That night we all sat down to a good helping of buckwheat porridge with milk and butter, after which, exhausted by my expedition, I went to bed early and slept unusually soundly. Next morning there was terrible news, with everybody plunged in deep despair. About midnight, four armed men had arrived and demanded to search the house. They turned out all drawers, wardrobes, presses. They examined every paper in DedushkaТs writing desk, and emptied trunks and baskets in the garret.

Mother, describing the harrowing scenes, told me that when they entered MargaТs bedroom where I was sleeping, and turned over her bed, they assured her that no harm would be done to her daughter. I was lifted and after ascertaining that nothing was hidden in my bed, they gently laid me down. Through all this I continued sleeping, quite unaware of what was going on. Ghermosha likewise never saw nor heard anything. As the early hours of the morning drew on, everyone was ordered to go into the dining-room. Their leader sat down and after scribbling something on a bit of paper, calmly said to Dedushka, “Go and get dressed, you are coming with us.” Mother recalled how DedushkaТs face turned deathly pale and then crimson.

At first these frightening words stunned everyone. No one spoke but when Dedushka began to put his coat on, Babushka, Marga and Marina burst into anguished tears. Most human beings have a reserve of dignity and Dedushka had more than most men. “Contain yourself, Yenya,” he said in quiet tones to Babushka. “You know that IТve done nothing wrong Ч everything will be all right.” He then turned to the stone-faced man and with the same quiet dignity said, “I am ready Ч let us go.”

It has been often said when anything such as this happens, people stay away for fear of being involved and later themselves arrested. That was not the case in our family. The few remaining friends and relatives gathered round to try and uphold our morale and to point out the more hopeful aspects. Tyotya Peeka came, the three nieces, and even Uncle “Mitka Shalai” arrived and offered to find out to which prison Dedushka had been taken. He was sure Dedushka would not be kept for long as there was a great shortage of doctors in the town and the Bolsheviks would need him.

Regardless of all hopeful assurances, a gloomy emptiness took over the house. There was still no news of Yura and now Dedushka, the backbone of the family, was suddenly removed from our midst.

My grandfather was confined in the grim buildings of the main prison. From the day we discovered where he was, Babushka, Marga and the others haunted the prison gates. Like all the women whose relatives were arrested, they gathered all the food they could and handed the parcels to a grim-faced warden. They were usually accepted but if they were returned with the short explanation that the prisoner was not there any longer, this was a way of conveying that the prisoner had been executed. Our parcels continued to be accepted. A glimmer of light appeared when Sashenka was told by one of her pupils that his father, who had been in the same regiment as Yura, knew that Yura was alive. Soon after, Marga, walking along a back street, saw a group of pale-faced prisoners trudging with their guards to work somewhere. Among them she recognised Yura and rushed towards him. She was, of course, stopped by the guards but not before Yura managed to cry out, “For GodТs sake, bring me food!” It turned out that Yura was in the same prison as Dedushka. A terrible rumour was going around the town that all the imprisoned officers were due to be shot.

On finding in which commissarТs hand lay the life and death of the prisoners, Marga went to see him. She went back and back again pleading, begging for the life of her young brother. She said later, “I was rolling on my knees in front of that man.” In the end she must have kindled a spark of some compassion, for he told her that if she brought a recommendation, signed by not less than twenty soldiers, as to how Yura had behaved towards them, he perhaps, would consider her case. Through the soldier Sashenka knew, Marga, running here and there, in town and villages, contacted the men and produced the necessary paper. The little light of hope burst into a flame. Meanwhile the burden of finding food for our existence fell on MotherТs shoulders. One morning, she and Madame Zaborchikova whose husband, the General, had been one of the first men to be executed, decided to cross the river to the same village where I had been previously. When they reached the middle, they found to their dismay that an icebreaker had ploughed up the ice on its way to town. It was impossible to cross. There was no option but to follow the channel back to the point in town where it stopped and go round it. After the usual payment of a small piece of silver for the milk, carrying their heavy pologushkas they started on the return journey into town, where they hoped to get a tramcar which would bring them home.

Eventually, exhausted by these miles of trudging through the snow, they left the river and were making for the tramcar when a group of soldiers stopped them. “Up to your bourgeois tricks are you?” asked their leader.

Unceremoniously they took the buckets and emptied the contents on the ground. Mother and Madame Zaborchikova were not alone Ч other women, carrying milk to their children, were subjected to the same treatment.

Angry protests followed with some of the women, courageously, not mincing words. It made no difference. The whole exercise was meant to be a lesson to prevent the people from bartering with peasants.

A large pool of milk, together with broken eggs, formed on the frozen ground. From nowhere dogs appeared to lap up this unexpected bounty.

As Mother stood clutching her empty pologushka, one of the soldiers with cool insolence remarked to her, “What could be good for you is better for the dog.” Mother returned to the house in the last stages of exhaustion.

She had always possessed great determination and courage, but now was completely broken up.

The trouble was that as soon as our town fell, all the supplies the Bolsheviks could lay their hands on were sent off to the south. On the other hand, like a swarm of locusts, people arrived from the south in the false belief that the north was a land flowing with the proverbial milk and honey. The town became hopelessly overcrowded. A family with children took over the flat where Uncle Sanya once lived. A rather bold actress, her husband named Raisky, and their son arrived one day and, after producing a slip of paper, demanded accommodation. The rooms had to be changed over. Marina took my place in MargaТs bedroom. Mother and I turned DedushkaТs study into a bedroom and cunningly gave the couple MarinaТs smaller room. In this way we kept DedushkaТs large desk, the press, and all his bits and pieces for the day when we hoped he would return.