The House by the Dvina (30 page)

Mystified, with eager anticipation, we waited for what promised to be a brew par excellence.

The result came sooner than expected. One evening we were startled by a loud explosion coming from the kitchen. Rushing down, we found a mass of twisted metal, still in its death throes, bouncing on the floor, and the evil-smelling contents splashed on the walls and ceiling.

By a sheer miracle the kitchen was empty at the time. I need hardly add that no futher experiments took place.

One morning a letter and a small box arrived for Glasha. With cold detachment, the letter stated that Mikhailo had been killed in action. As somehow no one imagined that Mikhailo would be killed, we were all shocked. From the day Mikhailo left there had been no letters. Glasha had hoped and prayed day after day for the war to finish. Now there was no hope, no future and the only thing to remind her of their fleeting happiness was the small cross of St George, posthumously awarded for some brave action on the field of battle. No one knew what or where it was. The cross meant nothing to Glasha and offered no consolation. A Requiem was held in our Church of the Assumption. We all went to it, even Father, ill as he was. Mikhailo was something special. He had been with the family from the time he was a young boy. Standing with my lighted candle I kept remembering so many things Ч that perfect frosty morning when he and Babushka met me at the station at my arrival from St Petersburg and we drove across the silver river with the little dogs running beside us Ч the day of his wedding and the salt cellar rolling off the bread. No wonder Glasha wept Ч it had proved to be unlucky.

Shortly after Easter, Father came into the nursery where I was sitting, lost to the world, engrossed in a book. “Jenya,” he said, sitting down beside me, “today I have received the wonderful news that Mama and Ghermosha will soon be with us.” Overwhelmed, I rushed outside to tell my playmates all about it. For a long time they had been hearing about my brother. Everybody had a bigger brother or a sister; only I was alone. But my brother, although living far away, was bigger and stronger than any of them. He could outrun, outswim, outfight them all. Now, on hearing my exciting news, my friends waited, full of curiosity, to meet this wonder boy.

At last, in May, the day arrived. Dressed in a sarafan which Babushka had ordered for me, a wreath of flowers on my head, I spent the time running up and down between the house and the top corner of our street, waiting for the carriage to come along. It was a very special day, as it coincided with the first tramcar to appear on our main street. Groups of people gathered all along the street and stood waiting. Beribboned, decorated with flowers, the tramcar, travelling slowly, came into view. Inside were seated the governor and other leading figures of the town. Crowds cheered as it passed our corner, and I, distracted by this sight, missed the carriage turning down into our street, until I saw it driving through the gates. I rushed behind it and up the red-carpeted stairs into the front hall.

There, surrounded by the family, were mother and Ghermosha. Perhaps the shock of suddenly seeing them again, after the long absence, proved too much. Overcome by shyness and the familiar tight feeling in my breast, I could not speak or show any signs of gladness. Mother put her arms around me and kissed me. Ghermosha smiled, and still I stood staring in silence.

“Show Mama all your treasures,” Babushka suggested and in this way broke the tension. We went into the nursery where I produced my books, the doll that uncle Henry won for me, dressed as Red Riding Hood, and all the presents Mother had sent me.

Outside, waiting at the gate, a small group of my friends had collected. I led Ghermosha to them and proudly introduced him. They stood, staring in amazement. Conditioned to expect someone out of the ordinary, a champion, a strong defender if need be, they saw a timid little boy dressed in a sailor suit. I read their thoughts. “Although heТs small, heТs also strong,” I quoted, in defiance, the old Russian saying and, to prove my words, gave him a gentle little push. My little brother fell sprawling to the ground and, scrambling up, ran screaming back to mother. “Some big brother”, Tolya Mammantov remarked. Ghermosha had disgraced me, and, what was even worse, when I ran after him, there was an angry scolding from both parents. I rushed out of the house into the garden and for a long time sat below the overhanging branches of an ancient pine. “Why did this have to happen?” I asked myself, weeping my eyes out.

But everything passes. The following morning, when we awoke, I took Ghermosha to the garden. It was a beautiful spring morning, the trees and lawns flooded in sunlight. We went back to the old places, up to the turret of the “fairy castle”, to the white jetties on the pond from where we watched the dragonflies skimming over the water, little fishes darting by. The garden was still the same. The apple tree was in full blossom with the blue scillas grouped around it; the poplar was again shedding its crimson catkins. It was as if Ghermosha had never been away. Life in the house, however, was not just quite the same Ч Mother had changed. The happy carefree laughter I used to hear in my early childhood when she would chase us round the lawn in Scotland, or take us paddling to the Grassy Beach, was never heard again. My fatherТs health was gradually deteriorating, and I still clung to Babushka and Kapochka and was given to running with my problems to them rather than to my mother. Yet slowly everything took on a certain pattern to which we grew accustomed. For after all, as our poet Pushkin said: “Sufferance is sent to us from heaven; takes the place of happiness.”

In the years to come, Mother rarely referred to her long absence, but I gathered that she led a busy life in St Petersburg, and made new friends, some of whom wanted lessons in conversational English. When the war came, she joined a circle of ladies to assist the war effort. Eventually, the problem of my brotherТs education, the longing for her other child, and my fatherТs illness compelled her to return. They came back. That was the main thing.

In July we received a letter from the Sabinin family, the friends with whom Mother stayed during her sojourn in St Petersburg, now renamed Petrograd. They were inviting Mother, Ghermosha and I to their summer residence in the village known as Dobroye Selyo, meaning “The Kind Village.”

We journeyed to Petrograd and from there changed to another train which took us to the small town of Luban. A carriage drawn by a lively dappled horse awaited us at the station. We drove what seemed to me for some considerable time. The little sturdy horse saw no reason for hurrying and ran in a playful manner, shaking its mane and swishing its tail to chase away the flies. At times it snatched a little grass from the lush edges of the fields flanking the narrow dusty road. The driver, a good-natured peasant, sat sprawling sideways, lazily flicking the reins while keeping up a steady flow of friendly conversation, sometimes with us and sometimes with the horse. We eventually drew up beside the dacha, as that type of house is normally known. From the glass-enclosed verandah steps led down to a charming, if neglected, garden where paths in all directions were flanked by sweet-scented jasmine and lilac bushes. The family, waiting on the steps, welcomed us with the usual Russian hospitality. On the verandah a table had been set and a young girl carried in the samovar. The whole set-up had the air of a bygone world, something perhaps out of one of ChekhovТs plays.

We spent a month in Dobroye Selyo. The curious name went back to the days of Peter the Great, when Peter, walking through the village, stopped at one of the humble isbas and asked for a drink of water. The peasant, not recognising the tall stranger, asked him to come in and rest a while. He also invited him to share his simple meal. Peter accepted and when leaving is supposed to have said “I shall call this village Сthe kind villageТ Ч

Peter will remember.”

In August we returned to Petrograd before leaving for Archangel. We spent two days in the SabininsТ house. While strolling along the Nevsky Prospekt, Mother pointed out the imposing palace where she along with other ladies had gathered in the ballroom at a long table rolling bandages and tying parcels for the soldiers. It was often remarked there that Mother bore a curious resemblance to the Empress Alexandra, perhaps due to them both having the same fine features. One morning as they were all busying themselves, the Empress came, accompanied by her two eldest daughters. The girls, smiling shyly, dressed in identical velvet dresses, followed their mother. The Empress was seldom known to smile. Mother confirmed this. While slowly passing the table, at times stopping to speak to some of the ladies, the Empress remained coldly distant with never a vestige of a smile.

Summer yielded to autumn. I was back to school, now in my second form.

Each autumn life at school began anew. We moved into another classroom, there was the novelty of a new subject, new books, new jotters, pens and pencils and spick and span fresh uniforms.

Seryozha left for Petrograd to join the medical faculty in Petrograd University. We missed Seryozha. Quiet and sensitive, dominated by his younger, flamboyant brother, he remained always in the background, intent on his books and hobbies. He returned during the Christmas vacation, looking well and happy and more self-assured. The lifestyle of a student appealed to him. He loved Petrograd and talked largely of his distant plans to remain there after he qualified.

During the Christmas holidays, Yura, now a passionate hunter, donned his skis and went across the river to the woods and brought back a capercailzie and partridges. They were cooked for our Christmas dinner instead of the traditional goose, and served with buckwheat and cranberry sauce. There were plenty of sweet dishes and a Scottish plum pudding especially prepared by Mother to her own recipe. Presents on little tables were spread out as usual and although there were no golden walnuts or small red apples from Crimea hanging on the Christmas tree, the candles burned just as brightly as before.

By the end of that year many commodities were becoming scarce. Our shoemaker who made fine shoes for the whole family found it difficult to obtain the best leather and was forced to cancel many orders. We were in a more fortunate position than many others. Father, foreseeing the coming shortages and being in touch with the crews and captains of some of the cargo ships from Scotland, arranged to have footwear and clothing to be brought from there. Granny was commissioned to choose these articles from the various shops in Dundee. Parcels arrived containing shoes, materials for dresses, suitings for coats and, from Granny herself, a bonus of two leather schoolbags, hand-knitted woollens and, what pleased Ghermosha and me most, tins of shortbread and molasses candies. At least for the time being we were shod and clothed.

Father, who now found walking more difficult than ever was compelled to order an invalid chair. It arrived with our parcels and greatly pleased him. Made in Britain, it enabled him to move with ease throughout the house and even along the garden paths.

1916

Walking home from school one day I was tormented by a terrible headache and felt very thirsty. Some icicles were hanging from an iron pipe. I broke one off and, although warned by my schoolfriends, continued sucking it until I reached the house. By the late evening I was very ill and was put to bed. Dedushka came in and after examining me I heard him say to Mother: “No, Nellinka, this is not influenza Ч it is typhoid.” I gradually became worse and remember very little of the critical period. Later, I was told, I became capricious and wanted no one near me but Kapochka. From Mother, however, I demanded a lemon jelly. When she personally prepared it and brought it to me, I, after tasting it, accused her of not giving me what I wanted. To prove to me that this was what I asked for she took a spoonful and earnestly assured me that it was indeed a delicious lemon jelly. I do not know if using the same spoon had any bearing on her illness which followed shortly. She became far worse than I was.

DedushkaТs colleague, a Doctor Grenkov, was sent for and a young nurse arrived from the hospital. By that time I was out of danger. My bed was carried into BabushkaТs bedroom so that Mother would have a little peace.

Poor Father kept moving in and out our bedrooms, anxiously watching us, but soon I reached convalescence and spent the time demanding food, eagerly enquiring what was the menu for lunch and dinner. One morning I got out of bed for the first time. Weak and hardly able to walk I went to see Mother. I hardly recognised her. Her skin had a peculiar yellow tinge, her fine features stood out sharply and the eyes had sunk into deep hollows. She was unconscious and did not recognise me. Terrified that she might die, I kept going to her bedroom Ч but the crisis came and went and she recovered.

Fate, as if not satisfied that she had done enough, struck down Ghermosha with diphtheria. Mother, although still a shadow of her former self, was convalescent and insisted that GhermoshaТs bed be placed beside her own.

She never left his side, watching despairingly as he lay battling for breath. Babushka, resorting to the old custom in Russia, kept waving a pillow-slip above him to create a current of air. When she tired Marina took over, but in the end it was Dedushka who saved Ghermosha. Slowly, we three returned to ourselves.

As both my motherТs and my own hair was coming out in handfuls, Dedushka advised us to have it shorn close to our heads, warning us that if we didnТt do so the hair would never grow well again. Both at first categorically refused but later agreed to have it shortened to just below our ears. On the appointed day the barber, a suave young gentleman, came to the house. MotherТs hair was cut in the style she suggested. I then sat down and firmly gave the order that my hair was to be cut level with my ear lobes and on no account shorter. The family gathered round to watch.

The barber moved behind me and, before I had time to stop him, ran the clippers up the back of my head. Infuriated by such perfidy, I leaped from the chair and ran up to the mirror. Sure enough Ч there was a long bare patch running through my hair. All this of course had been cunningly planned, for out of nowhere a little mob cap, trimmed with ribbons and lace, appeared which Babushka assured me would be very becoming. Resigned to my fate I wore this nonsense on top of my head, shorn of its locks and as smooth as a billiard ball. Dedushka proved to be right. MotherТs hair was never the same while I, by the end of the summer, was blessed with a thick mop of curls. When I was able to go back to school I was pleased to discover that so many of the girls who had also been ill were now forced to have their heads covered by mob caps or turbans. One day, on my return from school, I found Babushka deeply distressed and everyone worried. It transpired that during the morning Dedushka collapsed and was brought back from the hospital. He had been for a long time under a great strain, working for hours with hardly a break. During the epidemic of typhoid, the hospitals became overcrowded and mattresses had to be spread on the floors. Dedushka, forced to go down on his knees to attend to his patients, eventually caught the infection. He was seriously ill. The nurse returned and remained beside him, installed in the adjoining bedroom.