Violet felt a wave of anguish. ‘I’m so sorry, Nikolai.’
Nikolai picked a leaf from a tree and began to shred it between his fingers. ‘Like many of his friends, my father believed that the tsar was incompetent and weak,’ he explained. ‘He urged him to make economic and social reforms before it was too late. Tsar Nicholas refused to accept that the world was changing. He insisted it was his divine right to rule as he saw fit.’
‘It was a costly mistake,’ Violet said.
Nikolai nodded. ‘I remember them as a kind and gentle family. No matter his faults, they didn’t deserve to die like that.’
‘No, of course not. So what happened to your family when the revolution began?’
Nikolai rubbed his hand through his hair, mussing it further. ‘When the bread riots began in February 1917, my father was away fighting the Germans. Our family always spent the winter in St Petersburg, so we were at Khakovsky Palace when the tsar was forced to abdicate.’
Nikolai’s voice cracked with emotion. He paused for a moment before continuing. ‘It was a terrible time – fighting in the streets, strikes, violent uprisings against the aristocracy. Many aristocrats were murdered just going about their business. One of my friends was killed when he was caught up in a riot on his way home from school. We all wondered if we would be next.’
Violet shivered despite the warm summer sunshine. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to live in fear for your life.
‘Things only became worse when the Bolsheviks seized control in October that year.’ Nikolai huffed. ‘Mamma heard from our estate manager that our dacha – our hunting lodge in the south – had been burned to the ground and all the cattle and livestock seized by the peasants. Then in March 1918 the Bolsheviks signed a treaty with the Germans and my father returned home wounded.’
They reached the rug and Nikolai stopped, his agitation evident.
Violet touched his arm. ‘You don’t need to tell me if it’s too painful.’
‘Yes, it is painful,’ Nikolai confided, ‘but I haven’t spoken to anyone about the civil war since it happened. Somehow now it feels like a release to finally share my story with someone who wasn’t there.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Violet said, thinking of her own family history. She hoped that Nikolai would keep talking. She found the insight into his former life fascinating.
The two began to walk along another of the sun-dappled gravel paths bordered with crimson roses and shady trees. Romeo trotted beside them.
Nikolai glanced at Violet. ‘All the servants left. There was no money and little food – just mouldy bread. Mamma had sold some of our heirlooms on the black market to buy the bread, despite my father forbidding it. He thought the trouble would blow over in a few months, but the violence went from bad to worse – people were being executed every day.
‘Then of course the tsar and his family were murdered, but still my father refused to leave. He said it was our duty to stand by Russia in her time of need.’ Nikolai shook his head in exasperation.
‘So what changed your mind?’ Violet asked.
‘One night in October 1918, a gang of armed men broke in,’ Nikolai answered, his voice hardening. ‘They ransacked the palace, looking for jewels and food, and used the portraits of our ancestors as target practice. My father tried to stop them. Of course, he was shot and died in my mother’s arms. The gang just laughed and busied themselves with dragging away sacks of family treasures, leaving us to our grief.’
A lump rose in Violet’s throat. ‘How very dreadful, Nikolai.’
‘Mamma was like a lioness, protecting her cubs,’ Nikolai continued, speaking quickly, as though rushing to get the story out. ‘She refused to stay and let her children be killed too.
‘She implemented a plan at once, which made us think that she must have been scheming for months. Mamma had hidden a stash of her jewels in an old teddy bear in the nursery. There were diamonds, emeralds, pearls and rubies, all set in necklaces, bracelets, earrings and tiaras. Most precious of all was the famous Khakovsky sapphire ring, which was given to my mother by Tsarina Alexandra as a wedding gift.
‘My mother and sisters worked all night to sew the jewels into the hems of their petticoats and my waistcoat. Mamma had old clothes and shawls stockpiled in the servants’ quarters, and we disguised ourselves as peasants, with dirt smudged on our faces so no-one would look too closely at us.
‘We crept out before dawn, taking nothing but the ragged clothes we wore, the hidden jewels, some of Mamma’s favourite photographs sewn into the lining of my coat, a bag with oddments of food and the book of fairy tales that I lent you. We trudged to the railway station through the snow, keeping to the shadows. When the train finally came, there was a stampede to get on. People climbed onto the roof and hung from the doors. It was total chaos.’
Nikolai stopped walking and turned to Violet. ‘You have to understand that we had no identification papers or travel documents, so if we were questioned we would have been arrested or shot. It was a terrible risk, but we fought our way onto the train.’
Violet nodded, her heart thumping as she imagined the scene. They turned and strolled back towards the rug and picnic basket.
‘The train was so crowded that it was impossible to sit down, but it turned out to be a blessing because the guards couldn’t get through to check our papers,’ Nikolai continued. ‘It took nine days to get to the south, a journey of about a thousand miles. We ran out of food, and when I jumped off the train at a station to try to buy some, I couldn’t get back on. Mamma and the girls had to pull me in through the broken window. Twice we had to bribe our way through, using diamonds from Mamma’s tiara.
‘Later we learned that the next train south after ours had been attacked by Bolsheviks and everyone on board was shot. We were so lucky.’
Romeo sensed Nikolai’s tension and nuzzled against his leg. Nikolai fondled the dog’s ears as he talked. ‘The last part of our journey was made on foot, sleeping in barns and haysheds. When we finally arrived at Yalta in the Crimea, our feet were blistered and bloody. There was a large population of Russian royals and aristocrats – many who’d been there since the beginning of the revolution – so we sheltered there for the winter. We had no passports, no visas, but in the spring of 1919 we bribed our way onto a leaky fishing boat across the Black Sea to Constantinople.
‘It was a bitter sight to sail away from the shores of our homeland, not knowing if we’d ever see Russia again. We stayed in Constantinople for several weeks, sleeping on the stone floor of a monastery, hoping that the anti-communist White Army would overthrow the Bolsheviks and we could return home. Finally, we applied for travel visas for France and arrived in Paris in late summer. There was a strong community of Russian émigrés there, and we stayed for two years with the help of friends, studying at school and finding work wherever we could.’
‘That’s when you became a chauffeur,’ said Violet. ‘And your sisters worked with Coco Chanel.’
‘Yes, but at last we realised we didn’t want to stay in Paris. There were so many émigrés living there, clinging to the old ways, their bags packed, waiting for the chance to go home. Then, as time went on, more and more Russian refugees arrived and it was harder for them all to find work. So we sold some jewels, moved to London and, finally, here we are.’
Violet felt emotionally drained by Nikolai’s story of escape and survival. ‘Yes, here we are, Count Khakovsky.’
Nikolai frowned. ‘I’m not Count Khakovsky anymore. We left all that behind when we left Paris. Please don’t tell your father. In fact, I think we should change our name to something more English. It’s not safe to be a Russian aristocrat – even here on the other side of the world.’
20
The Russian Club
On Monday evening, Nikolai parked outside a small church hall in Fitzroy. A full moon was rising in the east, bathing the bluestone building in its silvery light. From inside the hall, Violet could hear shouts of laughter
and a babble of voices. Nikolai opened the rear door of the car for Violet and Imogen to alight. Violet was wearing her new green-and-silver evening dress that had been delivered by Nikolai that afternoon. She felt very glamorous as she swept into the hall.
About thirty people of all ages, from young children to the elderly, crowded the room. A group of tall men stood in a corner, drinking vodka and sharing jokes, shouting with laughter. Nikolai’s mother, Countess Khakovska, was holding court in another corner surrounded by several regal-looking women, sitting with spines ramrod straight and gossiping as they sipped their tea. Other groups were playing chess or cards, while a group of women set up the supper table with a bubbling samovar and platters of food.
The room itself was a typical church hall, with a battered old piano and a dusty stage, but it had been transformed into something far more exotic. On the wall hung a red banner with the double-headed eagle of the Russian Imperial coat of arms. Beside it was a formal photograph of the Romanov family – the girls in long white dresses and Alexei in a sailor suit. The supper table was covered in a colourful gypsy cloth, decorated with bunches of vibrant flowers and dozens of candles. In the far corner was a shrine bedecked with flowers, lamps and a collection of religious icons.
Katya and Tatiana came over to welcome them.
‘I love my new dress,’ said Violet. She suddenly felt shy, realising that the Russian girls were actually countesses. Should she call them by their titles, or treat them as she always had?
Katya beamed with pride. ‘It looks gorgeous on you.’
‘Come and say hello to Mamma, then take a seat over here with us,’ Tatiana said. ‘We all enjoy our evenings gathering together.’
Violet and Imogen chatted to Nikolai’s mother for a few minutes. Violet noticed that Countess Khakovska was wearing a stunning pearl necklace, a diamond bracelet and a huge sapphire ring on her finger. The sapphire glittered and sparkled in the candlelight. This must be the famous Khakovsky Sapphire – the wedding present from the tsarina. Violet wondered how she could ever have imagined that Nikolai’s mother was a humble seamstress.
The girls withdrew and sat on some folding chairs near the stage.
‘So everyone here fled Russia after the revolution?’ Violet asked, looking around with fascination.
‘Yes, most of them fled east on the Trans-Siberian Railway to Manchuria in northern China, and then came by ship to Australia,’ Tatiana explained.
‘That young lady over there is a ballet dancer, Olga Lopokova, who used to perform with the Imperial Russian Ballet,’ Katya continued. ‘She is talking to Tamara Belinskaya, who was a prima donna singer at the Mariinsky Theatre in St Petersburg. She might sing for us later.’
‘We thought they might be willing to perform at your ball,’ Anastacia added.
The two women were dressed in shabby clothes that had been neatly patched and mended, but they carried themselves with grace and confidence, as though they were on a stage, playing a part.
‘Over there is the Petschenko family,’ said Tatiana, indicating an older couple with two daughters aged in their twenties. The parents looked rather sad and out of place. ‘The father was a general in the White Army, and his family were imprisoned by the Bolsheviks and treated very badly.’
‘Both their sons were executed,’ Anastacia added, ‘but the mother and daughters escaped and were reunited with the general in Manchuria. The family arrived in Australia just a few weeks ago with literally nothing but the clothes on their backs and their balaikas.’
‘What are balaikas?’ asked Violet.
‘Traditional three-stringed musical instruments that look something like a guitar but have triangular bodies,’ Katya explained. ‘The daughters are very talented musicians, but they’re working as cleaners at one of the local schools.’
Anastacia glanced at three broad-shouldered young men who were laughing and joking together. They all wore loose-fitting shirts with their trousers tucked into high boots.
‘And those three – Aleksandr, Stepan and Ivan – are Cossack officers who came here via Shanghai. They fought with the White Army until the bitter end. If we’re lucky, they’ll have a few vodkas and give us an impromptu display of Cossack dancing,’ Anastacia said. ‘They said the Russian émigrés in Shanghai are literally starving, so they were lucky to get on a ship to Australia. They work as labourers now.’
A dark-haired man with round glasses and a clipped beard was playing chess in the corner against a taller man with a military moustache. They both looked very serious. Tatiana indicated the shorter man. ‘Dr Davidoff is an academic from Moscow University. They say he and his wife keep their bags always packed, certain that news will come through that the Red Army has been defeated and they can go home.’
Violet looked around in wonder. So many stories of escape and courage. So many stories of lives and loves left behind.
Nikolai arrived, having changed out of his chauffeur’s uniform and into a suit, and began chatting with a number of acquaintances. Violet thought he looked very handsome in everyday clothes.
‘The band is just about to start,’ said Nikolai. ‘I’ve asked Madame Belinskaya if she’ll sing for our guests.’
A group of players was setting up instruments on the stage. The two Petschenka sisters had their balaikas. One young man was playing an accordion, while another was tuning a particularly large balaika that looked almost like a double bass.
The music, when they began to play, was slow and melancholy, but the tempo gradually increased until it was lively and impossibly fast. It made Violet think of gypsies dancing around a fire in a ring of caravans, like a scene in a film she had seen last year.
After several melodies, Madame Belinskaya sang a number of gypsy folk songs, her voice strong and clear. She curtseyed, acknowledging the enthusiastic applause.
Imogen leaned over towards Nikolai. ‘She’s marvellous. Do you think we could convince her to sing at the ball?’
‘I can almost guarantee it,’ Nikolai agreed with a smile. ‘She hasn’t performed to a decent audience since she fled St Petersburg.’
Aleksandr, Stepan and Ivan performed an energetic Cossack dance, kicking up their feet and squatting down on their haunches, arms crossed. Violet cheered and clapped along with the rest of the crowd.
Supper was served while the musicians took a break. The women had all brought various dishes to share. Everyone took a plate, piled it with whatever took their fancy, and ate it where they could – sitting or standing. The table was laden with bowls of creamy potato salad and a dish with tangy tomato, cucumber, onion and dill. There were beef dumplings, golden pastries and stuffed cabbage leaves, slices of black rye bread, pickled cucumbers and onions, and delicately spiced oval meatballs. Everything was served with huge dollops of sour cream.
Violet wasn’t sure if she would like the food – it all looked so foreign to her – but she bravely took a few spoonfuls, along with a tiny taste of sour cream.
‘You have to try the pelmeni and the pirozhki,’ Anastacia insisted, offering her a platter of steamed dumplings and another of flaky baked pastries. ‘They are absolutely mouth-watering.’
Katya leaned over with another plate. ‘My favourites are the katleti – pork meatballs – made by our very own Anastacia. But you need more sour cream than that.’
‘Don’t let the girls bully you,’ Nikolai cautioned. ‘You don’t have to eat anything.’
‘You’re just saying that so there’s more for you,’ teased Anastacia.
Nikolai pretended to be shocked. ‘Never.’
Violet obediently took some of each. The girls were right – they were delicious.
After supper, the band began playing dance tunes. People of all ages paired up and danced the waltz and foxtrot. Violet and Imogen took it in turns to dance with the three Cossacks. Then an unfamiliar, lively tune began.
‘A mazurka,’ Katya explained. ‘It’s my favourite music because it’s so bold and fast.’
Violet and
Imogen stood back to watch as the younger dancers took their positions, bowing and curtseying to their partners. This dance was energetic, with lots of gliding steps, stamping, heel clicks and side-hops. Violet enjoyed watching the partners spin and twirl, skirts and coat-tails flying. Nikolai danced with graceful Madame Lopokova, then Madame Petschenka, while his sisters danced with the cheerful Cossacks, who stomped and shouted with glee.
At the end of the second dance, Nikolai came over to Violet. ‘They’re about to start another mazurka,’ he explained. ‘Would you care to dance?’
‘I don’t know how,’ Violet admitted.
‘I can teach you,’ Nikolai offered. ‘It’s actually quite simple because the dancers are supposed to improvise. We can try it over to the side so we don’t get in anyone’s way.’
Violet smiled. ‘Then I’d be delighted.’
While they waited for the music to start, Nikolai explained some of the steps: ‘It’s originally a Polish folk dance, which they say was inspired by the beauty and power of horses galloping across the steppes. The dancers must be strong, spirited, graceful and swift. So we take hands and gallop sideways left with a heel click – one, two, three, four steps. Now to the right – one, two, three, four steps.’
Nikolai talked her through the circling dance movements, stamping his feet and swinging her in his arms. Then Nikolai went down on one knee and Violet danced around him. It took a couple of practices to memorise the steps, but the joyful energy of the dance filled Violet with exhilaration.
She was feeling flushed and breathless as Nikolai led her back to his sisters. Violet glanced around the room. Everyone was laughing, joking, singing, dancing, chatting and enjoying their food. Violet felt as though she had been transported to another world, another age. This is the feeling we want to create with our Russian Ball, thought Violet, not the stiff, grand formality of the Imperial balls, but the wild exuberance of this gathering.
The Lost Sapphire Page 19