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flew. First, low along the river, unseen by the Reds. And then up, streaking like an arrow along the Red infantry line which escorted her with a fusillade of rifle fire. At full gallop I turned right and Dura’s hooves clattered on the bridge.
“Phew. A hell of a ride. Thank God we’re out of there. Sweet girl, Dura. Well done. But you’re a bitch for running away from me. I’ll have to work on you, and soon.”
I caught up to the battery. Examined Dura. Shrugged my shoulders in amazement. Neither she nor I had a wound. Lucky. There had been bullets all over the place.
DOLZHIK
We moved north to the village of Dolzhik. Destroyed the railroad line and went to Kazach’ia Lopan where we also did major damage to the rail lines. There were some minor engagements there. The Reds scattered. The division returned to Dolzhik.
No matter how hard we strained our ears, we could not hear any artillery to the south. Either we had gotten very far from our units or the advance of our troops, thanks to our raiding, was proceeding without the use of artillery with the Reds retreating everywhere.
We were surprised that the Reds were not harassing us, and we lived rather peacefully in Dolzhik. We were billeted in a well-kept house where I noticed a book in French in an ancient leather binding. This meant that there was an estate nearby. The woman of the house watched as I picked up the book. In answer to my question as to the existence of the estate, she feigned ignorance.
I went outside and asked the first passerby: “How do I get to the ekono-mia?’” (That is what estates are called in the south.)
“The main entrance is over that way, but there’s a break in the wall over there.”
The estate had been thoroughly looted, with that mindless venom which overcomes looters. Everything that could not be carried away was smashed and broken. If I can’t use it, let no one else have it.
The first thing that shocked me was a grand piano hacked to splinters by an axe. Parquet, with an inlaid pattern of dark wood, had been ripped up and left scattered: they had been searching for hidden treasure. Doors, much too large for a peasant’s hut, were hacked apart; some windows were carried away, others ripped out. Small furniture had vanished. Large pieces, chiffoniers and bureaus, were chopped up. Paintings were slashed. The portraits,
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some of them valuable, had their eyes gouged out and stomachs slashed. Porcelain was shattered . . .
This was not simple looting, but a bestial destructiveness. The ancient house was enormous, more like a palace. There is an order to looting. I have seen some fifty estates, and all were looted in the same matter.
On the top floor, apparently in the bedrooms, photographs and letters were always strewn about. The dressers had been carried off, and the letters dumped. I picked up a letter. Through it and some photographs I tried to reconstruct the past. A young woman was describing a holiday to either her friend or sister. It had been either a birthday or a name-day. “A wire was stretched between the oaks,” I read, “and multicolored lanterns were hung on it.” “It must be these very oaks,” I said to myself. “Beyond the pond there were fireworks . . .” “And there’s the pond,” I thought. “I danced with Andrei and Vasilii . . .” Which one of these elegant young officers in the photographs was Andrei, and which was Vasilii? And here, probably, was the prince himself, and the princess.
I went down a broad stone staircase into an enormous hall. To my surprise, large and beautiful tapestries still hung there. They were ancient and their fabric had deteriorated in places. Apparently the looters found them useless: “The fabric is rotten, can’t sew anything worthwhile out of them.”
There was a library one story above. Books lay in heaps all over the floor. They had been walked on. The books in old leather bindings were of no interest to anyone. The mahogany bookcases, however, had been chopped up for firewood.
I began to dig through the books. A soft coughing caught my attention. An old servant stood before me. I was embarrassed. He probably took me for a thief as well. I greeted him and asked whose estate this was. He began to speak eagerly.
This estate, the famous Veprik, had belonged for centuries to the princes Golitsyn. It had been looted many times since the revolution but was finally devastated some three weeks ago. He showed me the stables. The horses and livestock had been taken away, the fowl slaughtered. The agricultural machinery ruined. There had been a fruit orchard—only stumps were left. This was the hothouse. The princess was fond of it and came by frequently. Rare plants grew here; peaches, orchids. Everything was smashed now, the glass panes knocked out.
With a heavy heart I started for home, that is, the house of the peasant who, of course, took part in the looting. The French book was witness to that. The housewife attentively watched my facial expression and made a very good dinner. My comrades were even surprised. I explained to them that this was reparation for the looting. I felt no love at all for the Russian people. To have
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destroyed such high culture and civilization was totally mindless. They probably even cut the tapestries into foot-cloths.
I suggested to Colonel Shapilovskii that we round up the estate’s stolen horses for the battery. This would have been very easy to do. Find one horse, and all the thieves will inform on each other on the principle, “Well if they took mine, let them take Petr’s also . . .”
“That wouldn’t be bad,” said the colonel. “But we’re operating in the rear and must not provoke the local population. They supply us with information now, but otherwise they will inform the Reds.”
Chapter Sixteen
Vera Volkonskaia, Orphaned by Revolution
Volkonskaia’s story is one which was replicated in thousands of lives, that of children separated from their families and lost during the cataclysms of the Russian Revolution. She was an orphan with talents which unscrupulous people quickly recognized and tried to use. Her personal tragedy of this period was not her last. She was to endure the 900 day blockade of Leningrad in World War II as well. This is an excerpt from O. [Vera] Volkonskaia, Ta k tiazhkii mlat [Thus the Heavy Mallet]. Paris: LEV, 1979.
The Revolution caught us in a small town in the Ukraine where father also had to come. During the October Revolution he was labeled an outlaw, since he was a prince and jurist, and mother begged him to flee abroad. My oldest sister lived with an aunt in Petrograd and being very gifted and assiduous was studying to be an architect. She knew that she would soon have to become “the father” of our family. She had to concentrate all her powers in order to obtain a good profession. But what could be accurately foreseen in this troubled time?! A huge whirlwind shook Russia, jarring individual destinies as well. Mother caught smallpox and was sent to the quarantine barracks, while we three, two younger brothers and myself, were left alone. The chances for recovery were slim. Our neighbors took us to a children’s home, as orphans. There we merged with other orphans, the homeless and under-aged, young enterprising travelers, removed from the trains on which they had hitched rides.
The smell of carbolic acid, the prickly gray blankets, the thin wheat porridge, the bullying by the other children, were compensated for by the beneficent presence of the Komsomol [communist youth league] member Misha, [diminutive for Mikhail] a kind and fair leader. He organized hikes in the
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woods and fields during which he acquainted us with the healing herbs and described their properties. He spoke of birds, how beneficial their presence was, and how one should safeguard them.
Meanwhile, the food situation worsened and the orphanage was moved to the country. Our instructor was sent to the operational center, while the housekeeping head, without waiting for the arrival of the replacement, fled, grabbing what he could. He was a dodger. His convictions changed depending on circumstance. Taking advan
tage of the interregnum, those who were drawn to Tashkent, “the city of bread,” walked the eight versts to the station in order to hop freight trains and cling to the railroad car buffers. We decided to make our way to our sister, but were taken off the train in Kiev and sent to a sorting point. This place sent underage vagrants to the families from which they had run away or to orphanages.
My younger brothers were assigned to an orphanage for boys on a dairy farm twelve kilometers from Kiev. It was said that children were well fed there and taken to a school in Kiev with the milk cans. The question of food became dominant for us. I was happy for them. It was good that they, who were inseparable, would be together. They wouldn’t be miserable. Insofar as things concerned me, I was certain from my younger years that I could handle anything. Reminiscence, self-pity, sorrow—I immediately quashed these feelings within myself. I wrote the address of the orphanage on the lining of my white canvas shoes.
I was temporarily left at the site. We, the older ones, were allowed to walk around town provided we were back by six in the evening. On one of these walks I met a short fat lady who was carrying two large packets. Glancing at my uncomely clothes, she addressed me:
“Little girl, help me carry my things. I’ll pay you fifty kopeks.”
Strong and tall, I looked older than my years. “Where do you live? I have to get back to the orphanage shortly.”
“Not far at all.”
We were in the Podol area with the Dnieper flowing below. Despite late autumn, it was as warm as in spring. Having reached a tiny house standing in a small garden, the woman pushed open the wicket gate and we entered. A black shaggy dog rushed out happily in greeting. He treated me with suspicious indifference. We entered with the packages into a room whose table had a huge glass sphere and upon which playing cards with strange drawings were laid out. On an easy chair by the table sat a well-fed black cat with shiny fur. He appeared as suspicious as the dog. I did not even venture to pet it. The woman gave me the promised fifty kopeks. Puffing and panting, she sat down in the easy chair moving the cat aside. “I get tired from walking a long time. Yet, I was a dancer in my youth.” She
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pointed to a photograph hanging on the wall of a young ballerina, thin as a blade of grass, who had nothing the least bit in common with the squat, fat lady.
“Do you want to come here tomorrow? You’ll help me a bit with cleaning, and you’ll get another fifty kopeks.” I happily agreed. I would save some money this way!
On the following day, right after dinner, I went to the small house. I had to sweep and wash the painted floors in three rooms (the fourth was locked) and in the kitchen. “I’ll take care of the fourth one myself,” said Tat’iana Ivanovna, the mistress of the house. I finished my work quickly. In the orphanage I had learned how to wash floors and dishes properly, rinsing them and then wiping them dry.
“Good girl! Sit a minute and tell me about your family. Why are you in an orphanage?” I told her all that I knew. She remained quiet for awhile, then asked: “Do you know how to sing?”
“Yes, I know how to sing everything that my mother sang.”
“Sing something!”
She brought out a guitar and quickly played the chords to Glinka’s romances which I sang for her one after another. I always sang when cleaning or when I was in a meadow or in the woods. But it was very new and pleasant to sing with accompaniment.
“You have a good ear. Have you ever danced?”
“No.”
“Well, come tomorrow. You can peel some pears for my jam, then we’ll try some dancing.” Squeezing the fifty kopeks in my fist, I returned to the center in an elevated mood. This way I would save money for a trip to Leningrad.
The next day, sitting on a stool in the kitchen, I commenced peeling fruit. Without breaking away from the work, I peeled a whole pan of pears. “So! Now, let’s go dance. Follow what I am going to do and try to repeat it. Watch.” She took off her robe and was left in black tights. She made several movements the probability of which, coming from her, was impossible to conceive. I repeated, as best I could, the steps she had executed. “Not bad. Not bad. The main thing here is to have a musical ear and a feel for rhythm. Besides that, you’re pretty and it is pleasant to look at you.” Everything that I heard was totally new and terribly interesting. “Tomorrow I’ll teach you a simple dance.” Having discovered my “choreographic talents,” Tat’iana Ivanovna offered, “Would you like to stay here? I’ll teach you to dance character dances. Sometimes we’ll perform together and you will make a little money. In the mornings you’ll go to school. I’m alone, you’re alone, we’ll both be happier.” This offer seemed exciting to me. Everything at the center was done quickly. Tat’iana Ivanovna pledged that she would send me to
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school and take care of me, and I pledged that I was willing to live with her. Her address was recorded and we were told that an inspector would visit.
I was given a cheerful room in the small house, with lace curtains and pots of geraniums on the windowsill. A table and chair stood by the window. There was a small closet but I had nothing to put or hang there. A key protruded from the door to my room and Tat’iana Ivanovna ordered me to lock myself in at night.
In the morning she took me to school not far from the Podol. She spoke to the teacher for a long time, then left. There were none like me. All the girls lived nearby with their parents. They scrutinized me unceremoniously with evident contempt. My white canvas shoes in November, my worn dress and old coat did not inspire their confidence. The girl next to whom I was seated moved to the very edge of the seat as if I were a leper. No, I felt better with the street urchins. In that setting everything took place along lines of friendship and appearances had no significance. Besides, everybody looked equally bad.
With an aching heart I decided to ignore them, try to study hard and then leave immediately. But when classes ended, the teacher called me over and told me that I would be eating in school. She gave me meal tickets for a week. This was free for those without parents. She showed me how to get to the dining room. A long table covered with an oilcloth stood in a small clean room. One had to take a plate and go for food to a window which opened into the kitchen. I received a full plate of porridge with sunflower oil and a large piece of bread. Some of the girls ate here also but not even one of them sat next to me. Having finished my porridge, I put the remainder of the bread into my pocket, said thanks at the kitchen window and left. I was also given a notebook and two books for free. Returning to the small house, I saw that Tat’iana Ivanovna was not home. She left the key hanging on a nail in the little shed. Entering, I knocked on her door nevertheless. There was no answer. I took hold of the doorknob, wanting to take a look at the cat, but could not get in. The door was locked. I sat down in my room to do homework. Tat’iana Ivanovna returned at four o’clock. “We will practice the dance now. Did you eat in school?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll have some coffee, then I will call you.” The house came to smell de-liciously of coffee and something else that was good. In half an hour she called me. On the table in front of her were tights, tutus, and garlands. “Now try on all of these. I was fifteen years old when I wore these, but I was short and thin. You are so big that they might fit you now.” I tried everything on in my room. The pink tights and the tutus almost fit, and I presented myself to Tat’iana Ivanovna who found this was not bad at all. “You’ll grow a little
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more by spring and there will be no work until then anyway.” I danced in front of her for about an hour, cautiously repeating the movements of the dance. “Good. We’ll work this way everyday. Now go peel some potatoes and boil them. Wash my underwear that is soaking and hang it on the wire in the shed.” I did all this and went to my room. I felt myself very much an orphan and in order to distract my
self I began to repeat the movements of my dance.
“Come to supper!” shouted Tat’iana Ivanovna. We sat down at the kitchen table and I was given three potatoes and a piece of herring. “You have the right to get food from the ARA [American Relief Administration]. Ask your teacher tomorrow where you are to go to get it.”
After lessons were over the next day, I walked up to the teacher in order to find out where I should go. She gave me an envelope with an address. Asking passersby, I finally found the street and the building. In a large room on the first floor sat a young woman who gave out food to older children from a list. When my turn came, having read the teacher’s letter, she asked: “Did you bring a bag for the food?” “No, I don’t have a bag!” I must have looked very upset because, smiling, she said: “Wait on the side, I will be there shortly and we’ll find something.” In a little while, another young woman replaced her and she went into the storeroom. Looking in the cabinets she found an old canvas bag. She gave me several cans of condensed milk, a large jar of coconut butter, a package of sugar, cocoa, and coffee. “Do you want some clothes?” asked the young woman, looking at my worn out garments. “We distribute only foodstuffs here, but there are some donated clothes as well, let’s look.” She quickly began to sort through items piled in the corner. Taking two dresses, she measured them up against me. Then she put a thick blue coat on me, completely new and very pretty. “There you go, we’ve dressed you up a bit.” Thanking her, I loaded up my treasures and set off.
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