The Amber Keeper

by Freda Lightfoot

  The child pressed a finger to her lips to shush me. Her insecurity was such that the only reassurance she found was in secretly listening in to whatever her parents were discussing. What a little imp she was, not quite the angel her father described. ‘Is Mamochka going away?’ she whispered.

  ‘Goodness, what nonsense is this?’ But as I reached for her hand I realised that her parents were engaged in a most furious row, and making no attempt to keep their voices down.

  ‘So what if I am having an affair with Dimitri Korniloff? What business is it of yours? You haven’t been exactly innocent yourself in that regard.’

  ‘If I broke our marriage vows it was because you rejected me from the start, destroying any trust between us from the very first day of our marriage.’

  ‘You didn’t care about me, only about pleasing your father and making him proud.’

  ‘A task at which I clearly failed, thanks to your lies.’

  The Countess’s laugh rang out, as if he’d said something highly amusing. ‘You should have stood up to your parents and married that foolish Mavra Obelensky. Such a tragedy that she died.’

  ‘Stop that, Olga. Don’t even mention her name.’

  ‘I want a divorce, Vaska, and I’ll do whatever it takes to get one.’

  The Count mumbled something we couldn’t quite catch. Quickly taking Irina’s hand, I attempted to lead the child away as this really wasn’t a conversation a little girl should hear. She firmly resisted. ‘No, Baryshnya, I need to listen.’

  ‘Come with me, please,’ I begged, not wishing to see her hurt, and then her father’s voice rang out, paralysing us both.

  ‘Make no mistake, if you are foolish enough to run off with the fellow, your reputation and status will be in ruins, and I will cut you off without a single kopek to your name.’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare!’

  ‘Don’t underestimate me, Olga. I’ll also make sure you lose all contact with the children, even your precious son.’

  Gathering Irina into my arms I carried her quickly to bed, paying no attention to her furious wriggling. Once I’d settled her and she was sipping her hot chocolate, albeit with a sulky expression on her face, I sat beside her on the bed. ‘You really shouldn’t listen to the silly things grown-ups say. They can get very cross with each other at times, but it’s only like you having a quarrel with Serge. It’s not as bad as it sounds.’

  She looked at me, a wisdom in her young eyes that was really quite alarming. ‘Divorce must be a very bad thing if Mamochka wouldn’t ever see us again. Why would she want one?’

  Why indeed! I smiled reassuringly as I tucked in the blanket. ‘Your dear mama probably wasn’t thinking properly. Don’t we all say silly things when we’re cross over something? Now, which story shall we have tonight? What about Polly, A New Fashioned Girl? That should be fun.’

  I kept reading until Irina’s eyelids drooped and sleep claimed her, then left the night light burning as I quietly closed the door. Only then did I allow myself to wonder whether the Countess really would leave the Count, and what would happen to us all if she did.

  Relations between the couple became ever more strained, almost as icy as the weather. The word divorce was never mentioned again, so I could only assume that the Countess had backed down, fearful perhaps of losing her position in Russian society. I kept out of her way as much as possible, spending longer than normal at the British and American chapel with my friends.

  ‘It will be the International Women’s Day Festival in Petrograd on February twenty-third,’ Ruth announced while a group of us were enjoying our usual cake and gossip. ‘We often celebrate the day with a meal, or loved ones buy us flowers or send a card. In 1913 women demonstrated on the right to vote. This year there is to be a rally protesting over the high price of bread. Many textile workers, housewives and women struggling to feed their families will be taking part. Who is willing to join them?’

  ‘We’re British. Wouldn’t they object? We don’t have children and we’re fortunate enough not to have to buy our own bread,’ protested Ivy, who much preferred a quiet life.

  ‘But that’s no reason not to support our fellow sisters in their hour of need, is it? I’m willing to walk with them to protest, carry a banner or something,’ Ruth pointed out.

  ‘Me too,’ I said, remembering the anguish on the peasant woman’s face when the Countess had refused to give her a few kopeks to feed her children and then given her own a small fortune each day to buy sweets.

  ‘I don’t mind joining,’ another girl agreed.

  ‘Sounds like a good cause to me.’

  Several more hands shot up and we were soon engrossed in writing posters with powerful messages that read, ‘Our children are starving’ and ‘We need to buy bread.’

  When the day came I was astonished by the numbers that turned out. There were some men present but literally hundreds of female textile workers took to the streets, waving their posters or proclaiming their message, shouting as loudly as they could. ‘Bread’, ‘End the war!’ and even, ‘Down with the Autocracy!’

  The women assembled at the corner of Bolshoi Prospekt and Gavanskaya Street, looking desperate, hollow-cheeked and weary, many like walking skeletons since feeding their children was a priority. I was deeply moved, filled with admiration for their courage and determination as they began to hammer on doors demanding bakers bring prices down or give them bread there and then to feed their starving children.

  ‘We need decent wages in order to eat,’ they cried.

  ‘It’s a disgrace that we can’t afford to buy bread.’

  ‘Our children are starving!’

  ‘Are your children really starving?’ I asked the woman beside me. ‘I do wish I had money to help you.’

  ‘You help just by being here, and yes, my children consider themselves fortunate if they get cabbage soup or a bit of bean stew once a day. The price of milk, butter and eggs makes buying those quite beyond my reach. Sometimes I can afford to buy a few potatoes to add to the beans.’

  ‘And the government keeps on printing more money which pushes up prices still further, while our wages stagnate,’ added her friend. ‘I’ve been driven to picking dandelion leaves and nettles to boil into soup for my children.’

  The women, wrapped in their long drab coats and scarves against the cold, walked in a mass through the streets carrying their banners between them. Although most of the snow had been cleared, it still felt icy underfoot as we followed on at the back, a small group of supporters, while onlookers cheered as the procession passed by.

  ‘Down with the war!’ someone shouted.

  ‘Down with hunger!’

  ‘Long live the revolution!’ This latter cry came from a group of agitators who had appeared out of nowhere.

  The numbers rapidly grew, the demonstration developing a momentum of its own as the women were joined by factory workers all demanding modernisation and better working conditions, which had worsened thanks to the Great War in Europe. An ever-increasing number of strikers then swept into the city centre, apparently coming from the Vyborg district and other industrial areas, even crossing the frozen River Neva, or so our fellow marchers informed us.

  ‘I thought this protest was just about the price of bread. It’s looking to be about a lot more than that now,’ I murmured, as Ruth and I hooked arms to avoid being separated.

  ‘It would seem so,’ she agreed, keeping her voice low in the eerie silence that was settling all around us. ‘I heard that a few days ago hundreds of workers started a strike in one of the workshops at the huge Putilov factory. They asked for a rise and demanded that some fellow-workers who had previously been sacked from their jobs be reinstated. Thousands more from the plant joined them, but the management’s response was to lock everyone out. Consequently they appealed to other workers for their support, which it very much looks as if they’r
e getting. That could prove dangerous if the authorities object.’

  ‘I hope you’re wrong,’ I said, beginning to feel a sense of unease. No sooner had I spoken than mounted policemen arrived on the scene, thrusting their horses through the crowds in a brutal attempt to disperse them, swiping at people with the flats of their swords. Yet the moment they passed through, the crowd closed up again, as solid as the ice beneath our feet.

  It was scary and thrilling all at the same time. I liked the Russian people very much and my heart went out to them, the mothers and their children most of all. Serge and Irina couldn’t imagine for a moment how it might feel to be hungry, let alone starving, since they were both so well fed, as their plump, rosy cheeks indicated.

  I’d arranged for Nyanushki to take them to the Catherine Gardens on the pretext that I had lessons to prepare and needed a break. No one knew I was taking part in what had begun as a simple protest march, certainly not the Countess, or even Stefan, as I was fearful even he might have prevented me from attending. But though I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, I knew that I ran a huge risk just by being here.

  ‘I should be getting back before anyone misses me, and before things get any worse.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Ruth said. ‘We’ve done our bit. Let’s get out of here.’ As we started edging out of the procession we found our way blocked by yet another mounted policeman. I pulled Ruth out of the horse’s path but, reaching down, he struck her across the shoulders with the flat of his sword, sending her tumbling to the ground.

  ‘Ruth!’

  I could barely see my dear friend in the mass of feet and horses’ hooves surrounding her. It seemed to take several long, frightening moments before I managed to grab hold and hoist her to her feet. She was deathly pale, had lost her hat and was covered in snow and filth; she was so wobbly I feared she might be about to faint at any minute. Fortunately, Ivy emerged from the crowd to take her other arm and together we battled our way out of the demonstration, almost carrying her between us.

  When I asked if she was all right her mumbled response was not encouraging. ‘She needs to see a doctor,’ I said.

  ‘Right. Let’s find a tram to the hospital,’ said Ivy, steering us down a side street. Unfortunately, none were running so we were forced to walk all the way back to the British and American chapel, where Ruth was at last examined.

  ‘Apart from some bruising she’s suffered no major injuries,’ the nurse informed us.

  ‘Thank goodness for that.’ I turned to Ruth. ‘Were we mad to take part?’

  Smiling, she shook her head, then winced at the pain. ‘No, it was the right thing to do. The protest needed to be made. I’m really glad we did our bit to help. I’ll be fine.’

  Later, when I crept back into the flat, careful not to alert my mistress to the fact I’d been out without her permission, I felt an inner glow at having been a part of such an important demonstration. I prayed the women had successfully made their point and that emergency rations would soon be set up to help their starving families.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I didn’t see Stefan until later that evening, having spent the time since my return rushing about trying to catch up on my usual tasks in order to make it appear as if I’d been fully occupied within doors all day. I saw to the children, attended the Countess as she prepared to go out for the evening as usual, and enjoyed a welcome glass of tea with Nyanushki, served with a slice of lemon, listening with only half my attention as she talked about the children’s adventures in the park without enlightening her on my own.

  Stefan, however, was different. I couldn’t wait to tell him what I’d been up to.

  He was waiting for me in the laundry room, which was where we tended to have our secret meetings when in town. He gathered me in his arms to kiss me the moment I walked in. We needed to be so careful, always on our best behaviour, that it was a relief to be able to respond without fear of being observed. My heart raced at his kisses, wanting so much more, and when we paused to take a breath we kept our fingers entwined, looking deep into each other’s eyes, which said everything that words could not.

  ‘Where have you been?’ he said. ‘I’ve been looking for you all day.’

  I laughed. ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’

  Something in my tone of voice must have alerted him. ‘You were there, weren’t you, at this demonstration everyone is talking about? You sneaked out of the house to watch it.’

  ‘Actually, I took part,’ I said.

  ‘Good lord, why didn’t you say you were going?’

  ‘You might have stopped me.’

  He laughed. ‘You underestimate me, Millie. I’m greatly impressed. Well done!’

  ‘I’m rather proud of myself, too,’ I admitted, ‘if somewhat exhausted from all the walking we did. It felt like a worthwhile thing to do, although whether we did any good by it remains to be seen. I do hope so, as children really are starving. The Tsar needs to order emergency food rations urgently.’

  ‘I’ll believe that when I see it,’ Stefan muttered. ‘But what about us? How much longer are we going to tie ourselves to these autocrats?’

  The remainder of our precious half hour alone was spent dreaming of a future together, although the hows, whys and wherefores had yet to be decided.

  A day or two later I was working with the children in the schoolroom as usual when, glancing up from his work, Serge asked, ‘What’s that noise?

  Irina ran over to the window to look out. ‘There are a lot of people, Baryshnya. Where are they all going?’

  Joining her, I saw that she was right, and it was fairly plain where they were heading. The demonstrations had been growing daily to ever more dangerous proportions, and Stefan had told us at breakfast that Russia was now in the throes of a national strike.

  Not that I explained any of this to Irina. Ushering the child back to her seat, I said in my most cheerful tones, ‘They are going to an important meeting. Nothing to do with us, but I agree it is rather disruptive, so we won’t do any more arithmetic today, and instead carry on with our knitting for the soldiers. Master Serge, you could write them some letters. Soldiers at the front deserve all the support they can get.’

  Nyanushki and I set about helping the children with these tasks. After they were settled, I had just resumed knitting the balaclava I’d been working on for so long I’d begun to think it would never be finished, when the first shots rang out.

  I froze. Poor old Nanny almost fell off her chair in shock. Irina burst into tears, and Serge looked panic-stricken.

  ‘Who’s shooting?’ he yelled, rushing to the window, but I quickly pulled him away.

  ‘Keep well clear, just in case. Stay here with Nyanushki,’ I ordered, ‘while I find out what’s going on.’

  I ran into the corridor, straight into Stefan, who’d come rushing to check that we were all right. ‘What is it? What’s happening?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I can’t see anything from here.’ He turned to me in frustration, his face white to the lips. ‘I’m going out to investigate. I won’t be long.’

  ‘No, don’t,’ I cried, grabbing hold of him, and we both instinctively dropped to our knees as the terrifying sound of shooting rang out louder than ever.

  We stared at each other in horror. ‘Surely they wouldn’t be firing their guns at the demonstrators?’ I said, numb with disbelief.

  ‘It sounds very like 1905 all over again.’

  ‘Then you mustn’t go out or the same thing could happen to you that happened to your father. Please don’t risk it, I beg you, Stefan. What would I do without you if . . . ?’ I choked on the words, unable to express my fears out loud. ‘Wait for the Count. He’s at the Winter Palace and will no doubt be able to tell us more when he gets home.’

  ‘I must go. There might be something I can do to help.’

  ‘No, Stefan, ple
ase.’

  We’d been forced to raise our voices as the shooting continued, and as I argued with him the boudoir door flew open and the Countess appeared. She looked dishevelled and pale, not at all her usual elegant self, as if the noise had woken her from a deep sleep. She proceeded to rail and shout at us, demanding to know what was going on, implying the fault for disturbing her was entirely ours. She seemed to be constantly in a bad temper these days.

  ‘It’s the demonstrators, milady. Something terrible seems to be happening to them.’

  Clasping her hands together, she let out a sigh of relief. ‘Oh, is that all? Well, they deserve all they get, dreadful people.’

  I stepped forward, ignoring Stefan’s attempt to restrain me. ‘How can you say such a thing? There are children starving, men and women being overworked and paid a pittance, losing their jobs, and with no money to feed their families. It’s all right for you, being rich, but what if you weren’t? Would you silently stand by and watch your children suffer and possibly die?’

  She stared at me, eyes narrowed in cold fury, and I knew instantly that I’d made a bad mistake.

  ‘So how do you know so much about this so-called demonstration, Dowthwaite?’

  I heard Stefan’s low groan, but nothing would stop me now. I remembered the sunken cheeks of the women, their hollow eyes and the fear in their voices as they cried out when the mounted police hit them. Lifting my chin with pride, I met the Countess’s fierce glare. ‘I was there. I heard their stories, witnessed their misery and desperation. Something needs to be done.’

  The silence that followed this rash statement was profound, interrupted by the slam of the front door and the sound of the Count’s footsteps hurrying up the stairs. He was calling out, asking if we were safe.

  ‘I’ll speak to you later,’ she hissed.

  The Count confirmed our worst fears, telling us that under instruction from the Tsar the soldiers had indeed opened fire. ‘Nicholas was informed of the situation and the Duma begged him to order the release of emergency food supplies. ‘Sadly, he declined to do so. Instead he sent a message to the police to “end the disorders in the capital by tomorrow”. They valiantly attempted to obey, at some risk to their own lives, but the people ran to hide in the courtyards, returning to the streets whenever there was a pause in the shooting. In the end, more than two hundred people were killed.’