The Longest Winter

by Daphne Wright

  It was not until dawn that the doors of the train were opened and by then the Suvarovs were all so cramped and cold that they could not move with the speed necessary to secure seats on the train. As they forced their way into the clogged corridor, eight-year-old Natalie made an effort to raise their spirits and said, croaking a little:

  ‘Well, at least we’re together now, and there are no soldiers near us.’

  ‘Well done,’ whispered Evelyn, pleased to see that the little girl who had always hidden in Ekaterina Nikolaievna’s skirts was doing her best. ‘Could you hold Sasha for a few minutes, while I see to your Mama?’

  ‘Of course, Evie.’

  Evelyn then squeezed herself between her cousins and the partition and knelt down in front of Natalia Petrovna, whose plump white face seemed to have shrunk against her cheek-bones, and whose eyes were blank and dazed.

  ‘Cousin Natasha, it should not be too long now.’

  The elder woman looked at her vaguely, but she said nothing, and so Evelyn tried again.

  ‘Are you hungry, Cousin? We have some potato cakes. Could you eat one?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Evelyn. I should like that,’ she said, apparently in control of herself. Evelyn pushed her way back to her own place, opened her bag with difficulty and, fumbling in the folds of her precious sable coat, found a limp, parchment-wrapped packet. She untied the string and taking one soft potato cake for herself, passed the rest along the line. She heard Natalia Petrovna thank Dindin and, taking the last cake, say:

  ‘But there isn’t one for Piotr. What will he eat?’

  Evelyn put her head back against the cold glass of the train window behind her, unable to bear the thought that her cousin was pretending that nothing very bad had happened and that life would soon return to normal. Her eldest son patted her carefully on the shoulder, and said as calmly as he could:

  ‘Now, now, Mama. You know quite well that Piotr stayed behind in Petrograd. He will have plenty to eat in that restaurant at the Smolny Institute.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, smiling at Georgii. ‘When will he come back to us? My little Peterkin, he must be in such terrible danger all alone in Petrograd. Who will see that he wears enough clothes and eats properly? He is always bad at looking after himself. I am so worried about him.’

  ‘Well!’ hissed Natalie into Evelyn’s right ear. ‘Isn’t she worried about the rest of us? She jolly well should be. Look at Sasha: he’s only four, but is she anxious about him? No – only for that pig traitor.’

  ‘Hush, Tallie,’ said Evelyn, using her cousin’s nursery nickname for the first time. ‘She can’t help it. Try to get some sleep.’

  But none of them managed to sleep much, and it was a full fourteen hours before the train even moved out of Vologda Station. They tried to keep each other amused with guessing games and the retelling of old favourite stories, but by the time the train actually started, they were all argumentative with exhaustion. Andrei Alexandrovitch uncharacteristically allowed them each three sips from his flask of brandy, and Evelyn sanctioned a round of hard-boiled eggs for their one meal.

  It took three days for their train to limp its way four hundred miles up the track towards Archangel. For Evelyn and her charges, they were days of strain and vile discomfort. There were no sanitary arrangements on the train and the only possibilities for washing or getting hot water for tea came whenever the train stopped at small country stations. Evelyn told herself that the journey would end in time and that she had no option but to wait. But there were times when she longed to beat her fists on the steamed-up windows or fling open the train door and get out, even though she knew that the single railway track was crossing a waste of frozen marsh, forest and lake in which she would have no chance of survival.

  During their last day on the train, a peasant family vacated a whole carriage and Evelyn was quick to commandeer it for the Suvarovs. Sitting down at last, even on a hard, splintery bench, with the prospect of release from its purgatory within the next twenty-four hours, the whole family cheered up. The children began to pester their father for stories of the house they had never seen, and what he had done there when he was their age. He obliged, dredging his mind for long-forgotten memories. After a while he turned to his eldest son, and said:

  ‘You’re very quiet. What’s bothering you?’

  ‘Apart from worrying about our future, our houses, our lands and our business, Father?’ He laughed bitterly. ‘I’ve been trying to decide what to do. There’s no point in my wasting time at Shenkursk. I’ll go on up to Archangel and find out what’s happening.’

  ‘You certainly won’t,’ said his father. ‘I need you to help my brother get your mother and the girls to Shenkursk. I have to go up to Archangel to talk to Baines and discover whether there is anything left of the company and if he’s managing to get any timber out of Murmansk; and there’s no point two of us going. No,’ he added as his son started to protest. ‘I don’t want you to get involved in anything dangerous at the moment.’ He did not specify what he meant and Evelyn wondered, feeling sick, what the danger was that would have threatened Georgii in Archangel.

  But the young man understood exactly what his father meant, and felt all the old resentment that Piotr should have so easily escaped from their father’s tyranny. In spite of Piotr’s example, Georgii was still too much afraid of his father to do more than say petulantly:

  ‘And what if Uncle Nikki is not at the station? He can hardly have any idea when this God-forsaken train is likely to arrive, even if he did get your message that we would be on it. If he is not there, will you still go on?’

  ‘We’ll meet that when we come to it. No, Georgii, I won’t have it. Leave it alone.’

  After that exchange, no one dared to expect Nikolai Alexandrovitch, but to their delight when the train at last drew into Nyandoma station, Andrei Suvarov, who had been peering through the misted windows, called:

  ‘He is there! Nikolasha!’ He banged on the window with a gloved fist, and called again, ‘Nikolasha!’ Then he turned back into the carriage. ‘He is there. All is well. Take all your bags, all of you. Georgii, help your mother.’

  ‘Of course, Papa, but I must tell you that I am going on to Archangel.’

  Cold fury flashed once more in Andrei Alexandrovitch’s blue eyes as he said bitterly:

  ‘Going the way of your treacherous brother?’

  ‘No, Papa, of course not. But somebody must do something to …’

  ‘Then you will help Nikki look after your mother and sisters. Ah, Evelyn, can you manage?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Cousin Andrei,’ she answered, feeling her way out into the darkened corridor, holding her bag in one hand, and Sasha’s in the other, as he scampered on ahead of her. At the door of the train she was met by a bearded man, who seemed enormous in his sheepskin shuba and hat. He smiled at Evelyn without speaking, lifted his young nephew down and then turned back to help her. Together they pulled down the baggage that Georgii brought to the door and then waited for the rest of the Suvarovs. Natalia Petrovna could hardly bear to let her husband go on without her, and he had to speak quite brutally to her and forcibly push her away from him. Then, on the dark and icy platform he stood and faced the brother he had not seen for thirteen years. Evelyn thought there could hardly have been so great a contrast between any two men. Andrei, despite the last horrible days, looked suave and almost dapper beside the bearded giant in his woolly shuba and huge, black boots. As she watched, they flung their arms around each other and, to her astonishment, actually kissed each other, twice. Then Andrei said:

  ‘Take care of them, Nikolasha.’ She thought she saw something glinting in the corner of his eyes in the dim lantern light. ‘Thank God you survived it. The first good thing that’s happened as a result of this Revolution.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Andrushka,’ came the deep voice of his brother. ‘And come back soon. Archangel is a poxy town. We’ll be waiting for you.’ With a last hug, they drew apart, and Andrei Alexandr
ovitch remounted the train and slammed the door shut.

  ‘Come along then. It’s a long, cold drive,’ said Nikolai, leading the way out of the station to where two sleighs were waiting.

  Somehow he packed them all in with their gear and, taking the reins of one team of horses, he called to the middle-aged man in charge of the other, who was dressed in boots and sheepskins identical with his own:

  ‘Forward, Mischa.’

  A lantern swung from the front of each sleigh and, with the light of the waxing moon, served to show the way. The swift, smooth running of the sleighs and the comfort of the thick sheepskin rugs were wonderful after the train, and for the first time since they had left Petrograd, Evelyn felt able to relax. She was no longer responsible. Nikolai Alexandrovitch was in charge. She pulled the rug up round her face and dragged her hat down almost to meet it and lay back, looking up at the clear northern sky and the myriad stars that looked astonishingly close and brilliant in the sharp air. Her eyes closed, fluttered open and then closed again. She slept.

  Although she woke later as the sleigh drew up alongside a large building with broad, shallow steps leading up to the open front door, she was too dazed with sleep to notice much. A motherly woman seemed to welcome her, and someone told her not to worry as she looked round, asking:

  ‘Where is Sasha? I ought to put him to bed.’

  She was taken by the hand and led, stumbling, upstairs to a warm room, with a huge, inviting-looking bed. The kind woman helped her to undress, put her into a nightgown that had been warming near the stove, and led her to the bed, piling brightly-coloured quilts on top, and firmly tucking her in. Evelyn tried sleepily to remember her Russian, but fell back on French to murmur:

  ‘Merci, Madame. Merci bien.’

  She was asleep before she heard the answer.

  Waking about fifteen hours later, she was afraid to open her eyes in case the delectable warmth and softness she felt all around her should turn out to be part of a cruel and tantalising dream. She lay, savouring them, putting off the moment of discovery for as long as she could, a small smile twitching at her lips. A familiar and well-loved voice broke through her happy, dream-fuddled brain:

  ‘See, Tallie. She is awake. I told you she was just pretending.’

  ‘Sasha?’ she said slowly, still not opening her eyes. She felt his fingers on her face.

  ‘Yes, Evie, it’s me. Wake up! Wake up! There’s warm rolls for breakfast, freshly made, and coffee and eggs and jam. If you don’t wake up, you’ll miss them. Come on.’

  At last she allowed her eyes to open, and she saw Sasha’s face, bright and rosy, just beside hers.

  ‘Good morning, Little Dove,’ she said, smiling back at him.

  Then she felt the fineness of the linen sheet that covered her and the softness of the big pillow behind her head.

  ‘So it is really true. We are here.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ answered Tallie, impatiently. ‘Get up, Evie.’

  ‘All right, all right, but take Sasha away while I dress.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Tallie. Take him away.’ She laughed. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can, I promise.’

  ‘Uncle Nikki’s housekeeper, Karla, has put clothes out for all of us. They’re quite strange, but she says we’ll be warmer and more comfortable than in our city dresses,’ said Natalie. ‘She’s Mischa’s wife, you know.’ Evelyn, who could not for the moment remember who Mischa was, noticed that her cousin was wearing a thick black skirt embroidered in vivid colours around the hem, which hung several inches above her ankles, and a peculiar arrangement of blouse, overblouse and waistcoat.

  ‘She says it’s like what they wear in Siberia and it’s better for the climate. It doesn’t matter that they don’t really fit properly. Only the boots. And she says that if they’re wrong, there’s a bootmaker in the village who can make more. Oh, yes, and you don’t need stays with them, Dindin says.’

  ‘Hush, Tallie. Sasha’s still here.’

  ‘So what? He knows all about stays, don’t you Sashenka?’

  ‘Well he should not. Go away, both of you, while I dress.’

  Evelyn was embarrassed by the shortness of the skirt that she found laid over a wooden clothes-rack near the big stove, but she put it on obediently together with the brightly coloured blouse, and had to admit to herself that it was all much easier to wear than her fashionable dresses. And the comfort of not wearing any corsets was wonderful, if disgraceful.

  When she walked downstairs towards an opened door through which she could hear talk and clinking crockery, she felt very conscious of the embarrassing way her unconfined body moved independently within the clothes. She resisted the temptation to pull at her skirt or cross her arms over her chest as she stood in the doorway, shyly murmuring, ‘Good morning’in Russian.

  Nikolai Alexandrovitch turned at the sound of her voice and, putting down his cup, got up from the table and came to her side.

  ‘Good morning, my new English cousin. Did you sleep?’

  Evelyn looked up at him, thinking irrelevantly how kind his eyes looked, and said with feeling:

  ‘Marvellously. I couldn’t really believe it when I woke up this morning.’ As she spoke, she looked at the windows and then at the number of lamps lit all round the room.

  ‘But is it morning? My watch has stopped, and it looks dark outside.’

  Nikolai gave a great laugh, and put a rough, calloused hand on her shoulder.

  ‘It is dark almost all day in winter up here. But we make up for it in summer. Then it’s lighter even than in Petrograd.’

  ‘Of course, how silly of me,’ said Evelyn, for once not minding that she had made a fool of herself. ‘Forgive me, I must still be half asleep.’

  ‘Come and sit down. Have you brought your watch down with you?’

  For answer she held out her delicate wrist, and the Russian proceeded to take the watch off in order to put it right and wind it up for her. The feeling of his rough fingers on her skin was peculiar, but not at all disagreeable, and she smiled. Dindin and her elder brother, who were already tucking into their breakfast, exchanged astonished glances; despite the thaw in Evelyn, which they had all welcomed, they had never seen her so soft or confiding or immediately trusting as she was with their uncle.

  ‘Uncle Nikki?’ came Sasha’s voice, imperiously demanding attention.

  ‘Yes my boy. What is the matter?’ he asked as he came back to the table again, Evelyn’s little gold watch in his big hands.

  ‘Why are you taking Evie’s watch?’

  ‘Taking? What is all this? She said it had stopped and I’m winding it on for her. Come along, Evelyn, and have some breakfast.’

  ‘Thank you, Uncle Nikki,’ she said, taking her cue from Sasha, and sat down.

  On the beautifully laundered white cloth was an array of food such as she had sometimes despaired of ever seeing again. There was none of the horrible coarse black bread that in Petrograd had been all they could buy. Instead there was a basket of soft-looking white rolls, their golden tops gleaming in the lamplight. The sight of a pottery dish of butter standing near the basket, and a bowl of boiled eggs, made saliva spurt humiliatingly into her mouth. She swallowed.

  ‘How … how is it that you can have so much food?’ she asked, and then in case she might have been misunderstood, quickly added:

  ‘I don’t mean that you should not have. God forbid! It is just such a wonderful sight.’

  ‘It is more than that,’ said Georgii robustly, handing her the eggs. ‘Come on, get started. It’s not just for looking at, you know.’

  They all laughed and Evelyn helped herself to a large brown egg, amused now to see that her hand was even shaking a little in her eagerness. Someone else passed her the bread and the butter, and Nikolai himself filled her coffee cup.

  ‘Where is Natalia Petrovna?’ she asked, as she broke the top off the egg.

  ‘Mischa’s wife has taken her up a tray. She ought to stay in bed for a
few days, I think. She seems to be exhausted.’

  ‘Yes, she was very tired by the journey, and having to leave Piotr, and …’

  ‘I know,’ he answered, ‘but we’ll talk about it later. What we must do now is decide who will do what.’ He looked round at their puzzled faces and explained himself. ‘With so many extra people in the house, Mischa’s wife won’t be able to manage all the work, and I shall need help with the animals and the wood for the stoves and so on.’ There was a moment of stunned silence among the refugee Suvarovs, who had been lulled by the comfort and food and security into believing that they had returned to normal life. Then Georgii spoke:

  ‘But, sir, I mean … what about the servants?’

  ‘Servants, my boy?’ repeated Nikolai, pretending to be shocked and not to have understood the consternation in all their faces. ‘There are no servants. We have had a Revolution in Russia.’

  Dindin began to cry quietly into her starched linen napkin, but it was Sasha who put the general feeling into words.

  ‘But Uncle Nikki, we have all been working at home. Dindin and Evie and I were always scrubbing the kitchen and peeling potatoes and things. We thought it would stop now.’

  ‘Sashenka, work does not stop until we are dead. If we don’t work, we don’t eat,’ he answered, his voice gentle, but his meaning implacable.

  ‘Is that what you learned in Siberia, Uncle?’ asked Georgii and even Natalie could hear the sneer in his voice. She stopped sniffing into her handkerchief and looked up, interested to see what would happen next, but their uncle did not rise to the bait. All he said was:

  ‘That and much else, Georgii Andreivitch. One day we can talk about it, but there’s no time now. Finish up, all of you, and we’ll share out the tasks.’