by Evelyn Weiss
“Don’t, on our account, take any risks –”
“Nonsense! It is a gift to you, and will be our pleasure. Leave it to us. We’ll get your fuel for you – and bring it back out here to your airplane. Now let’s get on.” Bogdan looks at the three of us, in our Western clothes. “Ahem. An American, a Swede, and an Englishman… I suppose none of you has ever ridden a camel before?”
The camels, two-humped Bactrians, are gentle, patient beasts; mine looks at me from under extraordinarily long eyelashes, chewing quietly to itself as if to pass the time. There’s a leather saddle between the animal’s two humps, and with help from Bogdan and Rufus, I finally manage to climb up, and we’re ready to go. Rufus looks round.
“Will the airplane be safe, here by itself?”
“Look at this place.” Bogdan gestures towards the tall crests of the dunes, rising above us like mountain peaks. “This salt pan is totally hidden by the sandbanks. You could pass within a hundred yards of the airplane, and never know it was here.”
We set off, casting a final look back at the plane. The Cossacks have helped Rufus tie sheets over the engine-housings, to prevent sand getting in. The machine looks oddly forlorn, sitting there on the salt flats. Then we pass round the edge of a dune, and it disappears.
The camel has a swaying rhythm as it pads over the sand. My hips ache with the side-to-side movement as we gradually climb towards the top of a dune, then down slipping slopes of sand into a deeply shadowed trench. Then up over another dune… I tell myself “I must get used to this: it will be a long journey over this desert.”
But I’m wrong. We reach the crest of a high dune that stands up against the western sky. As before, sand spills steeply down the far side of the dune – but abruptly, it stops. The slope turns to thin, sun-bleached grass. Only a few hundred yards beyond, there are scattered trees among the rich grass of meadows. As we get closer, I realise that the trees are willows. After the endless Siberian forests, and the stark desert, the lushness and beauty of this green place are like a physical shock.
We plod along, passing a wide, deep pool that mirrors the sky; the trailing branches of the willows droop into it, like green waterfalls. Then the trees thin out, and the trail becomes a sandy track fringed by tall bulrushes. Swifts and swallows are flying everywhere, swooping around my ears. The camels lope along lazily, then slow gently to a halt. Bogdan says “Welcome to the valley of the Volga. This is the Buzan River, one of the many streams of the Volga Delta. These are the lotus beds.” We look out across an astonishing sight.
As far as the eye can see, huge pink flowers and glistening leaves float on glass-clear water. Bogdan leads our camels down to rafts moored at the riverside, and gives some coins to four men who stand beside them, holding long poles. I get down from the camel, and Bogdan, my camel and I step onto the first raft, which sways gently in the water. The professor, who has got down awkwardly from his camel, joins us, while Rufus waits to board a second raft. The men on our raft push on their poles. A few moments later, we are floating out among the heady scent of the lotus flowers.
Far below through the water, I see the sandy bed of the river. I’m reminded of when I saw the gun at Tri Tsarevny, but this time there are large dark patches on the pale sand; shadows in the shape of fish. Then I see the fish themselves, huge creatures floating idly among the lotus roots. Bogdan points at them.
“Sturgeons. The origin of Volga caviar.”
The sturgeons move lazily below the flowers in a suspended world. Our raft drifts forward across the blue stream, gently pushing aside the lotus clumps. Now I can see, beyond the sea of pink blooms, the line of the further shore.
Bogdan signals ahead, saying “The island of Astrakhan.” I see red towers, white walls and a cluster of tall, turquoise onion-domes against the blue sky, all reflected in the glassy river. He hums a melody to himself; after a little, he begins to sing, a quiet, low refrain.
“From beyond the wooded island
To the river wide and free
Proudly sail the arrow-breasted
Ships of Cossack yeomanry.”
Axelson speaks quietly to me, in English.
“Enjoy this moment, Miss Agnes. After what we heard and saw in Yekaterinburg, this beauty can act, just a little, like a medicine, to help heal.”
“I’ll never forget –”
“Of course! It would be wrong to forget. But such horrors as we have witnessed can fester in the heart. And on that subject… these men, they indeed appear to be our friends. All the same, Miss Agnes, I would tread carefully. Watch what you say.”
Bogdan ignores our conversation: he is singing to himself, as if remembering all the Cossack ways of life that are, I guess, under threat from the Bolsheviks. I reply to the professor in a near-whisper. “What do you mean?”
“Bogdan’s song, Miss Agnes – it celebrates Stenka Razin, a Cossack rebel against Tsarist rule. But ironically, today’s Cossacks are fiercely loyal to tradition – and especially, to the Tsar. I advise against saying anything about what we witnessed in Yekaterinburg.”
“Why?”
“If people in Astrakhan find out about the murder of the imperial family, there will be no limit to their anger. We could, literally, create a local civil war in the city.”
I look at him doubtfully.
“The truth must come out –”
“Don’t misunderstand me, Miss Agnes. I sincerely hope the Bolsheviks fall from power. And of course, the world must know about their appalling crime. But not right now – unless you want to cause more deaths, in Astrakhan.”
Not long after crossing the river, we see ahead of us the outskirts of the city. In the fields around us are a scatter of circular tents; outside them are red-robed men among flocks of sheep. “These tents are yurts” says Bodgan. “They are the dwellings of the Kalmyk – nomadic sheep herders; they are Buddhists.” Soon our camels are walking among low, straw-roofed houses, and then we come into a narrow street lined with market stalls. There are rolled Persian carpets, piled high as if they were stacks of logs, and sheepskin rugs hanging on wooden racks. My waddling camel seems bound to sway and crash into one of the stalls, but somehow we weave our way along. I look down from the saddle onto piles of rich fabrics. Bogdan explains.
“These are the markets of the Astrakhan caravanserai; each group of stalls carries different products from different places on the Silk Road; Samarkand, Afghanistan, India and China. But let me show you something else – for your eyes only.”
He calls to Dmitri and Anatoly, who rein in their camels. All of us stop in the very centre of the market. Among bustling crowds, we get down from the camels, and Bogdan shakes hands with a trader among hanging veils of colored silk. All of us follow the trader through into a dark back room.
We’ve walked into an armory. A grim array of revolvers, rifles, knives and bayonets hangs on every wall. Bogdan smiles. “Every stall-holder in Astrakhan trades in weapons – and sells them on to the White Army.”
The professor frowns. “This is risky business…”
Bogdan laughs. “According to the Bolsheviks, this whole marketplace is illegal! Selling a scarf is a crime, the same as selling a gun. So we may as well deal in fighting as well as fashion.” He gestures at the weapon-covered walls. “If the Red Guards come to arrest the merchants of Astrakhan, they will find more resistance than they bargain for.”
We go back out into the market and walk along, leading the camels among clouds of drifting, changing scents; I smell bergamot and attar of roses. Bogdan continues explaining. “This is the perfume bazaar. But even the perfume traders deal in guns these days. Now, here we are – the commodities market, including the traders who buy our salt.” Bogdan hails another stallholder, and a long conversation ensues. Finally, he comes back to us.
“He’s given us a good price for our salt – including accommodation for you all for the night. The best beds in the caravanserai, and at a knock-down price! And in the morning, we will get your aircraft f
uel.”
“We can’t thank you enough…”
“Don’t even think about it. And you, Mr du Pavey – I must thank you for the news you told my brothers, about the massacre of the Tsar’s family. It is the greatest tragedy in Russia’s history! Trust me, their blood will be avenged.”
The professor looks at me and rolls his eyes in dismay. But Bogdan is still speaking.
Now, Mr du Pavey! And you too, Professor! Would you join me and my brothers in a nearby bar, to drink a traditional Cossack toast?”
To my surprise, the professor nods eagerly. “Thank you! It will be an honor.”
“And you?” Bogdan looks again at Rufus.
“Thank you so much. But I’ve been flying for so many hours…”
“Of course, of course. Get some sleep – you need it.”
27 Texas, Russia
The caravanserai is a small courtyard, surrounded by accommodation for travellers. I have one room; Rufus and the professor share another. I sleep, and it’s like heaven.
At breakfast, we tuck eagerly into porridge, honey and bread that’s hot from the oven. Axelson speaks over his spoonful of porridge.
“I had a quiet evening with Bogdan and his brothers. We drank only a single solemn toast: to the memory of the Romanov family. As it happens, the bar we were in had a photograph of the imperial family on the wall. People started bringing in candles, putting them on the sideboard below the picture. Soon everyone in the bar wasn’t drinking: they were praying.”
Rufus nods. “It may have been a sober evening, Professor. But I’m sorry – there is no way I could have joined you. I know only one thing about Cossacks: when you drink a toast with them, you are obliged to drink vodka. I don’t drink.”
Rufus’s last sentence doesn’t sound like a boast, or a claim, or even a promise. It sounds like a simple statement of fact. Axelson and I look at him in surprise, and I blurt out.
“That’s news to me, Rufus!”
He stirs some honey into his porridge, looking intently at the glistening golden trail as if mesmerised by it. Then he speaks. He still doesn’t look up at us; but his voice has a depth I’ve never heard from him before.
“I know that I’ll never drink again. Not after Yekaterinburg. Hearing those cries – and, those guards’ voices in the night.”
“Of course.”
“All those men’s voices were horrible. But for some reason, one voice in particular sticks in my mind.”
I reach out and touch his hand. “I know, Rufus. I know the voice you mean.”
We are interrupted: Bogdan walks in. He greets us all, but then speaks to Rufus.
“Dmitri knows all the best contacts in the market, so he is getting your aircraft fuel today. Could you go with him to help sort it out, Mr du Pavey?”
Rufus nods eagerly, but Bodgan quickly continues. “As for me, I am at liberty! So I can take both of you to visit the Ataman – the elected leader of the Astrakhan Host.”
Bogdan, the professor and I walk out of the market into the shadow of the towering blue-green domes of the cathedral. Beyond, we enter an area of wide streets lined with tall, regular terraces; large town houses. Their stucco frontages gleam white in the sunshine. The professor looks around.
“We might be in any fine city in Europe…”
Bogdan nods. “These are some of the best houses in Astrakhan. And – here we are.”
He knocks on a shiny, black-painted door that could be that of a well-to-do house in London. A pretty young woman in a mob cap and servant’s apron opens the door; Bogdan speaks to her.
“Elena! I have brought some friends to visit Mrs Sirko.”
We step into a quiet, genteel hallway, carpeted with a thick Persian rug. The only noise is the ticking of a grandfather clock. A woman in late middle age appears from a doorway. Even I am taller than her: she’s under five feet in height. But below her white hair, I recognise the shape of her face. I look at her strong cheekbones and the curve of her brows, above those brown, intelligent eyes.
“Come into the drawing room, Bogdan! Please, introduce your friends.”
“Miss Agnes Frocester, Professor Felix Axelson – this is Viktoriya Sirko, widow of Pavel Sirko, former Ataman. And, of course, mother of your friend Yuri. And, she is the acting Ataman of the Astrakhan Host.”
I’m doubly taken aback. It feels so odd to meet Yuri’s mother like this. But also, I simply assumed the Ataman would be a man. In my head I’d had a picture of a woolen hat, a large mustache and a sling of bullets.
Mrs Sirko shakes my hand. “As Bogdan says, I am merely ‘acting’ as Ataman. Our true leader, like all other younger male Cossacks of Astrakhan, has joined the White Army. Most men were in military service anyway. Our Host has lost many fine men in the war with Germany: now it looks like we will lose more, in a war with our own people.”
Bogdan nods. “Now that so many men are away, a poll among the remaining Cossacks felt that Mrs Sirko should lead the Astrakhan Host. But I didn’t vote for you, Viktoriya.”
“You cheeky wretch, Bogdan! But I too was surprised at that meeting of the Host, when almost every hand in the room was raised in favor of me, and there were voices shouting ‘It pleases us for Viktoriya Sirko to act as our Ataman!’”
Bogdan grins. “They all wanted someone to boss us about…”
She pretends to ignore him. “Now – we must have tea!” She calls into the kitchen “Elena, bring the samovar into the drawing room.”
The drawing-room is large, but cluttered with ornaments and mementos; on the walls, Cossack sabres are hung alongside paintings and etchings, all showing scenes of Cossack life; riding, hunting, and military service. I think of Yuri, growing up in this house.
Mrs Sirko sees me looking at the pictures. My attention is taken by a framed photograph of a uniformed man who looks like Yuri. She comes over, and we stand side by side looking at it.
“My husband; a fine man. Clever, too: he loved his books of science and history. It is the greatest sadness of my life that I married him when I was too young to really understand him. Soon after our wedding, he entered military service, then he was here at home only for one week or so in each passing year. Then one day I got a letter to say that he had been killed, in a battle with the Japanese near Vladivostok.”
Despite her sad tale, she smiles brightly, and points out a different picture: a painting of a woman with plaited yellow-blonde hair, wearing a Cossack tunic and riding a horse. The woman carries a long, shining spear.
“That’s Alena Arzamasskaia; she was a commander of six thousand men in Stenka Razin’s war. So you see, I have my precedents as an Ataman. And then there is this! – as an American, you would like to see it.”
She shows me a newspaper article about a business delegation to Astrakhan from Massachusetts that took place in 1913. I explain to her that I’m from near Boston, and I read the article. The article is accompanied by a photo, showing Mrs Sirko shaking the hand of one of the visitors. A tall, broad-shouldered young man stands behind her and towers over her. Of course, I recognise him.
Over tea we tell her our story. There is no point in secrecy any more: I see tears in her eyes as we relate the murder of the imperial family, and she curses softly under her breath. Then she looks round at us.
“I have no words for the actions of these Bolsheviks, or the punishments that God will vent on their souls. They are sons of devils! And the Tsar and his family – they are martyrs, saints! We must organise a meeting of all the lieutenants of the Host remaining in Astrakhan. The city is under Bolshevik control – but every citizen hates them, and us Cossacks hate them most of all.”
The professor buts in. “As an outsider, madam, I would advise caution…”
“As an outsider, Professor Axelson, you are entitled to your opinion. But us Cossacks will make our own decisions, as we have always done. Now, onto more pleasant business. You see, I have a letter – from Yuri.”
I hear a noise behind me: Rufus is coming into the
house. He enters the room and bows low to Mrs Sirko before turning to the professor and me.
“I have good news and bad news. The good news is that we have some fuel. Dmitri has managed to acquire three large drums.”
“Excellent!” Axelson’s eyes light up. But Rufus goes on.
“My bad news is that the amount of fuel may not be quite enough to get us right across the Caspian Sea to Iran. You saw what happened in the desert – we can’t risk running out of fuel above the water! So we have two options. We can wait here for more fuel to become available, but Dmitri thinks that might take several days. Or we could make one more refuelling stop, somewhere further south on the shore of the Caspian.”
Mrs Sirko has put on her reading glasses: she looks at Rufus over the top of them, with raised eyebrows.
“Before you start planning your escape from Russia, young man, I think that Miss Frocester, at least, would like to hear my son’s letter. Sit, please, and have some patience.”
She picks up the letter, and begins to read.
“Dearest Mother
I hope you are well. You will be pleased to hear that I am in good health, my arm has healed entirely, and I am being well treated here in the prison at Baku.
Please do not worry on my account. I am sure that the mistake of my arrest will soon be corrected, and I will be released. And of course, the war with Germany is now over, and that means the end of my active military service. So when I am set free, I will be able to return home to you.
When I was brought here, I had a few glimpses of the sea. It was wonderful to see the Caspian again, even though Baku is a far cry from Astrakhan. But the distance is not in fact that great. So, once I am free, my journey to rejoin you will be a short one.
