PART VI After The Tragedy (continued 2)

We passed a lovely square with beautiful trees where the Lermontov monument stood. Descending, we passed Sadovaya Avenue. It reminded me of the Sadovaya in Tsarskoe Selo. The canal, the pond, the orangeries, the Chinese Village, the Siberian blue bridge and the palace all came to my thoughts.

The truck rolled on. Nikolai glanced at me. I knew he felt sorry for me. Both men watched me tenderly giving every kindness to make up for the loss I had had some weeks ago. I was appreciative of all their attentions and hoped to cause them no unnecessary trouble.

When we passed Tambov, Alexander said he had some friends in Voronezh; perhaps we could get a little rest there. We arrived in Voronezh in the afternoon and stopped in front of the Convent of St. Mitrophanes. With my companions’ consent, I walked into the convent and asked if I might rest there for a few hours, while Alexander and Nikolai went to see their friends and a doctor. Here the kind nuns washed my clothes and prepared a hot bath for me, washed my hair, and dressed the sores on my leg which looked infected.

In about three hours, when I was ready to leave, they packed some food for us, all they could spare. While I prayed with the nuns, I was seized by a most extraordinary feeling. Three times I felt a breeze flying over my shoulders. My lips froze, I turned around and sensed nothing. In my mind I saw my family in the church in Tsarskoe Selo, entering through the small side door the Feodorovsky Sobor where we prayed with our beloved escort. The choir in the Feodorovsky Sobor with its beautiful voices sang throughout with such perfection that one wished it would never come to an end. I also saw my loved ones in Tobolsk in the winter church. Coming back to present surroundings, I realized that I stood alone among a few humble women. There was only a murmur of voices within these sacred walls. I thanked God for the kindness I had received in this convent. My heart found peace and I felt refreshed. I often wondered if they knew who their guest was.

As I came out of the convent, I was horrified to see Alexander approaching, his face pale, grief-stricken and excited. He said, “There is no use going to the Crimea. I have just heard from responsible sources that your Grandmother, both aunts, their husbands, and all their children have been killed. We also learned from a relative that Vostorgov (a high clergyman in Moscow), together with a great many others, were assassinated last month. Among them were the young Ministers Maklakov and Khvostov, who had replaced the old Minister Goremykin, Minister of the Interior.”

That Khvostov’s wife, Anastasia, had been shot in Moscow, I had learned previously. I could not cry but shook as if in a state of fever. All this distressing news pointed out our own danger. I had hoped that in a week I would be in the Crimea with my relatives.

We heard, too, what had happened in Sevastopol. The revolutionists had killed and tied stones to the feet of the young cadets and thrown them into the Black Sea. Their disappearance was a mystery until a young woman on her way to market saw some bodies and reported them. She was turned away from the scene and was not allowed to enter the street where the bodies were seen. Later a diver went down and came up screaming. “They are alive and walking on the bottom of the sea,” he claimed. He had lost his mind. A second diver discovered the bodies were upright; heavy stones were tied to their feet and the waving motion of water made them look as if they were walking.

Only fate helped me to listen with fortitude to this heartrending news about my relatives. Later I learned that the report about them was not true.

Alexander had also heard that late one night in June, 1918, Uncle Misha and his English secretary, Nicholas Johnson (who thought his presence might help the Grand Duke), were taken away into the woods near Perm, and mysteriously disappeared. Unfortunately they had been executed, as I learned much later.

Father was right, the taste of blood begets an epidemic.

Having heard all this about the Crimea, we knew that going there was out of the question, so we did not, as originally planned, go through Tula, which, I was told, seemed like our best route. We went instead to Kursk where Nikolai delivered the truck. While he was delivering it, we purchased some food. The price of bread was not so exorbitant, but we paid outrageous prices for the other products. Now we were headed for the Rumanian border.

When we first started this trip we passed mountainous fir-clad country—with many ravines. Now the country was much flatter and dotted with many granaries. We walked through forests and cut through the muddy wheat fields. We rested, then walked some more. We slept in farmers’ sheds on straw, glad of any place to keep dry, as it rained almost every day. We crossed railroad tracks, we saw rusty freight cars full of sacks of wheat. All were moldy, and the wheat was growing through the burlap sacks while the people were starving, forbidden to take this grain. Later on, when we ran out of food, Alexander bought some wheat from a farmer and both men ate a little of it. I would have eaten some, too, if I could have chewed it. The grain swelled inside of them and both men were uncomfortable, drinking water whenever they could. We heard that many had died who had eaten raw wheat.

We were not far from Kremenchug (on the east bank of the Dnieper) where, according to a letter we had received in Tobolsk, Lili Dehn was living. I would have liked to join her. Fighting was going on in the area. We continued our westward trek.

Many citizens in order to disguise their identity lived in charred railway cars. The walls were patched with canvas, the only protection against cold and heat. Many children were born on these cars, and died there as a result of exposure and lack of food. No one claimed the bodies of the dead which were buried in shallow graves near the railroad tracks. Many grain elevators were filled with charred corpses. The foreigners seemed well-fed and well-dressed; they received all the best attention. This was the “liberty” that Kerensky—and later the Bolsheviks—had championed, polluting the minds of the people.

As we continued on our way Nikolai and I noticed that Alexander was lagging behind. Nikolai stopped to examine him and found a pus spot on his shirt, just below his waistline on the left side. His wound was infected again. Fortunately, he had an effective salve with him which they applied and then bandaged the wound. We hoped that it would tide him over until we could get to a doctor. We gathered some leaves and made a bed for him. I put my shawl over him as he stretched out on the wet leaves. Nikolai and I sat beside him, hoping he would be able to reach the next village. I would have given my right arm and eye to save this good friend.

We were surprised to learn from the crackling noise of branches that there were other people in these woods. The footsteps came closer and suddenly two men walked up to us. They seemed to be afraid of us. When they saw us they started to go back in the same direction they came from.

“Come and join us,” said Nikolai in a friendly tone of voice.

“Is anything the matter?”, asked one of the men in a language we recognized as Serbian.

“Our friend’s wound has opened and is infected,” said Nikolai, “and we do not know what to do.”

The Serbian, in broken Russian, suggested that, when night came, we take our patient to the nearest house. He volunteered to look for and find a house. While we waited for his return, we talked with the other man and found that he was a Croatian. The two of them had not been able to get on the train in Kursk and had started to walk to the border. Both had been officers in the last war. One fought on our side, the other fought on the enemy’s side. Now they were on their way to their respective homes.

The Serbian returned in about an hour. He had located a house not too far away. At dusk the Serbian and Nikolai helped Alexander to his feet and supported him all the way to the house.

It was a thatched-roof, white-washed house in which a young woman about thirty-five years old lived with her four children. The little boy, five years old, with his blond curly hair and big gray eyes reminded me very much of Alexei at that age. I was drawn to him at first sight, especially when he looked at our invalid and asked, “Is the father ill?” His own father had been wounded in the war and they hoped he would get home soon. He imagined that his father had been ill the same way.

Small as the house was, we all spent the night there. We two women slept in one room with all the children, the men in the other room. By morning our invalid felt much better. We lingered all day to make sure that he was capable of continuing the trip. The woman was most generous. She shared with us her scanty food. To avoid the heat of the day the Serbian and the Croatian planned to start on their way in the early evening. When Alexander heard about their leaving, he insisted that Nikolai and I go with them. We protested, but he said his temperature was normal and the little mother promised to give him the best of care. He assured us everything would be easier if we obeyed him. Finally we were convinced and reluctantly left him with the promise that as soon as we were over the border, Nikolai would come back for him.

XXXIII ESCAPE

Now when an opportunity presented itself, it must not be rejected. The four of us struck out on foot about ten in the evening. I cried all night, recognizing that we had left our dear friend to die when he needed us most. We walked all night until the next noon, through wheat fields, hoping to find some peasant home where we could get some food. We had had our last meal just before we left the peasant woman. On the way we had no breakfast or lunch, and not enough money for train fare, nor did Nikolai and I have documents to permit our crossing of the border.

It became unbearably hot. A good farmer provided us with food and shelter for the night. We slept till the following morning, then started out again. The farmer’s news was most alarming. He said that the war was continuing. Socialism was spreading to Austria and Germany. Crimes were increasing daily. Criminals were even crossing the border to Russian territory to commit their killings and robbings.

A third prisoner, who had been in the Austrian army, was the last to join us. He had a supply of food which he shared with us. As we came closer to the border, the number of refugees increased, and there was more apprehension. Nikolai expressed fears that we might be turned away from the border, or might even be put into prison. I was prepared for any eventuality. One thing I was sure of: I would never let anyone know who I was.

We finally emerged from that gruesome forest. We crossed a small stream where we drank some water and filled our bottle. As we continued our journey, the Serbian officer began to question me. He asked me so many questions, I was afraid he was suspicious. Nikolai, too, became anxious about these conversations. He said he would go ahead and walk with the Serbian to find out what was in his mind; in the meantime I walked with the Croatian and the former Austrian soldier. Finally Nikolai returned, satisfied and said, “He knows the facts, but will not betray us, I am sure.” The Serbian was a loyal friend, offering considerable protection to me all the way. When we were near the border, he scouted ahead to see what could be done to make the crossing successfully. Nikolai made an arrangement with the Austrian soldier as to where, in case of separation, he could find us.

We were in constant sight of many refugees in rags, the children undernourished, thin and ill. We heard that the German armies were still in Kiev. We saw troop trains going by. Many people were on the way to the border, wearing garments partly military, partly civilian. People were being arrested because they had no passports. Our latest companion was helpful in directing us to the border. He had fought on the Austrian front and was himself on his way to Bukovina. Now we were five, approaching dangerous territory. Two had been prisoners of war and had the necessary documents for crossing the line. The Serbian had his papers. It was suggested that I pose as the wife of one of them for the purpose of entering Rumania. The Serbian would not do; the Croatian would be better. He had been on the German side. Nikolai would be my brother.

At this time we were tired and hungry. We had not eaten in the past twenty-four hours. We located another peasant who furnished us with food but was not able to give us lodging.

Nikolai spotted a haystack. I climbed on top and covered myself with hay. The four men slept at the base of it. I was sound asleep when I was suddenly awakened by a terrific clap of thunder. The rain began to pour. The lightning was frightening. The men called to me to come down. By the time I slid down to the bottom, my clothes were soaking wet. All five of us dug our way into the hay and remained there huddled, warm and steamy until we fell asleep. It must have rained for hours, coming down in sheets. When we were ready to walk again, the fields were a mass of mud and water. My ankle bothered me considerably. Poor Nikolai carried me over the mudholes, up to his knees in water. Many times we were glad that our invalid friend was not with us; he could never have survived the strenuous trip. Every time I stepped, mud oozed out of my boots and my leg hurt. On top of all the trouble I was seized with a terrible itch all over my body, adding a great deal of discomfort to the usual fatigue. Squirming around in my loose-fitting garments did not relieve the itch. Now something new had to be endured. All this may have been due to some poisonous weed in the hay. I was miserable and hungry, having had no food all day. It was decided that in case of separation at the border, Nikolai would follow with Alexander in four or five weeks, and that he could find me through the Austrian soldier.

I had given Nikolai endless messages to give to Alexander. I wanted Alexander to know how grateful I was and how close I felt toward him, for saving my life. It was hard to say good-bye to Nikolai since he was the last link with my beloved Russia. I wanted to throw my arms around him and say a prayer of thankfulness for all the sacrifices he and Alexander had made for me. I felt sure in my heart that the separation was to come soon. He warned me not to cry in case his escape should fail, but to walk away as if I were following my husband. As we continued through the muddy fields, we found some tiny potatoes, which the rains had washed to the surface. We rubbed off the soil and ate them raw. At dusk we were practically at the border. The Ukraine was still occupied by Germany. It was our luck; one month later the uprising was in full swing in Germany.

My face was swollen and covered with small red pimples.

The Serbian had just returned from a scouting search when suddenly we heard the command, “Halt. Where are you going?”

“We are going to a doctor,” answered Nikolai.

“All of you? And for what?” said the guard.

“Look at the lady for our answer,” said Nikolai.

“It looks like cholera. Who are you?” asked the guard.

“Her brother,” said Nikolai, and the Croatian assured the guard that he was my husband. Three of them, the Serbian, the Croatian, and the Austrian soldier produced their papers.

Facing Nikolai, the guard persisted, “Where are you from?”

“The village over there,” answered Nikolai, pointing back. “There are whole families ill, all needing medical care. When we obtain some drugs we will return to the village. We must locate a doctor soon.”

“What doctor?” asked the guard.

“There used to be a doctor over the bridge,” said the Serbian, pointing straight ahead.

“But you cannot go that way. It is under German occupation. Do you really know a doctor?”

“We’ll surely find one.” Nikolai retorted.

“But you absolutely cannot cross here,” said the guard pointing to Nikolai.

“How far are you going?” the guard turned to the Croatian. “How soon will you be back?” he inquired. “You are all right, but where are your wife’s papers?”

“Does she need papers to see a doctor?”

The questions were answered, but no one heard or cared what they were—we were all but drowned in the terrific rain.

“All right, go on.” said the guard at last with a gesture of hopelessness, “but be back in one hour.” He turned to Nikolai saying, “Not you!”

So only four of us crossed the bridge. The flimsy, temporary structure shook as we did so. We glanced into the waters below but saw nothing in the darkness. All nature was angry.

I had made a cross in the air as Nikolai and we others parted in the dark. Only his shadow was running away, in order to escape the guard. I prayed to God that He might spare him and that Alexander, Nikolai, and I would meet again.

Now we were to face a new hazard. As we approached the demarcation line several soldiers approached us, asking where we were going. The two former prisoners of war spoke German and presented to the guards their papers. They were in order. Turning to me, the Croatian said that I was his wife. The Serbian, too, showed his papers. After hours of conversation and questionings and waiting, an officer arrived to say that everything was in order. I was to be permitted to enter Bukovina.

Now I was having my last look toward my troubled country, leaving it to the darkness of night.

When this long journey had started I had had no real wish to leave my country. I was ill in body and soul. I needed rest and quiet. My resistance was low. I wished for security. Willy-nilly, I went along with my early companions, then with Alexander and Nikolai, and lately with my new acquaintances.

With quivering lips, I had now left behind me the land I loved so much, and, somewhere in the wilderness, the remains of my beloved family. There were, also, Alexander and Nikolai. With deep feeling I had left all the tragedies behind.

God wanted it that way—to lay their swords and their lives at the altar of their country. May He grant them rest in Heaven. Father departed with his family very young, but in true Christian faith and fidelity to Russia. Now free from the cruel human lies, injustices and misunderstandings, he left the world not in pomp and glory, but in greater glory. He died for his country and his people whom he loved best.

With these thoughts in my mind I left behind the land of my heritage forever.

XXXIV REFUGE

The rain came down in torrents and washed my tears from my sunken cheeks. Now I was alone with strangers. As we walked away from the border, we were drenched, hungry, and tired, with no prospect of a place to sleep. We spied a faint light ahead and hurried toward it. The man of the house would not accept Russian paper money. At that point the Austrian soldier produced some of his money, which he had been saving, and bargained with the proprietor for us to stay briefly, hoping that I would feel better quickly. I consulted the woman whom we also saw about my itching. She suggested pouring sour milk over a bed sheet and rolling me in it. This she did so completely that only my eyes and mouth were left uncovered. The only unaffected parts of my body were the palms of my hands and soles of my feet. This treatment brought great comfort and relief. My leg was better, though still swollen.

I was ready to resume my travel. The woman provided us with sufficient food to last for several days’ journey. She also gave me some rags with which I wrapped my feet so that they would not slide around in my boots. We passed many wheat fields and woods of tall oak trees; many had been uprooted and were lying dead, leaving big holes in the ground which were now filled with water and mud. The trenches were uncovered and deserted and the rain made rivers of them. The war had turned this area into a battleground. We could see pieces of clothing, brass artillery shell cases, chains, pieces of iron and other odds and ends of metal buried in the trunks of trees—mute testimony to the destructive power of artillery. Tragedy was all around us. Rains had washed away the traces of blood shed here during the past four years. Suddenly I spied a geranium plant in the midst of the holocaust. Here and there were pieces of blankets and abandoned, rusty canteens.

Unexpectedly, here something gave away under my feet, uncovering some leaves. I screamed. It was a pair of feet—the flesh was all gone, just bones. They fell apart under the impact of my weight. The others responding to my scream came over and removed the leaves from the sunken body of a Russian soldier. His uniform was so rotted and stained, it was impossible to tell that he was an officer, but a rusty watch was still wrapped around his wrist bone. The woods showed all kinds of tragedies.

Father knew this battlefield as he himself had been shelled several times while inspecting the troops. For this he and Alexei received their St. George decorations. Father had had his to the last day. He knew the devotion and bravery of his men, those heroes who sacrificed everything. In the end they, too, paid with their lives, making room for Lenin and Trotsky.

The day before the war in 1914, I dreamed that woods like these I had just crossed were in flames, the fire was red and went high up to the sky. I heard the crackling of the trees. I knew then that the war was unavoidable, especially when in the evening for the first time Father appeared late for dinner. Now I recalled my dream as I saw this place of suffering. In distress I left the touching scene.

The men carried me through the deep mudholes, taking turns. I worried that I was too heavy. Actually I weighed only forty kilograms, not quite ninety pounds. The latest companion to join us, the Austrian soldier, had been stationed in these parts with the Austrian army and knew well the nearby villages. Moreover, he himself came from this part of the country. He volunteered to be our guide. A day or two later, in the afternoon, we came to a stretch of woods where we saw some women picking yellow mushrooms.

A young woman among them already had her baskets full. We spoke to the young woman who said she was going home, part way to the nearby village.

We joined her. The men carried her baskets. The odor of these mushrooms brought back gnawing memories. Toward the end of the day, we reached the village. The Austrian soldier knew this village, having relatives here. Through him we were able to be taken care of for the night. He went into the house while we waited outside. An elderly woman came out and in a Slavic language I understood, said, “Come in, my child, I hear you have an injured foot. I know you are hungry. I will have supper ready for you in a minute.” She seemed so clean and kind and motherly, I was drawn to her immediately. We followed her into the house and there we met her daughters who also welcomed us.

I sat on a low stool shivering, while one of the girls took off my muddy boots and the other brought pails of water from outdoors which they poured into a large kettle on the wood-burning stove. My muddy stockings were stuck to my feet. Warm water was poured over them to take off the worst of the plastered mud. The mother took a sharp knife and scraped some salt into a fresh pail of warm water to serve as disinfectant. By the time we finished with my foot, the supper was ready. It consisted of warm mamaliga—a yellow mush made out of maize—with warm milk poured over it. It was a new dish to me, but nothing ever tasted better.

The mother examined my wound. While she washed it a tear dropped on my ankle. Our eyes met. “I think it will be all right, I do not see any infection.”

The warm milk soon stopped the chattering of my teeth. The good girls had already made up a bed for me: a small wooden bed with linen sheets spread over a narrow mattress. They had hardly left the room when I was fast asleep. The girls shared the same room with me, but I was not aware of them. When I woke up the next day, the girls told me that the men had been waiting for me since eleven in the morning.

“What time is it now?” I asked.

“Four in the afternoon,” they laughed. “Several times the men came in and looked to see if you were asleep or dead, and were reassured.”

Evidently I felt safe at last. The girls told me excitedly that the men had slept in the barn and later had helped their mother clean the stable. The Germans had left her one horse and one cow, confiscating all the rest of the livestock before the Russian invasion, fearing that the Russians would take it.

When I started to dress, to my surprise I could not find my wet travelling clothes. Instead of my clothes I found a new outfit: everything from a cotton dress to a pair of shoes. This humble family had presented me with Sunday clothes belonging to their youngest daughter, six months my junior.

I located the men in the garden eating half-dried plums still on the trees. They were relaxed, free and happy after getting me safely across the border.

I, too, was relaxed and free.

At long last I had found a peaceful refuge with this unknown but friendly family which had taken me into its midst and made me a welcome member.

It was October 24th, 1918 ... for me a new day ... and the beginning of a new life.