The Rebel Daughters

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Seven

A nna awoke to a silence so profound she put her ear to Sofia’s mouth to make sure she was breathing. It was dark and the stove must have gone out. She should get up and fetch more logs but there would be no daylight for hours. It was warm under the bearskin and she let her mind run over the day before.

Peter had spoken from the heart and she had been unable to answer. Turning away, she had talked briefly to Sasha. He was so thin already, loose skin hung from the bones of his arms, and pity flooded her heart. She would give him all the news from home, she promised, as soon as they were allowed to visit the prison.

‘Tell Maria poor Sergei’s ill again,’ Sasha whispered as they said goodbye.

Dust choked Anna’s lungs as they made their way back. The lack of air in the mine was suffocating and she could hear the crackle of Sofia wheezing. How could men, especially those unused to manual labour, survive in such conditions? Her brother and Peter were fit and strong. They might get through the winter, but she feared for Volkonsky and Trubetskoy.

Peter hooked me like a fish, she thought, then threw me back in the water. What was I to him: an adoring younger sister, a foil for his vanity? She should be heartbroken but she was drained of all emotion. There was no anger or sorrow – not even surprise. Peter did not love her and she did not care. She didn’t care because she no longer loved him. Perhaps she had never had… I knew when I burned the drawings. I knew then nothing he said or did could hurt me again. I went on hoping because I didn’t want to let go of my dream.

Looking back over the years, she saw herself as a young, romantic girl who had fallen for the first handsome man who paid her any attention. Peter was the hero in a story she had invented to make herself happy. It was painful to realise how naive she had been. I made a picture of him and painted him the colours I wanted him to be. The person I loved was only in my imagination. I never knew him at all…

She was ashamed of her folly but was aware, too, of a weary sense of achievement that she had brought Sofia safely to Siberia. She might have died if I hadn’t been with her, she thought. We’ve come through the worst and I will never fall in love again. As God is my witness, I won’t be crushed by this.

The sky was lightening, and hunger pains sharpened in her stomach as Anna got up. She pulled on her boots and went to fetch firewood, keeping on her gloves as she went to the stove. There was a mound of red cinders and she knelt to fork the ash, then made a pile of paper and sticks and lit a flame. The oven was their only heating and must be kept going day and night. They would need more wood and she must ask Maria where to find it.

Anna fetched some frozen bread, putting it on the oven to thaw, and then set about sorting the house. She unpacked her belongings and hung the icon of Saint Anne in a corner opposite the door. When Sofia woke up, they dragged the infested mattress out of the house and Anna filled buckets with snow and brought them inside. She found two frozen partridges among the provisions and, once they were unfrozen, warmed them through. They were both starving and ate the meat to the bone before Anna boiled up the carcass for soup as Varenka had taught her.

That afternoon Katyusha Trubetskoy came to visit and her presence brought vitality and warmth.

‘Maria’s with the prison governor, trying to persuade him to give Sergei time off work. I hope she succeeds. Bernashev’s an unscrupulous scoundrel.’

‘I thought he was charmed by Maria?’

‘Only when he’s in a good mood – it usually depends on the size of bribe she offers. Everything here revolves around extortion. I take it you’ve both brought money?’

Anna and Sofia nodded. Katyusha put down her cup. ‘Keep it safe and use resources carefully. The police in Irkutsk intercept letters, so it’s not easy for our families to send more. The local people can provide most things – but you need to negotiate wisely.’

‘Sasha says Sergei has a weak chest.’ Sofia produced a phial from her medicine cabinet. ‘I recommend hyssop honey with milk. Will Maria be able to give some to him?’

‘It depends who’s on duty. Most of the guards are brutes but a few are alright. There’s a younger one we like called Anton.’

He was the one who had escorted them to the mine, Anna was sure. It would help to have him on her side.

‘We need more wood for the stove. Where can I find some?’

‘Either we have to forage for ourselves, which is difficult in these conditions – or else pay for it. Try to catch Anton’s eye, Anna Ivanova. You’re the only single lady among us. I’m sure he’ll be happy to help you.’

*

After Katyusha’s visit, their days settled into a mundane routine. At first crack of dawn, Anna warmed two loaves of bread, leaving one for Sofia before she put on her furs, gloves and boots and set off for the prison stockade. An icy wind cut into her face like shredded glass and, as she made her way down the street, doors opened, letting out steamy air and then closed again. It was too cold to be outside, but their wood was running low and success depended on getting to the prison early. She must hurry.

Her first attempt had failed dismally. The guards told her she would have to offer something more enticing than bread if she wanted their favours. Anna returned home mortified, but yesterday the young Buriat had been on duty. He took her bread and promised to find wood. He would tell her today where to collect it.

‘My cousin’s agreed to sell you provisions at a good rate.’ The guard spoke with his mouth full. ‘She admires your devotion to your husbands.’

‘I’m here for my brother, Alexander Brianski,’ Anna explained, handing over a small bag of money. ‘I believe we met the day I arrived. I’m Anna Brianski. What’s your name?’

‘They call me Anton. This is my friend, Igor.’

Both men wore bearskins over their uniforms, woollen papakha hats and heavy boots blackened with tar. Anton was good-looking, Anna thought, with his Siberian eyes, and eyebrows so thick they might have been drawn by charcoal.

‘You’re very kind. Will you be here tomorrow?’

‘We’re at the mine tomorrow,’ Igor answered with a shy glance at Anna.

‘Are you both conscripts?’

‘Goodness no! God is too high and the tsar far away from Siberia,’ Anton answered with pride. ‘We’re free people.’ Then, as Anna’s gaze wandered to the prison walls behind him, he dropped his voice. ‘We’ve got your wood. It’s hidden by a water trough in the old garrison stables. Do you know the place?’

‘Thank you.’ Anna nodded, lowering the shawl from her face and bestowed a winning smile on both men. ‘I hope we may be friends. When you’re off duty, please come and visit us.’

Later that afternoon, Anna found a pile of wood hidden under sackcloth. She loaded it onto the sledge and dragged it home through the dwindling light. There was enough to light a second stove, but nothing must be wasted. The money sewn into pockets and hems would not last forever.

By mutual agreement, Anna took charge of cooking and provisions. She bought oatmeal and mare’s milk from Anton’s cousin and made kasha, baking potatoes and bread in the hot oven. If they were lucky, Anton brought fish from Lake Baikal and pigeons from the forest, which she cleaned and plucked, burning off the feather-ends with a candle. One day he shot a deer and brought them a haunch of venison. He did what he could to help them, but there was never enough. The prisoners were malnourished and their basic fare must be shared with four men.

Only last summer, she had been a popular debutante, dancing at balls with a string of suitors in attendance. Now, her life was no different from any other peasant woman in Russia. From the moment she got up until night, Anna was occupied with manual chores. Hunger was a constant companion and she became obsessed with food. If only she had wheat flour to make dumplings! She remembered Varenka lowering them into the pan, watching as they sank to the bottom before swelling and rising to the surface. How profligate they had been in St. Petersburg! It had never occurred to her before to think of where meals came from or how much they cost. Now she thought of little else.

Instead of coffee, they drank tea infused with dried nettles. Sugar was rationed and Anna added salt drops when she felt weak. She was tormented by cravings and longed for cloudberry jam and sweet pancakes. Sometimes, when she was half-awake, she dreamt she could smell hot chocolate with cinnamon and croissants. She was hungry all the time but made sure her sister-in-law ate enough. The baby was beginning to show and, when Sofia wasn’t looking, she slipped half her food onto her plate.

They washed their clothes in water heated in the oven and rinsed them in buckets of melted snow. Sofia tried to mend the prison linen, but the rough material broke her fine needles and she had to use fish bones that blistered her fingers. There was no smoothing iron, so their clothes were crumpled. Anna’s hands became so raw the knife slipped when she was peeling vegetables, nicking the skin between thumb and finger. Nothing they had learned at home was of any use here. All her life she had had someone to help and do things for her. Anna thought of her mother, the way she moved with a swish of skirts and fragrance of lemon verbena, her pure white hands unmarked by labour. Mama had insisted on grace and modesty, but what good were pretty manners when you had to chop wood and risk the freezing cold to put food on the table? Every standard of behaviour went down before the need to survive. Only her courage and love for Sofia remained unchanged.

With Sofia’s help, she brushed out the knots in her hair and pinned it into a chignon. The women tried to maintain a semblance of dignity, but Anna was losing weight. The softness went from her face and, above her prominent cheekbones, her tawny eyes took on the look of a hungry cat. Maria was gaunt and Katyusha’s rounded features became sharp; only Sofia retained a healthy complexion.

Anna slept under a pile of blankets and furs but woke with a chill in her spine. She thought longingly of the banya – the steamy heat trickling down her thighs, sinking into the roots of her hair until every particle of dirt was washed from her pores. Over and over again she asked herself, what shall I do? I haven’t the funds to pay for a sleigh and driver further than Irkutsk. I must wait until Sofia’s confinement and then write to Mama and Papa. Surely, they’ll find a way of getting money to me? But do I really want to go home? How can I live in St. Petersburg after what’s happened? Do I have the strength to make the journey by myself? There were too many questions and no clear answers. I can only take every day as it comes, she decided. I mustn’t lose heart. Once the weather gets better and the baby arrives, I’ll know what to do then. I can’t think about the future now.

Nicholas Bulgarin had been right about many things. If he hadn’t been so sure of himself, she might have given him credit. Where was he now, Anna wondered – in Moscow or in St. Petersburg with Olga? However hard she tried to banish him, he was always there, a shadow lingering in the corners of her mind. She thought of his handsome face, long-limbed body and the warmth of his lips. She knew him from the outside, his form but not his substance. Who was he behind the facade he presented to the world? Nicholas despised sentimentality and tenderness. So, why had he tried so hard to persuade her to stay?

*

‘I may never see my darling boy again.’ Maria’s voice trembled. ‘Thank God for your picture, dear Anna. I look at his angelic face and pray for him every night.’

They were in Maria and Katyusha’s cabin with its tiny windows facing the prison walls and Anna felt her heart contract. Maria, Katyusha and Sofia are truly heroic, she thought. They’ve given up everything to live here and be close to their husbands. They never complain – how can Maria endure being separated from her only child?

Two weeks had gone by and, while Sofia visited Sasha regularly, Anna wasn’t allowed in the prison. Sofia said Sergei was still unwell and Prince Trubetskoy had begun to spit blood.

‘The tsar has ordered our husbands to work – but not to the detriment of their health.’ A spark of anger flashed in Maria’s eyes. ‘What does His Imperial Majesty think they’re doing – crochet and needlework ?’

‘He doesn’t want martyrs on his hands.’

‘Fortunately, Bernashev overestimates our importance. He’d shoot them all if he wasn’t so afraid of our connections at court.’ Maria fetched a jug of water, filled two glasses and gave one to Anna. ‘Katyusha is learning how to cook, but it’s your hard work, Anna, that keeps us alive. I don’t know how you manage it all. Do you have any time for painting?’

‘I haven’t done any since I left St. Petersburg.’

‘But it’s your vocation. You mustn’t waste your talent.’

‘I brought my paints but it doesn’t seem appropriate. I have no inspiration.’

‘I felt the same about the piano. Zinaida sent a clavichord all the way from Moscow so I should have my music, but I couldn’t bring myself to play it. It was only when Katyusha forced me to the keyboard that I started again. Now I can’t live without it.’

‘I can’t imagine there’s a queue of people wanting portraits.’

Anna gave Maria a doubtful look as her friend’s dark eyes fixed on her face.

‘Then paint or draw everything you see. Make a record of what’s happening here.’ Her cheeks turned pink as she warmed to the idea. ‘You can help us, Anna. The tsar wants the Decembrists forgotten, erased from the history of our nation. We must keep their memory alive. Images are more powerful than words.’

Could she do it, Anna wondered? She had been trained to depict what was beautiful, not the subject of nightmares. Could she recreate the horrific scenes she had witnessed? Did she have the skill and courage to convey the suffering and misery of this place?

‘I’ll send them to Pushkin, and he’ll have them printed and circulated.’ Maria’s voice was decisive. ‘The world must be told the truth. It’s in your power to make our sacrifice worthwhile.’