flew. First, low along the river, unseen by the Reds. And then up, streaking like an arrow along the Red infantry line which escorted her with a fusillade of rifle fire. At full gallop I turned right and Dura’s hooves clattered on the bridge.
“Phew. A hell of a ride. Thank God we’re out of there. Sweet girl, Dura. Well done. But you’re a bitch for running away from me. I’ll have to work on you, and soon.”
I caught up to the battery. Examined Dura. Shrugged my shoulders in amazement. Neither she nor I had a wound. Lucky. There had been bullets all over the place.
We moved north to the village of Dolzhik. Destroyed the railroad line and went to Kazach’ia Lopan where we also did major damage to the rail lines. There were some minor engagements there. The Reds scattered. The division returned to Dolzhik.
No matter how hard we strained our ears, we could not hear any artillery to the south. Either we had gotten very far from our units or the advance of our troops, thanks to our raiding, was proceeding without the use of artillery with the Reds retreating everywhere.
We were surprised that the Reds were not harassing us, and we lived rather peacefully in Dolzhik. We were billeted in a well-kept house where I noticed a book in French in an ancient leather binding. This meant that there was an estate nearby. The woman of the house watched as I picked up the book. In answer to my question as to the existence of the estate, she feigned ignorance.
I went outside and asked the first passerby: “How do I get to the
“The main entrance is over that way, but there’s a break in the wall over there.”
The estate had been thoroughly looted, with that mindless venom which overcomes looters. Everything that could not be carried away was smashed and broken. If I can’t use it, let no one else have it.
The first thing that shocked me was a grand piano hacked to splinters by an axe. Parquet, with an inlaid pattern of dark wood, had been ripped up and left scattered: they had been searching for hidden treasure. Doors, much too large for a peasant’s hut, were hacked apart; some windows were carried away, others ripped out. Small furniture had vanished. Large pieces, chiffoniers and bureaus, were chopped up. Paintings were slashed. The portraits,
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some of them valuable, had their eyes gouged out and stomachs slashed. Porcelain was shattered . . .
This was not simple looting, but a bestial destructiveness. The ancient house was enormous, more like a palace. There is an order to looting. I have seen some fifty estates, and all were looted in the same matter.
On the top floor, apparently in the bedrooms, photographs and letters were always strewn about. The dressers had been carried off, and the letters dumped. I picked up a letter. Through it and some photographs I tried to reconstruct the past. A young woman was describing a holiday to either her friend or sister. It had been either a birthday or a name-day. “A wire was stretched between the oaks,” I read, “and multicolored lanterns were hung on it.” “It must be these very oaks,” I said to myself. “Beyond the pond there were fireworks . . .” “And there’s the pond,” I thought. “I danced with Andrei and Vasilii . . .” Which one of these elegant young officers in the photographs was Andrei, and which was Vasilii? And here, probably, was the prince himself, and the princess.
I went down a broad stone staircase into an enormous hall. To my surprise, large and beautiful tapestries still hung there. They were ancient and their fabric had deteriorated in places. Apparently the looters found them useless: “The fabric is rotten, can’t sew anything worthwhile out of them.”
There was a library one story above. Books lay in heaps all over the floor. They had been walked on. The books in old leather bindings were of no interest to anyone. The mahogany bookcases, however, had been chopped up for firewood.
I began to dig through the books. A soft coughing caught my attention. An old servant stood before me. I was embarrassed. He probably took me for a thief as well. I greeted him and asked whose estate this was. He began to speak eagerly.
This estate, the famous Veprik, had belonged for centuries to the princes Golitsyn. It had been looted many times since the revolution but was finally devastated some three weeks ago. He showed me the stables. The horses and livestock had been taken away, the fowl slaughtered. The agricultural machinery ruined. There had been a fruit orchard—only stumps were left. This was the hothouse. The princess was fond of it and came by frequently. Rare plants grew here; peaches, orchids. Everything was smashed now, the glass panes knocked out.
With a heavy heart I started for home, that is, the house of the peasant who, of course, took part in the looting. The French book was witness to that. The housewife attentively watched my facial expression and made a very good dinner. My comrades were even surprised. I explained to them that this was reparation for the looting. I felt no love at all for the Russian people. To have
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destroyed such high culture and civilization was totally mindless. They probably even cut the tapestries into foot-cloths.
I suggested to Colonel Shapilovskii that we round up the estate’s stolen horses for the battery. This would have been very easy to do. Find one horse, and all the thieves will inform on each other on the principle, “Well if they took mine, let them take Petr’s also . . .”
“That wouldn’t be bad,” said the colonel. “But we’re operating in the rear and must not provoke the local population. They supply us with information now, but otherwise they will inform the Reds.”
Vera Volkonskaia, Orphaned by Revolution
Volkonskaia’s story is one which was replicated in thousands of lives, that of children separated from their families and lost during the cataclysms of the Russian Revolution. She was an orphan with talents which unscrupulous people quickly recognized and tried to use. Her personal tragedy of this period was not her last. She was to endure the 900 day blockade of Leningrad in World War II as well. This is an excerpt from O. [Vera] Volkonskaia,
The Revolution caught us in a small town in the Ukraine where father also had to come. During the October Revolution he was labeled an outlaw, since he was a prince and jurist, and mother begged him to flee abroad. My oldest sister lived with an aunt in Petrograd and being very gifted and assiduous was studying to be an architect. She knew that she would soon have to become “the father” of our family. She had to concentrate all her powers in order to obtain a good profession. But what could be accurately foreseen in this troubled time?! A huge whirlwind
