Mary Nichols - The Kirilov Star

She looked at her sturdy young son and gave in. ‘I hope she does not make us miss our train.’

‘It is not due for another hour and we shall be lucky if it leaves on time. Let’s see if we can find something to eat in the station canteen.’

They had just finished their smoked fish, cucumber and pickled mushrooms when Stepan reappeared with Lydia sitting sideways on a donkey he had borrowed. Her weight was balanced on the other side with her bag of clothes. He had persuaded her to come on the promise of seeing her papa and mama soon. He crossed the square and pulled up outside the station, lifted her down, and taking her hand, led her through the crowds, searching out the gentleman, wishing he had enquired his name, so that he could ask for him. Lydia, her hand in his, stared about her, looking for her father and mother. And Andrei. He had not died, he had not shed his life’s blood all over her dress. That had been a nightmare and was not real.

‘There he is,’ Stepan said, pointing.

It was not her papa but another man, and her heart sank. Of course, Stepan Ratsin would not know her papa, would he? She pulled against his hand, still unable to utter a word to tell him he was mistaken. Words choked her. She was dragged unwillingly towards the man. He had a woman with him and a boy, a boy a little older than Andrei who was looking at her with curiosity.

The man bent down towards her. He had grey eyes and a blond beard, a kind face. ‘Are you Count Kirilov’s daughter?’ he asked.

She nodded, her features brightening just a little at the mention of her papa.

‘What is your name?’

She tried, she really tried, to say her name but all that came out of her mouth was a croak.

‘She is still in shock,’ Stepan said, shifting from foot to foot. ‘Her name is Lydia Mikhailovna Kirillova.’

‘How do you know that? Does she have papers?’

Stepan told the man everything Ivan had told him, about the count being a colonel in the White Army and sending the children off separately so as not to attract attention, how they were all supposed to meet at his izba , and about the attack in the woods – he choked a little over this. ‘As for papers,’ he said. ‘Maybe they are in her bag.’ He handed it to the man, who opened it to discover the bloodstained dress. ‘Good God!’

‘Sorry, Your Excellency.’ If it took all the bowing and scraping and ‘your excellencies’ in the world, he would do it. He took the bag from the man and delved into it but there were no papers. ‘I expect the count has them.’

Pyotr closed the bag and looked at his wife. ‘No matter who she is, we can’t leave her, can we?’

‘No, I suppose not,’ she said, putting out her gloved hand to touch Lydia’s cheek. ‘Poor little mite. My heart bleeds for her.’

Stepan bent to Lydia. ‘You go with the gentleman. He will take you to your papa and mama.’ He looked up at the man. ‘What shall I tell the count if he comes? Who shall I say has her?’

‘Baron Simenov. We are going to Yalta. If he has not caught up with us by then, we will take her to the consul. Tell him that.’

Stepan touched his forelock and was gone, mounting the donkey and trotting it out of the town. What else could he have done? he asked himself. She would be all right with the baron. He was a kindly man and you could see the baroness was very taken with the child. Yes, she would be all right. And he crossed himself.

The trains were all crammed to suffocation, but the baron found a place for them all by dint of bribing the stationmaster and giving the porter a huge tea present. Lydia, believing she was being taken to her parents, went without demur.

‘My name is Alexei Petrovich Simenov,’ the boy told Lydia, when the luggage had all been stowed in the luggage van and they had taken their seats. ‘What are you called?’

‘Lydia.’ It was so long since she had uttered anything but a terrified scream, the words came out in a whisper.

‘How old are you?’

Her brain was working so slowly it was several seconds before she answered. ‘Four.’

‘A baby, then.’

‘I am not a baby.’ This was louder and angry.

‘I am thirteen, nearly fourteen. When I am old enough I am going to join the army and fight against the Reds.’

‘Hush,’ his mother murmured, laying a gloved hand upon his sleeve. ‘We will not talk of the war.’ She turned to Lydia. ‘When did you last see your mama and papa, child?’

Lydia could not remember. It seemed an age since they had hugged her mother goodbye and driven away in the carriage, longer still since Papa had sat her on his knee and called her the star of the Kirilovs. What had Ivan Ivanovich done with Andrei? Had he taken him to Papa and Mama? Why had he left her behind? A silent tear rolled down each cheek.

‘She is crying,’ Alexei said.

‘I expect she misses her parents,’ his mother told him, handing Lydia a clean white handkerchief.

‘Where are they?’ the boy asked.

‘I do not know. I wish I did.’ The baroness sighed. She turned to Lydia again. ‘What did your papa say to you when you last saw him? Can you remember?’

Lydia shook her head, the unused handkerchief screwed up in her hand.

‘It is no good quizzing the child,’ the baron put in. ‘She is too young and too confused to understand what is happening to her. Leave her be.’

‘Then I sincerely hope Count Kirilov turns up in Yalta. I do not know what we shall do with her if he does not. She is such a strange child…’

‘Katya, I think if you had been through what she has been through you might seem a little strange,’ he said. ‘She will come out of it, eventually.’

‘What happened to you?’ Alexei demanded of Lydia. ‘Did the Reds get you?’

‘Sasha!’ his mother remonstrated. ‘Do not be unkind. Lydia has lost her brother and her nurse and is all alone. We must take pity on her. Think what it would be like if you found yourself in a strange place without Papa or me.’

All this was said in Lydia’s hearing, just as if she were deaf. She was numb with shock and misery but not deaf. ‘Mama,’ she said on a plaintive note. ‘Where is my mama?’

‘When we leave the train, she will perhaps be waiting at the station for you,’ the baroness said. ‘We do not know her, so you will have to look out for her and point her out to us. You can do that, can’t you?’

Lydia brightened slightly at the prospect. Papa had said he would be there and see them onto a ship. And perhaps Andrei and Tonya would come back to her. But deep inside her she knew that was not possible. She had seen them in their narrow boxes lowered into holes in the ground and the earth piled on top of them. People did not come back from that.

The train took them to Sebastopol, the end of the line, and it was necessary from there to find other transport to Yalta. Pyotr herded his family, including Lydia, off the train. Some of the passengers hoped to embark on ships from there, but those who had chosen to go to Yalta were obliged to wait in line for a hire carriage. Their drivers, if no one else, were pleased that the tsar’s father had refused to allow the railway line to go to Yalta on the grounds that the noise and smoke would spoil the idyll of their seaside holidays.

Yalta was a fashionable resort for Russia’s aristocracy. Here they had built palaces and villas along the coastline and bigger estates in the hills, with vine-covered terraces sloping down to the rocky shore, and here they spent their summers in idleness, riding ponies, having picnics, swimming in the warm sea. Even now, with more and more people crowding into the town and British ships standing offshore, they were not all convinced they needed to leave.

Pyotr settled them in at an already overcrowded hotel, left his wife and her French maid unpacking and took Lydia with him to make enquiries about Count Kirilov, though how anyone could find him in this crush he was not at all sure. He set off to find a British Consulate official.