The Secret Wife(49)
A sob burst from Dmitri’s chest and he struggled to suppress it. His beautiful, ethereal wife knew he was here and she loved him still. It was like a chink of light in a long, dark tunnel. They must be careful not to overuse the knothole as a method of communication because if they were caught, the guards might punish her and that avenue would be closed to them. He wrote explaining that in the note he left the following morning, and when there was no reply, he guessed she understood.
Dmitri felt immensely cheered by being able to write to Tatiana. He dropped by to see Sir Thomas Preston again later in the week and mentioned he had a line of communication with the Romanovs.
‘Good,’ Sir Thomas nodded. ‘That will be useful. I also have a piece of news that may or may not be of interest. One of my staff knows a farmer, a man named Tolmachev, whose daughter is one of the cleaners at the Ipatiev House. He tells me that Tolmachev is no lover of the Bolsheviks, who have imposed all kinds of nonsensical legislation on farmers. I thought it worth noting.’
Dmitri was immediately interested. ‘Will you give me directions to his farm?’
Sir Thomas took a sip of his tea. ‘I think it would be best if my man introduces you. Next week some time. We’ll arrange it.’
They spoke of the massive changes being imposed on Russian society by the new leadership – the plans for collectivisation of industry, the enhanced workers’ rights – but agreed the immediate effect was that food prices were rising and the poor were struggling more than ever. Sir Thomas asked how Dmitri’s own family were faring and Dmitri felt ashamed as he replied. ‘My father was arrested soon after the Revolution and died in jail last winter. My mother and sisters long for me to visit but I have not … it seemed wrong to leave the Romanovs. My loyalties have been torn.’ He blushed. ‘I could not at any rate have attended my father’s funeral because we were stuck in Tobolsk until the thaw. And now, it feels as though I am more needed here than at home in Lozovotka … If only it were closer. I feel horribly guilty every time I write yet again delaying my visit.’
Sir Thomas eyed him thoughtfully, then asked: ‘Which one of the grand duchesses are you in love with?’
Dmitri was so startled, he sloshed tea into his saucer and it dripped onto his trouser leg.
Sir Thomas laughed. ‘I knew I was right! Go on, which girl?’
‘Tatiana,’ Dmitri whispered, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘And she loves me too.’
‘So she should, considering the sacrifices you are making for her. Well, I will do all I can to help.’
Dmitri rode out to Piotr Tolmachev’s farm with a man from the consulate by the name of Henderson. The farmer was working in a wheat field. When he saw them waving he pushed through the tall stalks towards the fence.
‘Have you heard the latest orders from Moscow?’ he asked, continuing a conversation he appeared to have been having with Henderson at their previous meeting. ‘I have to hand over all my excess wheat, beyond immediate needs, to a commissariat who will distribute it according to desert. Those doing hard manual labour will get the most, while those who do work that is not physical will scarcely get any. That means the likes of you will go hungry,’ he told Henderson, glancing sideways at Dmitri.
‘It sounds completely unworkable,’ Henderson sympathised. He introduced Dmitri and they talked for some time about the new economic system the Bolsheviks planned to impose countrywide, with strict quotas for every commodity.
Dmitri had not heard all the details of the new plans and was horrified at how quickly the social structure of the country he loved was being ripped to shreds. Part of him accepted that the aristocracy, of which he had been a part, had no place in the twentieth century. For a privileged family to own the land and all its products by a chance of birth, and for those not so lucky in their parentage to have to work long hours on said land and pay taxes to boot, was a recipe for rebellion. But the alternative the Bolsheviks proposed seemed childishly simplistic. If land were owned communally, how would they make everyone do the same amount of work? Who would make the investment necessary to rebuild and renovate facilities, as his father had done on their estate?
The farmer’s face was reddened by the elements but his eyes were a clear blue and his hair a short silver-grey thatch. ‘If I could afford it, I would move south to Crimea, which the Bolsheviks have been unable to take,’ he said. ‘My wife’s family comes from there and it’s good farming land. The extra hours of sunlight mean they get two harvests a year rather than our one. In Ekaterinburg we farmers are lucky to break even. I don’t know how I am supposed to find “excess” to give the state.’
Dmitri bided his time until there was a lull in the conversation, then ventured: ‘I hear your daughter works in the Ipatiev House. Does she tell you anything about the mood of the imperial family? I imagine they must be very fearful.’
The farmer shook his head. ‘Shocking, isn’t it? If the Bolsheviks have evidence the Tsar and Tsarina were traitors, let them produce it and try them in a court. If not, why can’t they be released to live in exile? Yelena, my daughter, says they are a charming family who are grateful for every little service. She feels sorry for them.’
‘Is Yelena here today?’ Dmitri asked, looking around.
‘She’s over tending to the pigs.’ He waved an arm in the direction of a shed some hundred yards away.