We had several Russian outdoor workers. They had always been friendly, but slowly this degenerated to surliness. Then our French housekeeper departed to Brussels. The kitchen, formerly so cheerful, was now less welcoming, and I ceased to go there.
Whatever Father noticed he did not disclose, though furniture was dusty, meals unpunctual and indifferently served. Behind the air, unseen eyes hovered. From Germany the Führer asserted that war is life.
Mother’s letters were regular but hurried; elegantly crested paper scrawled with perfunctory news. Berlin was ‘very interesting’, sparkling with dances, tea parties, receptions, race meetings.
The war had lapsed, with Britain and France idle, presumably bargaining for terms, Sweden a German fief. Expelled from the League of Nations, the Soviet Union was confiscating Baltic ports, aerodromes, factories, with German assent. Red Army troops paraded through Reval, the Päts government resigned and an Electoral Committee, its franchise restricted to the Workers’ Union, ordered a general election, at which it was unopposed, and a Comrade Zhadanov arrived from Moscow to assume control.
The war, however, was not quite finished. A Siegfried trumpet sounded in May: forbidden to ride east, the Knights turned west, the Wehrmacht swept across France, Paris surrendered, the British fled to their island.
Mother’s people might starve, or perish in the Reichsmarschall’s fires, clutching last shreds of grandeur, their navy sunk, the Tower mortally scorched, the King hiding in Vancouver.
The month was hallucinatory. I had seen no movies, so that Führer and Duce, Päts and Molotov, blurred by newspaper photos, were more legendary than real. The Germans must soon be reaching Dover, the Reichsmarschall, new Thor, dusting the sky with berserk ferocity and patting his lion, while Hitler jigged in Paris. All had Ragnarok allure: cities, cathedrals, opera houses in flames, salients of hell.
New Order, New Europe, we heard that Wilhelm II, ‘the Prussian’, had died, scarcely noticed, in occupied Holland. Father shook his head but said nothing. Around the Manor, Russians were occupying abandoned homes, transforming estates to collective farms, restaffing banks and schools. Churches were ransacked, pastors arrested, there was talk of hostages.
One morning, Soviet officials arrived, red-starred, red-banded, in long greatcoats despite the heat. Very polite, over-smiling, they interviewed Father. Finishing, they stretched their smiles further and delivered formal documents. Our lands were to be ‘Restored to the People’, shorn of all but the garden. Overnight, horses and cattle vanished, barbed wire surrounded us, a dark vicious birth. Our wireless was removed, ‘a worthier one’ promised. Newspapers were replaced by a single sheet, listing statistics of Soviet benefits and their 99.9 per cent majority support.
Father said we could only wait.With Britain’s surrender, things might stabilize. Throughout the long days he read incessantly, as though he might be allowed insufficient time to finish. Uncertain, desiring the warmth he could never give, engulfed in Rising Tide, I, too, read, choosing books by chance, Ernst von Salomon’s The Outlaws only for its autographed dedication to the Herr General, the author a fellow campaigner in Baltic fights with the Bolsheviks, 1919. One passage was underlined in red ink:
To force a way through the prison of existence, to march over burning fields, to stamp on ruins and scattered ashes, to storm recklessly through wild forests, over lightning-struck heaths, to thrust, conquer, devour our way east, was that what we craved? The truth I do not know, but this all of us did know. And the quest for the truth, the reason, was lost in the chaos of unremitting fighting.
Knights could still move me, exultant brotherhoods wresting themselves free of crafty menials, insidious clerks, from nothingness. I could only gaze dully from a narrow window. Forest was forbidden, the barbed wire implacable.
The inevitable, the Herr General enjoyed saying, often refuses to occur, but now it did. I awoke to disturbances below, scurried down, found uniformed Russians under the staircase, military police ringing the house. Father waited for me, holding two suitcases, the servants concerned only with holding the intruders’ caps.
Nothing was said. The Russians glanced at me indifferently, a hand jerked at the door, Father shook my hand and was gone.
Abandoned, I realized at once that the servants were spies, shedding kindliness like coats, supervised by a new Hetman, surely butcher or hangman, with red, scornful face, hands too large for his arms. I had stepped into history: rifle butts at the door, unseen tumbrels and sheds, silence.
Meals ceased to be served; instead, I must sit with Hetman, Tiv, Estonian quisling, and the last maids, Kersti and Maria Jaakson, in a dirty, flea-ridden scullery. My activities would be reported, by Tiv or the Russian sentry at the gates. Chunky, raw-eyed, this youth was friendly and knew some German. ‘They wanted to promote me. I wasn’t having it. Promotion!’ He spat, then winked. Sometimes, laying aside his gun, removing boots, he played clumsy tennis with me. Anxious to appease, I always let him win. Afterwards, we shared wine he had stolen from the cellars. Then he might stiffen into frowns and taciturnity. He, too, was watched.
A dislodged book, a missing coat or shoes, showed that the Turret, my last privacy, was no longer inviolate. One wing was now sealed up. Massive cupboards, oak chairs and table, a magisterial clock, were hacked into firewood, electricity no longer working. Most portraits followed. Never again would I salute Count Pahlen. The Rose Room was used for storage, its secret intact, Mother’s bedroom was pillaged, her skirts and underclothes flourished in drunken charades, Russians and Estonians hopping in ludicrous dances. Only the library was left undisturbed, still allowed that awesome hush, though by midwinter it must surely feed the stoves. My watch and expensive green pen were taken by Tiv.
Russian militia tramped in from searching Forest with bloodhounds. Also local conscripts; amongst them was Joones, our former timber contractor, always avoiding me.
Existing in melodrama, I was a Hamlet, menaced by worse than Rising Tide, thinking of myself as ‘He’, muttering, ‘Let him live.’
Mother’s letters ceased. She would be dancing with most interesting people, the Herr General riding with General Halder and the Reichsmarschall. A quivering bag of nerves, I cringed at threats of Soviet children’s homes, Arctic slavery, sale of my eyes to Moscow surgeries. The Reich was unconcerned. I was the property of the Father of the Russian People.
Winter approached, with outriders of sharp snow and icicles. Tiv ordered me to attend a Cultural Fraternal Exchange in the church, itself defaced by the Spontaneous Anger of the Workers. With him inscrutable beside me, I heard a wireless report of Hitler’s latest speech:
Militarily speaking, the war is over. Without allies, completely alone, England will be driven bit by bit into the ground. The American ambassador, Mr Joseph Kennedy, has already left London, acknowledging with thanks, the victory of National Socialism.
An expert followed, praising Stalin, the Glorious Friend, partner in the Pact, solid as steel. Bombs had destroyed a British troop ship, drowning thousands, applauded in the Soviet broadcasts.
My German roots and outlaw sympathies were ravaged by the Pact and I had few hopes of rescue; marvellous victories would not shower me with the benefits. England would be sterile for a century.
Lacking a mirror, I yet knew that I was pallid and tired, my hair uncropped and ragged, my expression permanently fixed, a captive’s.