Life Amid the Gathering Storm
“WHO CAN COUNT THE wrongs in Russia? Who can count the rights?” was the question in a popular saying among the populace, to which the answer was:
“Russia has so many wrongs in its body politic that the devil does not have enough hair on his head to count them. Yet God can count all the rights on one hand.”
No wonder, therefore, that beginning around the year 1900, the winds of change began blowing strongly. A new emerging middle class wanted representation, a voice in the Duma, emancipated serfs clamored for jobs that paid living wages; young students, incited by western ideas, espoused anarchist models of change, while an enlightened nobility foresaw a powerful Russian intelligentsia forging the nation into a European example of a great government, with thriving commerce and art. Everyone hoped for freedom of speech to think and create, while the minorities prayed for everything from incremental freedom to political self-determination.
In years to come Albina’s and Alexander’s children tried to fathom how their parents could have prepared life for a family in these days of upheaval and insecurity. And yet, for a young couple seeing only the perfection of their union, it mattered little what the rest of the country was doing.
Their corner of the world had not yet been shaken. They secretly rejoiced because Alexander had been decommissioned before the new insane conflict became a full- fledged war. They thought themselves safe so far away from St. Petersburg and the madness of the capital.
Although Holger and Victoria kept up the siren song for safety in Germany and America, the young peoples’ ears were closed to all but the words their own hearts murmured.
It had been Alexander’s dream to own a horse farm. His dream became a reality through combined effort. Holger and Count Kurakin, giving the young couple a wedding present, had kindly enlarged the small holding Alexander had bought with his savings, making it a substantial operation.
For one, Holger had found them the perfect parcel of land on the meadow side of the Volga. It was a parcel that was not only well suited to raise horses, but more important for Victoria, it was not too far from Katharinenstadt. It was a stretch of land along the Volga, extending into the steppe, belonging to the village of Schaffhausen. The parcel lay on the very outskirts of the village. It had a well, and a small stream ran through the property toward the Volga. Atop the land sat a solidly built house, which also was the last building in the village cluster.
The moment Albina saw the house she was entranced. The simplicity of its gray wooden planks, its precious little windows looking like eyes into the world and its thick roof of straw-bundles, looking serviceable and sheltering, touched her heart.
“Oh, Mother, look what I can do with this precious place,” she cried ecstatically, while Victoria thought, “Oh my, she sees everything through rose-colored glasses. How will she be able to bear this cramped, claustrophobic place? A house so unlike anything she grew up in? How will she be able to turn this into a gracious home fit for children?” And yet, there had been a time when Victoria would have been just as affected by such an honest little house.
Ignoring her mother’s concerns, Albina realized that this house was the best Alexander could afford, and even that only with her father’s and Kurakin’s help. With Alexander Grushov in the house it would always be a palace to her instead of being the gray, thatched cottage it appeared to others.
And so she began her married life at a farm where the horses had a better place to live than the people, because that is how it was. Alexander had sunk every one of his kopeks into great stalling and a few head of exquisite breeding stock. From England he’d bought a few thoroughbred mares which he hoped to cross with a prize Arabian stallion for a horse of good size, but with a short-coupled, stronger back, stronger hocks and greater intelligence. He had confided to Albina that such a horse would be an instant favorite with the army and the gentry, for they would need less feed than the larger Thoroughbreds, would have greater endurance and be an all-around more versatile animal.
The thought of asking her husband to improve their barren house, to make it more comfortable and more attractive, never occurred to Albina. To her it was a small castle, precious, their own. However, she would not have been a woman had she not put her own grace note onto this song. From her mother’s storeroom she’d received precious fabrics, damasks, brocades, and tapestry materials, which she instantly, with the help of a local seamstress, turned into pillows, curtains, cushions, and spreads.
Victoria had also given her some very fine pieces of furniture and was surprised upon her first visit to note that these things were not at all incongruous looking in their poor surrounding. Quite to the contrary, placed in the right space, with a rug beneath or a work of art above, these furnishings received a quiet dignity from their humble surroundings and in turn ennobled the simple abode.
To Albina’s delight Alexander noticed every minute improvement she made in the small house, leading her to remark, “And I always thought that you only had eyes for good-looking horses and pretty girls, and in that order.”
“No, not pretty girls. There is only one beautiful girl in my world,” he said seriously and was rewarded with a kiss.
Albina could have easily hired help for many of her chores, for her parents had set her up with a substantial account to grant her independence, yet she chose to perform most work herself. She looked after her poultry and her cows; she planted her garden, she cooked, cleaned and preserved. And yet, compared to the average settler woman, her life was easy. Not for her the mucking out of stalls, the bending for days in the fields, raking hay or tying sheaves of grain; no, her life was one of relative ease.
She and Alexander loved living in Schaffhausen. It was a thriving community of about 4500 souls. The features making the village so very attractive to the young Grushovs were its extreme cleanliness, its flowers, shrubs and trees.
Through the accident of growth, the church, once standing in splendid isolation at the end of the village as in so many German villages, had become the center of the community. It had been placed many years ago atop a slight rise of a few feet, and the extra height allowed it more prominence than it would have had otherwise.
As the village grew, additions had been made to the former humble wooden church, until now it was a substantial structure with a stone bell tower. However, the great services for high holy days were performed in the grand Lutheran church in Katharinenstadt, which drew congregants from miles around. It was not unusual for a Lutheran family to spend almost the entire Sunday, riding in a cart to and from this city for two to three hours of service and religious communion.
Founded in 1767 by 87 people in a location that precluded any kind of farming success, Schaffhausen had been re-located to its new site above Saratov where, beginning with Katharinenstadt, it sat as the last in a row of village pearls on the Volga bank. Here, with better soils, the small community had begun to prosper.
Another attractive feature was Schaffhausen’s proximity to Saratov and Katharinenstadt. The Grushovs could partake in some of the fine entertainment and social life in these cities. One of the amenities of such a location was the availability of new books that came to the Lower Volga. Whenever the young couple enjoyed a rare leisure evening during which Grushov was able to keep his eyes open, the couple read by electrical light. Modern times had arrived at the Volga, and they now owned a gasoline- driven generator, providing them electricity for a few hours each day.
Albina had used a freestanding bookshelf, filled to the brim with their favorite books, to separate their eating space from the primitive kitchen, because she could not abide the look of the old black iron stove therein. The stove still worked as well as on its day of conception. Alas, its exterior, dark, burned, and gruesome, annoyed Albina constantly, for it was always in her view.
“I am sorry, mein Lieber,” she told Grushov, “but the stove must go as soon as we can afford another.” Alexander promised that the stove was high on his list of priorities. However, first a few foals had to be born and raised to be sold at a profit.
Soon after their conversation Albina forgot all about the stove and its annoyance because more important matters entered into her life. She had invited her parents, her brother Martin who happened to be visiting the Lower Volga, and her sister Barbara, to a Sunday mid-day dinner.
The Germans loved nothing better than a wonderfully prepared meal after a good Sunday sermon. Preparations for the Grossen Schmaus, the grand feast, began already the night before. The Knödel, dumplings, the red cabbage, and the soup to be consumed on Sunday were prepared, at least in part, Saturday night. But the goose, chicken or pork roast, were lovingly placed in the oven only minutes before the service.
For her first great meal in her new home Albina had prepared potato Knödel, sauerkraut, roast suckling pig and a truly huge Schokoladentorte for dessert. She had covered her large simple table with her best tablecloth, a linen and lace cloth from Bruges, and set it with her finest dishes, Meissen, bequeathed to her by her grandmother Adela.
When her family entered the cottage after the Sunday church service they delicately sniffed the air, inhaling the enticing aromas of sweet roasting flesh contrasting with the hearty, acidic smell of the sauerkraut.
“What’s the occasion for such a heavenly feast?” cried Martin, discerning purpose behind her efforts.
“Oh, nothing in particular,” smiled Albina mischievously, her eyes belying her words.
She had placed a beautiful bouquet of flowers, arranged in the Biedermeier style, surrounded by a white collar of lace paper, in a pretty vase and set it in the middle of the table.
The moment everyone had taken a seat around the table, Alexander Grushov, attired in the comfortable clothes of a country gentleman, gray breeches, rust wool sweater over white shirt and gray wool vest, went around the table, filling precious goblets with a special old red wine which flowed thickly as blood.
Finding his own seat, he stood, raised his glass and said, “It gives Albina and me the greatest pleasure to announce to you as the first people that a new little Grushov will be with us in seven months.”
There were happy shouts all around the table, loudest of all was Martin’s, “Hurrah, I will be an uncle.” Victoria, across from Albina, pressed a small handkerchief to her eyes because tears of happiness flooded her eyes, while Holger beamed from ear to ear.
SCHAFFHAUSEN
Over time he had come to appreciate his son-in-law as a serious, wholesome, dependable man, and the manner in which he had made this important announcement to the family bore out this evaluation. He stood, facing Grushov, and said, “When I welcomed you into our family I knew little about you and wondered how you would fit into a clan of another culture. Well, you have acquitted yourself well, and you have become as dear to all of us as our own children, brothers and sisters. Let me be the first to congratulate you and Albina on your first child and our grandchild.” He dabbed his eyes and murmured, “So much happiness, so much happiness!”
Much handshaking, hugging and backslapping concluded the dinner, whereupon the men retired to the stables where they viewed Grushov’s horses with knowing eyes, commenting on the paternities of the new generation of foals. While they then smoked, seated under an arbor, the women inside discussed baby clothes, cribs and upon whom to bestow the honor of providing the dress for the christening, an honor Victoria won hands down.
The child, anticipated with so much love and joy, was born in January 1914. The little boy was very large and healthy, giving his young parents many sleepless nights together with days of great joy.