Though Miss Fields did her best to keep me occupied, she couldn’t be everywhere at once. There were times I was able to sneak off and witness scenes that remain etched in my memory all these years later, like films I’ve replayed countless times. Scenes such as the Volodnovs and Papa, walking through the alley of fruit trees behind the house. Mr. Volodnov trudged ahead, looking for a ripe pear to eat, and Papa offered an arm to Mrs. Volodnova. She stepped closer, tilting her head, whispering so that her lips nearly touched Papa’s ear. I knew there was something odd about the way they were standing, with her body twisting like a vine around his. Papa looked flattered and sad at the same time—how was that possible?—and Mrs. Volodnova dipped her mouth closer to his neck, and then Mr. Volodnov called out from close by. Papa and Mrs. Volodnova pulled apart, suddenly and silently, and by the time Mr. Volodnov joined them, it was as if I’d imagined the whole thing.
Another day, I saw Mama and Alek sitting on a log by the river, their feet in the water. Mama had pulled her skirt up to her knees and taken off her stockings; I remember the shock of her white legs and girlish pose. I crouched behind a tree and watched as Mama burbled and laughed; I wasn’t close enough to understand what she was saying. Alek watched her and listened, his mouth curved in the barest suggestion of a smile. When my legs began to cramp, I crept away, feeling as if I’d witnessed a scene from a play that I’d arrived at late and been forced to leave early.
Other moments I remember as images frozen in time. Miss Fields watching Sergei and Alek as they conferred at a window, while Mama watched Miss Fields. The two Piotrs, holding hands in the woods and talking in close-up whispers. Piotr the Brown cornered by Princess Nemerova after supper, her fingers dancing at the edge of his sleeve; Piotr the Blond sulking at the other side of the room. Mr. Volodnov placing his hand on his wife’s backside and giving it a decisive, possessive squeeze.
For the most part, I found such incidents amusing—adults acting like children. Other things I saw were more disturbing, for they underscored how much I still didn’t know. Sergei pacing the garden and turning away when I waved. It was the first time he’d ever shunned me, and the rejection stung like a slap. Mama crying, not in her usual dramatic, self-pitying fashion, but quietly by a tree at the side of the house, mouth pressed shut, her emotions channeled into the tears that trickled down her face. I was always the first to hug and comfort Mama when she got in one of her moods, but that day, I knew instinctively to stay away.
Worst of all was the day I spied on Vasily. My brother loved the country, and he was always off riding or hunting, manly activities I was never invited to share. When I saw his horse sauntering by the rye fields one afternoon, I was pleasantly surprised. Maybe I could convince Vasily to take a walk with me. As I drew closer, I heard a pained, grunting noise coming from behind a cluster of bushes. Was Vasily hurt? I began walking faster, until I could see around the edge of the branches. Vasily was on the ground, lying on top of a peasant girl I’d never seen before. Her face, turned upward, was slack and uninterested. Their clothes obscured the actual specifics of the act, but I could see Vasily pumping his hips up and down, and I knew—in the most general terms—what they were doing. As Vasily’s breaths grew more frenzied, I turned away, embarrassed for him and myself. If I took the path back to the house, he might see me, so I snuck into the rye instead. A short while later, Vasily pulled himself onto his horse and rode off. The girl stood and straightened her dress. She had broad cheeks and a flat nose; she wasn’t ugly, exactly, but none of her features were in any way noteworthy. There was nothing to explain why my brother would have chosen her.
The girl passed directly in front of me, walking toward the village. She held a piece of cake with pink icing, the same cake we’d had at the end of our midday dinner. It must have been a gift—or payment?—from Vasily. The girl thrust the cake into her mouth and devoured it in a few ravenous bites, as if she feared it would be snatched away. It was disgusting—she was disgusting—and my feelings about what happened in those bushes became indelibly entwined with my feelings for the village as a whole. My perfect brother couldn’t be blamed; he’d been tricked into sinning.
I never told Vasily what I’d witnessed, and so it became just another of the secrets that simmered that summer. None of which had anything to do with me, I thought, until late July, when Miss Fields told me she was leaving. The news was so unexpected that I couldn’t believe it, even when I saw the packed bag in her room.
“Why?” I demanded.
“You’re getting too old for a governess. There are some very good finishing schools in Saint Petersburg, I hear.”
“I don’t want to go to school!” I protested, but Miss Fields cut me off with an abrupt shake of her head.
“It’s what your parents want. I wish I could stay, but it’s not possible.”
Though I’d never seen Miss Fields and my parents so much as disagree, I understood what her words implied: she’d been dismissed. Why? I tried to take Miss Fields’s hand, but she turned deftly aside and reached for her hat. Pushing down her emotions as she pinned it in place.
“Can I write to you?” I asked.
Miss Fields gave me a wan smile, the kind adults give children when they talk about imaginary friends.
“I don’t know where I’ll be living, just yet.”
A tremor of worry flashed across her face, and I was bewildered again by the suddenness of her departure. What was the rush? Why wasn’t Miss Fields at least given time to find a new position?
“I’ll tell you what,” Miss Fields said. “I’ll write you first, when I’ve gotten settled.”
I remembered the illustration from Emma and pictured the two of us walking together through a country town. Someday, I told myself, I would find a way to visit Miss Fields. This wouldn’t be our final goodbye.
When the carriage was ready to take Miss Fields to the train station, I obeyed her final command and didn’t cry. The sobs came later, when I flung myself down on her lumpy bed, in the back room that was so much gloomier than she deserved. Mama tried to comfort me, with tentative pats on the back, but ignored my pleas that she tell me why Miss Fields had gone. Grief moved through my body in waves of pain, leaving me hollow.
Priyalko felt desolate without Miss Fields, and other losses were soon to come. On August 1, Germany declared war on Russia, and Papa and Vasily left for Saint Petersburg soon after. Vasily was exhilarated by the prospect of being a real soldier at last; Papa was more wary, yet resolute about doing his duty. Sergei dashed off letters to European correspondents, telling Mama it was all such a waste and gloomily setting off on walks by himself. As our guests packed up and left, Yuri grumbled to Mama that the army had better not call up any of Priyalko’s men before the harvest was in. With fewer meals to prepare and more time on her hands, Elena baked elaborate treats for my afternoon tea, treats I was too dispirited to enjoy. Sergei gave me only a perfunctory goodbye when he left a few days later. Once, I would have been hurt by his lack of interest in me. But I’d been hardened by the loss of Miss Fields, and I didn’t cry.
During all the suffering to come, I hardly ever cried.
LONDON
1938