Читать книгу Cities of Refuge - Philip Gibbs - Страница 7

Table of Contents

“This is my idea of Paradise,” said Michael, after three days on the island of Prinkipo.

He stood on the edge of that island, looking across the glittering waters of the Bosphorus to a dream city softly pencilled against a pale-blue sky. The domes and minarets of Stamboul were vague and insubstantial through the sunlight. The white houses of Pera were faintly visible above the dark-green foliage of their gardens.

Michael’s sister Olga, a year older than himself, was sitting on the roots of an olive tree which overhung the water, dabbling her bare feet in the tiny waves ruffled by a cool breeze. The sunlight touched her hair. She had the blonde hair and blue eyes of German ancestors, unlike Tania, who was darker, with a touch of Tartar blood according to family accusation. Tania was above them on the grass, lying at full length with her thin white legs stretched out. She was approaching her seventeenth birthday and was thoughtful for her age.

Olga answered that remark of her brother’s.

“It’s not too bad for a few days. But it’s more like a gipsy camp than Paradise, Michael. I would rather be in Constantinople, over there, having a look at life. I want to plunge into life with a capital L.”

Michael laughed quietly.

“There’s time enough for that, Olga! It’s going to be a rough business presently. We shall know what poverty means. I’m quite happy here.”

“It’s going to be a great adventure, this life,” said Olga. “Thank God I’m rather beautiful. That gives me a chance.”

Michael glanced sideways at his sister, with an indulgent smile. Yes, she was not bad-looking, he thought. And she was becoming a woman, he noticed, with soft lines and a certain plumpness.

“It’s dangerous to be beautiful,” he said. “I shall have to keep an eye on you. Besides, you’re not quite so beautiful, perhaps, as you imagine. That’s a safeguard.”

“I was looking at myself this morning before I dressed,” said Olga. “I was rather pleased with myself. One day a rich young man will fall in love with me. Then I shall restore the family fortunes. I shall let mother and Tania share our palatial residence. I think it will be in the Avenue Victor Hugo, in Paris. It’s a nice part of Paris, I’ve heard.”

“You’re talking the greatest nonsense,” said Michael with a good-humoured laugh. He and Olga had always been good comrades, though as a boy and girl they had fought with each other. Once she had bitten his hand like a tiger-cat.

Tania stretched herself and jumped up, shaking down her frock. She put her hand to her eyes and gazed over the waters of the Bosphorus.

“There’s a steamer coming!” she cried excitedly.

She turned and ran with her bare feet through the grass towards the villa where they had three rooms.

“She’s gone to put on another frock—her other frock,” said Olga. “That’s because she expects the Englishman. She thinks he likes the look of her, whereas it’s me that he likes, as anybody can see with half an eye. But I’m not very fond of Englishmen. They have no passion, no charm.”

“We owe our lives to him,” said Michael gravely. “And he’s extremely kind to us.”

Olga did not deny that. “He’s bringing us some soap today,” she said. “For that I’m willing to let him kiss my hand.”

“Soap!” exclaimed Michael, as though a miracle was about to happen. “That’s too wonderful. It’s a year since I’ve seen a bit of soap.”

“I shall wash all over three times,” said Olga. “I shall wallow in its lather.”

“Mother will weep at the sight of it,” said Michael. “Poor mother!”

They had been disembarked on this island three days ago. It was, as Michael said, a little paradise—a paradise for lost souls, safe, for a time, from all danger, and relieved, for a time, from all anxiety, unless they let their thoughts wander forward to the uncertain future, or backwards to their lost past. The British Government, which had supported the White Armies and counter-revolution with men, munitions, and money—half-heartedly and ineffectively because of political opposition in England—were feeding these people on army rations of which there were surplus stores, after a World War. These fugitives of fate had found shelter in villas—as overcrowded as slum tenements—where once rich Turks and Greeks and Armenians had made their summer homes or kept their mistresses.

Most of the soldiers of the last retreat under General Wrangel, preceded by their comrades of the broken armies under Denikin, were interned at Gallipoli, where after a few weeks of tragic demoralization they were sternly disciplined by General Koutepov, who knew that only discipline could save them from despair and disease. The Don Cossacks were interned at Tchataldja, the old line between Turkey and Bulgaria. The Cossacks of the Kuban were sent to Lemnos. They were waiting for the unknown future. They were waiting for the time when, somehow, they must find a new way of life in foreign countries willing to receive them, if ever willing. How would they earn their living, or how long would it take to starve to death? Now they were living in concentration camps, fed on British and French rations. How long would that last? Beyond them was the darkness of unrevealed fate.