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Extracts from a Diary
by Amelia Bourne-Phipps
-edited by Simon Barber-
1 January, 1936 to 9 January, 1936

Monday January 1st , 1936

Dear Diary – I now know why the locals celebrate New Year at the same time as the rest of the world, despite their calendar otherwise being twelve days out of joint. If Ioseph Starling decided to invade right now, he could stroll straight in to a nation of extremely sick and hung-over Russians, most of whom will not be up till midday – but as by all accounts most of his own troops are in the same state this morning, and he probably has too few teetotal troopers to do it with.

Anyway, last night was a rather fine party if one stayed off the vodka (the Officer’s Mess alone must have got through enough to fill a Tiger Moth’s fuel tank) and concentrated on learning the dance moves. Just before midnight there was a roaring of engines outside, and about twenty fierce-looking boars in round steel helmets burst in through the door. Our ears went right down for a second, but from the roars of welcome around us we deduced they were not a Soviet parachute squad invading but some folk that had been expected – Motor Cossacks, as it turned out.

The Vostokites seem rather old-fashioned in that nine tenths of their troops were male, but at least that put us in great demand as dance partners. I stuck to a glass of rather sweet champagne * and refused anything more inflammable – then I all but danced my paws off, being taught a sort of Cossack “Sitting-down dance” just as one sees in the films. It is remarkably strenuous, even for folk as fit as we are and with our dance experience. I would rather have sore paws than a sore head, any day.

Last year we saw out on the hilltop with our Spontoonie friends, casting their ritual sacrifices into the bonfire on top of Casino Island. This time round, midnight came as we listened to the great church bells of Tsarogorod over the radio – and joined in with cheerfully hurling emptied tumblers of vodka to smash into the roaring open fire. Wasteful but fun.

I retired about two in the morning, but I think some folk were up celebrating till dawn. If this is a front-line airfield, I hate to think what the cities are like right now.

(Later) I recall being told that the Cossacks would surprise us, and their mounts certainly do. They ride tankettes! Rather interesting designs, obviously inspired by Mr. Martel’s ideas (one hopes they pay him royalties) and obviously designed with speed in mind. In fact, one can see that they asked for an armoured horse with about the same performance as the ones they were unable to bring with them on the legendary Last Convoy from Vladivostok. There are two models parked outside our hangars, a single-seater and a twin seater, the single seater being powered by a recognisable rotary aircraft engine amidships.

After luncheon (breakfast for most of the base) about half of the Cossacks surfaced. They still seemed quite capable of showing off to their flying comrades and their guests, and roared around the base proving their prowess. One hardly thinks of armoured vehicles as being fast or agile, but the single-seaters certainly were. They are scissors-jointed in the middle around the engine housing, and I found out why. Watching one dashing Motor Cossack heading at full speed towards a four-foot boulder, I waited for him to swerve aside – and was amazed when there was a loud bang and the vehicle jacknifed two feet shorter as it leaped over the obstacle! One supposes the gyro action of the rotary engine keeps it upright in the air.

Although the longest Russian phrase I have memorised is “No more vodka, please”, I hardly needed to read the manual to see how this worked, looking at one of the parked single-seaters. They are armed with something like a one-pounder cannon that can be loaded with a blank cartridge and configured with a flick of a lever to become an instant gas cylinder. The tankette jerks itself into the air like a leaping cricket, being much lighter than it appears and mostly built from (surprise surprise) Magnesium.

I would hate to think how few miles to the gallon these do, but if they have two things in plenty on Vostok it is petrol and light alloy.

We were all invited for rides on the two-seater models, which proved to be fur-raising experiences. The way the Cossacks ride, they are pulling “G” almost all the time in one direction or another – having perhaps two hundred horsepower with a vehicle about the mass of two large horses is rather a treat. I had to hold on tight to Nicolai, the driver who seemed to be competing with his friends to see how much of our route we could do in mid-air. Quite a ride, indeed.

(Memo to myself – Cossacks are reputed to be dashing and highly honourable types, even if they are famed as totally pitiless enemies. I can vouch for the first two – we stopped for a breather a few miles out on the rolling hills, and I found myself wishing I was in my Siamese guise; the Cheka and whoever else will be no doubt printing detailed descriptions of everything we did on Vostok. Still – if one falls scandalously in a forest and nobody is there to see it, does it make a scandal? Molly seems to think not.)

* Editor’s Note: in the diary is a plain-text notepad page that looks like part of an abandoned food and drinks guide in Amelia’s writing. Part of it reads: “Molly tells me the Russians were great fans of peculiarly sweet champagne, at least the ones who headed out to winter in Monte Carlo and similar places. Until 1917 that is, when they stopped coming for evermore and the ones who had stayed in Europe could no longer pay their hotel bills. The story is famous to everyone in the wines and spirits trade even twenty years after, as the warehouses are still full of it and nobody much wants to drink it!”

Thursday 4th January, 1936

Farewell to the airfield! It has been a super trip, and we have flown every day on training and supply flights. I can even put six hours certified dirigible “solo” in my logbook, when I get back to Songmark, as the base commander has stamped and signed certificates for us. At least our logbooks are safe at home – Maria and myself lost all our papers when the Bolsheviks robbed us, including our passports. Maria has already received a Diplomatic replacement one from her embassy – I have enquired, but there is no word from the British Consul in Tsarogorod.

We piled into an unarmed Balalaika that was heading back for major maintenance, and within five minutes were soaring over the rugged coast heading back to the capital. It was rather a relief that we stayed fairly low, as the past few days have had us thinking hard about aeronautical diets. The Mess serves the food that local folk seem to like most, including lashings of cabbage of all varieties and big bowls of hearty pea soup that are very welcome against the cold. Perfect for ground crew, indeed – but shooting up to twenty thousand feet in five minutes has rather unfortunate consequences. The cabins are not pressurised, but our digestions are – excessively and painfully so.

With luck, the Bolsheviks should have been shaken off our tails by now. A splendid view that made me wish we had our cameras with us, not that we had been allowed to bring them into the country. Still – if I had been taking pictures of this trip, they would probably have gone the same way as my passport. All very annoying. It was farewell to Sergeant Alex, who is presumably going to write up his notes. He did claim he was planning on writing a book, even if it goes straight into the Cheka archives and nobody ever reads it except the Other Secret Police who will probably obtain a copy.

Unlike our previous arrival in Tsarogorod, this time we were not grilled to a turn by customs interrogators; arriving in a Vostok Air Fleet Balalaika has that effect. We were whisked away from the runway in a plain omnibus, and headed out to something like a mansion-house about ten miles from the capital in quite capital grounds. Maria says it is a “Dacha”, something all the best Russians aspire to; so good in fact that even in Comrade Starling’s “classless” Soviet Union the top Party Officials get to use them. It is a very nice country house with a full complement of servants; unlike Comrade Starling’s drab nation, these Russians have class.

Anyway, this is more like it. We all get proper rooms, with hot deep baths of the sort I have dreamed about. Showers are good enough for washing salt and engine-oil off one’s fur, but hardly relaxing – and though the game is quite fun sometimes, it is a relief to know that nobody is sneaking up behind with a knotted wet towel.

(Later) The only person around here who speaks more than a few words of English is a servant who seems to be the head butler. Of course, Butlers normally know everything. He is Boris Davenitska, a tall goat gentleman with a most impressive set of horns and a patrician-style beard, quite impeccably dressed (hence we are sure he is the butler, who can be relied on to define “impeccable”.)

Mr. Davenitska informs us (Butlers never just talk, they inform) that we are expecting distinguished company for Christmas, and that suitable clothing will be provided. As we arrived dressed in flying kit, it came as a great relief: walking along elegantly panelled halls wearing the local version of a Sidcot Suit was getting rather embarrassing.

Indeed, when we gathered again at Maria’s room after luncheon there were half a dozen maids, two mouse-like rodents, “Pikas” I believe they are called and four Siberian Marmots. They were all over us with tape measures, chatting excitedly in Russian as they showed us sample books of rather fine and bang up-to-date Euro dresses. It seems as if Admiral Verechagin wants to make up for us having our originals ruined by the Bolshevik bomb attack on our arrival, which is very nice of him. Molly’s idea of sending a claim form to Comrade Starling was rather unrealistic.

We have really fallen on our feet here; the Officer’s Mess was very fine of its kind but hardly up to this – and most of the food came out of catering-sized tins, I had never seen tinned whole chickens before. There is a definite lack of black bread and cabbage here. Ironically, here we have a better “high-altitude diet” than the crews on the airbase, with as much white bread, butter, ham and eggs as we want for the first time in weeks.

I have been assigned my very own maid (or possibly she comes with the room), which is a new experience for me. Laika is her name, a young Pika girl with very nice silver-grey fur. She seems very thin for her species and rather nervous – I wonder what folk have been telling her about us?

Friday 5th January, 1936

I seem to be making some progress with Laika – our breakfasts are sent up to our rooms, and through the dressing mirror I noticed her looking rather hungrily at mine. I ate half and gestured for her to take the rest – rather tearfully she moved to carry it out of the room. Eventually I got through to her that I wanted her to eat it, not send it back to the kitchens. She accepted somewhat fearfully, as if half sure it was a trick.

Laika speaks no English, but it turns out she does know about as much French as I do, and we managed to converse after a fashion. From what I could gather, she was born in Russia but brought here as a very young cub with the owner of the Dacha, a Count Zilgor. The way she said it, he moved his estates to Vostok during the Revolution with all he owned, the furniture and fittings and servants that belonged to the estates. I am sure she must mean he offered to evacuate them all, but my French is no better than hers. After all, if there is one thing country houses always complain about, it is managing to keep servants – “She was a brilliant cook as cooks go, and as cooks go, she went” is the usual lament one hears.

She looked definitely happier with even half a good breakfast inside her, and before luncheon was assisting Molly, Maria and I with the first fittings of our Christmas dresses. I must say, Molly is looking very elegant these days – she has remembered everything she was taught back at Madame Maxine’s about poise and bearing, and our past two weeks of strenuous living have toned us all down like racehorses.

While our party dresses were being worked on, we went for a stroll in the grounds, with Mr. Davenitska trailing unobtrusively in case anything was wanted. The Dacha is laid out very like a European country house, with all the features one might copy from a tourist guidebook – there is a rose terrace, a gazebo and a Ha-ha * of positively tank-proof size. I pointed out its original job, of keeping grazing animals in the outer farmland from climbing up to snack on the flower beds. Molly of course had her own interpretation – the abrupt drop being there so the nobility can sit on the edge sipping champagne, look down their snouts at all the peasants toiling away below and bray “Ha-ha! Ha-ha! Ha-ha!”

I hate to say it, but on Vostok she might actually be right.

(Later) We had just returned from our walk when there was a great commotion outside, and we looked out to see a small but expensive convoy of five large motor cars, the front one being a silver Rolls Royce. I heard the name “Zilgor” in hushed tones from one of the staff, so it seems that the Count is home.

Fortunately, by the time we returned to our rooms we could dress for the formal occasion, with Laika very happily assisting me at my toilette and proving very useful in grooming. My new dress is a rather conservative design (showing less fur than others I have worn) but at the same time extremely elegant in cut.

Molly’s is quite like it, she says she “feels like a million dollars”, though with the state of her finances she generally does.

We had caught a glimpse of Count Zilgor as he left the cars; he is a very striking and surprisingly young wolf (the Russian nobility are mostly wolves) for his rank, in his late twenties I would say. Maria is of the opinion that only the younger and more athletic nobility managed to escape the Revolution.

Anyway – we were presented to our host, who speaks English and French both, and regretted to Maria he only spoke a little Italian – before launching into an eloquent flood of that language that had her ears blushing. I must say, he seems very charming, and looks one of those rare folk who could play themselves on film. Most of the gentry I have met back Home tend to be tweed clad types who dress rather like their gamekeepers – but then, I hardly see them in their town houses where the white tie and tail bows are worn.

A fascinating evening in the Great Hall, lit by a roaring log fire with a couple of wild looking four-legged hounds stretched in front of it. The Count is a most distinguished speaker, and I could see him quite charming Maria. He tells us he has some novel ideas for social reform that would solve most of the world’s problems if properly carried through. They seem to be based in providing most of the population with lifelong security, the lack of which he blames for most of this century’s upheavals.

I noticed the servants rather wince behind his back as he said that – he is definitely a major employer, never having less than half a dozen folk in attendance all the time. They were very smart and served us promptly, with quite impeccable technique. Still, I could tell things were definitely tense in the household staff.

(Later) Christmas Eve, Vostok style! The seasonal dish is a rather odd cold soup, with yellow pickled fish, mixed with peculiar gelatine and drifts of crushed ice. Not my idea of a festive treat, but it was definitely distinctive. We finished up the evening just before midnight with a glass apiece of that somewhat sickly champagne – although the vintage was older than I am, it had retained its particular hints of barley-sugar.

Laika was at hand to help me out of the unfamiliar dress afterwards – it being the only costume I have worn that needs a maid to get into and out of. She seems rather awed of us still, and looking at my flying kit hanging up, asked if it was really true that we flew our own aircraft. Having Sand Flea 1 awaiting me back on Spontoon, I could certainly confirm that we do!

*(Editor’s note: no proper stately home is complete without a Ha-ha. You might as well build it without a drawing room or a library, and then where would all the murders take place?)

Saturday 6th January, 1936

Merry Christmas – again. It seems very odd to have two Christmases, but remembering what we were doing on December 25 th one hardly feels greedy. A fine day in front of the fire, with Count Zilgor at his most expansive, being the perfect host to us.

It was when Maria prompted him to explain his social visions that I got rather a shock. I hardly specialised in Russian history at school, but he gave us a potted version to set the scene. Before 1861 many of the countryside folk were serfs, legally bound to a piece of land and with no possibility of doing anything else. One could call it slavery, except that they belonged to the estate and only indirectly to whoever owned it at the time – and few objected (According to the Count), as they lived in a special state of grace, “Holy Poverty” (According to the Count, again) that freed them from material concerns – to hear him describe it, it was a more practical form of Socialism but better managed. When a well-meaning Tsar liberated them, many drifted to the towns and starved, emigrated or became mixed up in radical politics they could not understand (unquote.)

Count Zilgor’s great scheme is to re-introduce Serfdom, preferably world-wide! He explained with great charm that most people feel dissatisfied with their lot – it hardly matters how much they have; if their neighbour has more and there is a way to get it, there will always be conflict. Only with a completely stable system of “Holy Poverty” can true contentment be found, with the mindless masses ruled wisely by their betters and saved from the conflicts and unhappiness caused by social climbing. Nobody was ever bankrupted, and no farmer ever evicted, as unlike the modern system they were part of the land itself. Unquote.

Ah. Well. Yes. This would explain a few things. Even Maria looked rather pale in the snout at the idea – her Uncle’s regime has its critics, but they have never advocated returning to the feudal system. I did ask the Count just how he expected to run factories and modern industry under the system – traditional serfs can be “paid” in potatoes, but without a cash economy it might be a little tricky giving them aero-engine parts to take home at the end of the day.

Fortunately, we were spared more of his theories by the ringing of a gong announcing another visitor.

The Count had been expecting her, but none of the staff had – they fell flat on their snouts most respectfully as four huge polar bears squeezed through the double-doors at the end of the room. Behind them came a slender, elegant silver fox whose portrait we have seen on walls and postage stamps here – and even Molly managed a quite respectable curtsey as we recognised Her Royal Highness, the Grand Duchess Alexandra.

Quite a day! Christmas in more exalted company would be hard to find in this part of the world – I have small chance of being “presented” at Court back home, but now I can say I have been introduced to royalty. I had wondered why she was not Tsarina, being the last known survivor of her branch of the family – but it seems there are four senior relatives “Missing” still since the Revolution, and until they are confirmed alive or dead she cannot usurp their claim. If Ioseph Starling has any sense he never will release details of their fates. Further, Maria has mentioned that the Grand Duchess’s title is not absolutely bomb-proof; as long as she rules well she is secure at home, but if she makes a play to be crowned Tsarina Of All The Russias, the prize might be worth her relatives risking another Civil War for. (It would be hard to claim to be Tsarina Of All The Russias anyway when she only controls Vostok, but it is a statement of intent. After all, the Tsar of the time hardly gave up the title just because Napoleon occupied Western Russia for awhile.)

At last, Maria got the chance to do what she came here for – have a long afternoon’s talk with the Grand Duchess, the results of which will probably wait till she can get back to her code books and the telegraph on Spontoon. Molly and myself had no place in that meeting, not that we really wanted to – Count Zilgor’s plans had rather disturbed us, especially seeing how well he and the Grand Duchess get along.

An excellent meal (roast goose) and farewell to Her Royal Highness. She did chat with us for ten minutes, asking how we had enjoyed our trip. The flying was rather fine, we could truthfully tell her – though our time with the Pelmeni was rather too rough for comfort. An Adventuress I might be, but I have no ambitions to be a soldier of fortune.

(Later) We were about to retire for the evening when Count Zilgor strolled in, his tail high and evidently in excellent mood. He has a late Christmas Present for us, he says, that should be arriving tomorrow with complements of the Grand Duchess. With that he bade us goodnight, and vanished in a swirl of cigar smoke.

Well! He has already been very generous, we cannot fault his hospitality whatever little quibbles we might have for his social engineering plans. Molly is hoping the present will be something saleable, and says she could quite fancy a nice diamond Faberge egg. She already has a few mementos from our trip, her Tankette riding Cossack friend having presented her with a very practical all-steel knout which she has been practicing with. Thinking of him, I know at least Molly will not be taking an unexpected souvenir home – it is rather a pain that it coincides with the local Christmas, but all three of us are ticking our diaries today. (I noticed this last year – since sharing a dorm and breathing each other’s scents all the time, our calendars have moved to be in synch with each other, or specifically with me. Very odd, I thought at the time, but on enquiring of our Matron Mrs. Oelabe I discovered it is nothing at all uncommon.)

Sunday 7 th January, 1936

Tatiana is back – again! She really has had bad luck this trip – one would say the Gods dislike her, except she is a loudly evangelistic Atheist. Perhaps that’s why they dislike her. We were amazed, we were sure she would have left with her Red friends and return to Spontoon via the Russian Embassy.

Count Zilgor announced with a flourish that one of Vostok’s finest had rescued her – he apologised for being late with the news, but it had been sent at first only to the Grand Duchess herself. He presented our companion, who looks pale and shocked but uninjured, bowed and left her to us.

We hardly liked to ask her what had happened – there are quite a few “fates worse than Death” and from the look of them Tatiana had seen several. In fact she hardly even waited till the shower was running full on before bursting into her tale – which was quite a shocker, indeed.

There are Reds and Reds, as Tatiana and Liberty Morgenstern keep reminding us – and though Tatiana is an Otzovist, that is officially accepted though thought a bit warped by Ioseph Starling. The folk who we met in the forest are a different bunch entirely – they are Mensheviks, who are the vilest heretics according to Tatiana! She had no idea any survived on Vostok, and assumed (as we all did) that they had come from her homeland – but as she used her passwords and such, they spotted right away just what she was. Naturally they played along with her for a week while she was “de-briefed” by a very convincing officer on everything she had seen on Spontoon and Vostok. Tatiana is a very conscientious girl, and left no secrets unspoken.

Of course, Reds are basically Reds to everyone else – and when they had squeezed her dry of information, the “officer” casually told her just who he was and what she had done. Typical. He also announced what they intended to do with her the next day – and unlike Maria and myself, the hut she was in was rather escape-proof. He left her there to think about it, rather typical cruelty if one believes the films.

Definitely, she has been through a lot. She told us that she deserved to be taken out and shot after having been taken in and betraying her Party – but there was worse in store. She was rescued that very night by a dashing figure that silently cut through the bars with acid and got her out through the Menshevik camp just before an artillery barrage flattened the place – I would guess her rescuer was one of the “Akula”, those anti-Bolshevik Knight-Errant types whom we have heard about! Certainly she was presented as a Rescuee to the Grand Duchess just the day before yesterday – such an honour, I would have thought. Tatiana sees it differently.

Poor Tatiana. Physically she came to no real harm, but her political conscience is in pieces. (Molly thinks it screamingly funny and almost choked trying not to laugh.) I consoled her with the thought that when the Vostokites flattened the camp they probably destroyed the evidence – but nothing seemed to cheer her up.

Still, we are all together again, alive and well and (Maria tells me) Mission Accomplished! One more day in Tsarogorod tomorrow and then back before we have a double ration of New Year, local style. Then – home to Spontoon, and not an hour too soon.

Monday 8 th January, 1936

A day of travel and sightseeing, a little more relaxed than our first days in Vostok. As Maria says, the Authorities have been watching us carefully and are satisfied we are what we appear to be – even Tatiana, to her great annoyance. We had the added treat of realising it is the first day of term at Songmark, and while we were leisurely packing and dressing our chums would have already been up two hours and probably be double-timing it around Mount Tomboabo while our Tutors encourage them to burn off some of the Christmas turkey and pudding.

I must say, the one twinge about leaving was saying goodbye to Laika. She is a super girl when one gets to know her (though not in the sense Ada Cronstein would given the chance) and deserves rather better than to be Count Zilgor’s twenty-third chambermaid. I breakfasted on toast, giving her everything else – one would think if the Count can afford to import Rolls-Royces all the way out here he could spend a few shillings more on feeding his staff as a common courtesy. Still, unless I someday head back this way there is very little I can do about it (and I hardly know what I could do, even then. I can hardly afford a maid even if Spontoon let her in.)

Off to Tsarogorod, shopping and sightseeing! We have the whole day before having to be at the airfield, and in one of the cars that took us from the Count’s estate we met our original guide Olga, her head still bandaged but much recovered. Borzois must be tougher than they look, or the Vostok hospitals are less fussy about after-care treatment.

Anyway, we saw the sights in cold but brilliant sunlight, with relatively few (or very high calibre) secret police following us. Maria spotted a film poster for something she says she had heard of – and persuaded us to go and see the matinee. My first film in months, and though it was in German with Russian subtitles I had Olga doing a non-stop translation in one ear. I can trust her translation on this, or at least I well believe she and the subtitle translator have the same point of view.

Umm. I can see why the locals would like this one. On the face of it, it is a heart-rending tale of divided loyalties with a message of always doing as one’s conscience tells you. A few of the Walt Ditzy films have been on those lines, though perhaps not with this sort of slant. It was the tale of a young canine from a poor slum family, who joins the local sort of Boy Scout organisation they have these days and finds fresh air and loyal companionship. His family disapprove – and behind the scenes we see his Father is a secret Communist, plotting to bring down the forces of law and order in the town. I must say, it was rather harrowing, to see the young Quex discover his own family to be deep in dark designs, and go through Hamlet-like indecisions over what to do about it. It must be a terrible thing, to have to decide between one’s family and one’s Country.

(Memo to myself – I hope Father doesn’t see this one, or he takes the more Walt Ditzy view if he does. Unlike Quex Senior, I happen to be innocent of whatever Soppy Forsythe wrote about me!)

A rapid meal of Chicken Kiev (Or “Kneb” as they quaintly miss-spell it here) and we headed out for the airport, in one of the new “Elektro-drozhkys” or battery-driven taxis that quietly hum around the streets. They might not be able to make much over twenty miles an hour, but in cities as crowded as these one would hardly ever get the chance to go faster, even in a racing-car. Half an hour later we arrived at the airport to see a familiar shape looming in the dusk – they have laid on a Balalaika for us! Someone on Vostok seems to have liked us – a cheering thought.

Tuesday 9 th January, 1936

Dear Diary – it is lunchtime, and we are back in our old dorm at Songmark. What a long, strange trip it’s been.

Rather severe head-winds stretched the flight to twelve hours, and we only arrived at the Eastern Island mooring mast at half past eight.

We had some trouble with Customs – at least, Molly and I did. I had lost my passport but had a certificate from the Vostok Foreign Ministry explaining the circumstances. Molly had no trouble getting into Vostok using her Macao passport (Songmark students famously come from all over) but had an awful job persuading folk on Spontoon she is who she says she is. Her fur is still dyed, which matches the new passport rather than the old one – and Customs have exact lists of permanent and semi-permanent inhabitants with their real nationalities. A few people were brought in to look and sniff hard at us before we were let in.

Anyway, we are back with a day and a half of classes to make up. All our year are away on South Island as I had thought; I am looking forward to hearing how Helen spent her holidays. Time to open another notebook for the new term!

(And indeed she did. The story continues in “Spring Chickens.”)
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