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Authors: Fitzroy MacLean
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thinking. The uniforms of the Tsaristtroops, who fell such easy victims to the fusillades of the Georgian patriots, did not somehow look so very different from those of the N.K.V.D. Special Troops who were to be seen walking about the streets of Tiflis.
After the cinema I asked Tamara, who seemed friendly and intelligent, what she thought was the best way of finding out about the cemetery. ‘Ask the N.K.V.D.,’ she replied without hesitation. ‘They are the only efficient people here.’ This seemed sound advice and accordingly without further ado I presented myself at N.K.V.D. Headquarters, where I eventually found an official who had heard of the cemetery. He did not, he said, know where it was, but he could give me the address of an Englishwoman who might know.
I could hardly believe my ears. An Englishwoman living in Tiflis was something quite unheard of. I set out for the address I had been given, wondering if the N.K.V.D. really knew what they were talking about.
The house was a large one in the old quarter of the town. In the middle was a courtyard with wooden balconies giving on to it, draped with festoons of washing. A little Georgian boy was playing in the yard. Could this be the right place? I wondered. At that moment a voice issued from the uppermost balcony. ‘Come here at once, Tommy,’ it said in commanding tones. ‘It’s time you were in bed.’ ‘Coming, Miss Fellows,’ said the little Georgian in English which bore no trace of an accent, and trailed reluctantly off to bed. It was, I decided, the right house.
Following Tommy up the stairs, I found Miss Fellows at the top, small and white-haired. ‘And what do you want?’ she asked briskly. I told her about the cemetery. ‘Of course I know where it is,’ she said. ‘I’ve looked after it for twenty years, ever since our troops left.’ Then she told me her story. It was quite simple. She was the daughter of a Colonel in the Indian Army. She had come to Tiflis as a governess in 1912 and had stayed there ever since, through the war, through the Revolution, through the Allied intervention, through the Bolshevik reoccupation. She had never been home. Indeed I was the first Englishman she had seen for many years. She had been with the same family of Georgians ever since she arrived, teaching first one generation and then another. First the whole house had belonged to them. Nowthey lived in one room of it and she with them. There was another child in bed, a little girl. ‘Poor mite,’ she said, ‘she had a touch of fever, so I put her to bed.’ Then she went out and shouted across the courtyard to some neighbours. It was quite clear that hers was the dominant personality in the neighbourhood. I noticed with pleasure that she still spoke Russian with a strong English accent.
I asked her if she had had any trouble with the local authorities. ‘None to speak of,’ she said. ‘They keep trying to make me give up my English nationality. But I tell them not to be silly.’
Later on she took me to see the cemetery, a sad little place, hidden away on the outskirts of the town, which she had cared for and tended for the best part of twenty years, fighting a never-ceasing battle against weeds, stray dogs, hens and marauding Soviet children.
Before leaving, I asked Miss Fellows if there was anything I could do for her. She asked for two things, some English books and help in getting a wall built round the cemetery. I asked her if that was really all she wanted. She said yes, she could manage perfectly well. To anyone who knows the Soviet Union, it will be apparent that Miss Fellows was a very remarkable woman.
There was no longer anything to keep me in Tiflis and my spell of leave was running out. The passes over the Caucasus were now clear of snow and trucks were running across the Georgian Military Road. Without much difficulty I got a seat in one, and, stuffing my belongings into my kitbag, set out on my homeward journey, in company with a
After the cinema I asked Tamara, who seemed friendly and intelligent, what she thought was the best way of finding out about the cemetery. ‘Ask the N.K.V.D.,’ she replied without hesitation. ‘They are the only efficient people here.’ This seemed sound advice and accordingly without further ado I presented myself at N.K.V.D. Headquarters, where I eventually found an official who had heard of the cemetery. He did not, he said, know where it was, but he could give me the address of an Englishwoman who might know.
I could hardly believe my ears. An Englishwoman living in Tiflis was something quite unheard of. I set out for the address I had been given, wondering if the N.K.V.D. really knew what they were talking about.
The house was a large one in the old quarter of the town. In the middle was a courtyard with wooden balconies giving on to it, draped with festoons of washing. A little Georgian boy was playing in the yard. Could this be the right place? I wondered. At that moment a voice issued from the uppermost balcony. ‘Come here at once, Tommy,’ it said in commanding tones. ‘It’s time you were in bed.’ ‘Coming, Miss Fellows,’ said the little Georgian in English which bore no trace of an accent, and trailed reluctantly off to bed. It was, I decided, the right house.
Following Tommy up the stairs, I found Miss Fellows at the top, small and white-haired. ‘And what do you want?’ she asked briskly. I told her about the cemetery. ‘Of course I know where it is,’ she said. ‘I’ve looked after it for twenty years, ever since our troops left.’ Then she told me her story. It was quite simple. She was the daughter of a Colonel in the Indian Army. She had come to Tiflis as a governess in 1912 and had stayed there ever since, through the war, through the Revolution, through the Allied intervention, through the Bolshevik reoccupation. She had never been home. Indeed I was the first Englishman she had seen for many years. She had been with the same family of Georgians ever since she arrived, teaching first one generation and then another. First the whole house had belonged to them. Nowthey lived in one room of it and she with them. There was another child in bed, a little girl. ‘Poor mite,’ she said, ‘she had a touch of fever, so I put her to bed.’ Then she went out and shouted across the courtyard to some neighbours. It was quite clear that hers was the dominant personality in the neighbourhood. I noticed with pleasure that she still spoke Russian with a strong English accent.
I asked her if she had had any trouble with the local authorities. ‘None to speak of,’ she said. ‘They keep trying to make me give up my English nationality. But I tell them not to be silly.’
Later on she took me to see the cemetery, a sad little place, hidden away on the outskirts of the town, which she had cared for and tended for the best part of twenty years, fighting a never-ceasing battle against weeds, stray dogs, hens and marauding Soviet children.
Before leaving, I asked Miss Fellows if there was anything I could do for her. She asked for two things, some English books and help in getting a wall built round the cemetery. I asked her if that was really all she wanted. She said yes, she could manage perfectly well. To anyone who knows the Soviet Union, it will be apparent that Miss Fellows was a very remarkable woman.
There was no longer anything to keep me in Tiflis and my spell of leave was running out. The passes over the Caucasus were now clear of snow and trucks were running across the Georgian Military Road. Without much difficulty I got a seat in one, and, stuffing my belongings into my kitbag, set out on my homeward journey, in company with a
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