The Romanov Bride Read online

  Sadly, all these untrue stories worked like dark magic. Our people were hungry, our people were tired, and unrest amongst all the classes was frothed up as easily as a pair of eggs. Just several weeks earlier an anti-German riot had erupted in Moscow with German homes and shops looted and destroyed. Even the police did not bother to interfere.

  Of course, none of this was helped by a matter that did worry me-that our military hospitals were not being filled up by our own Russian wounded but by prisoners, both German and Austrian. Muscovites didn’t like that at all, even though the military hospitals were far less comfortable than the Red Cross or private ones. Nevertheless, the tongues said I only looked after Germans and even took them endless sweets and rubles. Such untruths. Yes, I did visit the wounded prisoners, for a soul is a soul no matter from what country, but I did no more than pray for them. Unfortunately, all this dark talk was put on my back even though I, perhaps more Russian than many Russians, cared so deeply for the men of my new homeland. To make absolutely sure there was no preferential treatment, however, I stopped my visits to the prisoners altogether and had a ladies’ committee, with my Grande Maîtresse Countess Olsuvieva at the head, look into this matter.

  But what should have been a great warning of the darkness to come was the incident that took place upon my return from Petrograd-yes, not long after the outbreak of war even our capital had been renamed, for to the Russian ear “Sankt Peterburg ” sounded harshly German and hence unpleasant, and so it, too, was dashed. I had been there in the capital for the state funeral in 1915 of Grand Duke Konstantin Konstantinovich-soon after the battlefield death of one of his beloved sons, my dear Kostya had suffered a fatal infarkt-and upon my arrival home in Moscow everything at first seemed normal. At the Nikolaevski Station I descended my private railcar without incident and moved freely along the platform, perceiving no problem whatsoever. Unlike my previous days, I was traveling without a suite of any sort-neither court ladies nor guards of any sort-and while there were certainly many eyes upon me and I was, despite my robes, widely recognized, this was not unusual and by no means threatening either. Really, hitherto-fore in all my travels and ventures into the bleakest, poorest corners of our vast Empire, I had not once felt the least indication of malevolence directed upon my person. However, no sooner had I passed through the Imperial Waiting Rooms and exited onto the broad, bustling street than things began to disintegrate. A limousine was waiting for me, and as the uniformed driver helped me settle into the rear seat, a most violent disruption broke about, initiated no doubt by a handful of unpatriotic agitators.

  “Look, it’s the German bitch!” shouted one man.

  “It’s a filthy Romanov traitor!” hollered another.

  “Get her! Down with her!”

  It was shocking, really, how quickly they swarmed around the motorcar, rather more like a pack of wild dogs or mad beasts than human beings. Wasting not a moment, my chauffeur scurried quickly around and into the vehicle, but no sooner had he shut the door than fists began pounding the windows. In one moment there were ten men, the next twenty, and then thirty.

  “German bitch!” they cried one after another.

  I clutched automatically at the cypress cross that I always wore around my neck, and I could hear my heart pounding, feel my thoughts dashing here and there. Good Lord, what was happening?

  “I think it best if we move quickly on,” I recommended to the chauffeur.

  “Yes, but… but…” he said, motioning to the men now clambering over the hood of the vehicle.

  “Just proceed,” I said as calmly as I could. “Do not worry, we are in God’s hands.”

  White with fear, he managed to start up the motor and engage the vehicle in gear. We had rolled not even a half pace when a man jumped right in front of the vehicle, his arms outstretched, his face red with rage. Immediately, my driver stomped on the brakes and the vehicle jerked to a standstill. The man blocking our way screamed something, foul words that I had never heard in Russian, and an even greater cry of anger flew through the crowd. All around, from every side, people charged closer, flaming me with fiery insults. Someone pounded on my window, and I saw a furious red-faced woman with a scarf tied around her head. My inclination was to smile gently upon her, but this woman sucked in her cheeks and with great force expelled a good quantity of saliva upon the glass. And then another man did likewise, spitting his hatred upon us. Another followed suit, and then another and another, until the windows and the windscreen were covered. The next instant, several large men took hold of the wheels and the entire limousine began to rock most violently up and down and side to side.

  “Please… drive on… quickly now!” I requested, clutching the seat. “Quickly!”

  “But, Your Highness, what if I hit someone?”

  “God willing, they’ll step aside!”

  Despite all my good thoughts and all my good prayers, the fear came flooding into my heart like an evil river, rampaging and scouring my mind with doubt. How could this be? These were my children to whom I had given my entire soul and for whom I felt nothing but divine love. Where did such hatred come from? What sin had I committed to engender this rage?

  I held tightly the cross upon my breast, firmly shut my eyes, and chanted, “Gospodi pomilui…” Lord have mercy…

  No sooner had my driver pushed again on the accelerator and we began moving again, albeit ever so slowly, than something crashed against the side of the car with the most frightening sound. It sounded as if a bomb, and I screamed as I had not since childhood. All my fears whooshed back to that day when my Sergei was blown apart, and I was sure my end had now come as well. I struggled for my control, but found myself lost in that frightening memory when the center of Moscow rocked with my husband’s death. But it was not a bomb hurled against my motorcar but a rock, a cobblestone, actually, pulled right from the street. There came another, and then one after that, all raining down upon my vehicle, simply pure thunder and storm. Suddenly a stone sailed directly through one of the side windows, glass exploded everywhere, and I screamed yet again, as did the driver, his voice high and terrified. Almost the next instant a huge stone came hurtling directly from the front, smashing the windscreen into a thousand shards, glass like needles tearing at my driver. From behind I heard someone pounding on the window behind my head, and I tensed and steeled myself as if I were to be shot. All around voices and the worst insults came at me like cannon fodder, wounding me not physically but heart and soul, which I felt far more deeply. To my side I saw a massive hairy hand reach for the door, and from the coarse rage I understood that the intention was to rip me from my vehicle so that the crowd could pull me apart upon the street.

  And then came the soldiers on horseback with whips and sabers, and it was only in this manner that the incident was concluded as promptly as it had begun.

  Yes, the soldiers beat away our attackers posthaste, and the hooligans fled, for even though the days of serfdom were fifty years past, the memory of the master’s whip and knout was long and bitter throughout Russia. My driver sped hastily on, driving clumsily as he blotted the cuts on his forehead and cheeks. With tears in my eyes, I glanced back through the soiled rear window and saw a poor few continuing to fight, only to be beaten down and even trampled upon. I wanted to go back, to reach out to all of those poor souls and offer them solace, but my driver, wiping sweat and blood from his brow, sailed us through the heart of the city.

  Lord…

  By the time the motorcar reached my obitel and passed through the carriage gates, I had wiped away my tears. Word of the incident spread quickly, however, and some fifty sisters came scurrying out, the dear ones so concerned for my safety and shocked at the outbreak, and I did my best to calm them.

  “Praise be to God for your safe return!” exclaimed my confessor, Father Mitrofan, the fear drawn all across his big face as he hurried out in his long black robes.

  I did my best to hide away my shock and fear as I said, “Everything is perfectly fine.�
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  “But… but look at the motorcar-the windscreen is smashed! And you, Matushka, you are so pale and… and…!”

  “Let me repeat, I am fine,” I said too sternly.

  Father Mitrofan knew me far better, however, and he gently guided me along to my reception room.

  “Please,” he called to one of my novices, “bring us tea at once.”

  In the following days there was little I could do to control the story, and though the censors would not let it be printed in our papers, it flew all across Moscow -the Romanov nun attacked!-spreading like heathen fire. When word of concern came from the head constable of the city, I assured him that it had been only a scant few agitators and nothing serious. Indeed, many about the city were so shocked by the incident that they flooded my community with breads and vegetables, eggs and milk, as if to atone for some great sin. Wishing to quiet the worry, I forbade any and all of my sisters to speak of the matter-the sick and the wounded needed their attention, not stories of the doubters and faithless. Least of all did I want to worry Nicky and Alicky-the two were consumed by their war efforts-yet despite my best efforts an official report was made to the Emperor and his horror knew no end.

  The only truly grievous result of the whole sad affair was that under Nicky’s command the highest authorities and even the Metropolitan came to me and all but forbade my travels beyond my white walls, particularly and especially to such dangerous places as the Khitrovka. Deep into the night, I prayed on my knees for guidance, and though in the end I acquiesced and agreed to stay close to home-if my presence stirred up such unrest, perhaps it was indeed best I not go about and be seen-my soul ached with concern. Yes, lying at night on my plank bed, I couldn’t help worrying. What of all the Ludmillas and the young Arkashas-if I were to remain essentially locked away, just who was going to reach out to them body and soul?

  And though I essentially retired to my community, busying myself with prayers and care for the needy and war wounded, the world around me continued to deteriorate at an alarming pace. Under the strain of transporting all the troops, I heard of the railway system breaking down, with one muddle followed by another, and soon sugar was rationed. I was told, too, that the shelves grew emptier and emptier, not just of sugar but all foodstuffs, and one day another story came round that while the workers could barely get black bread, we at my obitel feasted on chicken cutlets and meat pies, not to mention fruit jams. It would have been an amusing story had I not clearly understood the danger in such lies, and all this while my diet consisted purely of vegetables, such as onions and turnips with an egg here or there and an occasional spot of milk. Sadly, too, out of the blue sky I received an anonymous letter telling me that my sister and I should return to Germany immediately because, after all, we were not Russian and our loyalties were nested firmly with the enemy. I paid it no attention, merely wished that my letter writer would come pray by my side.

  With some degree of secrecy I did manage another trip to the capital and there to see my sister at Tsarskoye. There were many who had begged me to influence Alicky, who, with Nicky off at the front, ruled as essentially regent of the Empire. Her authority was understood by everyone of every class, and abhorred, too, particularly with the black name of Rasputin mentioned round every tea table and in every queue. Instead, I navigated away from any controversial subject with Alicky, and but for a few days we two sisters managed a good visit, cozy, calm, and homey. Her children, those four beautiful girls and the Heir Tsarevich, were such a delight to me, and for brief moments the horrors of war seemed distant. Despite the malicious tales otherwise, Alicky and I had always been and still were close.

  Yes, I averted any difficult conversation with my sister, but upon my return to Moscow came another incident, more egregious than any other. It was said that our brother, Ernie, the Grand Duke of Hesse und bei Rhein, had been secretly sent to Russia by the Kaiser. Ernie was to negotiate some kind of shameful peace with Germany, and supposedly he’d been in hiding at the Palace in Tsarskoye. Simply preposterous. So said the tongues, however, claiming that such was the supposed reason for my recent visit to my sister. It was claimed that I, not any servant, cooked for him lest he be seen and recognized. Further, somehow disguised he was supposed to have got his way to Moscow, hiding in my railway carriage, and could now be found taking secret shelter in the depths of my obitel. At first I assumed this was the work of German spies, but it turned out the story was birthed quite effectively by our Russian revolutionaries. Clearly, their clever ploy was to use a deceitful story to knock away the God-given pedestal from which Nicky ruled.

  It came as no surprise, then, that one morning I heard shouting and yelling from beyond the walls. I was in our hospital, attending to a serious wound on the groin of one of our soldiers, when my long-faithful Nun Varvara came running in.

  “People are marching upon us, Matushka!” she gasped, unable to hide her fear. “There are men with sticks and rakes coming down the street-they’re shouting the worst things!”

  “My dear, I’m busy at the moment. And please keep your voice down-as you can see this man needs his rest.”

  “But, Matushka, I’m fearful for your safety!”

  “Well, I am not. And besides, I am busy caring for this poor man. The bandages on his wound must be carefully changed.”

  “But what-”

  “Just lock the gates, my child, and I’ll be there as soon as I’ve finished. At the moment this man’s health is more important than anything else.”

  Nun Varvara hurried off, and I returned to my duties of caring for the man before me. Wounded in battle, he had been brought back to Moscow and operated on in our theater just yesterday, the doctors having removed four small pieces of shrapnel. In great pain, the soldier had been slipping in and out of consciousness all morning.

  As I removed the bandages and cleaned his groin with warm water, the man moaned and opened his eyes. I looked at him and smiled gently. His wound was serious, but if we kept it cleansed and covered I felt we could keep gangrene at bay.

  “Who… who are you?” he asked, speaking for the first time.

  I humbly replied, “I am your servant.”

  “Someone said you are a princess… but you are not Russian… I can tell by your accent. Are you a German princess? Am I in Berlin? Am I a prisoner?”

  “No, my good man, you are in your Motherland. You are in Moscow. And as I’ve already told you, I am your servant.”

  From outside came shouting and yelling and some kind of racket. Dear Lord in Heaven, were our gates being broken down?

  “What’s that?” said the soldier, struggling to sit up. “Are we under attack?”

  I reached for some ointment and lint, and advised, “Please, just lie back down. There is nothing to be concerned about. We must attend to your wound, it must not be overlooked. Just relax.”

  Unfortunately, the mayhem outside seemed to grow by the moment, and quite clearly I heard someone shout, “Nemka, doloi!”-Away with the German woman!-but I turned my mind to all things spiritual. There was no reason to doubt, no reason to mistrust, I thought as I finished bandaging the poor man, for all was in God’s hands. After all, not even a hair could fall from one’s head without God’s knowledge. And to calm my soldier I softly began to sing, “Svyeta Tixhi”-“Hail, Gentle Light.” No more than ten or fifteen seconds passed, however, when I heard the disturbing sound of glass breaking.

  “Will you excuse me?” I said to the soldier.

  But the man had already drifted away, his eyes closed. Moving now with haste, I rinsed my hands and hurried to a small window. Peering out, I saw a mob of easily forty or fifty people, mostly men. They had breached our main gate and were flooding into the garden, rakes and thick sticks raised in their hands. Worse, they were charging after two of my youngest sisters, who were fleeing toward a side door. Right before my eyes I saw a cobblestone fly through the air, hitting one of the sisters on the back. She stumbled, the other girl took hold of her and dragged her on, a
nd the pair frantically disappeared inside a doorway. Just as they pulled shut the door, another stone sailed after them, smashing against the wood. Then came another, and another, flying this way and that, and window after window was shattered to pieces.

  “Radi boga,” For the sake of the Lord, I muttered, quickly crossing myself.

  Above the rabble, I heard a loud voice shout, “Shpionka, suda!” Bring out the spy!

  “Nemka! Nemka!” The German woman, the German woman, the mob yelled nearly as one.

  Without a moment’s waste, I hurried off, lifting the front of my robes as I made my way from my patient’s room and through a series of small corridors. I turned corner after corner, for our buildings were all linked by walkways, and when I reached the main doors of my own house I found not only a half dozen sisters frantically pushing against the door to hold it shut but Father Mitrofan throwing his weight against it as well. They had bolted the doors, of course, but the crowd outside was determined to batter their way in. Upon seeing me, Father Mitrofan and all my girls shouted their fear.

  “Matushka, you must run away!” called Sister Mariya.

  “They want to hurt you!” exclaimed the novice Makrina.

  Even Father Mitrofan, usually so rational, frantically urged, “You must flee through the kitchens and out the back door!”

  I slowed, gathering my thoughts and prayers. In all things there was wisdom, in all things there was His plan.

  “Please, step aside and allow me to handle this,” I said to my sisters. “One must be ready at any time to wear the martyr’s crown of thorns.”

  At first they hesitated, but my young ones meekly obeyed, retreating as one into the next room. As the beating on the doors grew steadily rougher and harsher and the screaming beyond louder and coarser, I knew absolutely what I must do. I reached for the iron bolts and drew them open, and then I threw wide the double doors. A great cry went up from the mob, which seemed poised to run right over me, but then the advancing horde stopped, stunned by the sight of me standing there in my gray working robes.