The Romanov Bride Page 20

  “Such beauties,” I said, touching each of them gently on the chin. “Now promise me you’ll take good care of your mother.”

  “Always,” replied the oldest, Olga, with a sweet smile.

  “Of course, but you have to come back soon!” beckoned Tatyana. “And write us often!”

  “I will,” said I, feeling older than I ever had.

  Though I had failed in my mission, I embraced my sister more tightly than I had perhaps since we were children. From whence came this sense of desperation? What was it that I so feared? We lingered longer, too, in each other’s arms, and I for one couldn’t help being silently grateful that at least that awful man had not separated me from my beloved ones.

  I kissed my baby sister, Empress of all the Russias, and we parted without another word. With the assistance of a footman, I climbed into the private carriage at the rear of the train and took my seat, whereupon I stared out at my dear sweets. Pressing the palms of both of my hands against the glass, I bid them a silent, bittersweet farewell. As the train started off with a forceful heave, it took a great deal of thought to hold back my tears.

  And worried though I was over the course of the Empire, I could not even imagine the horrors that were soon to overwhelm the Empire. It all began with a trickle of blood-the murder of none other than Rasputin himself, which, strangely, took place just a few short weeks after my visit to Alicky. I know how much this pained my sister, but even I realized what hope his end gave to so many, for the murder of Rasputin was all anyone talked about. There was rejoicing in the streets, talk that the government could now move forward, that the war would now come to a victorious end, even rumors that Alicky was to be sent off to a distant cloister whilst things calmed down.

  Yes, with the black stain of Rasputin removed from the Ruling House there was so much hope. And yet… within barely three months the trickle of that man’s blood turned into a rushing, crimson river as revolution washed away not only all of us but Great Russia as it had forever been known.

  Dear Lord, how it pains me to say I have not seen my Alicky since that moment on the train platform, and even today I doubt we two sisters shall ever meet again in this earthly world.

  Chapter 36 PAVEL

  The spark that made the country blow up like a big, bad bomb was a lie, a lie we told everywhere and to everyone. And the lie we told all over that February of 1917? It was simple: no baked bread! And this made people get real mad and go real crazy! And it worked! Just to make sure, though, I even liked adding something more, because peasant that I was, I knew what would make the people really panic: no flour!

  Ha!

  There was plenty of flour, but it was stuck way out there in some railway cars, way out of the city, so much flour that I even heard it was rotting. But the narod-the masses-didn’t know this. All they knew was that the bread lines were getting longer and longer, and their lives more and more miserable as the war dragged on and on and on. They could live with sugar being rationed, they could live with just a few scraps of meat in their soups. But bread? Radi boga-for the sake of God-how could a Russian live without bread, be it white, black, or even that gray crap, eh?

  “We’re fighting for the Romanovs and they won’t even give us a few pieces of stale crust!” I grumbled in one breadline after another throughout Moscow. “What do they think we are, animals? To hell with the burzhui!” I added, using the nasty word for the bourgeoisie. “I hear our masters have not only all the bread they can eat but even sugar and salt.”

  “Well, one thing’s for sure-our German whore Empress has plenty of bread!” complained another of my comrades, who was always planted near me. “But maybe she’s not giving us any because she’s angry she no longer has Rasputin’s sausage!”

  The crowd roared with laughter.

  Rasputin, that damned dog, had been killed a few months earlier, which in truth made our job harder. We couldn’t let the political scene get easier or softer for the Tsar, which meant we had to stretch the shadow of that Rasputin as far as we could and agitate, agitate, agitate.

  Just like a worm, I started whispering, “I’ve been to two other stores this morning and they both ran out of bread. Now I hear there’s not enough at this one, either. Look, the store’s about to close! They’re running out of bread everywhere!”

  Even I was surprised at what happened next. Even I was shocked at how quickly things blew up, just like a match thrown into a barrel of kerosene. No sooner had the words passed my lips than some guy pitched a rock at the window of the bread store. And poof! The glass exploded into shards! And the crowd didn’t cower away but cried out and surged forward!

  “Xleb!” Bread, screamed nearly every soul!

  “Give us xleb!”

  “We are hungry!”

  I’d never seen anything like it-it was like a call to charge the enemy. One moment there were a hundred souls standing in line, long-suffering folk who had never complained, just poor people in felt boots and foul coats, always submissive to master and Tsar. The next moment every last one of them, right down to the old babushkas with their scarves tied round their heads, were fiery rebels! It was magic! Like one giant flame! The crowd burst to life, surging forward, breaking every window of the bread store and piling in, frantically grabbing all the loaves from the shelves, then pushing and shouting and shoving their way into the back and emerging with sacks of flour.

  There was only one voice of protest, the shop owner, a short man with a waxed mustache, who shouted, “Stop! Stop, you fools!”

  But the only thing that was stopped was him, this owner-two ruffians grabbed him and pitched him right through the broken window, right outside, where he landed with a thud on the cobbles. Blood streaming down his face, he struggled to get up, making it only onto one knee.

  “You’ve been hiding bread from us poor people! They say you’ve been hoarding bread and waiting for the price increases -shame on you!” shouted one staruxha-old woman-as she kicked the groaning man. “Shame!”

  That was all it took, one kick from an old woman’s worn shoe. It was like a signal. And then everyone was upon him, kicking and beating him, ripping at clothing and limb. He lived one more minute, no more. Their fury surprised even me. Like a lid finally blown off a boiling pot, the deep Russian instinct for revenge suddenly blew wide and could not be contained. People beat on the poor man as meanly as if they were finally beating on their serf-master who had beat on them! Yes, this was revolution, great revolution! Hurrah!

  Turning away from the pulp of that man’s body, I saw a nearby restaurant that was famous for its wine cellar. Well, that would make people break in there-free drink!-but I, devil that I was, thought of something worse, something that would make them real crazy. Officially, there had been no vodka for sale since the beginning of the war.

  “Comrades, I hear they’re hiding some ‘national treasure’ in the cellar of that restaurant!” I shouted, grabbing a rock and hurling it at the window of this other place.

  The idea of getting their hands on some vodka wasn’t just a spark and a little flame, it was a big explosion! Suddenly people forgot all about bread and ran to the restaurant, splitting it as wide as a watermelon. And suddenly, too, other people came running, charging from everywhere, from this way and that. Within moments there were several hundred comrades, and moments after that several hundred more. Incredible! All of a sudden I saw a dead body thrown out the window-the owner would have been smarter to run out the back!-and then I saw some waiters run out, covering their heads as they fled for their lives. A few moments later proud people emerged, one after another carrying bottles of wine. With no way to open them, however, the folks smashed the tops on the stone curbs and then started drinking from the broken bottles, red wine and blood dribbling from their smiling, cut lips. There was no vodka, but who cared as long as there was free wine! Free wine!

  And I shouted the slogan we were told to shout everywhere: “Grab nagrablenoye!” Steal what was stolen!

  “Grab na
grablenoye!” repeated an unseen soul.

  “Hurrah!”

  And soon enough those very words were echoed up and down the street, shouted by one comrade after another as they broke into shop after shop, stealing not only bread and wine but eggs and milk, then pants and fur hats and fine ladies’ dresses, too. It wasn’t too long, either, before I saw real flames licking one storefront, toasting everything in their path. There were cries of pain mixed with shouts of joy.

  Then in the distance came the sound of hooves, and the crazy crowd quieted for just a moment-the Cossacks? We all paused to listen, pondering our fates. Had they come to mow us down with their silvery sabers? Come to chop off our heads like tall poppies?

  But what appeared around the corner wasn’t the feared Cossacks on wild ponies but our Russian troops, some thirty or forty Russian comrades on horseback, one old officer at the head. With clouds of steam pouring from the snouts of their horses, and with not sabers but rifles and pistols waving overhead, the soldiers charged right up to us. We, the poor masses, stood as one, knowing that within seconds half of us would fall dead.

  But then something so strange happened…

  “Xleb!” cried one toothless babushka, staring up at the soldiers. “We are hungry! We just want xleb!”

  Yet again, that was all it took, just one old peasant woman calling out the obvious, and one by one the soldiers lowered their rifles until there was but one last gun raised: that of their old commanding officer. But he wasn’t pointing his pistol at us. He was pointing his gun at his own soldier boys.

  “Raise your guns!” he commanded his men. “Prepare to fire!”

  But not one of his soldiers did as he was told. They just stared defiantly at the officer, their brooding eyes saying it all: These are our own people, we will not fire upon our own brothers and sisters!

  “I command you to take up your weapons and prepare to fire!” shouted the officer, his face bursting red as he trained his weapon on one particular soldier, a boy with blond hair. “Raise your weapons or I’ll fire upon-”

  Suddenly there was a crack of gunfire, a noise so sharp that everyone fell silent. And gasped. At first I thought he’d done it, that the bastard officer had fired upon the blond lad, but no! One of the other soldiers had taken up his own weapon and fired on him, the officer! He shot his commander right in the face! For one long, shocking moment no one said anything, no one could guess what was going to happen next-would soldier start firing upon soldier, would they all fire upon us?-and we simply watched as the old officer, his white beard glistening with red blood, tumbled off his horse and fell to the ground dead as a log.

  And then another of the soldier boys held his rifle high in the air and, in one long, glorious shout, cried, “Hurrah!”

  The soldiers crossed over to the people, and in that second Russia changed completely. All the soldiers cried out in joy and the crowd whooped with delight, calling out to the soldier boys, welcoming them with bread and wine and brotherhood! Yes, it was mutiny, absolute mutiny! I shouted with joy, cried out with happiness! Unable to believe what was happening, I watched as one by one the soldiers leaped down from their horses and the people rushed toward them and embraced them, smiling and laughing.

  Da, da, da, it was incredible, miraculous! I didn’t understand what was happening, and yet I did, I understood it all. This wasn’t like the revolution of twelve years ago when we the people had been battling the police and the soldiers, and the Cossacks, too. No, this was different. We were one, soldier and people and everyone else, united as one against the capitalist pigs and the warmongers and the tsar and his whore wife who sat upon all of us, the people! It was the Revolution, and this time I knew we would win!

  Long live the Uprising of the Oppressed!

  Chapter 37 ELLA

  If one had pondered the war figures, one would have gone insane with worry: 1,500,000 of our brave men killed, 4,000,000 wounded, 2,000,000 taken prisoner. It was no wonder there was such despair, such rabble-rousing. It was no wonder, too, that riots akin to those of twelve years past broke out all over my beloved Moscow. By the end of that February, 1917, gunshots could be heard throughout the day and from every direction. Electricity ceased, as did the trams everywhere. The post and telegraphs as well. Worse, they said the prison doors all across town had been thrown wide open and that the homes for lunatics had been emptied as well. In quick speed almost every factory went on strike, and the streets themselves became totally derelict and frightfully dangerous, and while I forbade my sisters to travel beyond our walls, I refused to close and lock our gates. I was determined that all those in need should be able to reach us, that we must not cut ourselves off. Of course there were those who said I should take shelter once again behind the Kremlin walls, but I would not leave my sisters, for I had not decided those long years ago to leave the Kremlin only to be driven back to it by anarchy.

  Word from the outside world was sparse at best, and though I sent letter after letter to Alicky, I doubted that any of them reached her, and certainly I received not a word from her. Yes, it was perfectly clear we were in the revolution again, right where we had been in 1905.

  When the chaos late in the month was at its height, Countess Tarlova, one of my ladies from days past, somehow managed to make her way to my community, not arriving by carriage or motorcar but on foot and in simplest dress. I knew she had been in Petrograd and yet she had somehow managed her way here, despite the railways having halted.

  It was she who brought the monumental news, she who delivered the blow.

  “Well, what of it?” I desperately asked, rising to my feet when this faithful woman was shown into my reception room. “Did you see my sister? Is there any news of Nicky?”

  In that instant, tears bloomed in her eyes, and in French she muttered but a single word: “Abdiqué!”

  It was a knife to my heart-Nicky had abdicated!-and instantly I began weeping. “But… but…”

  I could not walk, could speak no more, and were it not for this good Countess I certainly would have fallen. My confusion was immense. How could Nicky have been pulled from the Throne? What trials had the Lord Himself hurled upon poor Russia? For a good long while I could find no wisdom, no understanding, and my lady held me tightly, steadying me as my tears came aplenty, whereupon I somehow managed my way to my private chapel. Sinking to my knees, I fell to the floor and bowed before the altar and my icons, pressing my head down upon the stone. Even in my prayers I could not restrain my tears, and there I stayed well into the depths of the night, chanting and bowing and searching for the wisdom of the God Almighty. My sorrow knew no depth-what lay ahead for my dear, dear Russia?-and I took relief only in the Jesus Prayer, chanting it over and over, some three or four hundred times, in Church Slavonic: “Gospodi Isusye Xristye Siin Bozhii pomiloi mnye greshnuyuu.” Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner. Yes, as I had been taught, I prayed without ceasing, hoping to find humility, hoping to bring my mind into my heart, hoping to reach a greater understanding.

  Sleep came eventually but reluctantly, and I rested a mere hour, perhaps two at most. The monumental news of Nicky’s fall reached the city the following day, but instead of bringing appeasement it only accelerated the chaos. There were reports of palaces and homes of every sort being plundered and burned, and all around us I could see it, too, gray plumes of smoke rising into the wintry sky. Desperate word came round as well of murders of every sort, that merchant so-and-so had been gunned down and his clothing store plundered, that sundry princes and even princesses had been butchered in their own homes, and, unbelievably, that almost all our faithful soldiers had mutinied and shot officers here and there all about the city. My heart was breaking, and I sent telegram after telegram to my sister, but they all came back, not one delivered, and it would be some time before I learned that Kerensky, head of the Provisional Government, had placed Nicky and she and all the children under arrest there at Tsarskoye, their own home having become their own prison. Russia
it seemed had come right to the edge of a dangerous precipice and not turned away but thrown herself head over heels into the dark waters below. For months thereafter I could not speak of my sister without weeping.

  And while for days I could take no food save tea, I soon forced myself to find strength, for I had my sisters and our sick ones to watch over, and to all of them I repeated, “There is nothing to fear. The Lord watches over us, and no harm will come our way unless it is His will.”

  But such harm did in fact come to us, passing right through our very own gates.

  I was out in our garden, standing in the shallow snow and enjoying the light of the morning and, too, a kind of quiet we had not experienced in weeks. God willing, perhaps the blood-letting of the revolution had passed, perhaps in the spring months ahead our country, like the wondrous lilacs and laburnums of my garden, would wake from its dark sleep and bloom once again in splendor. Indeed, in the distance I heard not the sound of gunfire but of singing. At first my heart filled with both joy and relief-perhaps we could all get down to what Nicky himself had only wanted, the lifting of his people to a better life-but then the voices came closer and louder, louder and closer. It was then that I recognized the tune being sung: the “Internationale.” My spine tensed, for I was quite sure where those voices were headed. Hearing the determined song as well as the sound of approaching motor vehicles, a handful of sisters came scurrying outside, for despite my best efforts they had all become so protective of me.

  “Matushka,” ventured my Nun Varvara, breaching protocol that it was I who knew best, “perhaps you should retire to your reception room.”

  “No, my children, I shall handle this alone,” I said as not one but two motor lorries sped right up to our front gates. “I will directly meet whatever fate awaits me. Now all of you inside-be gone this moment!”

  “We will pray for you in the church, Matushka!” called Nun Varvara as she and the others hurried off.