The Romanov Bride Page 3

  This made no sense, and yet I had never disobeyed, let alone rarely questioned, my husband. I rose from our bed and made for my dressing room. Immediately my thoughts turned to Maria and Dmitri, our young niece and nephew, whom God had seen fit to send to us and watch over as guardian parents.

  “What about the children?” I asked.

  “They’re being wakened and dressed by Mademoiselle Elena,” he said, referring to their governess. “They’ll join us in the hall downstairs.”

  Sensing the gravity of the situation, I asked, “But where are we going?”

  “The Kremlin. Now just do as I say, get dressed at once! And take nothing, our belongings will be brought later!”

  One of my maids came in, and as she quickly dressed me my mind leaped at all the possibilities. It took no imagination. The Neskuchnoye was nestled not just in a beautiful park but near the factories and the neighborhoods of the poorest workers. Had the general uprising, which we had so feared, finally broken out? Was a band of revolutionaries ready to attack us here? For a few days now extra cavalry had been camped in the Palace yards, but I took small comfort in them, for I feared even their loyalty.

  Dressed in plain walk-about clothing, I was downstairs within minutes, where Sergei and the children were already waiting. A fur cloak was thrown over my shoulders, and without word to us or farewell to our staff Sergei rushed us outside and into the cold. His big closed carriage stood out front with our ever-faithful Coachman Rudinkin perched atop the coach-box in a heavy blue coat. Four large black horses had already been harnessed, and Sergei hustled the children and me into the pale-gray silk interior. We were off at once, traveling full speed, the curtains drawn, the lamps mounted on the front of the carriage oddly darkened. Ahead and behind us I could hear the many horses of our escort charging along.

  I of course knew the way to the Kremlin, and I soon realized that we were traveling by any but a direct route. Instead, still at racing speed, we were passing down small streets, through quiet neighborhoods, and across unknown bridges. None of us spoke, but glancing at the handsome, wide-eyed children, I saw that they were not afraid, just curious, even excited. Heavens, did they not sense what a crossroads Russia had come to?

  Our coach slowed only when we finally reached the security of the Kremlin and passed through one of its gates. Driving through the quiet territories of the bastion, we soon arrived at the Nikolaevski Palace, where we were met by just two servants who helped us disembark and saw us up to the reception room on the first floor. Within a short time we were given tea, for the poor children were shivering-the long unused Palace was so very cold-and we four sat up for a good while, waiting first for my lady-in-waiting, the children’s governess, and my husband ’s aide-de-camp, and then for our servants who in time brought us just enough of our things to pass the night.

  And even though the rumored attack upon our country residence did not materialize that night or any other, we never returned to Neskuchnoye. Such were the times that Sergei deemed it safer behind the thick fortress walls of the mighty Kremlin.

  Chapter 6 PAVEL

  After months of working, working, working, we came to realize one day that our prospects were not so very bright after all. And that is precisely why we decided to go to one of Father Gapon’s tearooms, which was called the Society of Russian Factory Hands. It was open to all, including Finns, Poles, and even Zhidki, the Yids. Simply, we wanted a better life. I had a child coming, and I didn’t want the little one to grow up in the filth of that cellar. I didn’t want to work every waking moment of my life, breathing the foul air from the smelter, only to die not as a human being but some kind of rat. And I didn’t want the little one getting ill with no medical help at hand. So we went to one of these tearooms organized by the Father Gapon, where only tea and mineral waters were served-absolutely no vodka-and where each meeting was opened and closed with prayer. And there, in the Assembly Hall, we heard about the condition of the worker and the need for betterment of his life and so on. It seemed very promising and very good at first. Father Gapon himself spoke with such power, and the portrait of Otets Rodnoi, Batushka-Our Own Dear Father, the Tsar-hung on the wall, and really there was no dark talk whatsoever. None. In fact, many praised our system-that we had an autocrat who stood above all classes and nobles and bureaucrats, a God-given leader who, when he learned of our sufferings, would make things right with a single ukaz.

  But then the great strikes of January, 1905, broke out. It all started at the very place where I was employed, the Putilov Works, when three or four men were unjustly fired. I can’t even remember why they were sacked, but the manager, Smirnoff, who could easily have fixed the problem, only succeeded in making it worse by doing nothing, absolutely nothing. And so the list of demands from the workers grew and grew-including better ventilation for us smiths, which pleased me greatly-but when there was no agreement, all 13,000 of us walked out. Almost immediately the Schau Cotton Mills in the Vyborg Quarter stopped work, even work at the Semyannikov Shipyard and the Franco-Russo Shipyard ground to a halt, too. Why, by the end of the first week of January it all became a general strike-nearly 150,000 workers refusing to do anything!-and it scared the government a great deal because we were at war with the Yaposki, the Japs, in Manchuria and the production of ships and cannons and uniforms had completely stopped. I tell you, it was all amazing. Shocking even, especially for Shura and me. We were not but a few months in the capital-mere minnows! -and the world around us was being swept away by a great wave. It was all so very different from life in our quiet village.

  It must have been that Friday that someone gave us a hectograph copy of an amazing idea-that we were all to go to the Tsar! Of course Shura, as the daughter of a priest, could read very nicely, and with a strong voice she recited:

  Workers, Wives, Children!

  We will gather together and all go to Batushka, the Dear Father Tsar, and bow before Him and tell Him how we, His children, hurt. We will tell Him how we toil and suffer and live in starvation. We will tell Him how the master foremen and bureaucrats at the factories fleece us. True, it is true, Batushka does not know how we need His help. But once He does our lives will become easier. For the sake of Mother Russia, let us gather! Let us march to Batushka and bow and kneel before Him so that He can bathe us with His love!

  This was how we learned of the great demonstration, and the instant we learned about it, why, Shura and I were seized with excitement. Immediately we set off for Father Gapon’s Assembly Hall where we had drunk tea and which, by the time we got there, was already packed, so packed that people were fainting from lack of oxygen. When the kerosene lights even started going out because of the bad air, why, that was when I grabbed a copy of the petition and rushed my pregnant Shura from the hall. But it was a beautiful idea, so beautiful in its simplicity: We would all march peacefully to the Winter Palace, where Father Gapon would hand our Tsar-Batushka a petition telling him of our needs. It was even promised that the Sovereign himself would be there to receive us and hear of our sufferings.

  “Oh, Pavel, we must go!” exclaimed my Shura, her face radiant with a smile, her breath steaming in the winter air.

  “You just want to see the Tsar!” I laughed knowingly.

  “Yes, you’re right. I want to see him because once he sees all of us kneeling before him, once he sees our love for him, he will understand how much we suffer. And then he will make everything right, our Tsar-Batushka will ease our pain and make our lives good. Just listen to the words on this paper.” And with a trembling hand she lifted up this paper, this plea to our Tsar, and read: “ ‘Sovereign! We, workers and inhabitants of the city of Sankt Peterburg, members of various classes, our wives, children, and poor old parents, call upon Thee, Sovereign, to seek justice and protection. We are poor and downtrodden, buried beneath work, and insulted. We are treated not like humans but slaves…’ ”

  Shurochka read on and on, and I must tell you, it thrilled both of us, these words, calling for such unhea
rd-of things as freedom of speech, equality for all before the law, compulsory and free education, and even an eight-hour workday. These things delighted me because in them I saw not just simple hope but a real future for my young family. Yes, with promises like these we could stay in the city, we could build a real life.

  We could even prosper.

  Chapter 7 ELLA

  Like all women of my time, I was carefully taught in the arts of needlework, piano, and painting. It was the latter of these that I found most appealing. Often in the mornings I could be found at my desk, if not writing a letter, then drawing a design-a flower or forest scene-on an envelope or on the edge of a piece of blank stationery, which I would later write on and send.

  One day soon after New Year’s as we were slowly but surely settling into our apartments in the Nikolaevski Palace of the Kremlin, I was doing just that, painting an envelope there in my cabinet. Hearing a quiet knock at my open doorway, I raised my head and saw standing there not only one of my footmen dressed in his fine white uniform but also my dear little dog, Petasha. Immediately I smiled, for in my eager companion’s mouth was a piece of paper.

  “Come, my little postman!” I called.

  With that, Petasha, a fox terrier of great personality, burst forward. The entire Palace, from servant to prince, took great joy in this pup and the way she delighted in bringing me my mail, and I lifted an envelope from her mouth as carefully as if I were taking a letter from a silver platter.

  “Thank you, dorogaya maya.” My dear.

  Good Petasha was gone as quickly as she had come, leaving me with a smile upon my face and a letter in hand. My good humor quickly vanished, however, when I recognized the handwriting of my sister, Alicky. Oh, dear. These days I had nothing but worry for her and Nicky.

  Quickly opening the letter, I read:

  My Own Darling,

  Surely you have heard what worrisome times we are passing through here in the capital, and yet I write to tell you we are holding up well. Reports come daily that the strikes in the city have been terrible, and we hear of a socialist priest who is at the head of some dark movement. Apparently he plans to lead a great march upon the Winter Palace, hoping to deliver some paper-saying what we do not know-to Nicky. It’s all very concerning, of course, but we are told everything is under control and my dear, dear Nicky seems not too concerned.

  Yes, it’s difficult these days, and I am generally very tired. The children, though, are well, and Baby is a continual bright spot in these…

  My eyes flew over the last sentences, and then I clutched the letter and let my hands fall to my lap. Dear Lord, what was happening? What troubles lay ahead? I worried so for Alicky and Nicky, and I worried so for my new country and how it seemed to be coming apart. Nicky, I feared, was not being tough enough, for he was far too sweet to wield a strong hand like his father. Where were the ministers he needed? Where was the proper advice? I supposed it was a good thing that Alicky and he had their main residence outside the capital in Tsarskoye Selo-the countryside and the air were so good there-but I feared our royal couple was becoming too distant not simply from society but from events in general.

  Oh, poor, poor Alicky, I thought, glancing out the window at the snowy courtyards of the Kremlin. For ages the entire Empire had been waiting and praying for a miracle, which was finally delivered upon us this past year: Alicky had given birth to a beautiful boy, Aleksei.

  And yet…

  I shook my head with grief. Yes, Russia had her heir to the 300-year-old House of Romanov, and, yes, the treasured boy was a wonderful, handsome child. But I knew the horrible truth, I knew what only a small handful did, that the dear, sweet baby was a bleeder. Only three or four of us in the immediate family knew this sad story, while to the rest of the Ruling House, the Empire, and the entire world, this fact was guarded as nothing less than a state secret. And so my poor sister suffered alone and in silence, forever fearful that her precious baby, her Alyosha, would befall the same fate as our own brother Frittie: he would simply bump himself and bleed to death. In the past year poor Alicky had aged ten.

  Hopeful that my husband might know more, I wiped my eyes and rose from my desk. Stopping in front of a mirror, I checked myself, for Sergei expected nothing less than perfection from me. I primped at my fair hair, pinched at my cheeks, and made sure that the pale-pink satin dress I wore-which was decorated with a delicate pattern of acacia and was of my own design-was flattering. Although I had a weakness for jewels, Sergei was even more fond of them, and he was forever showering me with precious gifts. He often informed me which jewels he wanted to see on a specific day, and today he had told me to wear the large freshwater pearl earrings and long pearl necklace, all so perfectly matched in color and size. Yes, they were beautiful, I thought, straightening them. Then, as confidently as I could, I headed out, making my way toward the large front staircase and down to Sergei’s office on the ground level.

  My husband was loath to be interrupted during his workday, but nevertheless the large, uniformed guard opened the double door for me. Entering Sergei’s cabinet, I found him in undress uniform at his large walnut desk, which was covered with photographs in Fabergé frames, jeweled mementos, and other bric-a -brac. After a moment or two of my standing there, he raised his head.

  “What is it, my child?” he said in his slow Sankt Peterburg drawl.

  Sergei was tall and thin, with both his light beard and hair cropped short, and while he was pleasing in appearance, he was forever hesitant to smile. Though he had received much criticism for his stern rule of Moscow, I could honestly say none worked harder, which was why he was clearly annoyed by my presence during his working hours.

  “I’ve just received a letter from Alix,” I said. “Apparently there’s a group that plans to march upon the Winter Palace.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of this. I’ve been receiving steady reports for the last week.”

  “Oh…” I replied, surprised, though I shouldn’t have been that Sergei had not mentioned it. “Well… is there danger? Is there anything to worry about?”

  Sergei reached for a pen and bottle of ink. “I’ve been informed this morning that this band of dissolutes means the Emperor harm.”

  “Dear Lord…”

  It had been over 20 years since Sergei’s father-and Nicky’s grandfather-was assassinated by revolutionaries, who’d thrown a bomb at the royal carriage and blown off the Emperor ’s legs. Ever since the entire Ruling House had been living in the shadow of that nightmare, forever fearful that it would happen again. For this reason, Sergei had practically dedicated his life to ridding the Empire of ungratefuls, which was why, sadly, his tenure as Governor-General had begun with the expulsion of the Jews from Moscow. Though I hadn’t been privy to great information at the time, I’d since heard that altogether some 20,000 souls had been herded out of Moscow, some to Siberia, most off to the Pale, women and children alike, and all in the freezing cold of winter, no less. While Sergei had always felt this had been wisely done for security, I had seen in it nothing but shame, and could not believe that for this we would not be judged in some way in the future.

  Had that time now come? Were the dark days now falling upon the Empire merely a kind of retribution for the sad events of fourteen years past?

  “Does this mean Nicky won’t be there, that he won’t meet them at the Palace?” I asked, tightly clasping my hands.

  “The Director of Security has insisted that Nicky refrain from greeting these marchers. In fact, for the Emperor’s own safety they are requesting that he and Alicky not travel to the city for the next week but remain at their residence in Tsarskoye. ”

  With that, Sergei picked up a document, which he began to read, and I retreated from his office, overcome with worry. So my sister and her husband would be safe… for now. But the shame of it all, Russia ’s Emperor all but imprisoned behind the gilded fence of his own Palace.

  Oh, and what a tragedy that march turned out to be… how sinful, how painful. I
still weep at the lost opportunity.

  Chapter 8 PAVEL

  For weeks it had been dark and snowy in Peterburg, of course. And cold, so incredibly cold. But that morning of the march the sun came out in all its glory. True, it was still awfully chilly and there was snow on the ground-after all, it was January-but rarely do you see so bright a day in the middle of a Russian winter, the sun so low but so sharp, cutting across the roofs and into our faces. Just gorgeous.

  And because of this beauty you could see it everywhere, hope on everyone’s faces, for we all took the sunshine as a golden omen. Some even claimed that the Tsar himself had ordered such a fine day. After all, we were not asking for a new government. We were not asking for the Tsar to abandon his mighty, God-given throne. Why, no, we just wanted our beloved Tsar-Batushka to come to our aid, to reach over the conniving courtiers and bureaucrats who divided us, his devoted children, from Him, our fatherly Tsar. He would stretch out his illustrious hand and help us up-yes, we were confident he would. The massive march to our Sovereign, we were told, was to be like one great krestnii xhod-religious procession-leading right to the home of our Sovereign so that we could sob our griefs on the chest of our Little Father. And so we wore our Sunday best clothes, that was how we were instructed. All of us were told, “Put on your nicest clothes, take your wives and your children, carry no weapons, not even a pocket knife!” Likewise we were instructed not to carry anything red, not even a red shawl or scarf, for the color red was of course the sign of the revolutionaries, which we absolutely were not. After all, just as it was impossible to go before the Almighty God bearing arms, so was it unclean to go before the Tsar with devious thoughts.

  Because of the huge numbers wanting to see the Tsar, because the procession was to be so enormous-well over a hundred thousand were expected-we gathered in different parts of the city. I think there was one group that met on Vasilevski Island, another along Kameniiostrovski Prospekt, somewhere else, too, and we were all to march to the Palace and congregate there on Palace Square. Shura and I joined the crowd at the square in front of Father Gapon’s Assembly Hall in the Narva District, and naturally ours was the largest group.