by JG Hampton
always gets nostalgic and hangs our baby booties which we wore on the Christmas tree branches along with striped candy canes. Which are supposed to represent a shepherd’s crook tenderly used to guide the lambs. Others say the candy canes represent blood flowing down the arms of patients. Which story do you think I prefer? Those who read my diary may guess my answer because by now, you'll know that I'm against blood shed and bloodletting.
Mama was so pleased with the electrical wiring because now she won’t have to worry about setting the palace on fire with lit candles which are such a fire hazard, but Olga and Papa prefer the old ways with a bucket of water nearby.
I’ve been trying to figure out what Anastasia’s up to, but she refuses to tell me anything. She has the strangest, slyest smile on her face, but says that I must wait until Christmas day when all will be revealed.
24 December 1914 - It’s Christmas Eve and we sip wassail, egg nog, and Papa drinks old Cognac and brandy. Mama’s delicious German Pferrnesse pepper cookies appear and so do Auntie Annya’s stuffed raisin cookies. I love everything and want Christmas to last forever. Mama winds up the phonograph and we sing while we decorate the Christmas tree and carefully put on silver tinsel strand by strand. We all rave that it is the most beautiful tree that we have ever had. The bubble lights look wonderful boiling away the darkness. Joy sniffs and romps around the tree joyfully wondering what is going on. I’ve given her a large soup bone and she’s perfectly content to chew it in her corner with Tatiana's little lap dog.
Papa and Mama will exchange their gifts and open them while drinking champagne after we children have gone to bed. They have been married now for almost two and a half decades, but they're still madly in love with each other.
25 December 1914, 6 January 1914 – This year I have learned to appreciate my family and privileged life more than ever. Since I have been away from my sisters and mother they are dearer to me. I no longer take them or life for granted and I suppose I am becoming a fatalist like Mama and Papa. I will continue to live for as long a time as God allows me to do so.
When my time is up, I will die.
Father Grigory has survived many attempts on his life, when he should have died but none proved fatal, just like me. He told me about how he and his brother Dmitry had nearly drowned in a river near their village in Pokrovskoye in Siberia. He’d realized that his brother was in trouble and would drowned and he’d tried to keep his head above the water, but his brother had pulled him under the water in a death clasp and he had been terrified as he choked on the water. His life had passed before him. They continued to drift down the river until a farmer rescued both of them with a long pole. He had been fearful of water ever since and he’s afraid that is what will take him in the end, because he escaped death by drowning once before. His best friend, his brother, had died from exposure to the cold water and developed pneumonia afterwards. When Dmitry was ten, just my age, he’d died anyway, and my staretz still missed him dreadfully. His brother’s time was clearly up.
Perhaps that’s why he doesn’t like to bathe because he's afraid of the power of water or the power in the water. Doesn't Satan have dominion over the waters? However my staretz truly believes that nothing can hurt him until God allows it. Some say that he is protected by the forces of evil, but he believes his healing power comes from God and so does Mama.
As usual, I received many incredible presents, new games, paddle balls, puzzles, and beautifully illustrated books. I loved the fantastic wind up model car given to me by the Rolls Royce factory, but my most special gifts were given to me by my family members. Like Mama says: the ones that come from the heart which are made lovingly by the persons I love are the most special. Grandmama disagrees. She likes expensive gifts and always has. Her collection of Faberge's miniature jeweled animals is superb, but she seldom lets me see it, let alone play with it. Papa says if I wait long enough, it will be mine eventually so I must be patient. Mama says that patience is a virtue.
Grandmama hates Father Grigory; although she has never even met him. She would not like him even if she met him. His peasant manners and coarseness would not endear him to
my cultured, refined persnickety grandmother. Perhaps this is why my muzhik Rasputin is afraid of her powers. He thinks she will influence my rash young cousins and other aristocrats against him.
Papa and my sisters went to give her our presents at the Annitchkov palace, Mama did not come with us. Grandmama liked Papa’s expensive bracelet from Faberge, but rather disregarded our homemade gifts and Christmas cards, but Auntie Olga loved our pop up cards and our poetry, perhaps that’s why she continues to be our best loved aunt. She’s such a positive, loving force in our lives. How we adore her and her talents which she always shares with us.
Papa loved the navy scarf I knitted for him and embroidered in gold thread his initials NR as well as the hand knit argyle socks with his initials made by my sister Olga. He wears them often under his leather boots. I believe that Olga is his favorite daughter, but Papa says he doesn't play favorites except where I'm concerned. Mama seems to favor Tatiana of all her daughters. Olga is headstrong and often clashes with Mama.
Anastasia had framed amusing pictures of each of us. She snapped me asleep with my mouth wide open; Olga was photographed looking sternly at Mama with a wooden spoon in her hand as if she wanted to beat her; Marie was caught with the silliest smile gazing longingly at a young officer during one of the dances she accompanied Auntie Olga to at a palace in Moscow.. Tatiana, elegant Tatiana, was caught with her cheeks loaded with a bliny looking like a squirrel storing nuts for the winter; Mama looked like a fishwife at market as she yelled at something Shura had done. This photo helped Mama reflect that perhaps she over reacts. We laughed heartily at these pictures until our sides ached. That’s what life is about: being surrounded by and enjoying those we love.
We attended church and kneeled together and felt Christ’s pure love as the Holy Spirit descended on us in our ornate Russian Orthodox Church. Mama simply glowed with love and a light from within. I heard her thanking God for my recovery and for her many blessings that she’d received, especially the continued love of her husband and family. Truly I am blessed.
1 January 1915, 14 January 1915 –I start another year; I’m almost twelve and am quite good looking although I wish I had a little more flesh on my bones. Tatiana and I can eat whatever we want with little consequence and are the tall lean ones in our family. Mama says that I must have a hollow leg and sees that I finish my meals and doesn’t mind if I snack in between meals. She needn't worry, because I’m always hungry now that I’m growing so fast. Soon I will be taller than Papa and Mama. Perhaps I’ll be as tall as my paternal grandpapa Alexander. I hope so.
3 January 1915, 21 January 1915 - Mama and I visited Annya in her little house and found that she was freezing. We had to sit with our feet off of the floor propped on small overstuffed stools because the floor was frozen in order to avoid chill blains. Clearly her charming cottage was meant to be a summer home only, but she's often at the palace anyway and usually travels with us whenever we travel. She gave us word about Rasputin and he's in trouble again. Is he ever not in a dilemma? Now he's meddling in army contracts and has disclosed secret military information to outsiders. Papa will not be pleased and either will Father Shavelsky, our archpriest, who tells my Papa about everything corrupt and incorrect that he does. Why does my muzhik continue to meddle? He's been given ample allowance, enough to enroll his daughter in a private school. Papa's patience is wearing thin; He may even banish him from Petrograd. What will I do then?
4 January 1915, 17 January 1916 - We-re quite snowed in and the frost is painting beautiful pictures on the glass panes of the palace windows. I'm entranced with them and wonder if the frozen artwork will photograph? I've tried taking pictures of snowflakes and have discovered that there really are no two that are alike. How could this be possible? But there are no two people that are identical
either-not even identical twins. There is always a difference between them. Imagine the billions and billions of snowflakes that fall from the sky and yet I have never found two identical ones. God is great.
When Mama lets me, I join my sisters on the ice hill on the toboggan and zip down the icy trail. Olga and Tatiana are covered in white fur coats and hats and look like beautiful versions of the snow queen themselves. I look like a Cossack in my long coat and hat, but I enjoy my Persian lamb hat and keep it pulled over my ears. The air is so cold that my tongue freezes when I leave it out for a moment and my spittle crackles in the air when I spit. Anastasia dared me to stick a metal spoon on my tongue. I didn't accept that dare. How dumb does she think I am?
I read in the newspapers that a boy stuck his tongue to the village flag pole and was held fast until a smart old babushka freed him with hot, melted butter. I would have simply cut if off to free him thinking that he deserved his just desserts for doing something so dumb. Am I like Ivan the terrible? Mama once called me L'infant terrible.
Villagers have frozen when they've gone out to milk their cows and must use ropes leading to the