Meanwhile, a bottle of spell ink was sitting, untouched, in Zash’s pack. I started to wish I’d stolen it. The Bolsheviks had stolen our lives from us. It would have been a fair exchange. Yet Zash had it for a reason. I wanted to know that reason. Perhaps he’d share some. I wasn’t too prideful to ask. I couldn’t bear to watch Alexei wrestle with the pain, deprived of all sunlight.
“Have you seen any spells being used or hidden?” I asked Maria nonchalantly as we finished up a card game.
“Don’t get involved in spell mastery, Nastya. Not here.”
I shuffled. “It’s for Alexei. For his knee.” And for my sanity.
“I’ve seen nothing. But if there are any spell items, they’d probably be in Avdeev’s office. Sometimes there are raids in the city and items are stored here.”
In the late afternoon I joined the doctor as he tended to Alexei’s knee. “Dr. Botkin, you used to use spells for healing, didn’t you?”
He pressed gently on the swelling in Alexei’s joints. Alexei hissed. “Only ones I could purchase. I never made them.”
“Did you never ask how spell masters obtained their spell ink? How they made it?”
“Of course I asked. But those questions need to leave our minds now. The age of spell masters is over.”
What a dull response. Life as a curious imp was far more exciting. “What’s happening to the spell masters now? Are they . . . stopping their work?”
“The Bolsheviks are hunting them. Forcing them to either serve Lenin or die.”
“What is Lenin going to do with them?”
“He’s promised to make spells accessible to everyone. Someday.”
I tilted my head. “That doesn’t sound so terrible.”
“It sounds like a good solution, da? Simple. Equal. But if the spells become free and distributed equally, who pays the spell masters? How do they live? How do they eat?”
The question was a challenge. Dr. Botkin, always the teacher. “Can they . . . use spells to provide for their needs?”
“Spells do not provide tangible resources. And the masters cannot sell them since the Soviet government is the ultimate distributor.”
I started to see his point. “So the government will provide spell masters with food. But then . . . if the spell masters stop working, the new system fails. And in the end there is still one group of people—the Soviet leaders—who decide who gets what. Those who do not want to work take advantage of the system and those who work harder receive no gain for their diligence.”
I was only sixteen and I could see the cracks in the proposed system the people claimed they wanted. “The spell masters must see this flaw.”
“They do. And that is why Bolsheviks are hunting them.”
“Murdering them,” I grumbled. Like they’d done with Rasputin. “Perhaps the masters will rebel. Maybe they’ll join the White Army and come rescue us.” And maybe I could join them.
“Let’s not discuss such dangerous topics while the tsarevich is still healing.”
“The tsarevich is part of this conversation, too.” Alexei folded his arms. “And just because I’m stuck in bed doesn’t mean I’m a doughbrain. I like Nastya’s idea.”
Dr. Botkin heaved a sigh, but the crinkles at the corners of his eyes gave him away. “Do not strain yourself, Tsarevich.” He pulled the bedsheet over Alexei’s legs. “You must rest your knee even if you begin to feel better.”
“I have spent more time resting than a corpse in its coffin. I’ll be careful, Doctor, but I will do as I please.”
“As usual,” Dr. Botkin muttered, exiting the room, leaving Alexei and me with our thoughts.
“I wish there was some spell that could lead the White Army to us.” Alexei toyed with one of his small metal soldiers.
The White Army was made of loyalists—those who wanted Papa back on the Russian throne. Those who knew Mamma wasn’t brainwashed by Rasputin. Those who knew we loved our people. They wanted to save spell masters.
I didn’t know how strong in numbers the White Army was, but they gave us hope. They were strong enough to force the Bolsheviks to hide us in exile. I brushed my fingers over the lump in my corset. “Perhaps there is a spell like that.”
“I may not have sat in on all the conversations you and Rasputin had, but even I know such a spell is beyond you.”
I sniffed. “What a doubter you are today. Have you learned nothing from my exploits?”
“I’ve learned that you’re very good at sneaking eggs in soldiers’ boots.”
I flipped one of his toy soldiers in the air, then caught it right side up. “The White Army will find us, Alexei. Somehow . . . I’ll help them.” And somehow I’ll help you.
I crossed the room to stand by the painted window as though I’d be able to see the sky and gauge the weather. I scraped at the glass with a fingernail, but the whitewash was on the outside. I let my eyes drift to the fortochka at the top of the window—a tiny ventilator window used mainly in winter. I glanced back at Alexei and then the door. No soldiers in sight. As casually as possible, I reached up and undid the latch on the fortochka.
“Nastya . . .”
“Tishe.” I pushed the fortochka open. It crackled, breaking through the messy whitewash that had dried over the outer edges. “You need fresh air.”
A tiny puff of air made its way to my face, sending my heart wings aflutter. I breathed deep and cracked it a bit more so I could see the view below. My eyes took in the scene like an inhale of sweet spring. I caught the glimpse of the golden-domed skyline, glistening like jewels of promise beneath the sun. But the grandeur was interrupted by gunshots in the heart of the city. Controlled shots. Executions.
I could see over the palisade. Voznesensky Prospekt stretched out before me—wide and cobbled. No one walked along the main road through Ekaterinburg, but I could imagine life and freedom and bustle along that cold, packed street.
I imagined the White Army marching up the hill, climbing the palisade, and busting the door open. Taking us away to safety. To a new life.
I allowed myself only a few seconds, then slid away from the window. Best not to linger. I was in that dreamy middle ground where opening the fortochka was not yet forbidden so I could claim ignorance. But once it was forbidden, I’d be hard-pressed to open it again without getting punished.
Or shot.
6
May 31
“Death to the tyrant!”
“Hang them!”
“Drown him in the lake!”
I couldn’t see through the whitewashed windows, but the shouts of the Russian people peeled away my resolve like the skinning of a potato. Our belongings had arrived from Tobolsk on the train yesterday. We were not allowed to see them until they were thoroughly inspected, pilfered, sold off, inspected again, stored in the outhouse, then inspected again.
“Those poor people.” Tatiana stood at the window, listening to the cries. “They ought to have whatever they wish from our valuables.”
“Whatever they wish?” Mamma lowered one of her hands from stopping up her ears. “Your cots and linens are in those trunks. And what of the tableware from the Alexander Palace or your papa’s bath salts?”
“You truly think the commandant will allow us to use those things?” Olga asked. “He already moved the piano into his office. He took our gramophone. He isn’t going to let you keep your English eau de cologne, Mamma.”
“It is not his to take!”
“Everything we have is his to take,” I muttered.
Tatiana smoothed the wrinkles from her simple worn frock. “The people should have it.”
“And what would they do with it?” Mamma huffed. “Pawn it off! They’re not going to use it. Besides, they’ve elected their Soviet government that is supposed to make those decisions for them. They’ve sold their freedom.”
Papa entered the sitting room from the yellow-wallpapered bedroom he and Mamma shared. His very presence carried an air of humility. “The Soviet government was no
t elected by the people. You’ve heard the gunshots every few days. Each one signifies the death of a Russian citizen who didn’t comply with Bolshevik demands.”
I’d heard gunshots. Was that really what instigated them?
“They are in need,” Papa said. “Though we are no longer their tsar or royal family, their needs must always be our concern.” He carried his daily Ekaterinburg newspaper to what had quickly become “Papa’s chair” near the biggest whitewashed window and sat down to read.
Undeterred, Mamma asked, “What of my medical kit? If Alexei gets any worse, we will need what is left of our morphine supply.” Her hand drifted to her head. Alexei wasn’t the only one who needed—or used—the morphine. Mamma’s headaches and weak heart were equally as crippling as his hemophilia.
“We may be exiled, but we can still make requests.” Papa opened the paper and read it as calmly as he’d spoken.
I wished I could keep my peace the way he did. It was as though he bore no animosity. I tried to be like him, but sometimes I felt as though a small ball of hate lurked in the back corner of my heart—waiting to spring out and consume me.
Mamma returned to Alexei’s room. Tatiana and Maria returned to the pups, and Olga returned to her mending—the only entertainment she had in this prison of ours.
Papa and I were alone.
With the Bolshevik soldiers busy dealing with the angry people and sifting through our belongings, an opportunity finally rested before me. Was it . . . time?
I watched Papa read his paper. Did the same turmoil exist inside his chest? He was too calm to show it. I was too stubborn to show it.
Seeing his form steadied my fire—his mustache quirked at an angle while he contemplated the contents of the paper, his legs crossed the way they always were when I would find him reading in the library. We were together again.
He finally looked up, and his mustache wiggled above the crack of a smile. His eyes went squinty and my heart melted all the way out my slippers. Papa folded the newspaper and patted his knee.
I was sixteen. An exiled princess. A child no longer. Still, I strode across the room and settled onto his lap, linking my arms around his neck. No amount of age, pride, or maturity could stop me from loving my papa with the heart of a little girl. I kissed his cheek and we stayed that way for several seconds, soaking in each other’s company. Me wondering—for the hundredth time—how our beloved country could have missed his sweetness and demanded his abdication . . . and even his death.
“How is my little shvibzik?” Papa asked.
We’d exchanged little more than family talk since my arrival. This time was ours. “I put eggs in the Tobolsk soldiers’ boots.”
Papa dragged a hand down his face, but I still caught a glimmer of amusement. “What will I do with you?”
“You will let me stay on your lap and we will discuss the prose of Pushkin all the day long.” My voice remained playful, but the slight tension in his posture told me he read the subtext.
I swelled with pride. Now he knew I’d succeeded in his mission for me. I wanted to tell him the entire story—the why behind the eggs in the soldiers’ boots and how I hung out of a carriage and vexed Olga so severely that she burst into tears. I wanted to tell him how I winked at Yurovsky as we left the station with the Matryoshka doll snug in my corset.
But even without the details, he sought the story victory. “Did you bring any Pushkin novels with you?”
“Most of them are packed in our Tobolsk trunks that are being examined by the soldiers.” I picked a piece of fluff off his linen shirt. “But I brought one with me on the train so I would not perish of boredom.”
“That’s my girl.”
I plucked the newspaper from his hand, opened it, and blocked our faces from view of the hallway. “What now, Papa?” This, I whispered in German. From my repertoire of Russian, English, German, and French, I figured German was the language a common Bolshevik would least understand if he walked in during our conversation.
Papa peeked over the newspaper. I already knew no guards were in sight and the dogs were yapping, so we were safe. For the moment.
“You must keep it with you, Nastya. It was a gift to Mamma and me when we were newly married from the greatest spell master, Vasily Dochkin. There used to be seven layers. Every layer holds a . . .”—he dropped his voice even lower—“spell.”
“But how do you open them? And how many layers remain? And what is in them?” What made Papa claim it was our family’s salvation?
“Each layer opens when the spell is ready. There are three remaining layers—”
“Citizen Nikolai!” Commandant Avdeev called from the doorway.
My brain startled with a zing, but my well-trained muscles kept my body still. My weight on Papa’s lap kept him from startling too badly. Good thing I held the newspaper, because Papa would have crumpled it.
I lowered the paper casually, trying not to allow my disgust at Avdeev’s informal title for Papa to show. “Dobroye dyen, Commandant,” I said in Russian.
“Your trunks from Tobolsk shall be brought up shortly. I expect them organized by evening.”
I hopped from Papa’s lap, indignation singeing my tongue, but Papa rose and gave a little bow. “Of course, Commandant.”
No. No! I wanted to push away Papa’s humility, pull him straight again, and remind him how much more of a leader he was than tipsy Avdeev. But his humility was why he made such a good leader for our family. Wise. Humble. Papa.
An example to me.
I still didn’t bow. I couldn’t make myself. Not yet.
Avdeev held a bottle of liquor, possibly from one of our trunks. He stepped aside to let Zash and Ivan haul in a trunk of Papa’s journals, then took the bottle with him to his office and shut the door.
Zash lowered the trunk carefully. His gaze burned my skin as he returned to the stairway for another trunk. It must have been difficult for him to load our belongings into our home of exile when it seemed like excess to a common soldier such as him.
But he didn’t understand my life, needs, or upbringing.
And I didn’t understand his.
But I intended to.
“Papa, how can you bow to Avdeev? You are above this man in so many ways—honor, kindness, bloodline . . .”
“Ah, but not stature. I am quite shorter than he is, you know.” Papa kissed my forehead and went to open his trunk. “I remind myself that he is doing his duty. He is showing loyalty to the country and people I love. And that is something I can bow to.”
Zash and Ivan returned with another trunk. The moment they disappeared down the stairs for a third, I knelt by Papa over his trunk. “Papa,” I whispered. “When will the doll open for me? When do I use it?”
He thumbed through the spines of the journals but did not remove them. “Use it at the last possible moment.”
“When is—?” I bit off my question as Zash returned with another trunk. Mamma entered the sitting room and directed them to the small kitchen. It took the remainder of the day for us to receive our belongings—or at least what was left of them. The Bolsheviks delivered barely half of what we’d originally packed. The rest, they kept for themselves.
June 1
The next day Papa carried Alexei into the garden for the first time. Maria and I danced around him tossing little handfuls of yellow acacia flowers down upon him—bringing the garden to his lap. Joy tumbled among the lilacs, releasing what little pollen they held. Alexei sneezed. Winced. Then laughed.
I’d missed his laugh.
Mamma sat in her wheelchair, a broad-rimmed hat keeping the sun from beating upon her. It was stylish to be pale, but my sisters and I threw our faces to the sky and welcomed the tan. It painted our skin with freckles of freedom. Mamma lasted barely ten minutes before she had to retire due to her headaches. Olga went with her to read to her.
Better her than me. If I had a spell to heal Mamma’s headaches, I would use it immediately. But since there was nothing to be don
e, I’d rather be outside while someone else tended to Mamma’s discomfort. If I spent one second longer than necessary in that house, I feared suffocation.
Zash was one of the three soldiers on garden guard. Why did I always notice him? He muttered out of the side of his mouth with the guard Maria had her eye set on—Ivan. Since finding his friend, he seemed to look upon us with less loathing.
I allowed my stroll to take me past them so I could catch part of their conversation.
“. . . surprised at these living conditions,” Zash muttered.
Ivan nodded. “Wait until you’ve been here a month. It’s terrible to watch.”
I rounded the garden, unsure if Zash and Ivan were remarking on our living conditions or the soldiers’ quarters. Maybe both. Maria chased Joy and ended up catching her right near the feet of Ivan. She stood slowly as Alexei called the spaniel back to him, leaving Maria with her Bolshevik.
Ivan brightened. Zash stiffened. I kept walking, observing. I liked that she’d found someone else who could bring her joy, but a twinge of warning pinched the back of my mind.
Commandant Avdeev entered the garden at a slight sway. He leaned against the outer wall, watching us with bloodshot eyes, but he did not order us inside. He didn’t tell Maria and Ivan to stop talking. In fact, Papa struck up a conversation with Avdeev.
It was time I did the same with the Bolshevik soldiers. With Zash.
When I was just halfway across the garden, Maria spotted me and held out her hand. “Nastya, come here!”
I grinned and skipped to her side.
“This is Ivan.” She laid a delicate hand on the sleeve of his Soviet uniform.
Ivan bowed cordially. “A pleasure to officially meet you.” His eyes sparkled in sync with his bright smile.
Now this was a Bolshevik I could befriend. I could see why Maria gravitated toward him. “The pleasure is mine.” Then, to bring Zash into the conversation before he escaped, I gestured toward him. “This is Zash. He was at Tobolsk with us.”
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