“This is unacceptable,” Dr. Botkin fumed. “Even under exile you should not be starved. The tsarina and tsarevich will never heal under these conditions.”
Mamma no longer left her bed—not even to go out into the garden. This left her wooden wheelchair for Alexei to use. And as much as he enjoyed being pushed around the garden, Alexei grew more and more frail with each passing day. I needed spell ink. But I couldn’t steal it from Zash, even if I wanted to, because of the mass of Bolsheviks everywhere. And Avdeev didn’t have any.
The Matryoshka doll remained resolutely sealed. I felt so helpless.
Mornings grew particularly dull as we counted down the minutes until eleven when we would be permitted outside. Papa read and reread the small stack of books that had arrived in his and my trunks. Sometimes he would read aloud, and I soaked in his voice the way I wished I could be soaking in the sun.
Maria, Tatiana, and I played the French card game bezique until I was ready to tear the cards to pieces and scream. Olga soothed Mamma by her bedside, and Alexei played with his tin soldiers on a small model ship that had been returned to his possession. Oftentimes I would join him simply because the tin soldiers were such a relief from the endless cards.
One morning we woke to the noise of sawing, hammering, and clunking. When we had our garden time we saw why. The Bolsheviks were building a second palisade of timber. Taller, longer, more secure around the small palisade. Zash helped haul logs and balance them in place while others bound them. I didn’t know why they thought we needed a second barrier—we’d done nothing to warrant extra security other than grow thinner from our pathetic rations.
I continued to peek out the small fortochka window over the next few days, though more of my view was blocked by the new palisade. With no newspaper and no view, we could not know the state of the country or if the White Army had continued to resist the Bolsheviks.
But a couple days later, the gates cranked open and twenty new soldiers marched into the entryway. They carried their packs and settled into the already-cramped Ipatiev House, bringing their sweat and cigarette smoke into our space.
Extra guards? A second palisade? We posed no threat from the inside. That left only one logical reason the Bolsheviks would bring more security: there must be a threat from the outside.
The White Army was coming to rescue us.
7
“The guard rotation has changed.” Maria waggled her eyebrows, sitting crosslegged with me on the oriental rug in our room. “With all the extra guards, they had to switch some things around, and guess who is now on duty on our landing every other day?”
“Hm . . . that’s a tough one.” I shuffled two decks of cards, not quite in the mood for bezique. “Ivan?”
Maria stuck out her tongue. The way she talked of Ivan went a touch beyond flirtation. She was entering dangerous territory, but I didn’t know what to do about it. It could happen to any of us. The more starved we were of kindness, the more we clung to any crumb of it.
We needed to look out for each other. I needed to look out for her. “You be careful with that Bolshevik.” I dealt out eight cards each and flipped the trump card.
“That’s just it. I don’t think he is one,” she said in a hushed voice, picking up her cards. “He comes from the local factory same as this influx of new soldiers—they’re all from the factory. None of them are actually soldiers. I think Avdeev is getting whoever he can.”
I had noticed a decrease in hostility from the new soldiers, which encouraged more cordiality from the original Bolsheviks. That meant these new men probably took the position of soldier for the pay rather than because of loyalty. “How do you know they come from the factory?”
“I asked Ivan.”
“Just don’t get too friendly.”
“Why shouldn’t I?” She flicked a card into the center of our spot on the carpet, then dropped her tone. “If the White Army is truly on its way to free us, wouldn’t it be best to have some of these soldiers sympathetic to our cause?”
My silence conveyed my acknowledgment. “All I’m saying is that we don’t need a string of broken—or jealous—hearts in the chests of soldiers with guns.” I outranked her trump card and picked up the trick.
Maria played her next card more forcefully. “Then we convince them not to use their guns.” She stood with a huff and marched toward the landing. She rang the bell and Ivan opened the door. Maria left the room to visit the lavatory. Supposedly.
The next day brought rain and kept us out of the garden. I couldn’t bear the idea of returning to our white foggy portion of rooms. My mind scrambled to latch onto some source of upcoming hope or joy. Back in Tobolsk and the Alexander Palace, this would have been a prank. Pranks here flirted too closely with noncompliance, especially with the increase of soldiers. But I could put on a play.
Like we used to in Tobolsk.
I now had a new playlet and tomorrow was Sunday. Plays were always better with more than one actor, so I hurried into Alexei’s room with a grin. “Alexei, the time has come . . .”
* * *
“Mrs. Chugwater, I ought to stuff you in your trunk and give you to the luggage man!” I stomped across the floor wearing a dressing gown and putting on my best grumpy-husband face for the ending of our one-act play. Alexei played the role of the luggage man, dutifully following me around in his wheelchair with his lap full of parcels.
Maria—Mrs. Chugwater—folded her arms, wearing her beaded gown at last. “You’re such a blockhead, I almost confused you with the luggage.”
The audience snickered. I caught their amused smiles out of the corner of my eye—Papa, Mamma, Tatiana, and Olga. Even Avdeev and some of the guards had come to observe. I tried not to focus too much on Zash and Ivan, watching from the corner.
“And that, my dear Mrs. Chugwater, is why you can carry your own bags!” I threw the two empty suitcases at her feet and nearly toppled over from the momentum. My dressing gown flew up, exposing Papa’s Jaeger long johns bunched up on my legs. I yanked the dressing gown down in mock horror and that was too much for the audience.
They howled and I soaked it in. Even Mamma laughed more than I’d seen her do in the past year. At last, I felt useful. Like I was helping heal my family, even if it was just their spirits.
We finished up our final lines, and the applause was the happiest sound that had struck my ears since Alexei’s last healthy laugh. I bowed with an exaggerated flourish. Even Avdeev clapped.
As I straightened I caught Zash watching me. Since our conversation about Alexei, his posture and presence no longer screamed “enemy.” Not like some of the others.
I thought of my warnings to Maria—not to get too attached to Ivan. But maybe she was right. Maybe being friendlier with some of the guards might make them sympathetic. It could help us survive this exile.
I smiled at Zash.
He smiled back.
And my stomach flipped.
Oh dear. That had been a terrible idea.
8
As we filed down the stairs out toward the garden once the storms had passed, I heard Dr. Botkin’s voice coming from Avdeev’s office. I couldn’t make out the words, but he sounded adamant. Forceful, even. Was he in trouble with the commandant?
I broke from the line to press my ear to the door, but Papa—who brought up the rear—took my arm and steered me down the stairs. “Let it be, Nastya.”
My imagination spun with all the possibilities—perhaps the Bolsheviks were going to get rid of us one by one. Starting with Dr. Botkin. Then Anna. And so on through the servants until they finally started on the Romanov family.
We entered the garden and I gulped in the sunshine, my heart already pattering in anxiety at the anticipated shout from Avdeev sending us back inside.
Just a while longer.
A minute longer.
Please, please, please.
I didn’t care that the sun would burn my skin. I didn’t care that the wind would tangle my hair. I didn’
t care that the people on the other side of the palisades might shout profanities at us. I just wanted the air. The breath. The freedom.
A gunshot echoed from the lower city. I heard at least one every time we visited the garden. An execution . . . of someone. For something. By a Bolshevik. The gunshots rang more frequently than the church bells.
Papa strolled, as though soaking in the freedom, despite the morbid sounds, whereas Maria wanted to exhaust herself in it and use up every tiny ounce. Papa had petitioned for more time outside. Avdeev said no. Then Papa asked Avdeev to allow him to help with the garden, with the wood, with the chores.
Again, Commandant Avdeev said no, in between his gulps of vodka.
It didn’t make sense, except to torment us.
Another distant gunshot broke through the air from the city. I flinched. At first it had been hard to believe that each shot represented the death of someone not adhering to the Bolshevik demands. But the more it happened, the more I believed it. For all we knew, that could have been a member of the White Army on his way to rescue us.
“Papa, what is going to happen to us?” I suspected he also heard my unspoken question, Will we be rescued? We were quickly on our way to starvation. Even with the occasional morning cocoa, our bodies barely obeyed our commands when running on the diet of broth, cutlets, and bread.
We were fading—both from Russia’s hearts and from our own mirrors. Mamma hadn’t come outside for several days. She could barely gather herself from her bed due to her headaches and poor nutrition.
“Our only hopes are rescue or to soften hearts.”
He believed the Bolsheviks—if they had their way—would keep us here until we rotted. Or would kill us before things got that far. Up until this moment, I had clung to the hope that maybe they would still send us to a deserted little village, stripped of riches and titles, but alive to end our days as peasants.
Even that shadowed dream was now fading. “Can their hearts be softened?”
“It’s not up to you to soften theirs. It’s up to you to keep yours soft. These soldiers are serving their country as they would have served me if I were still tsar.”
I didn’t believe that. Had they been loyal to Papa, they would not be partaking in his exile and looming death right now. I let my gaze drift to Zash. He and Ivan were on rotation between garden duty and upstairs landing duty. Zash watched us like a kestrel.
Perhaps after our exchanged smile yesterday he felt convicted to return to his stiff Bolshevik posture. Why was he so afraid of kindness?
I turned my face so he could not read my lips. “What of the doll? When will we be able to use it?”
No code words this time. I’d pulled the doll from its hiding spot in my corset this morning and still it wouldn’t open no matter how hard I twisted it. The spell wasn’t ready.
Papa stopped us in the far corner and I could feel the eyes of the guards on us. “Nastya, it is like the diamonds in your corset. The moment we use a spell shows we have been defying the Soviet government. It shows we are noncompliant. To use the spell might very well instigate our execution. This is why, even if it allows you to open it, you must use it only at the last possible moment.”
I thought of Yurovsky, the commandant who had almost taken the doll from me in Tobolsk. My hand drifted to my chest, ensuring the doll was still there and that Yurovsky was still far away in Tobolsk.
“The spell does not always do what we might expect it to. Mamma and I used one spell layer when she was pregnant with Alexei—asking for the baby to be a boy so I would have an heir. We did not expect to have a child with a degenerative blood disease who would likely not live long enough to rule.”
“Colonel Nikolai!” Avdeev called from a window above our heads. It was the first time I’d heard him use Papa’s proper title post-abdication.
Papa peered upward. “Yes, Commandant?”
“Keep walkinnn’. Annnn’ . . . cease your conversation.” Drunk again.
Papa gave a small bow. “As you wish.” We resumed our stroll, but not before Papa muttered, “I suspect the doll will have a spell for you on the day the White Army rescues us.”
He nudged me away. To avoid further suspicion I left him and joined Maria in the shade of one of the birch trees. She lay on her back, conveniently situated at the feet of Ivan and Zash. Ivan dropped little lilac leaves down on Maria, who tried to catch them between her fingers before they hit her face.
She giggled and Ivan wouldn’t stop laughing. The more he laughed, the stonier Zash became. Without stopping his leaf dropping, Ivan nudged Zash. “If you cannot handle the fun, go guard somewhere else.”
“I’m here to guard you,” Zash snapped back.
Determined to maintain the playful mood, I lifted my hands like a boxer. “From what? Our bony little female fists?”
He turned away and gave no answer. My hands drifted down. I was missing some sort of insinuation. Ivan rolled his eyes. “Zash is of the impression that your siren voices are brainwashing us.”
I snorted. “What?” I laughed at the absurd superstition, but the longer Zash stood with a determinedly emotionless face, the more my humor leaked away. I took a gentle step toward him. “I don’t exactly know what Ivan means, but . . . we have no power to do such a thing, Zash.”
Where did he get such an idea? Was it because he saw me searching for spells in Avdeev’s office?
Ivan wagged a finger at me. “Ah, that’s exactly what a siren would say. Especially under the tutelage of—”
“Ivan.” Zash’s reprimand cut the playful air like a snap of thunder.
I fit the pieces together. “Because of Rasputin?” No matter how often Mamma drilled us not to use Rasputin’s name, the people still knew of our involvement with him.
Maria sat up at this, all four of us now somber. “You think we can control your minds because of the spell master?”
“He was at your palace more often than the tsar himself.” Zash raised his eyebrows, the implications clear.
A spear of injustice twisted in my chest. “That’s what you think? That Rasputin brainwashed us? Controlled us? Taught us to control other people?” The garden seemed eerily quiet under the outrage in my voice. But maybe that was because I could hear nothing beyond the angry pulsing in my ears.
“He. Caused. The revolution!” Zash’s face flushed. “Why do you think the people revolted? No one could trust your father to run the country anymore.”
Maria sprang from her spot on the garden floor. “This is ridiculous. Come, Nastya.”
The fact she was willing to leave Ivan told me just how upset she was. But I held my ground. “No. I want to understand. I thought surely even the common man knew that spell mastery does not work in that way.”
“Then why was Rasputin always at the palace?”
“To heal Alexei from his injuries! He was the only one who could!” A burn of tears pushed from the inside, more from frustration than sorrow. How could Zash not see, especially after I revealed Alexei’s illness to him?
“You truly believe he came only for your brother?” Zash’s voice sounded sympathetic. “Your mother adored him. The papers published her letters. We saw what she wrote to him. Everyone knew she visited his residence. Alone.”
I’d seen the letters. Zash’s insinuations proved that gossip had become a more influential tsar than my wholesome papa. And there was nothing I could do to reverse that. “You read propaganda, Zash, but we lived there. We saw the day-to-day. And all we have are our voices to speak truth . . . if you’re willing to listen to them without thinking we’re trying to control your mind.”
Everyone went silent for a long breath. Ivan wore a half smile, as though challenging Zash to respond to that.
When Zash spoke next, it was with a gentle tone, as if hoping I’d not get offended. “Perhaps, Nastya, you were too close to see what the rest of the country could.”
I swallowed hard once. Twice. I would not let him taint Mamma’s character. But arguing at th
is point would get us no further. So I took a deep breath and channeled all the humility I could muster. “I want to understand. I want to hear your side, Zash. Thank you for hearing mine.”
By the time I finished, I actually believed my own words. Maria calmed and sank back to the grass, and Ivan’s half grin turned into a full one. Zash gave me a nod and it was as though the stoniness had never happened. Another step forward. Another seed of understanding.
“How is Alexei?” Zash asked, attempting to soften the strained aftermath of our argument.
I shook my head. “Not healing. He barely sleeps because of the pain. Dr. Botkin’s medicines are not enough.” I let the insinuation hang between us like the weak birch branches swaying in the breeze. I need spell ink.
When Zash said nothing more, I joined Maria on the grass. Our garden time had expired long ago, but Avdeev hadn’t called to us yet so I soaked in what more I could. I stared upward into the secret world of leaves and wind and slivers of blue. Maria linked her arms behind her head.
I wanted to say something light, to prove to Ivan and Zash that we could move on and not hold bitterness. The leaves spun above us. “This tree would make for a lovely swing,” I said wistfully, wishing I could be as tossed and beset by the wind as the leaves were.
“I hardly remember what it is like to swing.” Maria’s tone held despair. She was still sensitive.
So I rolled onto my side and did what I knew would perk her up. “Ivan, what were your favorite summer activities as a boy?”
Ivan startled. I smiled and sent a flash of it toward Zash, who angled toward the conversation. That was better than nothing.
“I was a bit of a rascal,” Ivan said. Maria brightened at that. Nothing made a soldier handsomer than hearing of his dangerous escapades. “When I was good, I would climb trees. Search for berries in the woods.”
“We did that, too!” I sat up fully now, flooded with memories of our childhood at Alexander Palace.
“Ah, but Ivan wasn’t surrounded by golden gates,” Zash groused, draining my pool of swirling excitement.
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