The Grand Duchess of Nowhere

by Laurie Graham

  ‘Old is right,’ I said. ‘Otherwise perfectly well.’

  He took my hand across the table and a voice said, ‘Look at you pair of lovebirds.’

  It was brother-in-law Boris. He examined the empty wine bottle.

  ‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘Shall we order another?’

  Cyril said, ‘Order what you like. I’m taking my wife home. She needs her rest.’

  Boris said, ‘Well, don’t go along Sadovaya.’

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘Trouble.’

  I asked Boris if he’d heard from Miechen.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Nor do I wish to. We must be thankful she left town. Leave it to Ma, she’ll have us all in the first tumbril.’

  We walked home very cautiously. On Grazhdanskaya Street there were people singing. The usual. Vpyeryod, vpyeryod, vpyeryod! I was getting tired of hearing it.

  I said, ‘That song. Tell me what the rest of it means.’

  Cyril sighed.

  ‘Arise working people. That kind of thing. It’s the ‘Marseillaise’, you realise, the tune they’re singing. They’ve come up with their own words though.’

  ‘What else, apart from “Arise”?’

  ‘If you must know, they’re calling Nicky a vampire. A bloodsucker.’

  *

  Later, in the dark, he said, ‘Ducky, that thing I did earlier? Agreeing with those street ruffians about Sunny? I didn’t mean it of course. It’s just that in dangerous circumstances one must adapt. You do understand?’

  I did, of course.

  I said, ‘As a matter of fact I think Sunny should withdraw. Aunt Ella was right. She should go down to Kiev or somewhere, until things settle down, and there should be an official announcement made, so people know she’s not giving orders and appointing ministers when Nicky’s away. She’s not an asset to Nicky at the moment, whatever he may think.’

  ‘Still,’ he said, ‘better not to say as much, publicly. Probably best to say nothing at all. Just keep one’s counsel and see how things turn out.’

  He rose early, to go out to the Kronstadt base. It was Tuesday. Bertie Stopford called by on his daily progress and brought two pieces of news. The Winter Palace was still in the hands of troops loyal to the Tsar. ‘Though one shudders to think,’ he said, ‘what they’ll be doing to the furniture.’ Also that the windows of the Astoria had been smashed.

  ‘Idiots,’ he said. ‘A, don’t they know the place is occupied entirely by the British and B, all they’ve achieved is to make a mess. Where is one going to find a glazier in a time like this?’

  The city was quiet. There were no trams running on Voznesensky. I spent the morning playing house. Our staff seemed depleted but I couldn’t work out quite who was missing. I just rounded up those I could find and we began to cover the furniture with dust sheets. There was no hot water and I didn’t care to venture down to the kitchen again for fear of encountering the groaner. I lunched on half a box of rose creams I found in a drawer.

  The noise started at about two o’clock. There seemed to be traffic on the move. Car horns were being sounded. It was as though the city was coming back to its proper life. I thought perhaps Emperor Nicky was back in town at last. I called Georgie Buchanan.

  She said, ‘I’d hoped you were out in the country by now, Ducky. We have vehicles racing up and down the Embankment flying red flags. We have men firing guns in the air. Alf Knox thinks the Winter Palace guard has deserted. Things are really looking rather bad.’

  The plan was that when Cyril got back from Kronstadt we’d leave at once for Tsarskoe Selo. At four o’clock I thought I should find out whether any trains were running. The telephone line was dead.

  I sat with my coat and hat on for two, three hours. I tried to read but every sound distracted me. For two pins I’d have gone to the British Embassy but then Cyril would have had to come and find me and he’d be cross.

  Uncle Paul arrived. It was getting dark.

  I said, ‘Cyril’s not back yet.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Beastly journey, I dare say. Roads impossible.’

  He stayed but he wouldn’t sit. Every moment he would be out of his chair and pacing about. Then Boris turned up looking ghastly.

  ‘Any news?’ he said, and I caught something in Uncle Paul’s look.

  I said, ‘What’s wrong? Did something happen?’

  ‘No,’ they said, in perfect unison. So then I knew they were keeping something from me.

  Boris said, ‘It’s nothing, honestly, Ducky. They’re saying there was a bit of a rumble out at Kronstadt this morning. But Cyril probably wasn’t even there when it happened.’

  ‘If indeed anything did occur,’ said Uncle Paul. ‘There are so many rumours flying about.’

  I said, ‘Is it true the Winter Palace has fallen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what exactly is a bit of a rumble?’

  ‘Discontented murmurings.’

  ‘A few rotten apples in the barrel.’

  ‘Was there a mutiny at Kronstadt?’

  ‘Truly, Ducky, we don’t know.’

  They insisted on staying with me though I’d have preferred to sit alone and prepare myself for bad news. Uncle Paul kept telling me to stay away from the windows. Boris went downstairs to brave the kitchen and returned very cleverly with a tin of ham and an instrument for opening it. A tin opener. I’m now quite an expert.

  He said, ‘Who’s the old groaner?’

  ‘Cook’s mother.’

  He said, ‘She’s made considerable inroads into a bottle of rather good brandy. I’d have confiscated it but it had been in her mouth so I thought better not. What’s the whisky situation?’

  We were making the best of our strange little supper party when Cyril appeared. He looked all in. He’d walked from Finland Station.

  Uncle Paul leaped up and fairly hugged him.

  Boris said, ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes.’

  I said, ‘Is it true there’s been a mutiny?’

  Cyril just nodded. I poured him a generous measure of whisky. He touched my cheek and mouthed, ‘Thank you, darling.’

  Uncle Paul gestured towards the door. He said, ‘Should we perhaps …?’

  He always thought men should talk in studies or libraries. Not in drawing rooms where ladies might overhear. Much as I love him he can be so annoyingly old-fashioned.

  Cyril said, ‘No need. Ducky’s made of strong stuff.’

  Boris said, ‘So what’s the damage?’

  ‘Viren. Butakov. Stronsky. Nipenin.’

  He listed those officers he knew for certain were dead. Many, many names. They’d been taken out to Anchor Square and shot. It was all over by the time Cyril got to Kronstadt but he’d seen their blood on the snow.

  After he’d told us, I realised my hands had begun to shake.

  I said, ‘Why did they spare you?’

  Uncle Paul said, ‘Because his men love him, that’s why.’

  Boris said, ‘And because he’s not an arrogant bastard like some of them.’

  Cyril said, ‘No. I don’t know why. Actually they didn’t even threaten me. I think they’d got it out of their system by the time I arrived. But I threw them a sop anyway.’

  He hesitated.

  Then he said, ‘I’ve promised to break with Nicky. I’m going to the Tauride Palace in the morning, to pledge my allegiance to the Duma.’

  Uncle Paul sagged in his chair. Boris made a long, low whistle.

  Cyril said, ‘I know, I know. But I’ve been loyal, right up to today. I’ve been patient, waiting for Nicky to come home and do the right thing, but where is he? No one seems to know. He’s probably sitting in that bloody railway car writing love letters to Sunny. Well, I have a wife too, and children to consider. If Nicky has a death wish so be it, but I’m going to do my damnedest to get my family through this.’

  My heart was flooded with love for him when he said that. My poor, exhausted husband. He opened his attaché case and brought out a Russ
ian flag.

  He said, ‘And the first thing I’m going to do … Ducky, scissors please.’

  And when I’d found scissors, he carefully cut away the blue and white stripes of the tricolour.

  ‘This,’ he said, holding up the red strip, ‘will be flying from our house before daybreak.’

  Uncle Paul said, ‘No, not that. Do think, Cyril Vladimirovich. If you do that, there’ll be no turning back.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Cyril said. ‘But there can be no turning back anyway. I know it. You know it. The question is, does Nicky realise it? Has anyone tried to call him?’

  I said, ‘The telephones aren’t working.’

  ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘Why would they be? Well, there are plenty of fires burning. Perhaps we could send him a smoke signal. Abandon ship.’

  In bed he suddenly began to tremble. He said he was cold but even with my furs piled on top of him the shaking didn’t stop until eventually he fell asleep. His men may have spared him from execution but there must have been a moment at Kronstadt when he wondered if he’d be the next to be taken out to die in the snow.

  28

  Cyril wasn’t the only one to go to the Tauride Palace the next morning and surrender himself to the will of the Duma. The Tsar’s Cossack cavalry led the way, followed by the Preobrazhensky regiment and the Semenovsky. Then the Marine Guard marched with Cyril at their head. It was all over very quickly. Very civilised, he said. He was shown into the chamber. Kerensky was present and Rodzianko, President of the Dunce and Sunny’s old bête noir. They gave him a piece of paper to read from and he pledged his allegiance to the Provisional Government.

  ‘So that’s that,’ he said. ‘Scissors again, please, darling.’

  He sat and snipped out the Imperial cipher from his epaulettes.

  I said, ‘Isn’t that a bit premature?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Badges are easily replaced,’ he said. ‘Lives aren’t. And I have no intention of getting hanged or shot for the sake of a bit of gold thread. Now we must wait and see what happens. Nicky’s only chance will be if he comes back at once and accepts the authority of the Duma. Then I think he’d better take Sunny to a convent, at least until the war’s over. A convent with a big, strong gate.’

  It felt awfully lonely. No one else in the family had declared their position. Boris had gone to ground. Grand Duke Misha was still out in Gatchina and keeping his opinions to himself. Uncle Paul was agonising. I wasn’t exactly frightened, though I did rather wish we didn’t have a red flag dangling so provocatively from our roof.

  I said, ‘Won’t it attract attention? What if types come knocking at our door?’

  Cyril laughed.

  ‘Types!’ he said. ‘They may come anyway. And if they decide to hang the lot of us there’s not much we can do about it. No harm in appearing to be sympathetic to their cause though. They’re already roasting Nicky’s eagles. The one over Brocard’s door has gone, and Fabergé’s and Nicholls’ and Plincke’s.’

  On Nevsky Prospekt they were hauling the Imperial emblems down from shop fronts and tossing them on their bonfires.

  Cyril wanted me to go to Tsarskoe Selo to be with the girls. He was going to stay in town until Emperor Nicky returned.

  He said, ‘Kerensky seems to think he’s on his way so I may as well wait and see what happens. Face the music. But I’m sure if we asked Alf Knox he’d find a car to take you home. You must consider your condition, darling.’

  I wanted to stay with him but he was right. There was no sense in both of us risking a bullet, either a stray one or a well-aimed one.

  He said, ‘I don’t feel in any immediate danger. I’ll tell you what I’m thinking of doing. I might put a sign on our front door that says PROPERTY OF THE PETROGRAD SOVIET. ADMITTANCE STRICTLY BY APPOINTMENT. That might make them pause before they break in looking for Sheraton firewood.’

  Alf Knox very kindly sent Lieutenant Gerhardi to drive me. He was a very amusing young man. I’d even say he was flirtatious if it weren’t such a ridiculous notion. He was born the same year as Elli. Imagine that. If Elli had lived it might have been her he was flirting with, not her deluded old mother. Except that Ernie Hesse would never have allowed me to bring her to Russia. She’d be back in Darmstadt, married to some cousin or other, and separated from me by this damned war.

  The only problem with Willie Gerhardi was his driving. He seemed quite relieved when I suggested I take the wheel and was greatly impressed by my ability to talk and drive and smoke all at the same time.

  He’s the sort of man that pops up in one’s life and then disappears just as suddenly, always on the move, not quite belonging anywhere. He was English by his manner, Prussian by his name, anything but Russian although he was St Petersburg born and bred. The Gerhardis have a house over Vyborg side, on the embankment, and some kind of manufactory. They were the sort of family we never met. Not our kind, as Miechen would say. Sometimes I feel we’ve missed knowing some perfectly nice people. Perhaps it’ll be different from now on. They talk about The New Order. Perhaps we’ll be the kind of people they never meet.

  We drove out past the Ekaterinhof Vokzal, to avoid the city centre, but we were still flagged down at the corner of Moskovsky Prospekt. Two men came to our side window, red rags tied to their bayonets, but they were smiling.

  ‘Britanski!’ they greeted us.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘British Mission. Lieutenant Gerhardi is going to see General Guchkov.’

  One of them stuck his head right inside the car. He had bad teeth.

  ‘Kto?’ he said. ‘Keerharty?’

  They consulted one another, then a head came back through the open window.

  ‘This Keerharty?

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hero of working peoples?’

  Gerhardi leaned across.

  ‘My father, actually,’ he said.

  ‘Father? You father? Nepravda!’

  ‘No, he father, I son.’

  ‘Ah! Son!’

  The head retracted and a grimy hand replaced it. Gerhardi shook it.

  ‘Zdrastvuytye! Ochen rad!’

  Another hand appeared. He shook it. Then the message went along the line to the barricade, to clear the way for the son of Keerharty, hero of working peoples, and lady Britanski driver. We were waved through like Royalties. Although, come to think of it, not like Russian Royalties at all, not any more.

  Gerhardi was laughing.

  I said, ‘Is your father really a hero of working peoples?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘He’s a factory owner. He’s one of those villains who employs people and pays them a wage. No, it was a case of mistaken identity but look, it worked in our favour so let’s not quibble.’

  ‘So, who did they think you were?’

  ‘The son of Keir Hardie,’ he said. ‘Bloody Keir Hardie! Socialist. Land reformist. And who, by the way, is probably dead by now and if not he must be older than Moses. What a hoot. And funnily enough, it’s not the first time this has worked to a Gerhardi’s advantage. Back during the 1905 troubles my father had a close shave. A mob of workers bound him hand and foot, bundled him in a coal bag and were preparing to drown him when someone asked who he was and they mistook “Gerhardi” for “Keir Hardie”, the same as this lot. Upon which, they let him go. And they apologised for putting him in a filthy sack. So I suppose on both occasions we should be grateful to the old Friend of Working Peoples.’

  I liked Willie Gerhardi. He was supposed to have become an accountant or a banker but the war had saved him from that fate. When peace comes, if it ever comes, he has no intention of surrendering to that destiny. He intends to write. Not just books. Scenarios for the cinematograph too. That’s the coming thing, apparently, with good money to be made. Who knows, perhaps someday we’ll hear of him.

  I told him about my ambulance fleet. He told me about working for the British Mission.

  ‘It’s a jammy posting, really,’ he said. ‘Correspondence mainly. Writi
ng reports, deciphering wires and so forth. I’m just grateful to be doing anything that doesn’t involve sitting on a horse.’

  He had had a brief, unhappy career in the Scots Greys.

  I said, ‘I suppose the wires you see are terrifically top secret?’

  ‘Not all of them,’ he said. ‘Quite often they just say things like “Whereabouts flour consignment not clear”.’

  I said, ‘Because, of course, what we’re all wondering is, where is the Emperor? But I realise you’re not likely to know.’

  He said, ‘I can tell you what little I do know. He left his HQ yesterday.’

  ‘And he’s coming to Petrograd?’

  ‘One imagines.’

  ‘So, he’ll probably be here today?’

  ‘Possibly. Except that there’s some kind of problem on the line between here and Malaya Vishera so he might have to travel the rest of the way by road. Don’t you hate the way we’re supposed to call it Petrograd?’

  ‘What kind of problem on the line?’

  ‘Goodness knows. Snow, probably. Or perhaps someone’s burned the sleepers to try and get warm. Roll on spring.’

  I said, ‘My husband thinks another snowfall would clear the streets.’

  ‘Does he?’ he said. ‘I’m not sure I agree with him. I think people are having too much fun. But anyway, my guess is that the Tsar will try to go to Moscow if he can’t get through this way. Or even go back to HQ. He can’t just sit on a train that’s going nowhere.’

  In fact Emperor Nicky did precisely that. As we learned later, it wasn’t snow that had blocked the line to Petrograd, it was soldiers with machine guns. Eventually, after a lot of discussion, it was decided to reverse the Imperial train and try to go west, as far as the command post at Pskov. From there the situation was to be reviewed. At Pskov, Nicky was told that even the Preobrazhensky Guard had deserted him. He also found out what Cyril had done.

  I asked Gerhardi in for a cup of tea but vehicles were precious. He had to get the car back to the city as soon as possible. Masha and Kira watched him get behind the wheel and go juddering off down Sadovaya Street.

  Kira said, ‘I don’t think that man knows how to drive.’