“What, Sunshine?”
“I have a feeling about the murder. I think I may know who did it.”
“Oh?” I said, hoping he would hear the lack of interest in my voice and drop the subject.
“Yes. I have bad feelings about that guard, the one with the patch who shoved you in the garden that time. I think he could murder someone.”
I forced myself to laugh. “What makes you say that? Just because he has a patch on his eye, like a pirate? Aye, matey! I’ll make ye walk the gangplank!”
“No, Nastya. I’m serious. Something about him frightens me. See if he hasn’t disappeared now. I bet we won’t see him again.”
Alyosha’s eyes closed and the muscles in his face tightened. He was having a wave of pain. He had become so accustomed to it that unless the pain was really intense, he didn’t make a sound. I stroked his head lightly and watched the attack pass and his face relax into restless sleep. I kissed his forehead and stood just as my mother returned.
“How was he?” she asked, not looking at me, but only having eyes for Alexei.
“Not too bad,” I said, “but he was talking some nonsense. I think he’s become confused about the murder and it’s part of his pain.”
Mama nodded. “I’ll sit with him while he sleeps.”
I went down to the little library, where I hoped I would be alone. It was the first opportunity I had had to think through what had happened the night before. What Sasha had done was horrible, but he had done it in my defense. I owed him something. The first thing was to deflect Alyosha’s suspicion. How had he put that together? Sometimes I thought my brother had the wisdom of an angel, as though he had been so close to death that he had taken on some supernatural characteristics. He certainly seemed to be able to see into my heart.
But what more could I do than manage Alexei? In our palace prison I had no power at all. Sasha had said we would be moved. Perhaps it would give us more freedom if we were not in Tsarskoe, where we could so easily reach the Finnish border. Yet if we went to Moscow, or even farther, what then?
Now, the future stretched bleakly before me. Even out in the garden, ogled by the guards, I had had the secret knowledge that he was nearby, and that he would jump to my aid if he had to. And, too, the heart-flipping anticipation of our nighttime meetings in the cellar, where he showed me what it was to be a woman, gently and tenderly. I had those memories, but they pained me. What if we never saw each other again?
I knew then that even if we had said our final good-byes last night, I would always love him.
CHAPTER 23
Inquiry into the guard’s murder eventually quieted down; it was largely assumed that he had startled an intruder while making his rounds, and paid for it with his life. My relief was enormous.
It was late in July when we heard at last that we were definitely going to be moved. Kerensky came himself to tell us. “There are people here who do not want you removed from your current location, but I have persuaded the Provisional Government that your continued safety depends upon this happening as soon as possible.”
We all listened closely to the minister of justice, who, as things had become harder for us in Tsarskoe, had become more and more sympathetic. I believed he was sincere in wanting to protect us from the extreme elements in the ranks, and that he would do his best to get us away.
“Where will we go? To Livadia? It would be so good for Baby’s health,” Mama said. She had warmed a great deal toward Kerensky over the past months, realizing that although he was passionate about the new order, he was a man of principle and decency, believing that the people would ultimately prove themselves worthy of being entrusted with the government of Russia.
“I cannot tell you that,” Kerensky answered, as if he was genuinely sorry, “but preparations must be made in conditions of the utmost secrecy. We do not want the guards to know that you will leave Tsarskoe.”
He gave us detailed instructions about what we were to prepare, what we could bring, and who could accompany us. “Any of your suite who are willing to go with you may do so and share the terms of your imprisonment, but your attendant staff must be limited.”
He handed Mama a list. She looked it up and down. “It says here that the ladies are to bring furs.”
“It is always better to be prepared for anything,” Kerensky said, then bowed and departed.
Furs meant we would not be going to the warm climate of the Crimea. I alone dreaded even a removal to Livadia. How would Sasha find us? And how would he gain admittance to the palace, if they suspected him of the murder of a Soviet guard? I held out some hope that wherever we were going would not be as strictly guarded as the Alexander Palace, and that if Sasha came to me, we would be able to meet again. But it was a slender thread of hope that, even at my most optimistic, I found hard to cling to.
We began that very day, quietly and without attracting notice to ourselves, to gather together all the things we wanted or needed to bring. Isa helped Mama make lists, but not long into the preparations Isa fell ill with pneumonia. She kept mainly to her room after that, and Nastinka took over.
Our departure had been set for August 13, the day after Alexei’s birthday. About a week before, we all met in the parlor and Papa addressed everyone.
“I do not know where we are going, how long we will be there, or what conditions will be like,” he said. “It is clear that if we stay here life will soon become intolerable, and we owe our removal to a safer place to Minister Kerensky. He has said those who wish may go into exile with us, and share our same conditions of arrest. But I must caution all of you that I have no way of knowing what the future holds, and will not think less of any of you if you prefer not to cast your lot in with us.”
It was the first time I had heard my father directly address the matter of our future. Everyone’s face in the room was grave, but determined. One by one, the members of the suite who remained, our tutors, and Mama’s and Papa’s valets and personal servants announced their decision. Nastinka, Lili Obolensky, our nanny Alexandra Tegleva, Prince Dolgorukov, General Tatischev, Zhilik, Trina, Mama’s physician Dr. Botkin and his family, Alexei’s physician Dr. Derevenko and his family, Demidova, Chemodurov, and Volkov would all come with us. Count Benckendorff’s wife was too elderly to make the trip, as was our dear Count Fredericks, and Count Apraxin felt he could do more on behalf of the family by staying behind. And Isa, of course, was still in bed and sick, and would not be well enough to make the journey with us. Mr. Gibbes would have to be asked separately since he had still not been permitted to come into the Alexander Palace. It was settled. That left the matter of the servants. We took what we determined to be a minimum: six chamberlains, ten footmen, a butler, a wine steward, and three of the palace cooks. Papa’s barber would also travel with us, and of course, the faithful Nagorny, the sailor who carried Alexei when he was too ill to walk.
It would be a somewhat diminished, but not terribly small group. That Kerensky allowed so many to come made us assume that we would at least be housed comfortably somewhere.
It was difficult to do all the necessary sorting and packing without provoking any comment on the part of the guards, but we did our best. I was surprised to see that Mama cheered up a little. I think our life at Tsarskoe had become so vexing and tedious that she looked forward to a change. The rest of us were not so happy.
That night after we left the suite, Zhilik and Trina in the parlor at their card games, the five of us went to our schoolroom to talk things over before going to bed.
“Do you think we’ll ever come back here?” Mashka asked.
Tatiana, as usual, was quick with a reply. “Whether we will or not, we have to pack as though we’re leaving for good. That means taking everything that you cannot do without, and all the jewels, certainly.”
“May I bring Joy? I won’t go without Joy,” Alyosha said.
“I don’t know,” Olga said. “But we’ll assume we can take Joy, Jimmy, Ortino, and Olga’s cat. Let them try to wre
nch away our pets at the last moment!”
“I’ll be glad to go,” Mashka said. “It’s been so strange here. Better to be someplace new where everything doesn’t remind you of how life used to be.”
I agreed with Mashka, but said nothing. The one familiar person I wanted with me more than any other had already gone away. I suddenly realized that I didn’t even have a photograph of him. Why had I never taken any? I wondered then if I would have preferred a picture of him younger, with both eyes clear and uncovered, or now, with the patch hiding his scar, and the memory of our closeness—our transformation from friends to … lovers. Yes, we were lovers. I smiled.
“Nastya, what are you thinking?” asked Tatiana.
I quickly wrenched myself back to the present. “I was thinking of all the photographs I want to bring with me, and that I must have my camera.”
“Then you can help Mama with the pictures and mementos. Olga, you be in charge of the jewels and icons, and I’ll decide with Trina, Zhilik, and Mr. Gibbes about the books.” Tatiana was only happy when she was organizing something. I didn’t mind. It would help focus our efforts.
“I’ll help Papa,” said Alyosha.
“The best thing you can do is try to remain well,” Olga said.
“I’m glad at least Kolya Derevenko will be with us, so we can play sometimes.” The doctor’s son was one of the few playmates Alyosha was allowed. He knew about the disease, and took care not to be too rough with him.
“What shall I do?” Mashka asked.
“Clothes,” answered Tatiana. “Help Mama decide what she really needs. Demidova will want to bring everything, and that is probably unnecessary. Zanotti will take charge of the important jewels, of course, but she must be persuaded that the court gowns are unnecessary where we’re going.”
Where we’re going. But where were we going? I wished I knew.
I settled into helping Mama as Tatiana had decided.
“At least Kerensky understands how much these things mean to us,” Papa said as he watched Mama and me put photographs into two piles. Mama did not answer, only looked around her mauve boudoir with such emptiness in her eyes that it made me want to cry.
“Kerensky says that Kobylinsky and a detachment of the guards will come too,” he said.
“I hope they’re the nice ones,” Mama said, not stopping her sorting.
“He says they’ll be handpicked for their loyalty and discretion.”
“Loyalty to whom?” I asked.
Papa didn’t answer.
I thought again of Sasha. If he had remained, I was certain he would have been chosen as one of those three hundred fifty.
The day approached when we were to leave, and it became harder and harder to disguise our purpose. Drawers were turned out, trunks opened, bookshelves emptied. While Mama and I were working in her boudoir, a guard came in carrying two balalaikas. One was Alexei’s—a beautifully decorated instrument he had been given by the villagers at Livadia, and that he loved to play—and the other was Sasha’s simple instrument that I had hidden in the back of my wardrobe. I hoped that Mashka had taken it out, and not waited until a maid came upon it, or worse—Zanotti. Pain stabbed my heart to see that token of Sasha’s and my first meeting exposed to scrutiny as if it were an ordinary object.
“The commander says you may take these if you wish, although they will occupy much space for their size.”
Either Mama did not realize that Alexei possessed only one balalaika, or she chose to ignore that fact when she saw the look on my face. She answered only, “Of course we will take them. The children must continue to be educated in the customs and culture of their country.”
I pretended that the matter didn’t interest me, but I was so relieved that I would not have to part with my one memento of Sasha that from that moment on, having to leave so much else behind did not feel so terribly unfair.
Obviously, some of the guards knew and took our departure in stride. For those who didn’t, we tried to attribute the frenzied activity to cleaning, but I knew many of them—the ones who were not coming with us and who were the most Soviet—looked at us with suspicion and were brewing trouble.
We had no choice but to carry on despite everything. Kerensky came frequently with instructions and news. One afternoon he arrived beaming with pent-up excitement.
“I am pleased to announce that the government has seen fit to honor me with the position of minister of war.” He bowed to Papa when he said it.
“Good, Kerensky!” Papa seemed genuinely pleased. “The war needs a leader like you. Things have been sadly neglected. I had hoped that it was the distraction of an unwanted tsar, and that once matters had been sorted out, the war would again be our first priority. But I hear nothing but bad news about it.”
Kerensky nodded. “I have already taken measures to remedy that. I stop here in the midst of my travels to visit all the troops and their officers, and rekindle their zeal in this important effort for our nation.”
“Just what is needed, Kerensky. You’re a good man.”
Although he tried to hide it, I thought I saw Kerensky smile and blush just a little. “I’m also pleased to inform you that my efforts have already produced results. We have accomplished the first advance of the war since the beginning of the Provisional Government.”
“It’s what I had hoped for,” Papa said. His eyes filled with tears and he could say nothing more.
“Won’t you stay and have tea with us?” Mama said. Her attitude toward Kerensky had changed dramatically in recent weeks. Perhaps she had some premonition about the commissars and commanders to come.
“Thank you, Madame,” he answered with an incline of his head, “but no. I must return to Petrograd immediately.”
He left right away. At tea, with all the family and the suite gathered there, Papa could talk of nothing else besides the good news about the war. He looked happier than he had for a long time. “This is precisely why I sacrificed myself for the country, hoping that it would make the difference and everyone would turn their attention to the war, and helping our allies.”
“Perhaps this is the beginning of a change for the better,” Prince Dolgorukov said.
“Change or not, we still have to leave.” Nastinka sighed, and the conversation stopped for a moment as everyone thought about what that might mean.
It was Mama who broke the silence. “Darling, do you suppose they will allow us to have a service of thanksgiving in the chapel?”
“Perhaps, if we do it on Alexei’s birthday so that no one suspects it’s because we are about to travel.” Papa had taken Kerensky’s instructions completely to heart. It struck me then that he was much better at being a soldier than a general.
Alexei’s thirteenth birthday was August 12, the day before we were scheduled to leave Tsarskoe. I didn’t know whether that was coincidence, or whether Kerensky had anticipated this request by my mother, and built an excuse for a religious observance into his plans.
But however clever Kerensky had been, the Soviet, in the end, nearly had their way. We had packed everything, and the moment came when our departure could no longer be hidden from the guards. A mountain of luggage, including our camp beds, linens, kitchen supplies, and much more sat in the courtyard of the palace, waiting to be taken to the imperial train station.
I have replayed the scene of the night we left Tsarskoe so often in my mind, like viewing a film over and over again, the motions devoid of color and sound, like the movies we used to watch at Livadia, the newsreels and bits and snatches of whatever Volkov considered suitable fare for us children. Sometimes I even dream about it. The whole experience was half-lit, nightmarish.
It began in the semidarkness, no candles being brought because we thought we would soon be leaving. We were all gathered in the semicircular hallway, just as we used to gather to go out to take the air, only it was already evening on August 13. Our scheduled departure time was ten o’clock, and we were told to be ready an hour earlier. We wore our t
raveling clothes, and the trunks and valises with our personal possessions surrounded us. The problem, we were first told, was that there weren’t enough servants left to load the luggage. But that apparently wasn’t the real reason for the delay.
Damadianz, who had become increasingly surly as we packed in the previous weeks, came in and announced, “The Tsarskoe members of the Soviet are meeting to decide if you will be allowed to go.” He folded his arms across his chest, daring us to object. But we knew better. Papa made Mama sit down in her wheelchair, and the rest of us stood or sat as comfortably as we could in the hall, not saying a thing.
Hours passed. My back began to hurt from doing nothing. At 11:30 there was a commotion at the door. The guards unlocked it, and I thought perhaps we were finally being allowed to go, but we were all surprised to see Kerensky enter, accompanied by my uncle, Grand Duke Michael. It was he, my father’s dear brother, who had refused to accept the crown from him and paved the way for the Provisional Government to be established.
“Mishka!” Papa said and ran to him. They embraced. I saw tears in both their eyes. Kerensky ushered them quickly away from the hall and into Papa’s study. Papa returned a short while later without Uncle Mishka.
“Kerensky was there the whole time,” he said in a hushed voice to Mama. “But he apologized and said he wouldn’t listen. Mishka wanted to come and bid his farewells to everyone when we were done, but he was not allowed to. It is for me to convey his fondest good wishes to you and his nieces and nephew.”
At that moment Damadianz, who had gone away for a while to see what was happening with the Soviet guards, returned. “Your departure, by permission of Kerensky, has been set at midnight.” He said it as if he was disgusted with the whole thing. “Had it been my decision, you would not be going, but the men have chosen to ignore me.”
So that was the problem. The men alone were not trying to keep us. Damadianz and Kerensky were engaged in a power struggle over the matter. Damadianz was naturally on the side of the Soviet. Having control over us gave him importance he might not otherwise have. He left without a word, possibly to go and stir up more trouble. We waited and waited. Every time someone came in to say we would be going soon, we would once again prepare ourselves, putting on the traveling coats we had removed as the delay stretched on, picking up our small parcels of books and the valises that contained our brushes, combs, and other toiletries, and our jewel cases. And then time would pass and nothing would happen.
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