The Silent Land

by Sally Spencer

  And all the time Konstantin fumed about being confined to General Staff Headquarters, while I offered up a silent prayer of thanks to whichever army bureaucrat kept him there – despite his countless requests for an active commission.

  “Another Guinness, please,” I say to Terry the barman.

  He looks at me through narrowed eyes. “You sure about that, Princess? You usually only have one.”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” I tell him.

  And as I watch him walk back to the bar, I wonder why life should be so capricious. When I woke up this morning, I imagined it would be a day like any other – uncomfortable, slow and boring. Now here I sit in the Vulcan, anguishing over my last great battle against the state – a battle I’m sure to lose.

  I should have felt like this in Petrograd, in the winter of 1914 and the early spring of 1915. The situation seemed hopeless then. The army was still suffering terrible losses. The government was collapsing around us. And yet those few months were some of the happiest of my entire life.

  What is happiness? Freedom from responsibility! The joyful realization that whilst you can see where your duty lies, the path is blocked. Because the simple fact was that in the early stages of the war there was very little revolutionary enthusiasm to channel, and though I attended a few meetings, Lyudmila, like so many actresses, spent most of her time ‘resting’.

  For a brief period I was able to throw off the yoke of the Party, lay down the heavy load which my mother’s life and death had placed on my shoulders, and be nothing but myself – a wife and a mother. I adored it.

  I devoted much of my day to thinking of ways to please or amuse Konstantin when he came home, tired and frustrated, from the General Staff Headquarters.

  I played with Nicky. He was walking now – dragging his left leg a little behind him, but without any sense of awkwardness or inhibition. He was talking, too, a few words of Russian, a few of English, a little French when his other languages failed him.

  And I met Sasha regularly for long afternoons of passion. I’d told him love between us was impossible, but as the weeks passed my feelings grew, whether I willed it or not. I never loved him as deeply as I did Konstantin – yet come to love him I did.

  I used to fantasize that things would go on as they were for ever, with Konstantin, Nicky and Sasha, the three males in my life, giving me everything a woman could ever ask for. Like most ideals, it would probably not have worked out – but it never had a chance even to try. Spring came, the mood in Petrograd changed, and Lyudmila forced herself back into my consciousness once more.

  In May, a new Austro-German offensive smashed through the Russian front line. The army was in retreat, Russian Poland was to be abandoned. The scale of the disaster was unimaginable. Over one million refugees were making their way eastwards. Two million soldiers had deserted and were wandering in armed bands behind the lines. Over four million of our men had been killed in less than a year of war.

  In the wake of defeat came the need for scapegoats – and one was readily found in the shape of Russia’s Germanic population. In June, the mob in Moscow went on the rampage, burning and looting German shops, banks and factories, lynching people with German sounding names. Everything German was to be despised, they shouted. Everything German had to be destroyed.

  “And the German Woman’s the worst of the lot!” they yelled at the tops of their voices. “She’s sending secret messages to the enemy at this very minute. The Teutonic bitch!”

  They were talking, of course, about their Empress.

  Alexandra was no traitor – far from it. As the war progressed, she became more and more patriotic, ever more deeply in the grip of a religion which united God and Nicholas.

  “It is my husband’s sacred duty to drive the invaders from our soil,” she told me on one of my visits to the Alexander Palace. “God has placed this mission in his hands, and He has sent our dear friend, Grigorii, to guide him. Why must the Duma oppose him? Doesn’t it realize that it’s heresy to go against his wishes?”

  Yet her hatred of the Duma was nothing compared to what she felt towards anyone who dared attack her beloved Grigorii.

  “He is so wise,” she told me. “He is my teacher, my redeemer, my mentor. My heart longs for him when he’s not here, and when he does come, when I can kiss his blessed hands, I know a peace that you could never imagine. You’re lucky, Anna. You are so much freer than I. You can go to his house whenever you wish. Do you see him often?”

  I shuddered. “I’ve been to his house once, Your Majesty.”

  “You shouldn’t be afraid of him,” she said, noticing my expression. “You shouldn’t listen to stories. People accuse him of kissing women,” she looked down at floor, “and of … er … other things too. They should read their Bibles before they dare to criticize him. Did not the apostles kiss women? It’s just a form of greeting.”

  Should I have told her about his excesses? What would have been the point? She’d never have believed a word of it.

  “He knows so much,” the Empress rhapsodized. “Sandro – Grand Duke Alexander Mikhailovich – says he’s desperate for aeroplane engines, but Grigorii tells me there are heaps of things he could use instead of them.”

  Like what? I wondered. But I said nothing.

  “And he’s helping me in other ways, too,” the Empress continued, dropping her voice conspiratorially, even though we were alone. “He tells me which Ministers are loyal to my husband and which are not. He can see right into their souls. Some of the disloyal ones have already been replaced.”

  And despite the bizarre, often disastrous advice Rasputin was to give her, the Empress never once doubted his judgement. Even after his death she continued to follow his instructions which were received via nightly seances and conveyed to her by telephone the next morning.

  I was alone in my small sitting room when Andrei, my butler, announced I had a visitor called Nechaev.

  The name meant nothing to me. I walked over to the window and looked down at the courtyard. It was the White Nights – when twilight never lasts for more than half an hour and darkness is unknown – so though it was past ten o’clock, I could clearly see the Rolls-Royce sitting in front of the stables.

  “Is that his car?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “He’s tall and solidly built. In his late thirties. I’d say he’s … er … not always been as prosperous as he appears to be now.”

  Nechaev?

  Peter!

  “Did he ask to see the Prince?” I asked.

  “No, madam. He asked specifically for you.”

  It was nearly two years since I’d stood outside the factory and watched him address his workers from a cart. What could he want now? What possible reason could he have for calling on me?

  My instinct prompted me to say that I was not at home, but my reason overruled it. “Show him in,” I said, and noticed that my hands were shaking.

  I arranged myself nonchalantly in my chair. How should I react? How would anyone react to a person they were not supposed to have seen since childhood? Andrei ushered the visitor into the room and withdrew.

  Peter was dressed formally, in a smart frock coat. He bowed, then raised his head again. A real gentleman couldn’t have done it better. Why then did I get the feeling he was mocking me?

  My eyes were drawn reluctantly to his face, just as they had been when I sat in the dirt and watched him arguing with Sasha at meetings of the mir. Still the same strong, almost sculptured nose. Still the same deep eyes and thick, sensuous lips.

  Neither of us had spoken yet, but Peter seemed perfectly at ease with the silence. “What brings you here, Mr Nechaev?” I asked finally.

  “I thought it only proper for one villager to pay his respects to another, Princess – even if that other is now so high that she can hardly see the ground.”

  Again, he was mocking me, I was sure of it. Did he think that his money put us on an equal footing? No, m
oney alone wasn’t enough – and he was too clever not to know that.

  I motioned him to sit down and offered him the vodka tray. He poured himself a large shot and knocked it straight back.

  “I knew you’d left the mir, but I wasn’t aware you were in Petrograd,” I lied. “I’m surprised you’re not in the army.”

  “I’m too valuable for that,” Peter said, though not boastfully. “My mill’s making uniforms for the soldiers and I’ve just opened an armaments factory.”

  “A mill?” I said. “I didn’t know you had a mill.”

  “Oh yes,” he assured me. “Oh yes, I’ve got a mill. It’s a model factory – a fine example of worker-management co-operation.”

  Every word was measured. Every word, as it fell, seemed to force a little more air out of the room. I rose to my feet. “It was very kind of you to call on me, but now, if you will excuse me—”

  “Anna,” he interrupted, “I need a favour.”

  “What kind of favour?”

  “I’m getting married soon.”

  So that was what this was all about. The tension drained from me, and I laughed. “I never thought you’d marry. Who’s the bride to be? Natulia? Tassaya? No, not them. I’d guess she’ll be young, and probably a city girl.”

  “She’s young, all right, but she’s from the country. I’m going to marry Mariamna.”

  “Mariamna!”

  This time, it was his turn to laugh. “D’you think you’re the only one who can marry into the aristocracy? I own the land, I own the house – why shouldn’t I own the woman?”

  Why not indeed? The Count had married below him, his daughter was only following suit. It couldn’t be cheap keeping Misha in the Corps of Pages.

  “I hope you will be very happy together—” I began.

  “Happiness hasn’t got anything to do with it,” Peter sneered.

  “But you must understand that my relationship with that particular family is rather strained.”

  “Oh, I understand,” Peter said. “It’s only natural after the son tupped you and then ran away, leaving you to look after his bastard.”

  I was outraged. How dare he call my beautiful son a bastard? “Get out of here!” I screamed.

  Peter’s thick lips twisted into a broad smile. He made no move to get up.

  The bell-push was above the fire place. I reached towards it. Now Peter moved, jumping out of his seat, clamping his huge work-hardened hand over mine.

  People do not do that kind of thing to princesses. I wondered if he had gone insane.

  Yet when he spoke again, his voice seemed perfectly calm. “It’s a step up, marrying Mariamna, but it’s not enough. I need your patronage.”

  “Patronage! What big words you use now that you’re a mill owner.”

  “I want you to come to the wedding,” Peter continued, as if he’d not heard me, “and I want you to throw a ball for us, right here in this palace.”

  “Never!” I shouted, struggling to pull my hand free. “I’ll never do that.”

  “I think you will … Lyudmila.”

  Peter’s hand released its grip, and he looked challengingly at the bell-push. I raised my arm, and then let it drop to my side again. “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “Did you really think that your disguise would fool me? Take the paint, the jewels and fancy hairstyle away from a princess, and most people won’t even see her, but I remember you long ago, Anna, when being a peasant wasn’t a disguise.”

  “This is ridiculous,” I said. “You see someone at a strike who you think resembles me—”

  “Strike?” Peter asked craftily. “Did I mention a strike?”

  “You’ve confused me with some peasant girl … Lyudmila was it?” I asked, trying to brazen my way out.

  “You know it was.”

  “And now you’re trying to blackmail me. Well, go ahead. My husband will be home soon. Tell him your suspicions. Tell the Tsar himself – if, of course, you can get an audience.”

  Peter chuckled. “I don’t move in high enough circles to meet the Tsar,” he said. “Not yet. And if a bit of a suspicion was all I had, I wouldn’t try to blackmail a tough woman like you. But there’s more. My strike was only your apprenticeship. You’ve gone on to bigger and better things now. You’ve infiltrated the army—”

  “I never knew you had an imagination, Peter. You should be writing cheap romances instead of running a mill.”

  “… The Litovsky Regiment to be exact – not ten minutes walk from here.”

  He was right. Ever since the retreat from Poland I had been building up a network in the Litovsky Barracks.

  “You’re crazy,” I told him. “No one would believe that I, a princess, the wife of one of the Tsar’s most trusted—”

  “Your contact’s a Ukrainian, Codename – Georgi,” Peter said.

  The room began to swim before my eyes. I grasped for the arm of my chair and sat down.

  “And it’s not just the soldiers,” Peter said. “You’ve also been working closely with the bakers’ union. Why bakers, Anna? What good can they do you?”

  There was no point in pretending any longer. “Bakers are very important in times of revolution,” I confessed. “Control the bread and you control the masses.”

  “You’ll do what I want, won’t you?”

  I nodded, wearily.

  “Good,” Peter said.

  Good? He didn’t sound like a man who’d just won a victory – who’d got everything he wanted. “Let me know the rest now,” I said.

  “The rest?”

  For the first time since he’d walked into the room, Peter looked uncomfortable. Stage by stage, that was how he worked. Burn the barn first, to get the Count in his power, then use it against Sasha. Let the workers strike until the weather got cold, then lock them out of their dormitories. Get me to hold a ball on his wedding day, then …

  “Are you really asking me to believe that all you want in return for keeping me out of gaol is one ball? You’re a businessman, Peter, you understand the value of things. And this time, the price you’re asking is too low. So come on, tell me what you really want!”

  His brow furrowed, his eyes flashed with calculation. “How do you think a peasant, even a rich one, manages to raise the money to buy two factories?” he asked finally.

  And how did I think he came to know so much about me? Who’d given him the name my contact in the Litovsky Regiment? Who’d told him about my work with the bakers’ union? To come by information like that, wouldn’t he have needed the backing of some vast organization?

  My stomach heaved. There was only one possible answer to my questions – and it couldn’t be a worse one. His source had to be the secret police!

  “You work for the Okhrana,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  But what had that to do with me? How did I fit into his plans? With a sudden, horrifying insight, I saw it all. “No!” I said. “I won’t do it!”

  “Yes you will,” Peter told me. “You’ll work for the Okhrana too – because you don’t have any choice.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “I don’t understand why you want to give a ball for that repugnant young woman,” Konstantin said.

  Want! It wasn’t a question of wanting. As Peter had said, I’d no choice. “They took me into their house and—”

  “The Count took you in. If it had been left to mother and daughter, you’d still be living in the mir.”

  I had no logical argument with which to oppose his, so I stooped to trickery and burst into tears.

  “Why are you so upset?” Konstantin asked gently. “Is it guilt? There’s no need for it. You don’t owe that family a thing.”

  I was still crying, I couldn’t stop – I was so ashamed to be manipulating my husband.

  Konstantin sighed. “I suppose weak, self-centred people like them can always find a way to make others feel in their debt,” he admitted, “especially someone as forgiving and kind-hearted as you. Very
well then. Against my better judgement, we’ll give them their ball, but after that the account will be considered paid, and we’ll be free of them forever.”

  It was all my fault. If I’d kept out of politics, I wouldn’t have had to put my husband in this difficult position. Yet I knew that if I had to make the decisions again, I wouldn’t change any of them.

  Or perhaps one. When Konstantin asked me to marry him, I’d turn him down – I’d spare him the anguish which my revolutionary activities might bring to him in the future.

  “Misha will have to come,” I said meekly.

  Konstantin put his arm over my shoulder and pulled me closer to him. “And why shouldn’t he? He is the bride’s brother.”

  I said nothing, but we both knew what I was thinking.

  “He isn’t Nicky’s father,” Konstantin said softly. “He gave up that right when he rode off and left you.”

  “But what if … what if coming to the palace awakens a desire in him to ask for his son and—”

  “From what I’ve heard, he’s turned into a very wild young man,” Konstantin said. “He spends all his free time in low dives consorting with cheap prostitutes. Peasant girls just up from the country – very young ones. He’ll not be interested in the responsibilities of fatherhood, even if his new brother-in-law gives him the money to support a child. Besides, if he did try to take Nicky away, I’d challenge him to a duel and kill him.”

  “Maybe he would kill you,” I said anxiously.

  “Do you think that’s likely?”

  No, I didn’t. My Konstantin was a superman. My Konstantin was invulnerable.

  “I’m not a very good wife to you,” I said. “I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”

  I felt Konstantin’s hand squeeze my shoulder. “No amount of trouble could be a true measure of your value,” he said.

  I wondered if he would still have thought that if he knew about my political activities at the Litovsky Barracks.

  The ball was held at the end of August. Once Konstantin had made his mind up to accept something, he liked to see it carried through to perfection, and this occasion was no exception.