The Empress and Mama helped in the operating rooms where amputations were carried on. Olga whispered to Stana and me, “Mama took an arm from the surgeon after an amputation.” The Empress brought flowers for the wounded soldiers and sat by their bedsides for hours at a time, reading to them. Each evening when the Empress and Mama returned from the hospital, their uniforms were soiled with dirt and blood.
I saw a change in Mama. She no longer let Anya fuss with her hair. She gave no thought to her clothes. Her work at the hospital was her whole life. In the past she had curled up next to me before I fell asleep, curious about my day and whispering bits of palace gossip. Now, at the end of a day in the hospital, she was too tired to do more than pick at dinner and fall into bed.
I begged Mama to let Stana and me help at the hospital. Mama said we were too young. I did not think that I could spend my days idly while soldiers were dying. More and more I was coming to hate the war. I begged Stana to ask her mother’s permission for us to go to the hospital, but Stana only shook her head. “Mama will only say ‘nyet.’”
Without a word to Mama, who would surely have forbidden it, I went myself to the Empress. “Madame,” I begged, “it is so hard doing nothing. Surely there is some small way Stana and I can help at the hospital?”
There were tears in the Empress’s eyes, “Oh, Katya, it is very sad there, and you and Stana are so young.”
“There are soldiers dying who are not much older than Stana and I are.” At once I regretted my words. Surely she would think I was impudent. She might even think I was criticizing the Tsar.
Instead she put her hand on mine, so gently I hardly felt it. “I’ll have a word with the head nurse, Katya, and we will see.”
A word from the Empress was law. We were allowed to go to the Catherine Palace. Though we had no uniforms, Stana and I visited the wards of the recovering soldiers. We wrote letters for them and gave them drinks of water. We played cards and chess with them and laughed when they teased us, calling us mischievous angels. Though I tried my best to be cheerful in the wards, I began to have nightmares, which I kept from Mama, for I knew if I told her, she would not let me return to the wards.
While I was with the soldiers, I tried not to notice their missing limbs. One young sergeant had lost his right arm. He was Misha’s age, with Misha’s yellow curls. I was drawn to him and often wheeled him about the palace gardens. His name was Yuri, and he came from a small village near Rostov, sixteen hundred kilometers south of St. Petersburg.
When I asked him about his village, he said, “As a boy I was lucky. When I was ten years old, the aristocrat who owned the estate on which my father worked apprenticed me to the blacksmith. I would have been set for life, but when the war came, our master said we must do the patriotic thing and enlist in the army. I was proud to do it.” He looked down at his empty coat sleeve. “God willing, my master will find some other work for me.”
“Perhaps you could get work here,” I suggested, thinking I might speak to the Empress, for several of the palace servants had gone to war, and replacements might be needed.
“This place? Never. Never to hear the dove in the morning and the whippoorwill in the evening? Never see the wheat turn golden and the buckwheat flower? I can live without my arm, but I cannot live without the land.” After a moment he asked curiously, “Tell me, I have seen you writing letters for the soldiers and reading books to them, so even though you are a girl, you must be educated. Can you explain to me why we are fighting this war?”
I was asking the same question of myself. As each day another bed was filled, as the newspapers told of one defeat after another, as the Tsar looked gloomier and gloomier, I wanted to ask the Tsar why he didn’t end the war. I knew I daren’t say that to Yuri. I only shook my head.
Yuri nodded, as if there were some questions that no one could answer.
We knew the soldiers wished to spare us and were careful not to tell us stories that would disturb us, but as the weeks and months of the war wore on, we could not escape the troubling news.
In the classroom Pierre showed us how all the rest of Europe, and America and China as well, could be tucked inside Russia’s boundaries. “Russia’s great size is a problem,” he explained. “Russian trains with military supplies have to stretch long distances, while the German trains have only short distances to travel to reach their soldiers.”
I saw how critical the newspapers were of the Tsar. There were reports that factories were not turning out enough ammunition, and just as Misha had written, soldiers were having to fight with the guns of their fallen comrades. England and France, who had joined us in the war, could not help us, for they were fighting for their lives. It was rumored that the German army was at the gates of Paris.
The newspapers began to warn of food shortages, for farmers were taken from their farms to become soldiers. There were no more banquets at the palace. Footmen no longer carried out platters of pheasants roasted and decorated with their own tail feathers or mammoth sturgeons swimming in rich sauce. Though it broke Toma’s heart, even our daily meals became simple, for the Empress said, “We must eat what our people are eating.” We dined on cabbage soup, potatoes in sour cream, and pirozhki filled with bits of fish or hard-boiled egg.
When Olga turned up her nose at a dish of borsch, the Tsar said in a disapproving voice, “Shame on you, Olga. Think of what our brave soldiers are forced to get by on.” I had never before heard him speak so harshly to one of the girls.
When winter came, we cut back on wood. Half the stoves in the palace remained cold. With all our sacrifices I could not help but think how comfortable we were. It was true some rooms were cold, but many were warm and cozy. Though pheasant and sturgeon were banished from the table, Toma saw to it that the cabbage soup had large chunks of tender meat.
The winter of 1914–15 was the coldest in years. The wounded soldiers who arrived at the Catherine Palace told stories of digging through the snow for a frozen carrot or turnip. Their fingers and toes were frostbitten. I asked myself why I should be warm and comfortable with a full belly when soldiers were suffering and dying. Even Stana no longer had easy answers.
“I wish Papa would find a way to end the war,” she said. It was the closest she had ever come to questioning her father. She sighed. “Mama says we must pray harder, but I pray as hard as I can.”
I prayed for Misha each night and thought of him all day long.
“Mama,” I begged, “can’t you ask the Tsar to find out where Misha is?”
“Katya, there are ten million Russian soldiers. Besides, think how much the Tsar has on his mind.” Yet I saw that Mama was as worried about Misha as I was. She nursed the dying soldiers, afraid that at any moment she might see Misha on one of the stretchers.
When I read in the newspaper that nearly a million Russian soldiers had been taken prisoner, I kept awake at night trying to count to a million. I thought somehow that if I could count each prisoner, and Misha with them, the prisoners would be protected. Often I would stay awake into the early-morning hours, but I only got into the thousands—not enough.
The cold winter turned into a chilly spring and the spring into a rainy summer, the summer into a gloomy fall, and the news of the war was no better. One October morning, while we were having our simple breakfast of bread and tea and tvorog, with no jam to go with it, the Tsar announced, “I leave next week for army headquarters, and Alexei goes with me.”
Alexei leaped up, shouting with pleasure.
The Empress uttered a sharp cry. Her eyes were blazing. She sprang from her chair. Grasping the dining table for support, she said, “You cannot think of taking Alexei to such a place. He is not well enough. Even if he were, we could not take such a step without consulting Father Grigory.”
In the past the Tsar had given in to the Empress, especially in matters concerning Alexei, but now the Tsar thrust out his chin. In a firm voice he said, “Alexei is the heir to the throne, my dear. One day he will be Tsar. If he is to d
efend our country from its enemies, he must know what it is like to be a soldier. I’m afraid he has been coddled too much, for which I take full responsibility. I promise you, I will do whatever is necessary to see that he is well taken care of, but I have made up my mind.”
We all sat with open mouths. The Empress was so taken aback by the Tsar’s strong words that she could find no answer, but only sank down onto her chair and began to cry. Mama went to comfort her, but the Empress shook her off. She would not be comforted.
A week later the Tsar and Alexei left the palace for army headquarters.
CHAPTER EIGHT
RASPUTIN
Spring 1916–Winter 1917
The Empress fretted over Alexei all winter. She would not rest until she saw for herself that he was well. The Tsar wrote to discourage her, but nothing would change her mind. In the spring arrangements were made for a special train to take us to headquarters, a journey of twenty-six hours. Several cars of the train were hastily decorated. Rugs were laid down, and comfortable chairs were arranged around delicate tables. Besides the Grand Duchesses, Mama, and me, accompanying us were footmen, cooks, the Empress’s personal maid carrying her jewels, Pierre, and the Empress’s personal physician. Although the stay would be a short one, we took trunks stuffed with clothes and baskets heaped with delicacies for the officers.
As we boarded the train, I saw hundreds of soldiers herded into empty railway cars with no furniture—just a layer of hay strewn over the floor. Like us, they were going to army headquarters, but unlike us, they would go on to the front. I was embarrassed at our show of luxury. I wondered what the soldiers thought of us as they watched us climb into our comfortable quarters, trailed by servants and piles of luggage.
I soon had my answer, for as news spread among the soldiers that the Empress would be traveling on their train, they looked toward us. When the Empress saw them and paused to raise her hand in greeting as she boarded, for once there was no return cheer. Though it was not talked of in the palace, only days before, I had read in one of the newspapers that there were no shells for the soldiers’ rifles and no food for their stomachs. One Russian brigade had mutinied and killed their officer. I thought much had changed since the days when the crowds had cheered the imperial family in Palace Square. I wondered how we could win a war when our soldiers were so miserable.
At headquarters we lived in a world of men. Still, the men were sensible that the Empress and the Grand Duchesses were among them and that something must be done for them. Dinners were arranged. Trunks were opened and formal gowns, silk slippers, jewels, and furs were brought out. Slipping into dressy clothes in that busy military world made me feel like I was attending a masquerade.
I was fifteen now, and Stana was fourteen, so we were allowed to attend the dinners. The Tsar and his generals had brought silver serving pieces, fine china, and rare wines with them to headquarters. Soldiers had been sent out to hunt in the forest, and we dined well on grouse and venison. We might have been at a palace dinner, except for one thing. Several times during our dinner, officers appeared at the doorway of the dining salon looking anxious and embarrassed. They caught the eye of one general or another, and the general excused himself to read an urgent dispatch or give an order. Misha was out there somewhere, I thought. I could hardly force myself to choke down the elegant dinner, knowing soldiers might be dying as we banqueted.
As often as I could during our stay, I mentioned Misha’s name in the hope that one of the officers might have heard of him. They smiled politely, but no one could tell me where he might be, or even recognized his name. Whenever I glimpsed an officer in the distance, I held my breath until he came close enough for me to see that it was not Misha. I tried to tell myself that Misha was safe, but nothing I heard at headquarters made me believe there was a safe place for a soldier. Even the Tsar appeared disheartened. When he was with his son, the Tsar beamed, but at other moments his shoulders sagged. He ran his hand over his beard and looked about him like a man who cannot escape a bloodthirsty beast.
However worried his father was, Alexei was in his glory. He was clearly the favorite of all the officers. He tugged at the Empress and his sisters, wanting to show them around headquarters and introduce them to his new friends. The men put their caps on his head and pretended to ask him for orders for this battle or that one. “He is our little general,” they said, and patted him fondly. Each morning, while his father was having breakfast, Alexei stood guard outside the Tsar’s tent, a small rifle on his shoulder. Only when the Tsar was finished would Alexei give up his guard duty. Even the Empress had to admit that Alexei was doing well.
At our farewell dinner, the night before we were to board our train to return to the palace, we tried to forget the war. There was a whole roast suckling pig commandeered from one of the nearby farms, caviar that had come in the Empress’s hamper, and a towering cake, so tasty the cook was called in from the kitchen to take a bow. Olga, Tatiana, Marie, Stana, and I were surrounded with handsome, attentive officers. Even Mama flirted. A military band played waltzes during dinner. At the dinner’s end there were gallant toasts to all the women present. In a strong voice one of the generals proposed a toast: “To the day when there will not be a single German soldier on Russian soil.”
I applauded the toast, but it reminded me with a cruel stab how close the Germans were, and of the danger to Misha. I was ashamed of our extravagance and our gaiety. All the pleasure went from the evening.
Returning to the Alexander Palace, we found Anya waiting for us. She ran across the room to greet us and pressed a letter into Mama’s hand. “It just came, Madame.” There were tears in her eyes, for everyone knew that such envelopes from the army reported only bad news. Mama’s hand trembled. She handed the envelope to me. I had always turned to Mama for comfort and strength, but now for the first time in my life Mama was turning to me. I pulled her to the sofa and sat down beside her. Anya shifted from foot to foot like some small, fierce bird protecting its nestlings. I tore the envelope open. The sound of the tearing was like my heart being ripped apart. The news was very bad, but it left us hope. The army wished to inform us that Misha was a prisoner in Germany. We were assured that the Russian army would do all in its power to find him and return him to his family.
When I told Stana, she put her arms around me and kissed me and promised that her dear papa would save Russia and bring home every prisoner of war, and Misha would be the very first. I tried to find comfort in her words, but I had heard the officers at army headquarters say that the German soldiers were going without food. I knew they would do what the starving Russian soldiers were doing. They would feed their own army first. There would be little food left for prisoners.
That evening the Empress knocked softly at our door. In her hands she held her icon of St. Vladimir. “Stana told me about Misha, Irina. You must have this icon. Pray to St. Vladimir for Misha’s safety. The saint will help you.”
It was the icon the Empress valued most. I saw that Mama wanted to put her arms about the Empress in gratefulness and love, but she was afraid to be so forward. I was very glad I was not an empress but someone who could be hugged and comforted.
With the Tsar at the front, the Empress was relying more and more upon Rasputin. All summer and fall he came to the palace, swaggering down the halls and striding into the Empress’s sitting room without so much as a by-your-leave. He acted as if he were in his own home, ordering the servants about and handling the delicate ornaments set out on the tables. It was terrible to see him pick up an exquisite vase in his clumsy hands with their dirty fingernails.
One evening, when the girls and I were gathered in Olga and Tatiana’s room talking over the day, I asked, “How can your mama have such a person about?”
“You haven’t seen Alexei suffering as we have,” Tatiana said. “When he is ill, he cries all night long. His every move causes him terrible pain. Everything he suffers, Mama suffers twice as much. She has to listen to him plead, ‘Mama, help me
,’ knowing there is nothing she can do. Rasputin makes him better. We don’t know how. Mama thinks it is from God.”
Under her breath Stana muttered darkly, “I think it is from the devil.”
With the Tsar away, many of the decisions about the government were left to the Empress, whom the Tsar trusted completely. Our parliament, the Duma, had little power. They grumbled and made motions of governing, but the power was all the Tsar’s, and he was far away. The Empress wrote to the Tsar daily, sometimes more often, to tell him what was happening in St. Petersburg, which was now officially called Petrograd, because “Petersburg” was German. Still, no one remembered to call it Petrograd, which had an ugly sound.
The Empress hated the Duma. She said there was no need for any government besides the Tsar. “We must be firm with the people,” she said. “Russians love to feel the whip.” I cringed to hear such cruel words. Misha, who was always in my thoughts, would have been very angry indeed.
Rasputin was on the Empress’s side. They talked all day about ways to put an end to the Duma. Rasputin suggested appointing this minister and that one, men who were on his side, men so weak he could rule them. The Tsar, busy with the war and not wanting to anger the Empress, agreed with Rasputin’s choices.
Stana confided to me that her uncles and aunt had come to the Tsar and begged him to get rid of Rasputin. “They know how much the country hates him. But Papa always gives in to Mama.”
The Empress and Rasputin were having their way, but the government was falling apart. Articles in the newspapers denounced Rasputin and the Empress as well. Suddenly everyone recalled that the Empress had once been a German princess, and they now accused her of being on the side of the Germans. Rasputin was said to be a German spy. The Duma was in an uproar. When we went out in public, people shook their fists at the Empress. She kept her chin high and looked straight ahead.
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