by Laura Rose
“What?” Papa asked. He seemed to emerge from his own dream. “Has something happened?”
“I am not at liberty to say,” the guard replied. “You must return to the palace at once.”
I returned to my true situation. Yes, I again rested beside Papa and once more puffed his cigarette, but this time, I sat on a log under the watch of armed guards. The sun felt hot on my forehead. I was wearing a scarf-with-perouke, a small fringed wig Nyuta had fashioned for all of us girls, to disguise our baldness. My scalp itched. It struck me then—I was a bald prisoner serving an uncertain sentence. Everything had changed but the warmth of the sun and the intoxication of the tobacco smoke.
Blinking, Papa and I walked into the shadowed hall of the Alexander Palace. I could feel the cool floor under my feet. The rest of our family was already gathered in the rotunda. My sisters looked a bit rumpled and I guessed they had been napping. Mama looked out of sorts, a furrow between her brows and a twist to her lip. Her knitting needles rested, crossed in her lap. She looked to Papa and made a sign to him; she shook her head slightly, as if to indicate “no.” Poor Alexei was carried in by Nagorny—Baby was asleep and for an instant, his limp body further alarmed me. Then Baby looked up and gave us his most radiant smile. His eyes sparkled and for an instant, I thought, maybe everything will still be all right.
Commandant Kobylinsky, who most often had a genial mien, appeared flushed and sweating in distress. He was a kind man and he did not enjoy what he had to tell us.
“You must leave Tsarskoe Selo now,” he said.
Kerensky had given the order.
“What!” Papa cried. He was such a farmer by then, he actually said, “My harvest!” We would never see what we planted grow to fruition. The word came that we must depart the fourteenth of August.
For where? Papa said, “Livadia?”
Even I knew the dazzling white marble Palace on the warm sea would most likely remain as accessible as Xanadu.
That dream was cut to the quick by the instructions: “Pack your furs.”
Dumbfounded, we stumbled to our rooms and confronted the wardrobes filled with our stored sable, ermine, fox and Persian lamb coats. In the heat of our private quarters, we sorted the furs with shaking hands. It felt so wrong to touch the fur in summer.
I heard, spoken in my mind, echoing in my skull, the single most dreaded word:
Siberia.
BANISHED TO SIBERIA
The departure from Tsarskoe Selo to Tobolsk took place on the fourteenth of August, 1917. Was it only eleven months ago, we were forced to leave home? Last summer seems another century—although it was not quite a year ago. Now, as I look back, I view my captivity as a series of moves—the first exile to Siberia on August 14, 1917, the second deportation here to Ekaterinburg on April 25, 1918 and now, on July 16, 1918, we must prepare for a third “transfer for our own safety” to an unnamed destination.
Last August, we were more prepared. Mama packed so many of our goods—the best of our real home, the family rooms of the Alexander Palace. She packed her icons, laces and rugs, the prayer books, our favorite clothes. Boxes and boxes of photographs.
We, the girls, OTMA—Olga, Tatiana, I and my little Shvybz—chose our personal belongings to take into exile. It is odd what one chooses when one must leave home for an uncertain destiny. How to decide what to take with you and what to leave behind? We packed the necessary items for our loved pastimes—I took my paint sets, the sketchpads, and brushes, tubes of oil and jars of watercolor. We could not leave behind our favorite books and plays, our icons and those diaries, which had escaped the first burning.
How to select our wardrobes? Together, as a foursome, we had seven hundred dresses, three hundred pairs of shoes, two hundred coats, one hundred hats, uncounted waists, skirts, camisoles, corsets, bloomers, and stockings. We took not our best dresses and coats but our most comfortable, and the best shoes for walking. We brought our four favorite matching ensembles—two for summer, two for winter. How to choose amongst the hats? There were hundreds—fur hats for winter, bonnets for summer. We packed the warmest of the sable, four knit caps, and our matching sun hats, the great straw wide-brimmed ones, with the blue Parisian satin ribbons.
As always, even as we set forth into the unknown, we dressed alike.
Why were we always moved in the middle of the night? Was it deliberate? To disorient us, add to the unreality of our existence? If so, our captors succeeded.
Is memory softened, or was that first journey less frightening? Was it only the soft summer dawn breeze that made it so? I think not. There was more time to pack, to prepare. There was the prospect of travel aboard the boat, the Rus. That August, Shvybz acted as if we were departing for a holiday, one of our summer shipboard adventures. We packed our long swimming dresses, straw baskets. We were allowed to bring the dogs. Tatiana held her very silly bull dog, Ortino. Shvybz carried Jemmy, who was officially given to Tatiana but whom Shvybz took over long ago and holds close to her, even in sleep. Alexei of course had Joy, his spaniel, who gives him so much comfort with his constant attentions, and funny dog “kisses”—wet with his great pink tongue lapping. Joy makes my brother laugh, even when he suffers.
There were last-minute arguments of course—as we were not allowed all the pets. Papa had to leave behind two hunting dogs, and Popov, his parrot, Alexei had a kicking tantrum on the floor when they refused him the cat Silina and his now grown kitten, Grushka.
“They will be fine,” Tatiana told him, her voice soft. “The cooks will look after the cats. They want them in the kitchen to catch mice. Silina and Grushka shall have lovely meals, and then all the mice they like! Great bowls of warm milk!”
As if to establish their contentment with the plan, the two cats curled up together on Alexei’s bed, purring in unison, a double lump of fur.
I envied them. Why could two cats remain at home, while we had to go into exile in Siberia?
But then, I envied the furniture that it, too, was allowed to remain. And the trees, statues and birds. All would proceed as usual at Tsarskoe Selo as always—the seasons would change; the flowers would rise up on schedule. Lilacs bloom in May, roses in July but we would not be there to see…
I took many last looks and many photographs. After Papa, I was the official family photographer in the family, and I must have snapped a thousand “last days at Tsarskoe Selo” images, my favorites those of Alexei and Joy in the lake. Especially the lone portrait of Alexei half-submerged, the water circling him in ripples. In this photo, he is suddenly no longer a little boy child—he is a youth, a young man. The camera sees more than the human eye. When we look at him in person, we still see Baby.
Alexei did not want to go either. None of us did. Curiously, only Papa seemed resigned to the move, though perhaps he did not truly comprehend—he kept mentioning Livadia, though we all knew that was already out of consideration.
Papa and Alexei dressed in uniform for the trip. As OTMA, we followed Olga’s choice and wore the pale blue traveling suits with the white waists underneath and the summer canvas high-button shoes. We also brought our bonnets. We knew most of the trip would be on board the ship, the Rus, and we envisioned sunning on deck as we were accustomed.
We were not so very alarmed at the move, as perhaps we should have been. We were allowed so many of our suite. Papa would have Valia Dolgoruky, who was Papa’s dearest friend and former marshal. Valia was Papa’s most constant companion apart from the family and the tall, fair and handsome man was good company for us all. Mama was allowed to bring Nyuta of course, and Alexei had Nagorny and his governesses, Shura Tegleva and Nastintka Hendrikova. We girls had several tutors—Pierre Gilliard, Sydney Gibbes, our English teacher, Catherine Schneider. It had been decided that Paul Benckendorff was too elderly to undertake this journey, and Countess Benckendorff needed him to remain at home with her, so Count Benckendorff was replaced by another handsome officer, “the silver eagle,” General Taitschev. The party numbered thirty-nine of o
ur suite. It included the doctors Derevenko and Botkin and Dr. Botkin’s children, Tatiana (my friend) and Gleb. On the household staff, Alexei Volkov, the valet, was allowed to accompany us, and the great cook, Kharitonov, and also a young kitchen helper, Leonid Sednev, who was almost the same age as Alexei and included in the party as a playmate companion for my brother.
We were pleased to have such a good suite accompany us, and touched that they insisted on throwing in their lot with ours. Lili Dehn had remained in Petrograd after her release from prison but she was ill at the time of our departure. We were told that when she recovered she would be allowed to rejoin us at our new Siberian house of exile, in Tobolsk. I was so especially pleased to know Lili would be with us once more.
So, it is easy to see, in hindsight, why we were not more alarmed to undertake that first journey. We were reluctant but not resistant; we had no choice but we also had no real fear. We were not yet awakened to the wildness that was building and would tear down one new government after another. Civilization was still nominally in place.
For the departure, we gathered, as instructed, in the rotunda at midnight. There was a true surprise—Uncle Misha was brought in by guards! Papa had not seen his younger brother Michael since our captivity, and Kerensky had provided them this time to say farewell. The two brothers spoke and embraced, and I could see Papa was moved but later, Papa confided to me that “it was awkward before strangers, so we could not truly talk.”
After that meeting, we were all tired. Alexei was exhausted and kept asking to be taken back to his bed. “I must have a lie-down,” he whispered to Mama, who repeated his request in her most authoritative tone. “Our son (even she would never say “the tsarevich” in public again) must rest…” And so, the agitated rounds resumed—Alexei was taken upstairs then down, one false summons after another. What was the problem? “Something with the train at the station,” we were told. Later a sympathetic guard told Papa there were people who did not want to see us leave alive. It was fortunate we did not know that then—we dealt only with inconvenience, we imagined, not threat.
We fought our sleepiness, sitting on our trunks. I felt my head snap forward a few times and I thought with longing of my camp bed and my blue duvet within the trunks. There are times when the need for sleep supplants all others, and as we awaited the final order to depart the palace, I crossed some membrane between true consciousness and a half-dream state in which the scenes of our lives played out against the screen of my red closed lids.
For example, I saw Alexei—swimming in our lake, playing with Joy in the water, racing the dog to the Children’s Island. I imagined all of us, only a few years ago, playing house on the island, in our magical robin’s-egg-blue-painted “Wendy House.” Olga had to be Mama! She was a bit cross, even then.
Near dawn, they did announce our departure was imminent. I was almost relieved, after the night of waiting in the hall, sitting on my trunk, to go out into the fresh air, to start moving. There were momentary difficulties—Mama, exhausted also, was half slumped in her wheeling chair and had to be carried out of the palace through one of the French windows, and Alexei had to be woken again. As soon as this was achieved, the motor cars pulled out of the palace gates. Papa looked back and remarked, “What a beautiful sunrise.” We all stared at the sun reflecting on our lake, at the pale-yellow palace mirrored there, and I know we shared the same thought—would we ever return?
I concentrated on those beloved landmarks, sensing I might be seeing them for the last time—the Children’s Island, our “Wendy House,” the flowering trees, gardens now populated only by statuary and soldiers, posed and still. I blinked my eyes, in rapid succession—I would be the camera, my memory, the album. As we drove past the grounds, I noted that the greater part of the palace park was in disrepair—the grass unmowed, the trees untrimmed. I had not noticed, while I was within that world, how haunted it had become. Without the services of the enormous Imperial staff, the massive upkeep of the gardens and palace façade had ceased. Grass sprouted between the stones of the main courtyard; the fountains stood empty, dry and cracking. The topiary hedges, untrimmed, lost their fanciful shapes and assumed grotesque almost monstrous poses— grasping branches, untamed, appeared as animate vegetative creatures, predators loosed upon the once ordered grounds. The Alexander Palace, thus surrounded by tentacles of crawling verdant summer growth, looked for all the world like the famous Russian painting, Le Chateau Oublie. It was indeed a forgotten castle. Yet the further away the palace park receded, the more beautiful it appeared—all imperfections blurred, as in an impressionist painting. What had been eyesores up close became attractive at an increasing distance—the high grasses and leafy saplings bowed and rippled, obeisant to the first breeze of the summer morning.
At the final bend in the road, before we traveled out of sight, I turned back for a last look and saw Tsarskoe Selo shimmer. Air, lake and house, tinted powder pink as in a pastel. Papa and I exchanged a look and he spoke my thought: “It has never been more beautiful than at this sunrise.” Ever precise, he consulted his wristwatch
“We left Tsarskoe Selo at 6:10 a.m.”
TOBOLSK
When I think about Tobolsk and our journey there last August, I compare it with my second journey in April 1918 and cannot suppress the thought, how easy that first trip was, how idyllic, even. For we all felt an almost involuntary rush at the thought of travel. Our rhythms had been upset— After all, we were accustomed to our “migratory” patterns, and summer was a season we always took our vacation trips. We traditionally sailed southwest so it was as if we were abruptly turned in the opposite direction—to the northeast, to Siberia.
But the weather was beautiful, the Rus a fine ship. The first portion of the trip we traveled by Trans-Siberian train was also pleasant—we viewed the lush greenery. The guards were relaxed, as if they were summering, as well. We took pleasure stops and waded in the flashing blue rivers. We were permitted to pick berries and sun ourselves. My sisters and I sat on a great flat white boulder, heated by the summer sunshine, and let the wild berries dissolve in our mouths. Even Olga’s spirit seemed to revive. I watched her wade and she slipped a bit and splashed the hem of the dress she had been holding aloft. Instead of becoming upset, she smiled. Tatiana made it her business to watch over Alexei, who, of course, wished to do too much—he wanted to run and jump, and while he was much improved, his knee was still sore and he risked another attack. We had a quite a frolic, the dogs included, on the picnic the guards permitted us. Shvybz could not stop giggling and chasing Jemmy round our little encampment, and I had the thought, she is allowed to be a child again.
On board the train, Papa remarked on the “tasty cuisine of the Chinese-Eastern” food from the train kitchen. While this transport was not the eleven-room Imperial train, we were more than comfortable in the sleeping cars and even a bit thrilled by the change and forward momentum.
At Tyumen, we boarded the Rus, which was a luxury river ship. It is hard for me now to think kindly of the boat, because I know my sisters, especially Olga, suffered on their second voyage. But the first sailing was pleasant—the menu was fine, there were flowers and linens on the tables. It was a return to civilization. We felt like we were released from prison—an illusion, of course, but a most pleasant one.
It is good that we enjoyed the Rus, because we were forced to live on board for several more days, after we docked at our destination, Tobolsk. Our “house,” our new prison, was not yet prepared to receive us. The landing party found the house uninhabitable and filthy, infested with vermin, and unsecured by a barrier fence. Within a few days, the mansion, known as the Governor’s House on newly renamed Freedom Street had been cleaned, repainted and furnished. Our belongings and ourselves were unloaded.
It was a fine house, a plain but grand white square mansion. It was most acceptable until winter, at which point the Governor’s House became “the ice box.” Even OTMA was never so close as we four sisters were this past winter—we
huddled under every duvet we possessed, pressed against one another, cuddling like Alexei’s litter of kittens. Our bedroom was the coldest in that house. We had dragged every featherbed and lap rug atop us and lay, weighted down, but warming one another under that heavy cover. I think we dreamed the same dream; our heads were so close to one another. Certainly, our inseparability, long a legend, became truth on those bitter winter nights.
Mama and Papa of course had one another. And Alexei joked at breakfast, as we “thawed out,” that he had hugged Joy all night for the dog’s body heat. When I think of the Governor’s House, I inhale and I pick up once more the scent of my sisters and remember the warmth of the four of us, under all our bedcovers.
The fireplace in the main parlor was grand however, and during the day we gathered round it. We were allowed so many privileges that our stay there was not one of the deprivations we had known in the past two months. The good people of Tobolsk still loved the tsar and every day, we received gifts of delicious food. Tobolsk did not suffer the food shortages common in Petrograd. Here there were fresh, yeasty baked breads, studded with fruits and nuts. The local fish, starlet, was abundant and roasted and served braised, roasted or steamed. The atmosphere, which we experienced on our short Sunday and Holy Day walks to church, was exotic, with the native peoples on the street and the look of so many, copper-gold and slant-eyed as Asians. We were allowed visits from the priests and nuns, and permitted every freedom to worship. At Christmas, they provided us with fir trees, and even allowed us to cross the street and attend church services. Most significantly, the townspeople and even our guards did not have contempt for us. The opposite—when they passed our house, they tipped their hats and often made the sign of the cross as they looked up to see us sitting on the balcony.
This perhaps makes Tobolsk sound more tolerable than it was. There was a high palisade that surrounded the house, and most of our suite was separated from us, living in a mansion across the street, called Freedom House. Yet, we had some fun even with that. When Lili Dehn arrived in Tobolsk and lived in Freedom House with the rest of our suite, she was startled to see OTMA pop up in the window, waving to her in great excitement from across the street. We did not dare anger the guards by remaining visible but the rare sightings were comforting and almost comical when viewed from either side. While we could not talk, we did exchange messages by mail.