The Passion of Marie Romanov

by Laura Rose

  Where were we going? The guards would not answer. Did they even know our destination as they led us into the frosted night? The courtyard of the Governor’s House was white snowpack, and the three black carriages were lined up, like giant spiders. These carriages were the lowest sort of conveyances—the tarantass, wooden basket carriages without any upholstered seats, only a declivity.

  Mama turned paler and near fainted when she saw these carts. It was apparent at once that my mission was to protect her from the rigors of this journey. Poor Pierre, our dear French tutor, ran out to the carriage before we could settle into this terrible conveyance. Monsieur Gilliard was an odd sight—this skinny, always dapper Swiss gentleman, running about under moonlight with armfuls of stuffing to fill in the seating of the tarantass.

  “Please,” he begged the guards, “they must have something to cushion the blows of this ride.” Pierre gathered fresh straw intended for the pigsty and hurriedly loaded the bale into the cart, then covered it with a scrap of old carpet on top of which he set enough folded bedding to form a rough mattress.

  “Enough. Away from the carriage,” a guard shouted at Pierre. “We are departing.” The guard made a threatening gesture with his saber toward Pierre, who scampered off to the sidelines as I led Mama to this dreadful cart. I settled myself first, so that Mama could lie on top of me and I could warm her with my body.

  Mama smiled and said, “You see, Marie, this is why I chose you, because you are the roundest and my cushion.” We were both able to laugh for the first time in so long. She used the old OTMA pet name for me when I was plump— “Fat Bow Wow.” We laughed until the jouncing and the cold stilled our laughter and we clung to one another, flinching as we struck every rut, every hole in the road and ice.

  If our Bolshevik guards had no announced destination, they did have a direction—we were moving southwest, across Siberia. We must ford two frozen rivers, walk the ice on foot. How could Mama survive this?

  “I feel my soul is shaken out of me,” she said.

  I wondered, Can I keep her alive? Throughout that first day, I kept as close to Mama as I could, but her moans reverberated with the rattling wheels. I could feel my mother growing cold in my arms, no matter how hard I tried to warm her. Fear ran like a fever, low, under my blood, chugging up and down, singing its sick song. I could not help but see visions of a fate too terrible to describe. I shall not describe these images, as I believe the articulated nightmare gains strength to become real.

  I wished with all my being that this lunar scene was the delirium of disease. Yet I knew that this was no sickbed hallucination and there would be no waking, save to the renewing realizations of every hour—this is real, this is real, this is real.

  Then, as darkness fell, we stopped at a peasant hut. There, Mama and Papa shared the one true bed, a featherbed raised up from the earthen floor. I lay beside them, huddling on bales of hay. I was afraid to light the lantern as it would wake Mama and Papa and alarm our guards. The half-moon gave some illumination, reflected on the snow outside, but even this light vanished as the clouds crossed. Inside the cabin, there was a faint red glow, firelight cast by the dying embers.

  I could see them above me, in profile—Papa holding Mama. I lay on my stomach, fully dressed, my coat heavy on my back, my laced shoes hanging like counterweights off the edge of a straw bale. I yearned to undress, have a bath, and don my warmest nightgown.

  Stopping at that hut was the first relief.

  “It is clean and well kept,” Papa said, and so it was. I trembled there on my bed of straw but knew that we must not lose our faith. If I lost faith, I would lose my life. We must not panic, but how could I control this fear? An unstoppable tremble seized me, and worked my body. How could this be happening to us?

  I preferred the theory that I was hallucinating, that what I felt was only a symptom, the remains of the measles that almost killed us. The fever and spots had vanished, but not the shuddering falls that yanked me to and from a darker place.

  Yes, I thought, I am still ill somehow—none of this can be real.

  Christ is with us; he guides me. I felt his presence, even then, in that hut. It was apparent that Christ escorted us or I would not now be alive. Mama and Papa breathed deeply; their breath warmed the night air. Asleep, Papa showed no fear; Mama’s face was set in her fierce dignity—visible as the jut of her jaw. She would never yield to fear. I could see sorrow etched in their faces, but also their closeness. Papa circled Mama’s waist with his arms. I often have thought Mama and Papa have no need save for one another; they found comfort. They could sleep, perhaps even share the same dream. They breathed and turned over in unison; they were one.

  As always, when seeing the love they share, I prayed that I might someday know the same devotion—to love and be loved in return, that I might find a husband as kind and loyal as Papa.

  With no one to hold me, I folded into myself for warmth, knees to belly.

  What would the morrow bring? I prayed that we would we arrive at a safe destination, that the stress of the journey would not further cripple Mama, that Papa was not forced to stand at an unfair trial. I prayed that each day would bring our reunion with the rest of our family closer. I thought of the important dates to come—Easter, our birthdays. There was much to anticipate. I concentrated and imagined the birthdays— Papa’s, Mama’s, Tatiana’s, Anastasia’s, my own. I will be 19 in June.

  They say there is nothing so beautiful as a Siberian spring, nothing as warm as a sun after winter. We will all cherish one another when this ordeal is finished. I know that Christ will bring us together at our as yet unknown destination.

  Yet, it took all my will to continue to believe. How many times must Christ prove himself to me? He had done so much. Surely, he need do no more? I was weak; I knew. My body betrayed me. I woke, jerked from my rest. My head was hot; I was sweating no matter how frigid the bed. What lay ahead? Time and the unknown, the frozen rivers and the tundra. Would I ever see my sisters and brother again? Would we ever again awaken in our own rooms? The night extended before me, and although I had vowed not to undress, I loosened the buttons on my coat, shifted the corset below, and opened the stays. I could hear my own breathing. Oh, yes, I was more comfortable; the under-camisole was no longer so tight, the bone stays no longer scratched my skin. The jewels, heavy within the fabric, were finally no longer pressed against my chest and at least for a few hours, would cause me no pain.

  Should I not have been content to thank Christ for that night? We inhabit our lives a moment at a time. For the moment, for that night, I was alive. In the reflecting heat of the peasants’ fire, I felt something I hadn’t in a long time: safe.

  We shall all live through this, I thought.

  SNOW LIGHT

  I must have dozed for a moment. It was still very dark when I was roused by a sudden call in the night. I felt that I had fallen asleep for only an instant, but the fall was too deep—I crashed into a crevasse of unconsciousness and had to surface with a violent yank.

  Mama and Papa had awakened and were already standing above me, grey fuzzy figures in the dimness.

  “Awaken citizens Romanov. We resume the journey.”

  “Marie,” Papa whispered. “We must go now.”

  I stood up, clutching my Persian lamb coat closed. My under-camisole was still opened; I could feel my breasts loose, unsupported, but there was no time. No one could see; I pulled the overcoat tighter. My feet were sweating in my shoes.

  Mama called out for Nyuta, and our poor big girl came running, the chamber pot in her hands. They had to allow us to relieve ourselves, before we climbed back inside the tarantass. Mama, Nyuta, and I were quick, being careful to raise our skirts and part our bloomers, just so—to avoid wetting or soiling our clothing. We dried ourselves with straw.

  This accomplished, we requested water to wash our hands, and Nyuta went and fetched a basin. The water was warm—what luxury. Once we dried our hands, Mama, Nyuta and I walked out to the snow-packe
d road, where the horses were snorting and stomping their hooves. Underfoot, the snow squeaked. The only color I saw—I had to laugh—was the now-familiar yellow-brown of the guards’ urine, burned holes in the snow. I stepped round the splotches. There are times when the bodily functions are too much in evidence. And I was reminded we are all the same in this way. The first order of the day is one we share—guard and captive, Bolshevik and noble alike.

  How long would we be in the carriage? No one would say. The cold air hit me, like an invisible wall. The air spiked sharp in my nostrils.

  Behind us, the soldiers shouted, loud, “Hurry!”

  “Quick”, Mama said, “your scarves.” We knew to raise our scarves to cover our faces—the cold was dangerous—eyeballs can be frozen within minutes. I breathed through my scarf, and half shut my eyes against the bitter air.

  Papa was already in the carriage that he shared with the Commissar Yakovlev. I resumed my place, and opened my arms for Mama to lie down on top of me. The carriage felt even more uncomfortable than the day before—my body had new aches from resting in such a cramped position. My muscles remembered my pose, and I suppressed a moan, as they resumed their role. I did not wish to alarm Mama.

  “Here, lie down,” I invited her, “I’m ready—it’s not so bad. I have the furs.”

  “Oh, Marie,” she said, settling herself on her side, but pressed against me. “Our Lord will not desert us.”

  She was heavy against me, and I bit my lip not to cry out.

  “Give me strength,” I prayed. “I must do this one thing.”

  I employed my magical trick, which has helped so much on these journeys—I closed my eyes, and imagined—we were not in this cart; we were riding in the troika, the finest of our sleighs at home. I heard the horses’ ornate silver bells. We were off on a merrier journey, such as our trips of the past. I remembered our escapades—the jaunt to our ice “mountains” on the grounds of the estate. Even Mama enjoyed the sled rides downhill. In memory, I heard her laughing, her voice childlike, “Again!”

  “Let’s go,” the tarantass carriage driver shouted.

  Then, the crack of his whip and the jolt. As we left our temporary sanctuary, a fog descended, as a chill veil. I could feel the heat of the horses. The horses’ steam rose in the night, the vapors thickening into fog.

  We entered an endless cloud—a landscape without horizon. Into this greyness, the horses trotted, the carriage rocked hard on the ruts. Someone, it seemed, knew where we were going.

  DAWN LIGHT

  At least the carriage that Mama and I shared was covered; the tarantass had a black cloth roof that was stretched and ripping over rusted iron ribs. The sides were open, though, and I could see and feel the wind-driven sleet. I huddled, shielding Mama from the drafts. Not so long ago we viewed a troika ride across the snowpack as our favorite expedition—we bundled up, enjoyed the tinkling bells, the snorting horses.

  Snow was pleasure then—snow meant winter sport. We could build our ice mountains, slide on our sleds. We could ice-skate on our glassed lake, then return to the palace to warm ourselves by the hearth, enjoy a hot tea. We never knew the cruelty of cold.

  Leaving Tobolsk, the snow became a danger. The snow was not vanished nearly as much as reported—the roads through Siberia did not exist in any visible way; we had to carve our own route. In some spots, the snow was as high as the carriage. We passed, as through a white-walled canyon, the passage just wide enough for the horses and carriages. At other points, the snow had blown across even this narrow aisle, and the men had to disembark from the carriages and shovel to create the lane. It was hard work, and I watched the men dig; they appeared only as opaque shapes in the constant snow. I saw the guards stumble, heard them curse. The snow muffled the words but I knew their meaning.

  At last, the snow itself seemed to die as we made our slow progress through it. The dying snow exhaled into the night, porous and rotted. We continued to make our way through this cloud of nothingness.

  The rocking motion of the cart and fatigue finally lulled Mama to sleep; I heard her breathing steadily. She was warm above me. I thought how fortunate we were, to feel each other’s warmth. It was everything. In calming her, I soothed myself.

  The sky lightened, and slowly, the fog frayed like gauze under the sun’s rays. The world now returned—a silver etching. I was calmed enough to enjoy the beauty. Half-propped up on the straw mattress and under all the furs, I managed to shift to one side, while still holding Mama.

  Another cry from the drivers: They must change horses. The carriage halted, but an odd thing—its rhythm had infiltrated my blood, and when the carriage stopped, my blood chugged. I half sat up; Mama woke with a twitch, also.

  Together, we adjusted ourselves, to look around. We were on the road beside a great frozen river. The wind blew across the river, baring sections of grey ice and whipping the snow into tufted meringues.

  Great ice floes, high as small mountains, jutted from the frozen surface, creating a moonscape. It did not seem possible that we could cross this river, let alone on foot.

  We were required to walk across the Tobol on foot, for fear the ice would crack. The mounted division led their horses in single formation across the ice. It was a strange horse-and-man ballet—they tiptoed, the men on their toes, the horses ginger on their front hooves. The poor animals whinnied; they sensed the unsafe ice.

  The immediate threat came from the carriages; their weight caused fissures that at once radiated, crackling through the ice.

  Let them not cause a total collapse, I prayed to Christ.

  “Disembark from your carriage,” the guard screamed into my side of the tarantass.

  “Please,” I suggested. “I will walk, but let my mother remain.”

  I did not even have a chance to finish my plea.

  “That is an order.”

  Mama, pride giving her strength as it always has in the past, insisted, “I shall manage.”

  I jumped out to assist her in stepping down from the tarantass. She swayed for a moment, the rocking rhythm of our ride still in her blood, as well. I held her from the back, my arm around her waist.

  We took a few steps on the snow and then began the precarious walk across the ice. We tiptoed as well—I could see water film the surface, swelling up from below.

  I was wearing the grey kid high-button shoes from last Christmas, one of the pairs from Paris. After the first slip into the puddles, the butter-soft leather hardened, froze and split. Our coats were too thin, as well, and the wind cut through to our skin and stung our faces, even through the scarves.

  We saw one horse slide, and the ice opened and took his hoof. We heard the terrible snap; the horse screamed. I didn’t know what fate awaited that poor horse; he was led back to shore. I thought I heard a gunshot, but it perhaps was the crack and retort of shattering ice. It was hard to distinguish one awful sound from the next and interpret the meaning. My feet were numbed; the ruined leather served only as a case for what seemed to be my frozen stumps. I had to concentrate to raise and lower each foot. I thought, in sympathetic misery, of the soldiers who lost their feet, their fingers to the cold last winter.

  How cold it must have been here earlier in the winter. Colder even than in Tobolsk. A guard pointed to the shore and said, “See what Father Frost can do.” And I saw with my own eyes—a row of simple wooden houses, cracked open like walnuts. I could look into the exposed rooms; the interior walls remained as woody dividers.

  “Cold splits many poor houses,” he told me.

  This guard, he was blond, with an incongruous red moustache and eyes the color of the frozen water. He spat and I don’t think it was accidental. The spit froze too, an immediate icicle on my Persian lamb coat collar. Mama and I were both wearing the Persian lambs; they were always warm enough before but nothing could be warm on this journey. A hundred times, we regretted not taking the heavier coats. I dreamt of my oldest but warmest coat, the heavy grey one, lined in sable with the matching
hat. I had left it behind in Tobolsk, thinking it too cumbersome for travel.

  At one point on the frozen river crossing, Valia Dolgoruky insisted that Mama wear his greatcoat. Bless him, he draped it across her shoulders. Yet she refused this offer, and said, “God will warm me if I am intended to survive this. Protect yourself. You are one of the few who is loyal to the tsar.” They argued, kindness against kindness, and at last, Prince Dolgoruky gave up on Mama and draped his coat over me. Dr. Botkin removed his greatcoat, also, which was lined in sable, and insisted that we use that as a lap robe when we were able to get back inside the carriage. I am not selfless as Mama. Oh, I snuggled under it, warmed.

  “We will take turns,” I insisted, and so at every pause on the ice, the coats moved to cover yet another of us. I could feel the heat within the fur travel from Mama’s body to my own, to Valia Dolgoruky, to Dr. Botkin.

  I stayed close to Mama, to absorb the bite of the cold, the icy breath of the wind. Nyuta became hopeless. She was of no use, but we cherished her loyalty. Midway across the frozen river, when we had to go on foot again, she fell down. She needed two men to carry her sturdy form—Sednev and poor old Chemodurov had to lift her. I remained alone with Mama, holding her, trying to drape Prince Dolgoruky’s coat over us to retain some heat. The wind howled in our ears, numbed our faces.

  “It is your warm body,” Mama whispered, “that keeps me alive.”

  And I must confide that even if the worst befalls us, I have not lived without a purpose.

  There were more dangers ahead—at places, the ice seemed to give way, and gelid water filmed over the surface. Cold though it was, a thaw set in at the center of the river, where the water was deepest. While ice remained on the surface, its depth varied.

  At one place, we were told to pause, to hold still and distribute our weight. I stared down—the wind had cleared the ice, and I saw as through black glass to great air bubbles that seem suspended below. From somewhere below the surface, we heard a roar, then a shattering as of glass. The river ice was cracking open, and it was too late to return to the shore we had left. We stood, marooned, closer to the opposite shore, but afraid to cross the widening fissures.