The Passion of Marie Romanov

by Laura Rose

  Papa called this “the train to nowhere.” Right then, that was true—we were stalled there, between stations. Outside the train window were the thick burnished silver-white birch forests that bordered miles and miles of snow-covered pasture, nothing more. Yet the train had been stopped for three hours. There was some sort of drama occurring outside. The train had braked to a halt, without warning. At that last sudden stop, we all fell forward a bit; poor Mama almost toppled from her seat. This interrupted the quiet rhythm of our ride—we had adjusted to the motion of the train, which was soothing in itself, as the rocking of a cradle.

  Mama at this point refused to leave our compartment and did so only when nature decreed that she must use the lavatory. The aisle of our car was narrow. One must press against the wall to allow another passenger to pass. Mama did not want to stand aside in order that these new soldiers could cross so close to her. Her pride. She suffered in her compartment. She went out only in the dawn, whispering to me, “Is the passage clear?” I stood guard for her at the lavatory that no soldiers could compromise her modesty or cause more distress.

  Such inconvenience became urgency as the train did not resume motion for several hours. We waited and waited, the hours turned to a day, to two days. We were detained, but why?

  After two days in limbo, the dining car was low on rations. Papa and Commissar Yakovlev sat at a table and as I passed through, Papa motioned for me to join them at a table. I sat down; we were all shrouded in the green shade. I noticed Vasily Yakovlev was agitated—I imagined this was because there was no fresh food on the train. Papa was complaining, “My family and suite have not had a meal since yesterday.”

  “I’ll see what can be done,” Yakovlev said, rising, and preparing to leave the dining car. He gestured to a crust of dark bread, lying on a plate on the table. “That appears to be what is left.”

  Papa’s eyes met mine. “Do you want the bread?” he asked.

  I was both touched and horrified. How could he imagine I would take that old scrap into my mouth, as hungry as I was?

  “No.” I thanked him. “I can wait for new supplies.”

  Then I rose to go find Mama—she must not be left alone too long—and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Papa’s hand reach out and take the crust of bread. Instead of tossing it out, he leaned over and, to my shock, began to gnaw on it.

  I hurried from the car, sorry I had seen what I had.

  In the dark shadowed train, the sounds outside seemed exaggerated. I could hear a low rumble of men shouting. There was a commotion of sorts. Then I heard the heavy thudding of many horses’ hooves and louder shouts.

  I was in the train corridor, guarding the lavatory door for Mama while she relieved and washed herself, when I heard a strange voice blare, “The Ural Soviet takes command of the baggage.”

  Then a second voice—Vasily Yakovlev. I recognized his voice; it is deep, more distinctive than his appearance as he responded with authority: “No, I am under orders to escort the baggage.” Yakovlev refused to release “the baggage.”

  They argued. I heard someone yell, “Destroy the baggage!” And I thought of course of all our valuables, sewn in the linings of our corsets, secreted away. We need our suitcases, and all our hidden jewels, to finance our new lives, when we escape.

  I knew, in some way, our fate was being decided. Between the two, I hoped for Vasily Yakovlev to prevail. I could see hate in the new soldiers’ eyes. There are two kinds of men, and now I recognize them—those who could kill a human being, and those who would never dishonor God’s decree. These men, in their rough coats, with their dirtied beards and cabbage strands amongst the moustache and chin hairs, these men with their red, bleared eyes and coarse voices—I knew they were the former type and could kill…

  They were debating our fate. To Moscow or to the Urals, to Omsk or to Ekaterinburg? Who would commandeer the train?

  Mama emerged from the lavatory…

  “What is happening out there? The sounds are frightful. I have a headache from this.”

  There was a battle raging outside, for control of the train, control of us. I didn’t know what to tell Mama. Papa emerged from the compartment and said, in a new tone, the voice I imagine he assumes when he is at the Stavka, his own military camp, “We must stay together. Marie, go into our compartment. Sunny, go with Marie.” His use of Mama’s most private nickname startled me—but both Mama and I obeyed and went into the compartment they shared. Nyuta knocked on the door—her wide face was red and her eyes tearing.

  “What’s happening? What’s happening?”

  “Resume your place in your compartment,” Papa told her. Nyuta’s face crumbled and she turned, heavily, to go but Mama held her back by the elbow.

  “Nicky, she is too frightened to be alone now,” Mama whispered.

  Papa hesitated—there was no room for the bulky Nyuta. He nodded his head. “She may take my place.”

  He remained, standing in his most official posture against the door. From outside our compartment, we heard a shout.

  “Keep your door locked!”

  Papa closed the door, but remained standing. It was now almost pitch-black—or I should say deep green—within our berth. The room smelled of Mama’s familiar lavender perfume. Mama and I sat in silence, awaiting the outcome. Nyuta whimpered, alternating cries of “I’m scared” and “I’m sorry.” Mama patted her wide knee and gradually, the poor girl quieted.

  “Where will they take us?” I asked Papa. I wanted to know yet I feared the answer. In an odd way, I would wait, forever, in this train. Even this tense interval was preferable to a destination. Papa had a way of saying just the odd thing. I know it was his nervousness, but he couldn’t control this.

  He answered, “Any place but the Urals.”

  He was still talking about his preference to be sent to the Crimea, as if the Soviet would send us to that southern paradise we loved. It was odd that Papa would even entertain such an idea, the way, last year, his remark on the train’s Chinese food being “delicious” struck me as strange under the circumstances…

  “Here,” he said, and proffered a flask. We each sipped—the flask contained fine vodka. I imagined it was his special “golden” vodka. In the dark, I nursed on the flask and felt my throat, my entire body relax. I half listened to Papa as he whispered his own dream for our future, which incorporated the bliss of our past last year. “I am planning to ask that we all be relocated to Livadia,” he said.

  When he said “Livadia,” I could feel the warm water. I sank into my memory, as into a delicious swim. I could smell oranges, the bouquet of roses that were sent to us, even in winter, wafting Livadia breezes all the way to Tsarskoe Selo. In my albums, I have pasted photographs that document the pleasures I recall. I colored the flowers on the borders. Who was this Marie? Was she really me? I wonder now—who has time to paint the pistils in a lily?

  I see myself, in my white dress. I laugh as I play tennis on the grass courts and, later, rest, lie back against my sisters, upon the Persian carpets we set out for picnics.

  Oh, my sleepy smile—oh, contentment. If I close my eyes, I can breathe in my past—the musky mystery of wild truffles, the scent of earth, the spray of our warm Crimean Sea.

  We are all swimming, in our navy knit bathing dresses, sagged with the saltwater. I can taste that seawater on my tongue. Oh, precious baby brother, standing naked, thigh-clutched—ineffectual posture for modesty. Sweet little boy, we love to see you. Only eleven, not a man, our baby, yet! How we played. Papa and the men (I confess we spied upon them) dove naked for joy into the sea, washing away all cares. If I could reenter the past, I would—I would choose one summer afternoon on that Finnish island when we slept against the haystacks, heated by the setting sun. Our rosy nap. Sharing Papa’s smokes. We could not know—our last untroubled daydream.

  If the new government would allow us to live in exile in Livadia, I would agree, but it was not my first choice. I think Shvybz and Tatiana and Olga might prefer
the islands, the Skerries or life aboard the Standard. That is where we were happiest. I have mind-photos of the handsome officers on the yacht—oh, that was purest pleasure, dancing, roller skating—on the deck. Yet in my heart, I will always long for our rooms in the Alexander Palace—Mama’s mauve boudoir—where we gathered to sew and drink tea, the bedroom I shared with Shvybz with its beautiful beribboned painted rosy dawn painted ceiling. That is where I felt safest.

  For the two days that the standoff on the train continued, I could not sleep. I could not even rest. I diverted myself in the stalled train by reliving all those sunny, warm days. I recounted the wild berries. I sniffed the wild mushrooms. I saw us all, OTMA, walking single file, on the winding paths through one of our most enchanted forests.

  I prayed we would return home to Tsarskoe Selo. Perhaps that was heaven—here on earth—where we knew only pleasure and the sun hung long and warm on our horizon. Oh, bliss.

  Remembering, I felt warmed. The sun shines from the inside if you remember a day well enough. I wanted to forget the train, the stink of it. Men relieved themselves between the cars, rivulets of urine trickled in the passageways. It was as if everything that was long forbidden, dirty and nasty was now acceptable for those who won the revolution.

  The sun never sets in summer at Tsarskoe Selo so here, now, in the land of longer nights and bitterest wind, I summoned the white light to warm me again. Forget the train, I commanded myself. But how could I forget?

  I said this to no one, because what good would come of it? I knew there was a chance, and no small one, that we, or at least Papa would be hurt, even killed. We were stalled between stations. Between life and death, as well?

  I did not even know the time; the wait was so interminable. The suspense of not knowing where they were taking us became unbearable—to Moscow for Papa to be put on trial, or deeper into Siberia for a safer exile? Out of the country, for a deportation? To Crimea for another imprisonment?

  Commissar Vasily Yakovlev appeared in the doorway of the compartment. “There has been a change in plan, but we now have the schedule.”

  “And provisions?” Papa asked.

  Commissar Yakovlev looked at Papa with a curious stare. “How can you think of food?” he started to ask. “Yes, there are fresh provisions. The new unit has provided them.”

  At last, as we sat in the dirtied car they called the dining car, and contemplated platters of congealed unidentifiable “cotlets,” Vasily Yakovlev revealed the destination.

  “It has been decided. You will go to Ekaterinburg.”

  Not Moscow? Did this mean there would not be a trial? Was it better or worse to go to this industrial city on the border to Asia? We all sighed, as we were more prepared to hear “Moscow.” We had heard nothing good of Ekaterinburg; our relations abhorred it. When Lili Dehn and Anya, Mama’s dearest friends, returned from their journey there, they reported “a sense of calamity” and could not wait to leave the Urals.

  I imagined the grit of industry, the stench of scorching metal—mining ore was the core of the area. Papa said the area was heavily “Red,” Bolshevik, against us, not as in Tobolsk, where many still worship in the Church and revere the dynasty. In Tobolsk, Papa was still tsar, although it was forbidden to address him that way.

  Vasily Yakovlev’s answer was alarming.

  “Be glad,” he said, “that you will be received in Ekaterinburg.”

  “Yes, of course,” Papa said.

  “A house, a fine house, owned by a wealthy citizen, is even now being prepared to receive you,” Vasily Yakovlev continued.

  This is the first I heard mention of a house.

  Papa spoke up, and I wished he had not. “Is Livadia then out of consideration?”

  “Comrade,” said Yakovlev, “be grateful you have the destination you do.”

  Mama looked to me, and an eloquent expression—of fear, relief—passed between us. A destination. The other choice, then, had been no destination? Death for Papa?

  “You should not venture outside or between the rail cars,” Yakovlev warned. “Keep the window shades lowered until you are told otherwise. A special detachment will guard you at Ekaterinburg.”

  “You are regretful that we are being sent there, that we pass from your command?” Papa guessed.

  “I have done my best for you,” Yakovlev answered. “The rest of your family and suite will rejoin you in three weeks’ time.”

  Mama said, “None of this was necessary—I said it in Tobolsk.”

  I vowed to thank Christ, who was with us, for prevailing as well—Ekaterinburg, whatever else it offers, meant life, not a trial, and then…We were promised a reunion—a house where we might all live, together again, in peace and safety. But for how long would we be allowed to stay in this house? My mind did not want to travel to the conclusion.

  THE STATION

  When the train pulled into Ekaterinburg station, the curtains were again lowered and the green shadow descended.

  “Do not to lift the shade,” Yakovlev said. He did not say what would happen if I disobeyed. I was tempted to peek, as I could hear shouting on the station platform. But I dared not risk lifting the shade.

  Oh, good! The train was moving again. Maybe we would not have to stay in Ekaterinburg, after all.

  Joy short-lived. We had gone only a short distance, to another station in the same city. The views were flat and factory-dreary; a low smoke hung over the track.

  As we feared, this area appeared to be devoted to industry—smelting ore, processing minerals. There was an acrid breeze —Yakovlev said this was from the mining. What we were smelling was hot metal, or acid chemicals on the boil.

  We disembarked at the loading platform of the freight depot. New soldiers demanded that we give our names at the train station.

  “Citizens, identify yourselves!”

  Papa spoke our names with pride, but did not dare say our titles. I knew they would have to shoot us if we announced ourselves by our titles.

  “Citizen Nicholas Alexandrovich Romanov,” Papa recited. “And my family.” He almost said “the empress” and “Grand Duchess Maria.”

  I felt a moment of relief when my feet touched the floor of the heated railroad station, an odd joy in the simple fact of being dry and warm, and inside a building. But the pleasant sensation soon changed.

  I did not like the look of the men who greeted us. They had a stubbled, starved look—not starved for food, but something more crucial. There was more shouting about “the baggage.” There seemed to be three officers of importance—Beloborodov, Goloshchokin, and Aveydev.

  To me, the three men ranked in odiousness—. A skinny man in a great white fur hat—his name was Beloborodov but I called him Beelzebub, because the devil he is. I saw hate in his tiny eyes; he had the face of a rat, a ferret, with scant hairs in his dirtied moustache and what passed as a beard. In proper times, he would be in prison. Now, he was in an obvious position of authority. I could see dried dribbles of food and spit on his jacket and stains where his trousers opened. To this sad specimen of man, we were “handed over” and signed for, on the freight ledger. Beside Beelzebub was a thin-lipped pale man, even less imposing, named Goloshchokin, and behind him, out of breath although that breath carried with it a definite stink, was another moustached dirty-looking fellow, whom they addressed as Aveydev. Aveydev eyed us closer than the others, and soon I knew why.

  I confess I looked over Papa’s shoulder when Beloborodov was given a receipt. I did not know whether to laugh or scream—we were listed in this receipt as “the baggage.” Oh, so now I understood—during this entire trip “baggage” has been the code word for our family. Then I was glad that I had not understood until we arrived safely when, on the train, I heard some men at the impasse say, “Destroy the baggage.”

  My body shook. The Lord Our Father was kind—we could have been killed. I felt faint for a moment. Now I understood Commissar Yakovlev’s worried manner, his panic when the train was detained for two days. He ha
d lost control of us. Yet, somehow, he prevented us from being killed. The mobs outside the train station, the switch to the freight depot, it was a crisis that we—the planned victims—had not understood. No wonder Yakovlev had stared at Papa when Papa asked about the food. How could Papa be concerned about rations, let alone if the food was tasty and fresh, while our murders were being contemplated? Papa had not comprehended; perhaps, he still didn’t.

  I don’t understand you, Papa, I couldn’t help thinking, with all your talk of fateful destiny and Job and our doomed dynasty—you concentrate, in the moment, only on the immediate—our food, the weather, the route.

  I could not turn to Mama; she was both too stern and too fragile to trouble with the truth. At least I now comprehended what danger we passed through last year but it was the first moment of my life in which I realized that I could no longer look to my parents for their guidance; they preferred to remain behind the green shades, blind.

  If I was to survive, help my family survive, I would have to look to myself and to Our Father in Heaven. I must watch out for all of us. I, at least, must not hide from what was truly occurring. I could not indulge in daydreams or even nightmares—I would have to stay alert and aware and I would have to pray, for we were in the hands of our enemy and only the Lord Christ could protect us now.

  Praise God, we had been spared, and I could laugh then— “delivered.”

  I signed my name on the ledger, and saw that I was included in receipt of the following baggage:

  1) The former tsar, Nicholas Alexandrovich Romanov

  2. The former tsarina, Alexandra Feodorovna Romanova

  3. The former grand duchess Marie Nikolaevna Romanova