by Laura Rose
Yet their nearness was also unsettling. We were intimate in a manner we would not be at home. I saw them hold one another; I could imagine the romance that used to occur between them. I felt like a spy, that perhaps my very presence prevented them from renewing their physical marriage.
I also felt the gnaw of anxious envy. They had love, a unity, the most profound connection man and woman could achieve. Would I ever know such closeness with a man? I was already eighteen. In a few weeks, I would be nineteen. Would I die without being loved, held? I want so much to have a marriage as warm and complete as Mama and Papa’s. I want my own children. I imagine five, just like our family.
It’s a blessing that the snow curtains us from this street scene; the reminder that for others life continues in an almost normal fashion would be almost unbearable to observe. The ordinary people of Ekaterinburg ride the streetcars to work, purchase food, attend school. We, inside the mansion, await a future that sometimes terrifies me more than a definite life sentence. The unknown allows fear to expand.
The first morning, I watched the dawn break pink outside our window. Even in this situation, I was not immune to beauty. The snow fell, the flakes so large and slow, tinted deep pink as rose petals. I am like Papa in this regard; I rely on such beauty in nature to heal my heart.
Papa and I can communicate without words. When we were taken from home last August, as the car drove us away, he watched the sunrise. The sun rose and seemed to set simultaneously, mirrored in our lake. I saw the two suns, and swore to remember the image forever, as a permanent photograph in my mind. The Alexander Palace blushed in that reflected sunrise and as we stared, our house diminished in size. I knew what Papa was thinking. He was admiring this farewell view of Tsarskoe Selo and wondering, would we ever return home?
We must. I think of my room, my pillows, the rug, and the great windows out to the garden, the dogs playing, Alexei swimming. I see him, in my mind’s eye, as I snapped my last photograph of him—wading into our lake, with Joy at his side. How the dog loves to swim, and Alexei with him—their one safe pleasure. For a boy who fears a fatal cut, a scratch, the water is such a safe haven. I never thought I would long for the scent of a wet spaniel, but I do. We found an hour’s happiness on that last warm afternoon at Tsarskoe Selo.
I must return to the palace. I have taken with me a single slice of my wallpaper—the chintz roses—–and tucked it between the pages of this diary. I cut the paper from a place no one would notice—behind the draperies, low to the floor.
When I feel frightened that I may never return home, I take out this scrap of my wallpaper, and remember the nights and mornings I stared at these small roses as they climbed the trellis. I see my painted ceiling, blue and pink-tinged clouds, the fairy-tale sky. I imagine our dogs, lying warm at the foot of my bed, all of us secured for sleep.
I miss my sisters, especially my little Shvybz—nasty Anastasia. Right now, I would love her even to tease and poke me. It’s increasingly strange, being the only one of the children with Mama and Papa.
Yet, it’s so good that they took me with them. They need me so—especially Mama. The mornings are so hard for her; I hear her bones creak, her involuntary outcries with each step. I have seen the scars along her legs from her childhood fall. Very few people know Mama was not well, long before this current disaster. Mama was only a child when she crashed through a snow-covered greenhouse glass frame on her father’s estate in Hesse. The lacerations never healed. Mama always had pain upon walking. Each step sears her, racing fire along the nerves of her legs. How she carried five babies is the great mystery.
I help her as much as I can and she allows. “Please”, I beg, “let me button your shoes. Do not bend, Mama…”
She permits me to button her shoes because she cannot lean down that far without gasping from the shock of pain. I remind her also of her medicines, and apply the ointment to her eyes. Even before she weeps, Mama has the expression of someone who cries all the time.
On that first morning, before the official roll call, we held our own in our new accommodation in the Ipatiev Mansion. We counted our number—family first of course and then the suite. Papa woke and moved about first, outside our new bedroom, to walk the other three rooms and account for our diminished retinue.
Dr. Botkin slept in the drawing room. I saw him stretched out on the mohair sofa, his spectacles tucked on the armrest, his clothing folded neatly in a tower beside the settee. Dear Dr. Botkin—I knew he would not desert us, although I can begin to imagine the agonies he suffered from separation from his son and daughter. He lost one son in the fighting, and he told me, “The saddest thing is I have no time even to grieve. The emergency of our lives takes all my energies.” His medical bag rested at the ready beside his berth. Even in sleep, his hand was near the black leather case, as if poised to grasp the handle at a moment’s summons.
Dr. Botkin served our family so well, I am afraid to the detriment of his own. His own health fails. I saw his agony on the journey; the cold gripped his kidneys and made him stoop and almost scream out loud. His gait worsened, and I could see how often he reached back to touch those sore spots at his lower spine but he trudged across the ice, endured the journey for us. He is here as Mama’s physician—she could not have braved this exile without him.
Nyuta lay in the hall, her cot as far from the men as possible in deference to the difference of sex. Sednev and Chemodurov had pallets near Botkin, in the drawing room.
I knew I was taking a risk in tiptoeing to the lavatory before the others were awake. But I felt the urge, and another compulsion, almost more irresistible—a need to bathe, to experience a moment of privacy. They say life is precious—to me, the constant invasion of our lives, the indignity, is as much a threat as whatever deadly weapons they might aim at us.
So, that first night in the Ipatiev house, I dressed (having never completely undressed) to venture out to the hallway and find the lavatory. I pulled more clothing on top of the woolen dress I wore to sleep on the floor. I slipped into my shoes, buttoned them. I walked as quietly as I could to the hall. Yes, luck was with me. Everyone in our suite was asleep, as well. They were as exhausted as I was, and lay breathing hard in odd poses…
The issue of our bathing loomed—I craved the hot bath so. Did Mama mean that I must swipe at myself forever, with wet cloths to keep myself clean? This was not very satisfactory.
The lavatory and bath were at the far end of the corridor. I had to pass the sentry to use this room. Obviously, I was most vulnerable here. To be naked so far from the room where Mama and Papa lay asleep was unthinkable.
With more luck, the sentry might be asleep also, and afford me the few minutes I needed for my ablutions. I held in my hand a precious bar of French soap, hard-milled, curved, ivory-coloured with carved roses upon its smooth waxen surface and a fragrance so sweet I could sniff it even as I walked the hall. The soap scented my luggage as well and a good thing. We all decried our own filthy condition and dreamed of bathing away the grit that encrusted our belongings and, to a degree, ourselves.
On that first day, I fared better than I hoped. The sentry abandoned the post for a more comfortable position in a chair down the hall. I heard his snore as my trumpet of potential victory. Oh, how I craved to bathe myself even with a simple wet cloth. I would accept cold water as that is what I am accustomed to in the morning but in my secret heart, I would surrender some of my jewels for a steaming wash.
Here, we were told, we would have to ration the heated water (if ever they provided it). At home, our good staff supplied endless buckets, hoisted onto pulleys from the souterrains. We could bathe to our hearts’ and bodies’ deep content. The water reached our shoulders. Aaaah! Papa loved that we swam in his small swimming pool. It was my joy. As always, we children bathed as our family custom has been for generations—cold tub in the mornings, hot bath as a reward at night. The cold water kept our blood strong, Mama says, and our camp beds maintained our straight backs. “Not too soft
a bed at night, not too warm a bath in the morning.”
We awaited the delivery of our beds from home. I believe they will send them—as they did ship the camp beds to Tobolsk. The beds are quite portable, and probably solve problems for the Bolsheviks, who would otherwise have to requisition beds from some other source. I had been assuming our beds would arrive with the rest of our family. That would be one comfort to anticipate. We could hope for the bath, as well.
Immediately upon arrival, Papa requested the barrel in the garden be allowed to collect rainwater and snow melt, to be saved and then heated for our washing. Would the guards comply? They did not seem concerned with hygiene themselves.
Papa warned me, now there were terrible drawings in the lavatory. Someone painted lewd images.
“You cannot avoid seeing these disgusting images,” Papa said. He was up in the night to use the facility, and previewed what I would face this morning.
Oh. I opened the door. And almost slammed it closed again. This desecration was worse than I could imagine—the crude caricature of Mama and “our friend” Grigory. I did not wish to recall it, but it was branded onto my brain. We cannot erase what disgusts us.
Was this sexual behavior? I asked myself as I stared at the image of the man upon the female form. The man, a caricature of “our friend” Grigory, was shown seizing the woman (a grossly distorted version of my mother) from the rear and riding her toward the unsuspecting person who entered the lavatory. If this was a sexual act, I did not want ever to perform thus. The artist had painted with a heavy hand, but clear lines. The cartoon had, I conceded, a terrible power. The couple mated, and were bathed in blood.
There were also political insults to Papa written on the walls—
“To all of the peoples Nicholas said
As for a Republic, go fuck yourselves instead
Our Russian tsar called Nick
We dragged off the throne by his prick
Down with International Imperialism and all monarchy!”
Why did they hate us so? The Papa I know may hide from ugly truths but he is a good man, a kind man. He has told us often he did not even wish to be tsar; he has no personal thirst for blood and power. It was his divine destiny; there was no escape from his ordained duty.
Mama hints at the causes—she was hated, of course, because she was perceived as a German, the enemy of Russia. This I know is untrue—she may be of English and German origins but when she converted to Eastern Orthodoxy, she embraced Russia and became, as Papa put it, “More Russian than the Russians.”
They did not know her; she was shy and yes, proud, but her manner also concealed a great compassion. I knew because I witnessed it—her tireless days and nights as a trained nurse to the wounded soldiers. She and our Big Pair, Olga and Tatiana, worked so hard to save lives, limbs. They did the most difficult work, in the goriest surgeries. Shvybz and I were deemed too young to assist in the surgeries, but we envied, admired Mama and Olga and Tatiana, their selfless dedication.
We were aware that we were given much with our birthright, that many are poor and hungry. Each of us gives to charity. Olga is exceptional in this.
I don’t understand why we are so hated. We would relinquish our gold and jewels; we would live simply. Papa loves his garden, wood chopping—even the guards at Tsarskoe Selo said what a farm he would have! Even Mama prefers a plainer existence. She has trained us with our camp beds, and our sewing lessons—we have always darned our own stockings, to do small chores as ordinary girls. In the mornings, our baths have always been cold, to harden us and make us strong as peasants.
We would live as the people wish, if that is what is required—why do they not speak with us?
We are only human, after all.
These were my thoughts as, apropos, I had to sit to relieve myself upon the Ipatiev commode and try to ignore the lewd images and epithets. Humiliations were unending. As I reached to latch the door, I felt a hand on the other side, tugging to open it.
“No,” I cried. “Please. I am inside here. Be decent, I beg of you.”
I heard two men in argument outside the door. My body refused to release under such condition.
“Leave her alone,” one man said. “She is only a child. You must have a sister of your own—imagine her treated this way.”
I wondered—that voice, pleading for some mercy for me—was this the voice of the one young man with kind eyes?
Oh, I would be mortified, dead, truly, if this door opened and I was revealed thus, on a soiled toilet seat, the lewd “decoration” above me. I tried to maintain a squat so I did not rest against the surface, but this was difficult. Mama had given me sheets of newspaper and instruction as to how to cover the seat, but I could not position the papers correctly. I feared the newsprint would fall in and clog this infernal toilet.
The other man made a terrible pronouncement. “I am going downstairs to get my tools. I will remove this door.”
Can one pray for such an inelegant mercy? That a lavatory door remains in place, closed?
I heard both men go downstairs, in search of the commandant Aveydev, no doubt. This gave me a reprieve, and I ordered my body, “Go!”
There was an inherent modesty to bloomers—I need never drop them, I told myself, the slit sufficed. I released. Ah, cascade. Surrender of my system. What a relief—I had restrained myself all night, in fear of entering this lavatory.
What one is grateful for in captivity. I shut my eyes and imagined myself back in Papa’s loo at home. The men were returning; I heard their boots on the stair.
“Roll call,” the first voice yelled. “Get on with your business, miss!”
Miss.
It was a mundane prayer, but I was thankful that I completed my business. I rushed, not to please the guards but in order that Mama and Papa could use this lavatory. There was only the one loo for all of us seven prisoners, and how many guards would share this facility, I did not even guess. I used the sink though, and wet my precious soap with a small clean rag I carried for this purpose—a quick wash, but better than none at all. I rubbed my face, then what I could reach of my body. I discarded the rag. It would not do to use it again. I had carefully cut squares from a precious Turkish cloth I carried all the way from Livadia. The ragged bit has a texture to it that facilitates my scrubbings. I credit my small rags with keeping me as clean as I have managed thus far.
I opened the door, and he was standing outside. I knew at once, from his manner, that he was not a guard in the sense that they, the Bolsheviks, intended. He was truly guarding me, protecting me from the others. He was eyeing the corridor, the stairs, the sentry room just beyond. To be certain that the rough guard, the man who shouted, would not intrude upon me on his return
This boy gave me a shy glance. I noted his long eyelashes, his eyes the color of my own—grey-blue, hazel. More than the similarity in color, I felt a kindred concern.
I felt his thought. I stand watch over you, not against you, his gaze said to me. I sensed, in the hierarchy here, my guard had some added authority; that he was, in that ragtag Bolshevik force, an officer. In their makeshift “uniforms,” unmatched greatcoats with red armbands, it was hard for me to detect rank. His manner and the compliance of the other guard, the lout, suggested to me that “my” guard, whom I heard them address as Peter, was a senior officer here, despite his youth. I had noticed him upon my arrival but I did not admit that there was an attraction. I knew I would have to confront this—his concern, my attraction, but I would have to review this later, when I had a chance to breathe.
My first order of business was to sort through the guard. They were all young save the Cheka men, Aveydev, Beloborodov, and a tall handsome wild-eyed one whose name was also Peter but whose mien was cruel—Peter Ermakov and the scrawny chicken-boned creature with a boney proboscis and thin lips with a wisp of a beard, called Goloshchokin.
I nodded my appreciation to my kind guard and darted past. In our corner bedroom, Mama was now standing, having pull
ed on her dress, the dark blue wool with the white lace collar. Where was Nyuta? I wondered. Hadn’t she recovered from the journey enough to assist? Why wasn’t she helping Mama? I asked Mama, and she whispered, “Nyuta is still not well,” in a tone that said, do not inquire more.
“We can dress ourselves this morning,” Mama said, in her that’s final tone. With a twist to her lip, she added, “Papa has gone to check on Chemodurov. Sednev lies ill.” Our staff suffered more than we did; we could not expect them to help us until they had recovered. A terrible fatigue had stricken me as well. I had almost no sleep, and I hoped I might find time to lie down later, escape back into eiderdown and my dream of being far from here.
It was so hard to make the clothing selection alone—I missed Olga, who always made that decision for us. I tried to imagine what the others might be wearing and chose the blue blouse with the middy collar and the dark blue skirt with matching kidskin shoes and dark stockings. I felt snug in my woolen stockings, and wiggled my feet in the soft shoes. My favorites. I was so silly to savor these sensations—warm wool, soft-fit leather—but oh, I loved it!
As Mama turned in place in order that I could attend her, automatic in our morning routine, I combed and pinned her hair. How I yearned to have the unhurried sessions we enjoyed at home—the brushing and combings and decorating with jeweled hairpins. I loved Mama’s hair; much of her original red-gold color remains, but these past weeks’ tensions seemed to have drained many strands of their color, and even the silken texture—now there were sections that were white and coarsened, as if she had been exposed to the same sudden corrosive that whitened Papa’s hair and moustache.