by Laura Rose
I loved to brush her hair; it fell past her waist. The motions of my hand, the brush, soothed us both. I repeatedly cleaned the brush, and placed her spun red-gold hair poufs into the ivory hair catcher on the vanity. Mama had brought most of her toiletries from home, and—I gave Mama credit for her foresight—an impressive amount of our best linens. A lovely dresser scarf I recognized from the lilac boudoir was now draped across this Ipatiev bureau.
Mama made this bedroom feel more like our home. She even transported the last fabric we ordered from France, so that we might yet have more draperies sewn to our liking here. Mama planned for us all to sew; we enjoyed both styles of sewing—mending and creating. We all embroidered. The substantial amounts of fabric Mama shipped along with us suggested that she would want us to “dress” either the windows, the beds, or ourselves in these fine silks and polished cotton chintzes. Turn our prison into our home.
The infernal man was yelling again; we had to hurry. Papa gave us his newly permanent expression of anguish; his forehead was now forever creased in apology. Mama suggested that he take more of the medicinal powder to restore his strength. Papa nodded and inhaled from his silver vial. The cocaine, which Dr. Botkin prescribed, would combat his deep fatigue and nervous despair.
We were summoned to the main hall, the dining room. I noted with relief, the table was set and a new samovar was in place—Papa requested it, so that we need not compete with the guards for the first samovar which remained set on a side table used by the guards. The room seemed in permanent shadow—needing the chandelier lit, even in day.
“A bit dark and heavy,” Mama commented, “And no napery.” Our dining room at home was brighter, her touch was lighter in the furnishings and fittings.
But the room was undeniably well appointed. I was starved and imagined I sniffed a bubbling porridge, warm drafts of the wheat-berry scent of kasha, and coffee. I was embarrassed to feel the saliva start in my mouth. Would I drool for my morning feeding, like an animal? I had never been so hungry in my entire life. I could not eat what they set out for our first supper, a soup with globules of grease afloat, and so I had gone to my floor-bed with a growling belly that, on that first morning, rose to a roar.
Coffee. The unmistakable aroma, a strong good brew. Oh, when, I thought, will I be allowed a cup? I imagined the milky froth Mama liked to add atop, in dollops, as she took café au lait with her English biscuits.
“Alexandra Feodorovna Romanova,” the commandant shouted.
I tried not to look at him—Aveydev was a most unimpressive sort, soiled-looking, slouching in what passed for a uniform. Food stains dribbled down his jacket front. His moustache and beard were ungroomed, and showed shreds of what I took to be cabbage. He looked as if he had begun his tibbling already. They say vodka does not smell, but there was a sharp tang to his breath that reached me, as he bellowed our names. I sensed alcohol ferment in his sour exhalations.
“Nicholai Alexandrovich Romanov,” he called.
Papa stepped forward, his head bowed.
“Alexandra Feodorovna Romanova,” he bellowed.
Mama stood with head held high.
She glared. How dare you. I love Mama but in this moment feared for her. I know her pride; it is not hostile, but could be interpreted as such. She would inspire more hatred.
At last, my name, “Maria Nikolaevna Romanova.” I stepped forward. I was embarrassed—I heard my stomach answer, too.
Our suite was summoned. Nyuta was called but didn’t appear. The guard whose voice I recognized, the crude one with the killer eyes, color of water, appeared. He was called Sergei, and he was sent to fetch our dear Nyuta from the hallway where she had remained on her cot. I could see her lying there, feigning sleep, I would guess. Poor Nyuta, the most terrified among us. She hid her face in a pillow. I shuddered—the guard was pulling her up from bed.
“Dr. Yvegeny Botkin.” The good doctor, fidgeting with his spectacles, emerged from the lavatory. He looked in pain and I guessed his kidneys had rebelled again.
After the roll call, we sat down at the table. Breakfast. What one might expect—tea was served, the morning tea with black bread, and butter. There was no more coffee, not even from our personal supply, which was in a suitcase they confiscated at the door.
“No more coffee?” I cried out. But I had caught the definite aromas, wafting down the hall. How I longed for that coffee—it was surely liquid optimism, and we all needed that. Someone, somewhere in the House of Special Purpose, was drinking that coffee.
“There is no coffee,” the guard said, his eyes narrowed.
“Tea, then,” I requested. “Strong as possible, please.”
“Prepare it yourself,” the guard ordered.
I was stunned. But I set to the task, turning the faucet on the samovar, allowing my cup to fill halfway with the boiling water, then topping it off from the small-top teapot, which I found filled with extra-strong black tea; it must have been our own Imperial tea, for it had the characteristic scent of oranges and a touch of vanilla. I sipped—it was more than satisfactory. I prepared two more cups—for Papa and Mama—and carried them to my parents, who sat, in shock, at the banquet table. “They might have provided napkins,” Mama said, under her breath.
After our paltry meal, we returned to our rooms to complete our unpacking.
“Life is only death delayed,” Papa said as soon as we three were alone in the corner white bedroom. That was his “Job” speaking, the fatalistic voice he inherited on his birth date… Life is life, I wanted to scream, at him, sometimes. “Wake up, Papa. The day is the day. It is ours, come what may.”
Mama and I knew his mood was becoming perilous. We took heart that he became engaged by the unpacking of the valises, even though certain aspects infuriated him. The valises had been rifled—I knew the order of my garments, and our papers were shuffled by some clumsy search.
Papa could see some valuables, three of his finest gold watches, were missing. Mama, also, could not account for some of the jewels she had packed away in her kidskin case.
These thefts proved that what we had done with the best of the Imperial jewelry had been wise. This was our ultimate secret—we had sewn the best gems, all the diamonds, into our bodices. Stitching in the jewels had been our main pastime in Tobolsk. We had spent many afternoons, busily opening the lining of the camisoles and corsets, and inserting extra wadding, studded with precious stones. I had enjoyed the stitching, the entire process of secreting the stones. I felt so useful, so completely occupied. My needle diving in and out, as I made the tiny, perfect seams. These jewels were so hidden they would be safe. I wore mine, beneath my blouse. I felt the weight of our wealth. This was a comfort, if sometimes also a scratchy sensation, the itch of our past. I felt the pressure around my rib cage, stiffness beyond the corset’s boning. On the rare times I have gotten to see my own skin; I noted I was red, chafed where the diamonds scraped through the gauze.
If we left here—either by release or escape, we would have these gems as the remains of our fortune to begin our new life. Mama wanted us to wear the bodices all the time. Whether this was to protect the jewelry or our own virtue was open to speculation. Mama feared we would be ravaged. She warned me, ten times a day, “Never undress, never.”
Mama and Nyuta had not minced words about what I had to fear here. “These men have animal instincts,” Mama whispered the first night. “They are watching you, Maria. They are watching you for a moment when you are alone and unaware. They have foul thoughts. You see how they depict me and our friend, a Holy Man. Never undress, and stay within sight of us.” I thought she might be right. There was one guard, with white-blond hair and the coldest blue-white eyes, who watched me with unwholesome interest. I know the other men call him “the Austrian” or “Lacher.”
That first day assumed the pattern for all those that would follow—prayer, naps, and the two “constitutional walks” in the garden, letter writing, sewing and praying. We tried to establish a routine for
the suite as well. Nyuta took our laundry to the guards, who sent it out to the laundresses in the town. Papa campaigned for water for his bath, and Mama made official requests for more fresh food.
Papa took up a station at the bedroom window, watching the shed in the garden, where he insisted he saw guards going in and out, emerging with bundles of our personal goods.
CHRIST IS RISEN!
Easter Sunday. Resurrection has never meant so much, or been so well understood. Our prayers soared. Papa read the Easter service aloud. The guard moved downstairs; they seemed to be moving things about, hammering boards. I prayed this meant the rest of our family was near to arriving here. Missing my sisters and Baby so. It was an unbearable ache.
The priest and a deacon from the Church of the Ascension were permitted to see us at eight o’clock this morning. How beautiful. We had been yearning toward the golden cupola of their church—just visible from our window. Oh, these holy men appeared as emissaries from the Lord himself, I do truly believe.
Mama created a beautiful altar with her finest tablecloth from home. She worked wonders with our icons from home, so arranged I could believe we were in our own chapel. We hoped someday, we would be allowed the privileges we enjoyed in Tobolsk—to go to the church itself for services. Until then our little “church” would have to suffice. The deacon indicated we have much to look forward to. They would give us communion here, and not to be sacrilegious, the nuns would bring us treats. They promised sugar, coffee and cocoa and fresh eggs.
Difficulty—there was a serious lack of boiling water for tea. There was one great samovar but the soldiers were taking all the hot water for themselves. I hoarded our personal tea; I snatched the sack when no one was looking. I didn’t wish to suffer the same loss as the coffee. Papa was campaigning for a separate samovar, for our family and suite.
Mama unpacked our paint and pastels; I yearned for more paint—great oily, wormy paint. I was painting quite a bit—the view of the garden. The garden was small and, of course, still dormant, but I saw grey vines and tree limbs that promised flowers in a few weeks. There was a stone bench and although old snow covered the earth, I imagined flowerbeds below the crusted surface.
Two guards seemed to alternate on our supervised walks—the one Peter, to whom I felt so close and the boy, Mikhail, who also had a friendly mien, with his freckles and a smile he could not contain. They seem the nicest of the guards, though another, whom I have heard called Ben Safronov, is sensitive—I am told he is a Jew. That other guard Lacher, the Austrian, always seems to lurk, guarding the back rooms. He is handsome but frightening. I think of him as “ice eyes;” he has such a Nordic look with his white-blond hair, and frozen, unsmiling expression. I shrank back from him when I had to pass. Whatever his nationality, I feared him more than the others. Aveydev turned out to be too lazy to be frightening; I heard him carouse, loud with drink, and he even belched, so loud the house echoed with the rude sounds of his digestion. The dangerous one was the Austrian, Lacher. His eyes followed me. And was it my imagination? It seemed his gaze always dropped to my private areas, and his own hand moved suggestively toward his own. Shudder the thought!
Papa requested permission to work outside in the garden. I knew Mama would enjoy the blooms—the trees bore lilacs, her favorite. Papa was more practical; he dreamed of another vegetable kitchen garden such as he succeeded with at Tsarskoe Selo. He was not, however, permitted to plant but he made efforts to “garden” nonetheless. On the walks, Papa asked permission to clean the trash, and this was granted, and he picked up all sorts of debris—peanut shells, the ends of cigarettes—and placed them in the barrel for burning. There was nothing he could do with the foul splotches of snow, where some guards relieved themselves, but he was allowed a small trowel, and he dug to cover the disgusting traces with fresh snow.
Despite the unpromising appearance of this small patch, perhaps eventually Papa would have a real chance to truly clean and turn the earth to grow fresh food—I dreamed of sweet green peas. Radishes surely would flourish. The root vegetables of course—Papa’s beloved beets— “I am such a Russian” he always laughed, as he spooned up the beet soup.
The meat they served was grey and fatty, the vegetables pickled or just rotten and old. The smells were so unappetizing—we were all becoming thinner. I didn’t mind so much, as Mama always criticized my waist and I was certainly teased. “Fat Bow Wow” no more!
I prayed Papa’s request would be granted—how tireless he was when he chopped the firewood at Tobolsk. There, he had cut enough pine and birch to heat that vast house for another winter. I could see how he enjoyed the labor. He felt useful—and it spent the terrible energy he now had no way to vent.
Because we shared the bedroom, there was no escape from Papa’s sense of imprisonment. He marked off the paces in this room and through the dining and drawing rooms. He walked this route hundreds of times a day. Mama, his opposite, sat quite still in her wheeling chair.
Watching the two of them, I felt my hopes erode, and feared that there might be no true resurrection for us, after all. As our Lord Christ was buried, so were we buried, in this house, and now I had nightmares— “day”-mares even—recurring visions, that I would never emerge, and resume my real life.
When these cruel thoughts assailed me, I fell to my knees before our improvised altar and begged Christ to assist me.
“Don’t let it end here,” I whispered so my parents couldn’t hear. “What have I done to merit such punishment?”
PAPA’S BIRTHDAY
Papa’s birthday, the half-century mark for him. But the birthday found us still separated from the rest of our family. The hoped-for reunion had not occurred and, with each day, seemed less likely. We could not truly celebrate as this was the first birthday we children had not been together with Mama and Papa. On such a significant birthday, the age Papa believed he would never reach—his fiftieth birthday. His own father died upon his forty-ninth, and I am sure that is why I found Papa sorrowful, certain, as always, that his end was near. We tried to have a small party, but we faced real difficulty. Mama and I set a small table in our shared bedroom and we produced a small bottle of vodka, which we had managed to hide, and Mama’s English biscuits and a jar of cherry preserves. A pathetic offering but the best we could manage.
I lit candles and Mama set out her best lace napkins.
“Come, Papa, come to the table,” we implored him.
Poor Papa accelerated his pacing, moving like a trapped animal in our four rooms. I remembered the big cats at our zoo at Tsarskoe Selo. I still think, with sadness, of that jaguarondi we kept. The poor animal never adapted, and prowled its perimeters, rubbing its flank hard against the fences, all day and, I imagine, all night. Papa’s frenzied circuits remind me of that wretched animal. I can’t imagine I will ever again enjoy seeing any creature in a cage.
Papa paused to look out the window and what he saw made him even more angry and restless.
“Look, they go into the storage hut to rifle our trunks!”
Mama and I went to the window and stared down.
“I am sure they are not stealing,” I said, “only checking the trunks.”
But I was proven wrong and Papa had a terrible vindication. We could see two soldiers go into the hut and emerge with small chests that belonged to us. We knew those chests held valuables.
“That case has my watches. That is my gun case! Until now,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically bitter, “We have been among civilized people.”
“You must report this to the commandant,” Mama insisted.
As we watched, Aveydev himself, fat and sloppy, in his stained shirt and trousers ambled out and went into the hut and emerged with a stack of Papa’s clothes. At that, Papa sat down on the bed, defeated. He folded his arms on the pillow and buried his face. Mama went to sit with him and stroked his back, and coaxed him to sit upright.
“What’s the use?” Papa asked. “I was born on the Day of Job and my life follows
the Book of Job in its essential spirit of one trial to the next. Frankly, I am surprised I was allowed to reach this fiftieth birthday. It is almost incomprehensible.”
Mama tried to get him to sip the vodka. He did take one gulp but the fiery liquor only added to his distress. His eyes burned and I could see they were filled with tears.
“Do you know how my father died?” he asked me.
I did know how his father, my grandfather, the great Tsar Alexander III, died at forty-nine. Papa was only twenty-six, and regarded by all as a young, untried boy. No one had expected he would be forced to assume the Imperial crown at that age. His father was enormous, powerful, a bear of a man, who towered over Papa, who although he has made himself muscular, has always been of small stature.
“My father was too big, too strong,” Papa told us, crying. “He defied fate and God. He refused to keep warm indoors in winter; he loathed all forms of heat. He insisted on sleeping with the windows open—something I cannot comprehend. He caused himself terrible ill health. Yet only weeks before his death, he forced himself up on his horse, not so long before he died. It was a grand gesture—perhaps he sensed his last—to review his troops. His kidneys failed and still he lay in bed, with the winter wind on him.”
Papa got up again and went to the window and regarded the spring day. Flowers were now in bud on the tree outside. Yet I could see he was caught up in the past tragedies. “It is my fate to suffer and die,” he continued. Mama rose from her wheelchair and stood, taller than he was, behind him, as if to hold him up. I was a bit shocked at this scene between them. I knew Papa’s tendency to be maudlin but I had never seen him indulge in such extreme grief.
“You are making yourself sick,” Mama told him, her voice becoming stern. “Eat the biscuits and drink the vodka. This is a celebration of your birthday and you are fortunate to reach it.”
“It will be my last!” he cried, and turned to bury his face in her bosom.