by Laura Rose
I never saw Mama so angry. She pushed him away. “Don’t you dare say that to me!” she cried. “How am I to live without you?”
“I see it! I see my death,” Papa cried. “I am so sorry. I have married you to tragedy, to a dynasty of death.”
He recited then the saga of his grandfather’s death. This was a horrible tale I knew well, for Papa had watched his grandfather die in bed at the Winter Palace, after being struck by the terrorist’s bomb.
“I saw my dear grandfather, Alexander II, the Tsar-Liberator, die in agony, without legs, with his entrails spilling onto his bed. How could you marry into such horror? We are all doomed!”
Mama sniffed a handkerchief saturated in Veronal and spoke more calmly.
“I knew who I was marrying—the one man on earth I love more than life. I will share your fate, whatever it is. But you must not obsess so on this bloody business of your grandfather.”
“I was a little boy when I saw him die.”
“That was what he got for freeing the serfs,” Mama said in a different tone. “That is what happens when one lets down the laws of autocracy. Mayhem. Murder. Had he been stronger, we would be safe now. “
Papa looked shocked out of his tearfulness.
“No,” he chided her softly, “how can you say such things?”
“I want to see you survive,” Mama said, as close to shouting as I have ever heard her.
She sat on the bed and Papa collapsed into her arms, as a baby and she sat there, stroking his hair.
I turned away, embarrassed to have seen this. I walked to the window and stared down at the garden.
Papa always sensed doom; worse, he accepted it. Mama prayed and accepted God’s will. It was I who campaigned for hope. I knew we still had so many good Russians loyal to the tsar; there were the White armies. We would be saved. I should not write down the secrets here, but we prayed that those loyal to the tsar would find this house and free us.
Forgive me, Christ Our Lord, and forgive me, Papa, here on earth. I feel a compulsion, to speak the truth. “Papa expects to be executed.”
He confided this to me, when we walked, as we were allowed—and was his only relief—for an hour and a half in the garden. It was not my place to contradict him, but I tried to distract him. I begged him not to say such a thing; to break his fatalistic outlook.
“Enough of Job,” I wanted to say. Instead, knowing his other compulsion, I said, “Oh, look, this could be such a beautiful garden.” If he could work in the garden, he would weed out his fears, as he had done at home.
I say “garden” but what grew there now was a pile of refuse. Only the dogs admired it—they nosed into the offal and the kitchen garbage, and came forth with the most disgusting tidbits—all gobbled with delight, of course. I recognized the vines and bark—there were possibilities of paradise here. Perhaps they would allow us to clear away the debris, and permit this garden to bloom.
That night of my father’s birthday, even as Papa sobbed and Mama comforted him, I went to the window and stared down at the moonlit neglected garden and as if from the force of my need, he materialized as in a moonbeam—the kind guard, the handsome one with the concerned gaze who had protected me at the lavatory.
He looked up at me. True sympathy is telepathic—his transparent sea-blue eyes beamed a message to me. I will help you, he transmitted. I had no doubt of his thought. It is the mystery of attraction, love and intuition, such as this. I have been proven right.
My wish is always for someone to hold me; I dream of rescue. I crave a man who is strong enough to save me, save my family, reverse the blood tide that has swept us here. Did he exist?
I did not know his name yet, his class, his faith—but I “knew” him.
The moment is forever engraved in my mind—his head moved, almost jerked. He seemed shocked to see me. And his eyes held what lovers’ eyes always hold: recognition.
I knew at this moment that he was someone I could turn to for help. His eyes were not cold or closed, nor averted as some of the other boys’ were. He looked to me, direct, his eyes a Crimean sea, a blue-green, not a common color and the expression is also unique. There are eyes one sees into, the rare true gaze. Papa has eyes like these, the same sheer blue. Maybe this young man would love me, as Papa loves Mama…
Love is in the first moment—Shakespeare knew this. I played Juliet at Tsarskoe Selo to schoolmaster Sydney Gibbes’ Romeo (how unlikely) but the words remain—I cannot recall them exactly—“Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?” Oh, or is this pretty speech from another play? Midsummer Night’s Dream. Oh, yes, that is fitting, for am I not in such a play myself? Midsummer’s nightmare, turning, with the fireflies and moonbeams, into a dream?
Then I heard another guard call his name—“Peter.”
I forced myself to hold his gaze. The urge to look down and away was fierce. My face felt on fire. A blush, I am sure.
Every woman has an unspoken question when she sees such a man. If he ever comes closer to me, will I move toward him, or cringe away?
That question is everything, is it not?
Is he handsome? Perhaps not by convention, but in his own original way. Oh yes, yes—I had the impression of his fine physique. He held himself well, so much better than the others. I could see the breadth of his shoulders, a wide chest yet he appeared narrow at the hips. His height, I observed, was perfect—If I went to him, he could kiss my forehead. I envisioned myself, on tippy-toe, leaning up to kiss him.
Where do these visions come from? The image seems a memory. I could taste his lips, yet we had never spoken. I knew him, I knew him. This was not another flirtation. All our lives, we seek out this single pair of eyes, the Other, the One, the Beloved…Mama found Papa. This man was my love, my soul, my savior. I knew it as I knew there is God.
His lips are unusually full, as are mine. The instinct to pair, to twin, perhaps? What I loved—the unruliness—his hair, thick, curling, escaping his cap is also so like my mane of hair. He has my eyebrows, my shape chin…
Are we somehow distant cousins, like Mama and Papa?
How unlikely, I thought, how fateful if so, to find my love in Siberia, and he, my alleged jailer.
I had a premonition then—of what would happen later, down there in the garden, in the shed, between us. And I shivered, for the first time not in dread but anticipated pleasure. Behind me, Papa’s sobs quieted and Mama’s whispers faded. I turned and saw they had fallen back upon the bed, lulled to sleep by their sorrows.
From somewhere in Ekaterinburg, the church bell tolled. Papa’s birthday had passed.
MY ATTRACTION
Yakovlev, our mysterious “protector,” has vanished and the undistinguished Aveydev stands over us, in his place. Aveydev is almost too lazy to dictate—he holds a bottle almost all the time. This man is crude and loud, but I feel, underneath, means us no real harm.
Aveydev does not have what I call the “killer” eyes. He set down his decrees, avoiding our gaze, as if he felt some shame in his role—but the rules were clear: We must submit to the roll calls and we were not allowed to keep our money. And we were deprived of so many of our suite.
The head Bolshevik, Beloborodov (Beelzebub) said Valia carried too many rubles and was arrested. It was curious but the second morning of roll call, as I stood in answer to my name, I looked out the window and saw another man, a stranger, wearing Dolgoruky’s fine fur coat, walking about the courtyard. I shivered, as if cold can return, in memory, to freeze one to the bone, and even to the heart. I remembered dear Valia offering me his warm coat.
Did they steal our Valia’s coat? If so, what was done to our kind Valia? Is he kept in some cell, shivering? Or was he forced back to Tobolsk?
We miss so many of our suite—the tutors, Gibbes and Gilliard, the ladies-in-waiting, our teachers, Catherine Schneider and Nastintka Hendrikova. Now Valia—where do they take our good people? Do they imprison them? Dispatch them to other cities? Deport them to other countries?
>
The third morning, after the roll call, Aveydev confiscated our rubles and most of our jewelry. I had to hold out my wrist and surrender my gold bracelets. There was one bracelet that was so tight they had to allow me to keep it—it could not be removed, no matter how we tried! Good! I thought, I love this bracelet!
Aveydev collected all the obvious jewels. Mama retained her rings, which had also become too tight to remove, and I, my bracelet and the hidden amulet. The amulet rested, heated by my skin, between my breasts, with the enameled face; we will never reveal. Of course, I had the “medicine and candy.” Well hidden. They did not dare touch our corsets.
Mama took a spell when Aveydev tried to take her rings, even though he relented when her fingers proved too swollen to allow the rings to slide off. Her lips turned blue and she gasped for air. She recovered but of course we feared what more strain would do. She busied herself writing letters and embroidering and praying. I read aloud to her, as long as my voice could sustain itself without cracking. Papa read also. Mama was loyal to Scriptures, Papa to fiction. He promised me that he would finish reading aloud War and Peace, Tolstoy’s great work. I am enjoying it—I like the character of Natasha.
We are not to leave this so-called House of Special Purpose save for an hour and a half of exercise in the garden mornings, and another hour and a half in the afternoon. I am often escorted on this constitutional, by the object of my attraction, the guard I now know is named Peter. We are forbidden to speak; it is too dangerous to touch yet our romance progresses in the most profound series of glances.
There is nowhere we can be alone, yet I imagine him, his body pressed to mine, the surge of him against me. In my dreams, I open to him—I have felt him enter. Should I burn this diary? I cannot bear to lose this record.
I know that this sensation is premonition—I am feeling what is yet to be. He will hold me, enter me. I shiver so with this certainty. We will be together here, in this house, as man and wife. But when? And how? We are so closely watched; there is no privacy at all. I am even watched when I go to the lavatory.
The other men watch me too, watch me in a different way. Some of the other guards are nice boys. There are the Letemin brothers, friends of Peter’s. The older is Ivan, the younger, Mikhail—they are almost twins, both tall and thin, their adult bodies topped by childish heads. The brothers and my Peter have the kindred spark in their eyes; they show humor, compassion, pity. A few of the other guards are pitiless, with their killer eyes.
“My Peter is pious. Peter was among the guards who joined us for the Easter service. Several of the boys are good Russians and Orthodox. Not all the guards have embraced the godlessness of this revolution.
The pitiless are also godless. They taunt us for our faith, call us fools for believing. The godless are cold and blank; they have no gaze to return.
One who loves God will love man and woman, as well. Peter is such a man. And there are some other good men here. Peter is friendly with an older guard, Ukraintsev, who served with Papa on the great hunts in Poland. Ukraintsev is a bear of a man with a bristling red beard and a laugh that makes all who hear it smile and laugh, also. Whenever he laughs, his belly shakes; it’s another sign of fate that this good and faithful man is here, in our new “prison.” Papa remembers Ukraintsev well; he was the beater. He beat the brush, to force the forest animals to emerge from their hiding places. “The Bear” we call him. His brown eyes still crinkle; his smile is still friendly. What a relief to see someone from our old world, our real life.
Mama and Papa have been pleased to speak with Ukraintsev for hours. We all drank tea and talked, about the times before… Ukraintsev recalled each hunt. Papa, too. “The Bear” was the only one who stayed as we dined on plain but ample meals—soups and such. Every night, they served an unidentifiable cutlet—we hoped it was pork or chicken.
Warming ourselves by the samovar (the one Papa bought), I feel matters are improving for us, bit by bit.
Peter has requested more privileges for Papa and our family—time in the garden. He volunteered to perform the guard duty, to watch.
Each day, during the hour and half we are allowed to walk in the garden, Peter holds the gate for me. I can see the suspense in his eyes—he is waiting, watching, guarding (how apt). He waits for the moment we will be alone. He anticipates my consent—it warms the air between us every time I pass him in the garden. Our averted gazes, our down-turned smiles—oh, I am promised to him, here, in this odd place, under such strange conditions. Am I not fortunate after all? Perhaps it is fate that brought me through this gate. He will help me escape. I know that as certainly as I know anything.
Last night, I climbed up on a footstool to afford a better angle to view the garden, and I saw what I longed to see—Peter, alone in the moonlit garden, looking up toward my window. Could he see me, peeking above the nailed-shut frame? I hope so. I smiled down upon him. It seemed to me—or was it a trick shadow across the lunar face?—that he smiled up at me, in return. Oh, I longed to escape at this moment— to force myself through the window, into the fresh flower-scented night air. He would catch me; I know that, for certain, in my heart.
I have been warned from this window. During the first days, some soldier fired a shot. The usual stupidity, Papa said, a guard cleaning or replacing his weapon.
“These are not soldiers,” Papa remarked. “They are factory workers. I heard they smelt metal; they were never trained for pistols or the rifle.”
Papa sounded sad as he commented; he was of course, a crack shot.
How I wish they would let the priest come to us here—but I think they know of the terrible error during that last service in Tobolsk—when Old Father Alexeiev spoke our titles (a crime now). I am sure, as he was so old, he intended no violation of the Bolshevik rule but I think they came close to imprisoning the poor priest for what I am sure was an unintentional, habitual recitation of our titles. So now, they deny us the comfort of our faith.
They themselves are, for the most part, godless. Here, in Ekaterinburg, they take pride in this—the denial not only of God, but also of our immortal souls. This means they have no conscience in this world—as there will be no retribution (in their minds) in the next…
Tonight, after we had the usual supper of indescribable “cutlet” and tea, Papa whispered and took me aside. We had retired to our corner bedroom, allegedly to pray and read but Papa said, in his most serious tone, “You must tell no one. Read this note—it is in French.”
“Friends are no longer sleeping and hope that the hour so long awaited has come. The revolt of the Czechoslovaks threatens the Bolsheviks ever more seriously. We are making a plan, and will advise you…Your Friend, watch for more, but say nothing.”
From someone who is ready to die for you, Officer of the Russian Army.”
My heart leapt up, but just at that moment, so did my stomach. Was the note genuine? Or was it an entrapment that, if we acted upon it, would give the enemies an excuse to shoot? Is hope more dangerous to us than fear? I ran to the lavatory and lost my supper.
WHITE WASH
The most curious event occurred on May the eleventh. That morning, a bent man, one would imagine too elderly and frail to mount a ladder on the exterior of the house, did so, and climbed right to our window. This was most disconcerting—I was sitting at the edge of the bed, reading from Obadiah to Mama, when abruptly, I saw her eyes widen in disbelief. She was looking over my shoulder. I turned and saw this ancient face, staring in our window! My first impression—the prophet himself. This was a face from another time, ancient and wizened, the jaw compressed as though all his teeth were absent. For a moment, I thought Mama and I shared a hallucination of Father Time, or a grim visage from the other side.
He was but an old man, hired to paint the window glass, which he proceeded to do—with shaking hands, holding a wide brush laden with whitewash. I cannot describe the sensation. It was as if the old man was sealing us inside a tomb. The light, which had been so bright, was obli
terated and in its place, a chalky whiteness covered the windowpanes. The ancient man kept on brushing, eventually concealing himself from us.
The last I saw before our view disappeared was this aged face, and it seemed to me, the old man gave us a last piteous glance, as if to say, I don’t wish to blind you this way. I have been ordered to do this, or they will imprison me. Then the whitewash made the ancient peasant vanish along with the vistas of the church and spires of the town. I shivered—I knew something profound had occurred, that we had seen the last of “our” Russia.
Mama and I sat and stared at the white blankness that replaced our view of the sky and the cathedral cupolas. The old man left but an inch or two at the very top of the window where a stripe of blue sky remained visible. At least the top cross was still visible—a sign from Christ Our Lord? We called out to Papa, who had been pacing the hall, and he gave a cry when he saw what had been done—
“No sky then? It is like a fog; we cannot even determine the weather.”
It was true, even the thermometer on the window jamb had been painted over. Why would they do such a thing? Give us this opaque nothingness to view? A grey-white blankness in place of the heavens, hurtling clouds and the birds and spring flowers. Only this morning, we had seen chartreuse buds, as if in bouquets, sprouting from the branches of the trees outside. Pollen, a green-gold dust, had floated in the sunbeams…
Was the whitewash of the windows to blind us for security? To prevent us from signaling to the outside? That we could be seen somehow? A few days ago, a single aeroplane flew over the house. Who was the pilot?
Or was this an obscure torture, such as the midnight wakings and somnambulant journeys—a deliberate attempt to further disorient us? For what purpose?
Facing blankness where once I saw blue sky defeated what dreams I had shored up, what hopes had bloomed. It is all too likely, what we faced was equally blank, a limbo between life and death.