by Laura Rose
REUNION
May twenty-third we were reunited! What joy! After much suspense and so much despair, we were told the others have completed their journey. They sailed by the steamer boat we had used to reach Tobolsk, the Rus, to Tyumen. Then, they took the same train Mama, Papa and I did to reach this city. They arrived at the Ekaterinburg station.
For some reason, the entire party— my sisters and brother, our tutors and the staff—were detained in the stopped train. But then, Aveydev summoned us to the drawing room, and announced—hurrahs!—“They are being driven to the house.”
A sheeting rain was falling. We couldn’t see outside the whitewashed windows, so we listened for the sound of motorcars…
We gathered near the top of the stairs. Mama was swaying in her excitement. Papa held her elbow to steady her. I heard him whisper, “Don’t get hope too raised—perhaps they will not all be together.”
The day reeked of spring, wild onion—even the rain beat its message to the painted windowpane—spring, spring. For the first time, the rain didn’t needle into sleet, or expand as snow. It washed hard against the glass. The downstairs door opened.
Oh, poor family—poor sisters and Baby. How soaked! I saw Tatiana first—her sweet, dear face; she was sopping wet through and through and struggling, holding her own valises, and a drenched, wide-eyed Ortino too. The bulldog was black from the rain and his face was dripping. Tatiana was wearing one of our brown traveling suits, with the fitted jacket and ankle-length skirt, the brown kid shoes to match, and just as well, as she was muddied, also; the brown mud tracked from her low boots. We could hear their soles squeak.
Behind her, my little sister, Shvybz—God bless—had the single smile to offer—and oh how she lit our hall. Her chin-length hair was soaked as well; even her headscarf was sopping. But her cheeks were as pink as a porcelain doll’s and our Anastasia was aglow…She was clutching Jemmy, who was also drenched to every black hair; I could smell the little spaniel—that dog-wet fur smell that now is welcome as the odor of home. Can a dog look scared? I swear maroon tears leaked from her eyes, and her face was more scrunched.
“Oh, oh!” We were crying out noises of joy, no articulation needed. All of us in unison… “Oh, Oh!” Our names were our greetings— “Tatiana! Shvybz! “And then, bringing up the rear, so much more somber and pale than I have ever seen her, our dear Olga, or the ghost of our sister, for she was white and atremble. She fell toward Papa in a faint.
What had happened? We were all crying. Papa said what we all feared. “They have done something to you! What have they done?”
Oh, Olga, poor sister…Would she even reply? Her lips, as I kissed her, felt cold, and forever sealed, as if she could no longer speak… I turned at once to Tatiana. “What has happened? Someone has done something to you…?”
Tatiana held a finger to her lip—hush, she signaled—then shook her head. The Big Pair could have no secrets—Tatiana knew, but on another hand, she was unlikely to tell. Their strongest bond was to one another.
I must write no more of this, the sadness of Olga. We must instead rejoice in the simple fact that we were again together. Baby was not entirely well, but he was making an effort, limping inside, only half supported by the good sailor Nagorny. Joy, his spaniel, seemed most excited to arrive—He was jumping and scratching at everyone’s legs, yipping and barking his greetings. Like the rest of them, he was soaked, and his dog hair fell in tendrils over his liver-colored eyes…but oh his eyes. Dogs do have souls, don’t they? I think so, certainly Joy does—He looked at me, deep as a human gaze, maybe deeper than most, as if to say, we have suffered but now we are together again and all will be well. This had a comic effect as in his excitement, Joy squirted! We laughed and laughed, our first laugh together in so long. And Nagorny bent over, setting down Baby, so he could take out his handkerchief and mop at the splotches Joy left on the Ipatiev floor.
“No, no, Nagorny,” we all said, “Nyuta will take care of that…”
Nagorny had proven so much more loyal than the other sailor who cared for Alexei. Derevenko (the sailor, not the doctor) turned on us as soon as the captivity began at home. He ordered Alexei to fetch him things and was crude and obnoxious to him. Nagorny has borne our confinement in Tsarskoe Selo and Tobolsk with us, and now he unhesitatingly rejoined us with grace, prepared as always to assist Alexei in pain. Nagorny logged as many sleepless nights as Mama. Our good, strong sailor told us he had been frantic in his efforts to help my sisters as well—he tried to carry their valises, but the Bolshevik guards would not allow it. Alexei flew like an arrow to Mama’s bosom, and she was crying aloud, her thanks to Christ Our Lord.
Oh, we scattered in eleven directions—then merged into one mass—our family, hugging and squeezing, all together again! I cried for happiness. Oh, so much to say to one another. We had worried so over the long delay. They had known harsh treatment—especially on board the boat the Rus, the same steamer I remember from my own arrival to Tobolsk.
“The grand duchesses were frightened at night as the soldiers threatened the cabins,” Nagorny reported. Our tutors Sydney Gibbes and Pierre Gilliard had made an attempt at defense.
“Don’t talk about it,” Olga snapped, shattering our mood. “I don’t want to talk about it, ever.” Then she said an odd thing. “They had flowers on the dining table on board. Imagine. Flowers. One would think it was a civilized passage.”
Our hearts sank. Olga was definitely not returned to us as herself, at all. She muttered, yet confided nothing. And what of our good suite—the tutors Gibbes and Gilliard?
“Detained,” Nagorny reported.
“And the women teachers, the ladies-in-waiting?” Catherine Schneider, Sophie Buxhoeveden…Nastasy Hendrikova?
“All detained.”
“But we will see them again? They will be interrogated, and then permitted to join us?” Papa asked.
Nagorny could not answer. We didn’t speak our fears aloud, but I know we were all remembering dear Valia Dolgoruky, who vanished upon our arrival and of whom we had yet to have word.
We were so glad to see our dear and loyal valet Trupp, and Sednev’s nephew, the thirteen-year-old kitchen helper, allowed to accompany Alexei as a playmate. The Bolsheviks must not be so hard-hearted then, I thought—to keep the two boys together.
For now, we must hear their entire journey…Oh, the kisses and hugs. We feared nothing now that we had one another. My sisters and I could enter the other bedroom now, the one papered in green vines and pink roses with the exquisite flower-shaped chandelier. Tonight, the lily stained-glass globes would illuminate our happiness. The beds were delayed, so we made ourselves a berth on the floor. Alexei would replace me in Mama and Papa’s bedroom.
There was much unpacking, arranging to accomplish, and we were all falling upon one another in masses of kisses, so our work was interrupted. Our great chef Kharitonov went down to the kitchen, sniffing disapproval. “What a poor tea they set out,” he said. Oh, to have him back, his pale, kind face, his expert cuisine… He would nourish us, as always. He made delicious food appear from air!
***
Midnight. We arranged ourselves on the floor, in a great heap, yes, just like the kittens…breathing and sighing… Olga, alone, moved, face toward the wall, but Tatiana would not allow her distance—Tatiana held her from behind, as always. And I had my Shvybz, in my arms again. She was the same—giggling and tickling. “Masha, Masha, Fat Bow Wow!” she teased as if we had not been apart. “So, tell me, have you found your handsome soldier? I know the one!”
Oh, she would not let me sleep a wink. I breathed in the perfume of her hair. Oh, to sleep now, in the scent of my sisters. OTMA reunited. Bliss.
***
Then, in the midst of our joyfulness, a sad thing. Poor old Chemodurov collapsed, perhaps from the excitements of our reunion. He’d been carried away “to hospital,” they said.
Papa led us in prayer for him—Papa had, in the last days, taken more care of Chemodurov th
an Chemodurov had ever taken care of him. The old man was valued, even when ill and confused. It would be strange not to have him with us. I cannot recall a time without him. He had come this far, to falter here. We all had a sense he would not return. I thought of the other old man, the one who painted our windows white. Farewell, I thought, farewell, you are the last of your kind, the end of our Russia.
MAMA’S BIRTHDAY
We thanked Christ our Lord to be together to celebrate for Mama.
Mama’s birthday. Her forty-sixth. As I stood behind her, my eyes met Mama’s in the mirrors. I caught my own expression—of pity and fear.
How old she suddenly looked—my beautiful mother. There were now so many lines in her face, where a few years ago, there were none. Her mouth pulled down in an expression of sorrow, and her brows furrowed in worry, the creases now permanent. Her blue-grey eyes, once so sparkling, were now rimmed in red, and had the appearance of constant weeping, even when she had not cried.
Her gaze seemed to ask, Will I reach my next birthday? Or is this the last?
I answered her unspoken question from my heart. “Mama, we will celebrate many birthdays together.”
I took heart—we had reached my mother’s birthday. Tatiana’s would be in only four days, Anastasia’s would be next on June eighteenth, then mine, on June twenty-sixth, and Alexei would be fourteen in August. Our birthdates were stepping stones to our future. We lived to grow older—I knew now that we would live through this time I would become a woman. I would fulfill my desires, marry. I would have children.
How could I explain it? I felt certain now, that we would endure. I kissed Mama’s cheeks—and even her tired eyes lit.
She thanked me, for her beautiful birthday, and it was.
There was sadness, however—Papa was not well. His strength failed him, and he lay in bed, staring at the whitened window. He took heart that he could still see out that sliver at the top of the window glass the golden cross of the cathedral across the street. God shows his mercy to us.
Mama, who is usually the one to remain at rest, has performed another of her miracles. As she has proven time and again, the challenge roused her. I would not believe if I had not seen her do this before—she summons another power, and her useless legs can be forced to stand, her weakened heart to beat more strongly.
Last March, she rose from her own bed to care for us all with measles, and walked with me, leaning only slightly on my shoulder for support, to confront the troops at the gate. She saved our lives that night. And Tatiana and Olga were witness and told me of even more amazing feats when she worked in the surgeries when Tsarskoe Selo served as hospital for our wounded. I was not allowed, or Shvybz—we were considered too young and sensitive to view such sights. But Tatiana and Olga told me Mama, who had left a wheelchair, stood in the surgery for hours, assisting in the most gruesome operations—amputations. This is her magic—Mama’s repeated resurrections.
And so again, she rose, and took care of Papa as always. On her birthday, she was again the trained nurse. She applied his compresses, and soothed him. This soothed us all as well. In a way, her actions were the most reassuring sign; that Mama could still regain this strength when needed.
We know, inside, that she is stronger than Papa, although in all outward ways, it is Papa who is usually the healthy, strong one, and she the invalid. They have reversed this before—Papa credits her with saving him from typhus, years ago, before I was born…
Kharitonov had saved flour and sugar for two weeks, and managed a fine birthday cake, with almonds, for Mama. We presented the cake to Mama in the bedroom, so she could share it with Papa.
“I have all the gifts I could want,” she said.
Tatiana, Shvybz and I sewed, giving her embroidered altar cloths. Alexei gave Mama a small watercolor he had painted himself. Only Olga seemed still sad, and not a part of our party but we understood. She was not ready to speak of sufferings she must have endured on the Rus. Her journey had still not ended; she did not feel, as we could, the beginnings of hope, a sense of safety, even in this prison/home.
Later, I found this poem on my pillow—and Olga asked that I give it to Mama as her gift—
“BEFORE THE ICON OF OUR LADY
Of earth and heaven blessed Tsarina,
Our only source of consolation.
Lenient to every praying sinner,
Oh heed our humble supplication.
Groping amid the dark of Spite,
Ensnared with Vice’s fiendish lace
We dare not repine at our plight
But deign our Motherland Thy grace
The holy land of Rus, once blessed,
Is now ordained to dire subversion,
Of all the suffering Patroness,
Oh, save our country from incursion.
Please don’t avert Thy eyes from those
Who thirst for Thy compassion,
Oh grant us hope for repose
In our sorrow and oppression.
When I read the poem, I looked up at Olga. She was still so unlike her old self. There were blue shadows under her eyes, and her cheeks were drawn. We had all grown thinner, but with Olga this loss was more alarming, as she was once a full, healthy-looking girl, and now we saw the bones of her shoulders, and her hands hung limp, long-boned, white, and thin.
“I know what you imagine that you have found for yourself, here in this house,” Olga told me, in a low tone that quite upset me, so unlike her usual voice. She bit the words; I sensed her anger for the first time. “You have nothing to look forward to…”
Oh, but she was wrong! I congratulated myself. I did have something, someone…the difference was the desire that I felt for a loved and loving man…How horrid, she had known only some rough male approach, or worse.
Is she ruined? We feared it, but dared not ask. Nagorny told us that he heard terrible tales of Olga tied to a chair by the riverboat soldiers, but we had no reason or wish to believe that is true. It was obvious she was shocked and frightened, but we had no reason to believe that she suffered more than rough handling. I pity her though; I could not have borne the touch of such hateful men.
I believed in my love; Olga could not spoil that. I would give myself to him. I trusted even my Church would grant dispensation, in such circumstances, as no wedding would be allowed here. I counted the days…and nights until we could be as one.
TATIANA’S BIRTHDAY
Papa recovered. The commandant allowed the upper window to be lowered two inches. That would seem a small thing—a crack. Yet, it was our new miracle—a strong breeze, perhaps directed by Our Lord, blew straight into the bedroom, and for the first time, the air in the room felt freshened and cool.
Tatiana celebrated her twenty-first birthday. Kharitonov had less luck saving flour and sugar for a cake, but ever the magician, he secured some fruit that was not rotted, and prepared a delicious compote instead of a birthday cake. All rejoiced.
We had only the handmade gifts, but Tatiana was pleased. I could see she worried over her Olga. Olga was no longer in charge at all. She was the single one of us who went to her bed in the afternoon, sleeping away some secret sorrow.
Tatiana, as ever, was solicitous of her, bringing cups of tea, some of Mama’s supply of biscuits. But nothing seemed to help. Last night, the nasty Moshkin took over and forced our Big Pair, Tatiana and Olga, to play music for the men, who were rowdy, drunken and threw peanut shells inside! Poor Tatiana—she was white, and kept her lips compressed as she played one awful tune after another. I would never have thought music could be hideous; but this was raucous and only to their own message. It was not music at all, no matter how well Olga and Tatiana attempted to play it.
I sat in the drawing room for support and was taunted as well. By day the guards could be civil, even kind, but the night (and vodka) brought out the beast in some of them. Not Peter of course, or his good friend, Mikhail L. They stood guard, in the truest sense.
Peter cleverly managed that Mikhail be
came our morning guard to the lavatory. That helped a great deal—to know that this good boy was outside the bathroom.
They removed the door; how despicable, but Mikhail L. stood his guard, his back toward the ripped entry. I knew as I trusted in God, he would never turn to spy or mock us.
When the other guards were on duty, we did not venture to the lavatory, unless it became excruciating not to go, and then we went in our pairs. I trained myself to a physical discipline over this. I may hold a record.
The one who suffered most in this regard was Dr. Botkin. His affliction worsened; he went to the lavatory often but to no avail. I heard him in the night—back and forth, to and fro.
Poor dear doctor. When he passed me in the hall, he gave me the deepest look, from his soul, and apologized. “Your doctor cannot heal himself,” he said with a sigh. “Forgive me.”
***
Our garden was littered by the soldiers. Papa and I swore to attack the small mountain of peanut shells each time we were permitted to walk. Papa especially wished to restore the garden, plant more flowers, perhaps even some vegetables.
Now that we had Kharitonov with us, we could control the cuisine much better. Our good cook improvised from the sad cuts of meat (all an uneasy greasy grey color, and stringy), and the ends of vegetables he was given, and somehow managed a tasty ragout. We were rationed—not much butter, coffee or eggs. The kitchen was hard-pressed to present us with two dishes at our dinner, instead of our customary three.
We, all of us children, began to reminisce about meals, as one would of love affairs or adventures. I would recall a special meal, then Tatiana, or Alexei. It was a game, of sorts, to pass our time. Only Olga did not play this game, or do more than nibble at the meals. Anastasia loved to recite whole menus. “Remember the coq au vin, the potato soup, the coquilles Saint Jacques, and the raspberry tartlets?”
We lay awake at night, and played a game of “Remembered Feasts.” We each summoned our favorite suppers, the elaborate menus served to us on our special days. Because we hungered so for something beyond stringy or rotted meat and hard stale bread, we could be very elaborate in our descriptions, and I think we all salivated as we spoke.