by Gale Sears
“I suppose it could be worse,” Alexandria said. “We could be painting white over the windows or washing down the walls.”
Agnes let out an exasperated grunt. “I’d rather be doing either of those things.”
Alexandria stood and moved her bucket to the side. “Or, you could be back at the camp, gutting fish or emptying the latrine pots.”
“You’re right,” Agnes said. “I didn’t mean to complain.” She picked up the bottle of floor polish and poured a pool of coffee-colored liquid onto the floor. The two sisters picked up clean rags and set to work rubbing the polish into the wood.
A guard came into the room and Agnes glared at him. “Careful of the floor.” The young soldier skirted his way around the edge of the room and out the front door.
Alexandria giggled. “He looked like his mother just reprimanded him.”
Agnes smiled. “Rightly so.” She continued to polish in ever widening circles, proud of the shine she and Alexandria were restoring to the neglected floor.
The front door opened and Agnes was about to issue a reprimand, when two nuns crossed the threshold. They walked into the entryway carrying baskets and smearing mud from the bottom of their habits as they crossed the foyer. They stopped abruptly when they saw the women on their knees, polishing.
“Oh! Oh, dear!” the older nun chirped in a thin, reedy voice. “We’re sorry.”
They backed their way to the door and began taking off their shoes.
“Oh, sisters, please don’t worry,” Alexandria insisted. “We will just have to clean it again anyway.”
The younger of the two nuns moved to her. “Are you sure? Because we don’t mind going to the back entrance.”
Alexandria looked up. “No, please, you’re welcome here.”
“Are you the house servants?”
“No, we’re—”
Agnes interrupted. “We’re here for today. We’re helping prepare things.” She and Alexandria stood.
The older nun joined them. “Yes, we’ve been sent from the monastery with eggs, milk, and cheese.” Her head wobbled and a tear leaked from the corner of her eye. “It’s very sad, isn’t it?” the old nun mumbled. “If the Russian people knew of his circumstance, their hearts would break. Well, they have thrown him into the lion’s den here, that’s for sure. One wonders why God would allow it.”
Agnes stood in rapt attention. The old nun’s words seemed to confirm the rumors she’d heard for weeks. This wasn’t to be the prison for a high-ranking baron or Provisional Government leader, but a dungeon for the Russian tsar himself—Tsar Nicholas and his family!
“Come along, Mother,” the younger nun cajoled. “We need to get these things delivered.” She took the woman’s arm and tugged her gently toward a side door. Agnes knew her efforts were meant to stop the old nun’s indiscreet babbling.
As the holy women left the room, Agnes turned excitedly to her sister. “Alexandria! Did you hear that?” The look on Alexandria’s face halted the next words on Agnes’s lips. She moved to her sister and took her hand. “What is it?”
“The tsar and tsarina will walk on these floors, Agnes. Tsarevitch Alexis and the grand duchesses will walk on these floors.”
The tone in her voice conveyed not excitement, but dread, and as Agnes looked around the cold, cavernous room with its drab walls and cheerless light, the bleakness of the situation twisted her heart. Three hundred years of the Romanov dynasty reduced to a few rooms in an old house in Siberia.
Alexandria started as they heard the movement of horses and wagons arriving at the front of the house. Shouted orders were being given, but they could not make out the words. Together, they ran to the window. A corner of glass was free of paint and Agnes peered out, catching distorted forms of people and movement.
“What? What do you see?” Alexandria begged.
“I think there’s a tall, blonde woman, and a portly soldier, and . . .” Agnes stepped back. “The Grand Duchess Marie.”
“What?” Alexandria ran to the window and looked out. “It is her. It is! She is surrounded by guards, but I see her face clearly.”
“What are you doing?”
Agnes and Alexandria turned quickly to find the Little Mother glaring at them.
“We . . . we couldn’t help ourselves, Little Mother,” Alexandria stammered. “It’s the Grand Duchess Marie.”
The Little Mother’s face drained of color. She crossed herself then looked down at the floor. “Quickly! Get this floor done! We were supposed to be out of here before they arrived!” She grabbed the buckets of dirty water. “I must go and alert the others.”
Agnes’s heart was hammering in her chest as she raced to grab her polishing rag. She and Alexandria worked feverishly, attempting to make the floor presentable. They neither talked nor looked at one another, concentrating only on the task. They were together on the far side of the room when the door opened and a knot of people entered. They were speaking in muted tones, but Agnes could hear an older female voice making comments about the “dreary” house. Someone answered her in French, and a rumbling male voice spoke words of reassurance. A harsh voice commanded the group forward and the door slammed.
Agnes tried to melt into the shadows. Her heart pounded and she knew it was only a matter of time until she and Alexandria were discovered. She so wanted to look up to see if Tsar Nicholas II was actually standing in the room, but she held her curiosity in check and kept her eyes at a level where she saw only plain skirts, worn boots, and traveling satchels.
A pair of boots detached themselves from the group and walked toward them. Agnes gasped and took Alexandria’s hand. The guards in this place were probably stern and uncompromising, and she braced herself for rough treatment. Instead a gentle voice spoke to them in perfect Russian.
“Ladies, would you please stand?”
Alexandria gripped her hand so tightly that Agnes whimpered. She glanced at her sister and noted the look of panic in her eyes. They stood, pressing close to each other, and hardly daring to look at the person who had addressed them. When they finally did, they found themselves staring into a face they’d seen many times on placards and posters at school, on coins, and in cinema newsreels—a handsome face with a large mustache and well-trimmed beard.
Alexandria curtsied and bowed her head, and Agnes quickly followed her example.
“Your Grace,” Alexandria said in a voice that sounded too calm for the circumstance.
“Ah, please stand straight,” Nicholas said kindly. “You no longer have to bow to me, or the once-royal family.”
“But we wish to,” Agnes replied. “You deserve our respect.” She looked into the tsar’s haggard face and saw the briefest of smiles.
Tsarina Alexandra remained aloof, but Grand Duchess Marie timidly approached. A full smile softened the tsar’s face when Marie reached his side. “My daughter, Marie Pavlovna. And will you kindly tell me your names?” he asked.
Agnes had to swallow several times before croaking out, “Agnes Lindlof, and this is my sister Alexandria.”
“We are pleased to meet you,” Nicholas said. “Will you be staying here with us?”
“Oh . . . Oh, no, Your Grace,” Agnes said. “We were only brought here for the day. We are prisoners from the work camp.”
“Impossible,” Marie whispered. She looked earnestly into the girls’ faces. “What could you possibly have done to offend the Bolsheviks?” She took Alexandria’s hand. “So young. You look to be my age.”
Alexandria nodded, and Agnes saw tears well up in her eyes. “I’m seventeen, Duchess.”
“Ah, seventeen.” A tear slid down Marie’s cheek. “And I am nineteen.” She dropped Alexandria’s hand, quickly brushing the tear away, and changing her mood. “And here is your sister.” She held Agnes’s hand for a moment. “My sisters and brot
her will be here soon.”
“Why are they not with you?” Agnes asked. The duchess lowered her head, and Agnes could tell she was struggling for the words. “I’m sorry; it’s not my business.”
Marie looked at her father for permission and he nodded. “They had to stay back in Toblosk because our little Alexis is unwell.”
“My heart aches for all your suffering,” Alexandria said. “We pray for your family every day.”
Nicholas looked at her steadfastly. “How kind. It is good to hope that some still think of us with fondness.”
“What’s the meaning of this?”
The booming voice filled the entryway and the two guards came to attention, while the prisoners adopted submissive demeanors. The big soldier stormed over to Tsar Nicholas and Marie. “Step back.” He motioned for one of the guards to come forward. When the soldier was within arm’s reach, the big man hit him across the face. “They are to speak to no one! Do you understand?”
“Yes, Commissar,” the guard said, wiping blood from his lip.
The big man turned on the tsar. “I am Alexander Avadeyev and I have been assigned by the Central Soviet Committee to be commissar over this house for the remainder of your stay.” He looked over at the tsarina and a malevolent smirk planted itself on his face. “Ah, Grigory Rasputin’s toy.” He took several steps toward her. “I’m sorry to have to report that something has gone wrong with the plumbing, Your Highness, so you won’t have running water for a week or two.” He motioned around the room. “Not quite the Winter Palace, but I’m afraid it will have to do. We lovingly call it the House of Special Purpose.”
A shiver of fear ran down Agnes’s spine and she slid onto her knees.
The commissar was immediately aware of her. “You. You two finish your work and get out.”
“Yes, Commissar,” Alexandria said, kneeling down and picking up her polishing cloth.
“The rest of you follow me,” the commissar directed, laughing loudly as he moved toward the side door. “I will show you the other lavish rooms.”
As the entourage followed, Grand Duchess Marie quickly bent down to address Agnes and Alexandria. “I will pray for you. Be brave.”
Before they could respond, she was gone. They heard the echo of footsteps fading away down the hall and the commissar’s hateful voice barking orders . . . then . . . quiet.
The silence in the room was oppressive, and Agnes spoke just to rid the room of the painful images. “Grand Duchess Marie was beautiful . . . even in plain clothes and an old coat . . . she was beautiful.”
Alexandria’s voice was husky with emotion. “I can’t stand the thought of them being under the thumb of that loathsome man!” An anguished growl rose up from her chest. “I can’t stand it!” She picked up the bottle of polish and threw it against the opposite wall. The glass shattered, staining the wall with brown splatters.
At that moment the Little Mother entered the room followed by the other five women of Gang 38. She stared at Alexandria, who still had her hand in the air. “Have you gone mad, girl?”
Alexandria burst into tears. “We saw them, Little Mother. We saw the tsar and tsarina. And . . . and the Grand Duchess Marie. They were here . . . in this room.”
The women in the gang stood reverently as though they were in the nave of some great cathedral. The Little Mother crossed herself and moved over, squatting beside Alexandria who now had her face in her hands. The gang leader patted her back and looked over at Agnes.
“Did they look well?” she asked.
Agnes hesitated, and then shook her head. “No. You could tell their imprisonment has been harsh.”
The Little Mother pressed her lips together. She stood, waving the women to the door. “The wagon is here to take us back to the camp. Come now.”
Agnes helped Alexandria to stand. “But where are our guards?”
“Who knows?” the Little Mother said with a shrug. “The commissar has been making them run errands here and there all day.”
“Wasn’t he afraid we’d escape?”
“Where would we go? With the high fence, this house is just another fortress prison.”
Agnes nodded as she and Alexandria followed the Little Mother toward the door. They stopped in the small cloakroom to retrieve their coats and boots, and Alexandria turned back to look into the entryway.
“Should I clean that?” she asked, staring at the wall.
The Little Mother stood by her side. As she buttoned her coat she appraised the mess. “No. Let the commissar do it.”
“But won’t we get into trouble?”
“What’s he going to do—put us in a work camp?” The Little Mother turned to lead the women of Gang 38 to the wagon.
Agnes took a parting look at the damaged wall. A sick feeling dropped into the pit of her stomach. To her eyes, the stain of brown was not floor polish, but splatters of dried blood.
Notes
1. In April 1918, Tsar Nicholas II and his family were imprisoned in the Siberian town of Ekaterinburg. They lived in the Ipatiev House under very restrictive conditions for only seventy-eight days.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Moscow
May 2, 1918
“Six days of fighting,” the wagon driver was saying. “Six days, and there was snow and cold and I was driving my sleigh around, and boom! A cannonball exploding here—and rat-a-tat!—a machine gun there, and my poor horse with the devils shooting all around. Moscow didn’t go the same way as Petrograd. You were organized—one day and poof!—the Bolsheviks are in power. The Junkers put up a fight here. Six days!” He crossed himself as they passed a church.
“Are you a Christian, then?” Sergey Antonovich asked.
“Menshevik, Christian, Bolshevik . . . I go along with anyone that will feed my horse.” He laughed raucously and slapped his leg in glee.
Natasha wondered how the scrawny driver kept his horse on the right side of the street with all his hand gestures and turning around to see his passengers’ reactions to his stories. The man’s clothing was stained and decrepit, and his face coarse with stubble.
“One day I come around the corner of the Nikitskaya and rat-a-tat! Here’s all this machine-gun fire. I pull my horse off to a side street and wait, but I watch these boys—little waifs—waiting by the side of a building. When the firing stops, they run across the street like it was a game. Rat-a-tat . . . rat-a-tat.” The wagon driver shook his head. “Most didn’t make it.”
“How are things now?” Sergey Antonovich asked to get him onto another subject.
“Well, you know what they say, ‘He who is fated to hang won’t drown.’” The man chuckled at his own cleverness and Natasha politely joined him. Sergey scowled and Natasha knew he was offended by the comic Muscovite’s flippant attitude. In fact, she’d noted that Sergey had been tense since their departure from Novgorod. He had not been happy with her explanation of the incident at the church in Sel’tso Saterno, and now he spent most of his time with Dmitri and Nicholai. She didn’t care, as her thoughts were more often on home, and Agnes, and the words from the Articles of Faith.
After leaving Novgorod, and receiving a tongue-lashing from Professor Prozorov, she had snuck off by herself to read. When she’d opened the book, she was surprised by the words that met her eyes.
Chapter 23
Submission to Secular Authority
Article 12—We believe in being subject to kings, presidents, rulers, and magistrates, in obeying, honoring, and sustaining the law.
She’d cried herself to sleep that night in worry for her cousin and in confusion over church and state. The priest’s invective against the Bolsheviks echoed in her tangled thoughts: “You are a stupid man if you think destroying the church will destroy our faith.”
“And you’ve come from Petrograd on that Red Tra
in?” The wagon driver’s words brought Natasha back to the present.
“Yes,” Sergey answered. “We’ve actually been to the towns and villages in the countryside.”
“So, where have you gone?”
Sergey proudly listed their travel. “We’ve been south to Yasnaya Polyana, southwest to Mozhaysk and Borodino, and northeast to Kastreeva and Vladimir.”
“My, my, my! You have been busy,” the driver said, sounding impressed. “And did you never go north?”
Sergey hesitated. “Yes . . . we did, of course. We went to Khatkova and Sergiev Posad.”
They had come to a stop, and the driver turned in his seat to give Sergey a questioning look. “Sergiev Posad?” he said with amused interest. “And were you well received in Sergiev Posad?”
Natasha knew the man was goading them, being well aware that any attempt to spread the message of Socialism and atheism in Sergiev Posad would have been met with scorn.
“It was difficult,” Sergey said tensely.
“You mean the monks from the St. Serguis Monastery did not come out with open arms to greet the Bolshevik faithful?”
“Be careful there, little man,” Sergey warned.
The driver chuckled. “Just a joke, comrades. We must be able to laugh at ourselves. All I’m saying is that it will be difficult to get the monks to change their tune.”
Sergey leaned toward the man, his voice cold and threatening. “And what will they do when the Bolsheviks close their gates and put them into prison?”
“Hmm.” The driver clucked his tongue several times and his horse’s ears flicked. “I suppose they will have to chant beautiful hymns to the rats.”
“Don’t mock us.”
The driver laughed. “No, no, comrade! I understand your work. You are teaching the peasants about a better way of life.”
Sergey shifted in his seat. “We are explaining the Soviet ideals.”
“Ah, of course . . . the Soviet ideals: ‘Peace, Land, and Bread.’ ‘All Power to the Soviets.’ ‘Everyone is equal.’” The man clucked again to his horse. “There’s a good nag . . . just as good as the car that takes Lenin from here to there.”