The Romanov Bride (18 page)

In early December of 1916 I wrote to Nicky, begging an audience. He was to be in Tsarskoye for only a short while longer, and a reply came not from the Emperor but my sister, asking me to come at once. I departed the very next day. I kept hope that I would see the Emperor himself, but upon my arrival at the Palace, I found myself ushered directly into Alicky’s boudoir. She was reclined there, dressed in a long white robe, a white shawl draped around her shoulders. Her hair was put up, but she wore no adornment excepting her wedding ring, and she looked exhausted and worn, so thin. For the first time I could easily see what more and more people had been telling me, that my baby sister, nine years my junior, now looked years older than I.

“Hello, my dear,” she said in English, holding out her hand.

“Greetings.”

As required by protocol, I curtseyed to my sister, the Empress, then kissed her hand, and only then was I able to embrace her as family. Before the war we had rarely spoken in our native language, and now of course not a word of German ever passed our lips. Had there been others in the room, we might have spoken Russian, but since it was just the two of us sisters we continued in English, the language of our mother and of course the language that Alicky spoke almost exclusively with her children and husband.

“How are things at your community?” asked Alicky.

“We are full and we are busy. With God’s help I believe we are doing good work,” I replied. “Among other things, I wanted to tell you that I’ve had reports that your four hospital trains seem to be running well.”

“Thank God. There is so much suffering, so much that needs to be done. You know, of course, that I visit my hospitals here daily. Just yesterday I assisted in an amputation.”

Yes, I knew that my sister, who had received her nursing certi ficate at the beginning of the war, was deeply involved in the day-to-day physical activities of her hospital. While some members of Court found it demeaning that the Empress should be participating in the most gruesome operations-“Better,” they said, “if Her Imperial Highness would visit all the hospitals, her appearance granting hope to many more”-I found it admirable that someone so high should dare to reach so low.

I cast my eyes to the floor and softly said, “I had hoped to see Nicky. Will he be joining us?”

“I’m afraid not. He is in meetings with his generals all day, for he is to leave tomorrow for the Front.”

“I see.”

I tried my best not to hide my disappointment. Not a soul knew better than I that my sister’s health, and to a great degree her reasoning, had been damaged by worry for her son, who had nearly died any number of times. Because of this Nicky was more balanced in his approach to things, and so I had hoped to talk with him and him alone, for I wanted to implore him to see what was happening around us, and to tell him what so many important personages of the Empire had begged me to relay. Quite specifically, Nicky needed to allow the Duma to appoint his ministers, for as it was now Alicky was essentially making these decisions, and not just of her own accord but under the strong influence of that man. Yes, everyone in the Empire was fully aware that you could not rise to power without the blessing of Rasputin, and that man’s wisdom on political matters was woeful at best. It was making the entire country crazy-so many screaming, Imagine, a peasant running the country!-and with all that in mind I had come, at the very least, to beg my brother-in-law to banish the man once and for all and for good to Siberia. Best would be if Nicky allowed the Duma itself the right to appoint the ministers, returned that man to the back of beyond, and, too, sent my sister off to the Crimea for a much needed rest at her beloved Livadia. That would quiet the tongues.

“Alicky, my dearest,” I began, knowing that I now had no choice but to broach all with my sister, “as you know, I’ve long steered away from political matters, but things are worsening in Moscow, quickly so. The food lines are growing, and the people are so weary, so tired, and so hungry.”

“My weak heart aches for them.”

“On top of all this, in every queue and in every salon, the worst things are being said about… about…”

She shook her head in disgust, and guessed, “Father Grigori?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“But it’s he who just had a vision that Nicky must halt all military trains and for no fewer than three days allow only food to be transported into the cities. You know he was against the war in the first place, and you know how much he cares for the common people.”

“My dear, the stories about him are simply horrible. And it’s not just in Moscow but here in Petrograd. Kiev, too, and Pskov. Really, all across the Empire.”

“Surely you’re not like the others?” said my sister, unable to hide her anger and disappointment. “Tell me you don’t believe the gossip and calumny as well?”

“All I know is that he no longer occupies himself with matters of your family, but with politics, and-”

“Ella, he is a man of God!”

“But have you not become too dependent upon him?”

“Can one become too dependent on the wisdom of the Lord? I seek Father Grigori’s counsel on many matters because of his spiritual closeness, because of his connection, to the God Almighty. Besides, even you know the greatest religious leaders of their time have always been attacked by petty politicians and connivers, not to mention the courtesans. As mother of this country, what concerns me is the well-being of my people, nothing more, and how I seek counsel is therefore my business. I must remain above the petty minds, you know this all too well. Nicky and I have oft been attacked, but we must stay above all the squabbling and seek the right, Godly direction for our nation. You know very well that all true countrymen say that a constitution would not simply be the ruin of Nicky but of the true Mother Russia.”

“Yes, but…”

And so it went, round and round. My dear sister was nothing if not powerful in her beliefs, and it was her conviction that they must not surrender any power to the bickering politicians who sought to pull Russia this way and that. God had placed Nicky on the Throne, and through God’s wisdom he would find the correct path. Our conversation was intense and deep, serious but not hateful. And yet all the same it broke my heart.

“Really, my dear,” said Alicky, rising at the end of our conversation, “my own position on Father Grigori is quite immovable. I hope I have made myself clear.”

“Yes,” I said, coming to my feet. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you. Perhaps it would have been best had I not come.”

“Perhaps,” she said, kissing me on both cheeks. “But I always relish your visits. Can you not stay for lunch? I know the children would love to see you.”

So discouraged was I that I begged, “I’m sorry, but I have so many matters awaiting me in Moscow.”

“Then at least the girls and I will see you back to the train station.”

Some twenty minutes later, Alicky and the older girls, Olga and Tatyana, and I stepped out into the bitter cold, quickly climbing into a limousine. As we set off for the station, I sat right next to my sister, holding her hand the entire way, which was our little custom, and yet this time, rather than chatting as usual, we rode the short distance in silence. We were both exhausted, both fearful, perhaps, of the months ahead. If only our soldiers could hang on until the spring, then victory would be ours. Just a few more months…

I loved my sister so, as she did me, and though I protested that it was too cold, Alicky and the girls saw me through the station’s Imperial Rooms and onto the gusty, cold platform. As the winter winds swept around us, I tenderly kissed my nieces.

“Such beauties,” I said, touching each of them gently on the chin. “Now promise me you’ll take good care of your mother.”

“Always,” replied the oldest, Olga, with a sweet smile.

“Of course, but you have to come back soon!” beckoned Tatyana. “And write us often!”

“I will,” said I, feeling older than I ever had.

Though I had failed in my mission, I embraced my sister more tightly than I had perhaps since we were children. From whence came this sense of desperation? What was it that I so feared? We lingered longer, too, in each other’s arms, and I for one couldn’t help being silently grateful that at least that awful man had not separated me from my beloved ones.

I kissed my baby sister, Empress of all the Russias, and we parted without another word. With the assistance of a footman, I climbed into the private carriage at the rear of the train and took my seat, whereupon I stared out at my dear sweets. Pressing the palms of both of my hands against the glass, I bid them a silent, bittersweet farewell. As the train started off with a forceful heave, it took a great deal of thought to hold back my tears.

And worried though I was over the course of the Empire, I could not even imagine the horrors that were soon to overwhelm the Empire. It all began with a trickle of blood-the murder of none other than Rasputin himself, which, strangely, took place just a few short weeks after my visit to Alicky. I know how much this pained my sister, but even I realized what hope his end gave to so many, for the murder of Rasputin was all anyone talked about. There was rejoicing in the streets, talk that the government could now move forward, that the war would now come to a victorious end, even rumors that Alicky was to be sent off to a distant cloister whilst things calmed down.

Yes, with the black stain of Rasputin removed from the Ruling House there was so much hope. And yet… within barely three months the trickle of that man’s blood turned into a rushing, crimson river as revolution washed away not only all of us but Great Russia as it had forever been known.

Dear Lord, how it pains me to say I have not seen my Alicky since that moment on the train platform, and even today I doubt we two sisters shall ever meet again in this earthly world.

The spark that made the country blow up like a big, bad bomb was a lie, a lie we told everywhere and to everyone. And the lie we told all over that February of 1917? It was simple: no baked bread! And this made people get real mad and go real crazy! And it worked! Just to make sure, though, I even liked adding something more, because peasant that I was, I knew what would make the people really panic: no flour!

Ha!

There was plenty of flour, but it was stuck way out there in some railway cars, way out of the city, so much flour that I even heard it was rotting. But the narod-the masses-didn’t know this. All they knew was that the bread lines were getting longer and longer, and their lives more and more miserable as the war dragged on and on and on. They could live with sugar being rationed, they could live with just a few scraps of meat in their soups. But bread? Radi boga-for the sake of God-how could a Russian live without bread, be it white, black, or even that gray crap, eh?

“We’re fighting for the Romanovs and they won’t even give us a few pieces of stale crust!” I grumbled in one breadline after another throughout Moscow. “What do they think we are, animals? To hell with the burzhui!” I added, using the nasty word for the bourgeoisie. “I hear our masters have not only all the bread they can eat but even sugar and salt.”

“Well, one thing’s for sure-our German whore Empress has plenty of bread!” complained another of my comrades, who was always planted near me. “But maybe she’s not giving us any because she’s angry she no longer has Rasputin’s sausage!”

The crowd roared with laughter.

Rasputin, that damned dog, had been killed a few months earlier, which in truth made our job harder. We couldn’t let the political scene get easier or softer for the Tsar, which meant we had to stretch the shadow of that Rasputin as far as we could and agitate, agitate, agitate.

Just like a worm, I started whispering, “I’ve been to two other stores this morning and they both ran out of bread. Now I hear there’s not enough at this one, either. Look, the store’s about to close! They’re running out of bread everywhere!”

Even I was surprised at what happened next. Even I was shocked at how quickly things blew up, just like a match thrown into a barrel of kerosene. No sooner had the words passed my lips than some guy pitched a rock at the window of the bread store. And poof! The glass exploded into shards! And the crowd didn’t cower away but cried out and surged forward!

“Xleb!” Bread, screamed nearly every soul!

“Give us xleb!”

“We are hungry!”

I’d never seen anything like it-it was like a call to charge the enemy. One moment there were a hundred souls standing in line, long-suffering folk who had never complained, just poor people in felt boots and foul coats, always submissive to master and Tsar. The next moment every last one of them, right down to the old babushkas with their scarves tied round their heads, were fiery rebels! It was magic! Like one giant flame! The crowd burst to life, surging forward, breaking every window of the bread store and piling in, frantically grabbing all the loaves from the shelves, then pushing and shouting and shoving their way into the back and emerging with sacks of flour.

There was only one voice of protest, the shop owner, a short man with a waxed mustache, who shouted, “Stop! Stop, you fools!”

But the only thing that was stopped was him, this owner-two ruffians grabbed him and pitched him right through the broken window, right outside, where he landed with a thud on the cobbles. Blood streaming down his face, he struggled to get up, making it only onto one knee.

“You’ve been hiding bread from us poor people! They say you’ve been hoarding bread and waiting for the price increases -shame on you!” shouted one staruxha-old woman-as she kicked the groaning man. “Shame!”

That was all it took, one kick from an old woman’s worn shoe. It was like a signal. And then everyone was upon him, kicking and beating him, ripping at clothing and limb. He lived one more minute, no more. Their fury surprised even me. Like a lid finally blown off a boiling pot, the deep Russian instinct for revenge suddenly blew wide and could not be contained. People beat on the poor man as meanly as if they were finally beating on their serf-master who had beat on them! Yes, this was revolution, great revolution! Hurrah!

Turning away from the pulp of that man’s body, I saw a nearby restaurant that was famous for its wine cellar. Well, that would make people break in there-free drink!-but I, devil that I was, thought of something worse, something that would make them real crazy. Officially, there had been no vodka for sale since the beginning of the war.

“Comrades, I hear they’re hiding some ‘national treasure’ in the cellar of that restaurant!” I shouted, grabbing a rock and hurling it at the window of this other place.

The idea of getting their hands on some vodka wasn’t just a spark and a little flame, it was a big explosion! Suddenly people forgot all about bread and ran to the restaurant, splitting it as wide as a watermelon. And suddenly, too, other people came running, charging from everywhere, from this way and that. Within moments there were several hundred comrades, and moments after that several hundred more. Incredible! All of a sudden I saw a dead body thrown out the window-the owner would have been smarter to run out the back!-and then I saw some waiters run out, covering their heads as they fled for their lives. A few moments later proud people emerged, one after another carrying bottles of wine. With no way to open them, however, the folks smashed the tops on the stone curbs and then started drinking from the broken bottles, red wine and blood dribbling from their smiling, cut lips. There was no vodka, but who cared as long as there was free wine! Free wine!

And I shouted the slogan we were told to shout everywhere: “Grab nagrablenoye!” Steal what was stolen!

“Grab nagrablenoye!” repeated an unseen soul.

“Hurrah!”

And soon enough those very words were echoed up and down the street, shouted by one comrade after another as they broke into shop after shop, stealing not only bread and wine but eggs and milk, then pants and fur hats and fine ladies’ dresses, too. It wasn’t too long, either, before I saw real flames licking one storefront, toasting everything in their path. There were cries of pain mixed with shouts of joy.

Then in the distance came the sound of hooves, and the crazy crowd quieted for just a moment-the Cossacks? We all paused to listen, pondering our fates. Had they come to mow us down with their silvery sabers? Come to chop off our heads like tall poppies?

But what appeared around the corner wasn’t the feared Cossacks on wild ponies but our Russian troops, some thirty or forty Russian comrades on horseback, one old officer at the head. With clouds of steam pouring from the snouts of their horses, and with not sabers but rifles and pistols waving overhead, the soldiers charged right up to us. We, the poor masses, stood as one, knowing that within seconds half of us would fall dead.

But then something so strange happened…

“Xleb!” cried one toothless babushka, staring up at the soldiers. “We are hungry! We just want xleb!”

Yet again, that was all it took, just one old peasant woman calling out the obvious, and one by one the soldiers lowered their rifles until there was but one last gun raised: that of their old commanding officer. But he wasn’t pointing his pistol at us. He was pointing his gun at his own soldier boys.

“Raise your guns!” he commanded his men. “Prepare to fire!”

But not one of his soldiers did as he was told. They just stared defiantly at the officer, their brooding eyes saying it all: These are our own people, we will not fire upon our own brothers and sisters!

“I command you to take up your weapons and prepare to fire!” shouted the officer, his face bursting red as he trained his weapon on one particular soldier, a boy with blond hair. “Raise your weapons or I’ll fire upon-”

Suddenly there was a crack of gunfire, a noise so sharp that everyone fell silent. And gasped. At first I thought he’d done it, that the bastard officer had fired upon the blond lad, but no! One of the other soldiers had taken up his own weapon and fired on him, the officer! He shot his commander right in the face! For one long, shocking moment no one said anything, no one could guess what was going to happen next-would soldier start firing upon soldier, would they all fire upon us?-and we simply watched as the old officer, his white beard glistening with red blood, tumbled off his horse and fell to the ground dead as a log.

And then another of the soldier boys held his rifle high in the air and, in one long, glorious shout, cried, “Hurrah!”

The soldiers crossed over to the people, and in that second Russia changed completely. All the soldiers cried out in joy and the crowd whooped with delight, calling out to the soldier boys, welcoming them with bread and wine and brotherhood! Yes, it was mutiny, absolute mutiny! I shouted with joy, cried out with happiness! Unable to believe what was happening, I watched as one by one the soldiers leaped down from their horses and the people rushed toward them and embraced them, smiling and laughing.

Da, da, da, it was incredible, miraculous! I didn’t understand what was happening, and yet I did, I understood it all. This wasn’t like the revolution of twelve years ago when we the people had been battling the police and the soldiers, and the Cossacks, too. No, this was different. We were one, soldier and people and everyone else, united as one against the capitalist pigs and the warmongers and the tsar and his whore wife who sat upon all of us, the people! It was the Revolution, and this time I knew we would win!

Long live the Uprising of the Oppressed!