Anastasia and Her Sisters (18 page)

“Nicky, what’s wrong?” Mama cried.

“Warsaw has fallen,” he said hoarsely. He sank down onto a chair, tears in his eyes, and buried his face in his hands. “It cannot go on like this,” he said. “It simply cannot.”

Within hours Papa had made up his mind that his place was with the army. From then on, he would spend all of his time at Stavka. We must prepare to see much less of him.

At the end of August he kissed us all good-bye and left Tsarskoe Selo with the guard saluting, flags waving, and church bells ringing. Headquarters had been moved from Poland, where the advancing German army had taken over the area, to Mogilev, a Russian town on the banks of the Dnieper River. At the old Stavka, Papa had lived aboard his imperial train. His new quarters were in a mansion on a hilltop overlooking the river.

Barely a month later Papa made another big change: he ordered Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolaevich to the Caucasian front to lead the fight against the Turks, who were on the side of Germany and Austria. Papa was taking over as commander-in-chief of the army.

Mama was pleased. She had never liked Uncle Nikolasha, mostly because he plainly despised Father Grigory.

Olga wrote about the situation:

It’s quite amazing. Some people hate Fr. G and think he has too much influence on Mother, who then has too much influence on Father, none of it good. Fr. G did everything possible to win over Uncle Nikolasha’s favor, even offering to go to the front to bless icons for the soldiers, but, according to gossip, Uncle Nikolasha told him, “Good! Come here, and I will hang you.” Could he really have said that?

Whether it’s true or not, the story got back to Mother, and no doubt that’s why she urged Father to dismiss Uncle Nikolasha and take command himself. Mother, of course, depends upon Fr. G entirely and thinks he is a saint who gives only the best advice. Anya worships him, and I understand why—he did seem to perform a miracle when she was so badly injured.

Aunt Olga disapproves of Papa’s decision, and so does Grandmère Marie, and probably our other relatives as well. They believe Papa is needed here, as sovereign of the people, and not at the front, because they say he’s not really a military man. But none of this means a thing to Mother, who agrees with everything Fr. G says.

I continue to hear stories from the servants that Fr. G has improper relations with many of the great ladies of Petrograd and Moscow and who knows where else. His behavior toward me and my sisters is always correct, but I do sometimes get the uneasy feeling that he is undressing us with his eyes.

That last part bothered me:
undressing us with his eyes
. Why would he want to do that?

•  •  •

After Papa moved his headquarters and took command of the army, he and Mama began to talk about allowing Alexei to join Papa in Mogilev. They discussed it for days. Papa thought it would be good for Alexei to see more of the country he would some day rule as tsar, to be exposed to masculine influence instead of being surrounded by females who treated him like a china doll. Mama was deeply afraid that something awful might happen to Alexei while he was at Mogilev, that he would seriously injure himself again, but she also believed the presence of the eleven-year-old tsarevich would do tremendous good for the morale of the troops, and also for Papa.

So it was decided. Papa and Alexei left for Mogilev in October, with Alexei’s two doctors, his two sailor-attendants, and Monsieur Gilliard as his tutor, because Mama insisted that he not fall behind in his studies.

Marie and I were still spending long hours at the lazaret, reading to the wounded men, writing letters for them, even teaching some of them to read, and simply keeping them company. How lonely those soldiers must have felt! Then we passed exciting evenings at Alexander Palace knitting woolen socks and sewing shirts for the soldiers. I didn’t dare complain about the dullness—I’d risk a ferocious frown and a barrage of sharp words from Tatiana, all about “duty” and “sacrifice.” But I did wish I could have gone with Alexei and Papa. I envied my brother.

I was thrilled when Mama announced that we were going to visit them. Anya traveled with us. I found this annoying, but Olga felt even more strongly about it:

I’m not sure why Mother has insisted on including Anya in this excursion. Since her accident Anya is plumper than ever, wears the most dreadful clothes and hats, needs a crutch to get around, and—this is what is so embarrassing—behaves like a schoolgirl with a crush whenever she is around Father. I suppose the best thing about Anya, from Mother’s point of view, is that she shares her devotion to Fr. G. He can do no wrong! And not all of Mother’s friends share that opinion. Aunt Ella has deep reservations about him, as does Grandmère Marie, but Anya is on her side, and that must be why Mother puts up with her.

We traveled to Mogilev on the imperial train, a day’s journey, and the train was our home once we’d reached our destination, because the mansion where Papa and Alexei stayed was too crowded to allow for visitors. Alexei could not wait to show us his quarters: He shared Papa’s bedroom, sleeping on an army cot next to Papa’s and closest to the stove. There was a small table by the window where they played dominoes in the evening. “I usually win,” Alexei boasted.

Papa was busy during the mornings of our visit, meeting with the officers, reviewing troops, and so on. Mama seemed content to sit and gaze out over the river. Sometimes she asked to be driven around the town of Mogilev and out into the countryside, taking two of us with her, and stopping now and then to chat with the peasants.

Just before one o’clock each day, several motorcars arrived at the railroad siding and drove us to the mansion for luncheon with the officers. I enjoyed those luncheons, because Papa seemed so calm, so relaxed, almost his old self, now that he was among the
officers and men who were fighting for Russia. In the afternoons we were taken on tours of the area and had a chance to speak with the soldiers. At the end of the day, another fleet of cars was sent to our train to fetch our maids and the dresses and jewels Mama wanted us to wear for dinner with the officers.

“Nothing too bright or elaborate,” she said. “This is wartime and we aren’t attending a ball, but a feminine presence is surely good for the men’s morale.”

When the weather was mild, the officers organized hikes and picnics for us, and one day we boarded a launch and took a long, leisurely cruise on the Dnieper. “I’m sure they need time to relax more than we do,” Mama declared. “We’re doing them a favor coming here.”

During this visit, Marie met a lieutenant who was serving as officer of the day at headquarters. His name was Nikolai Dmitrievich Demenkov, and the next thing I knew, my sister was showing serious symptoms of being in love. Somehow she managed to arrange opportunities to meet him “accidentally.” “Kolya” became part of our regular conversation, as in “Kolya says” this, and “Kolya did” such and such. I missed no opportunity to tease her about him.

At the end of ten days we kissed Papa and Alexei good-bye and boarded our train again for the trip back to Tsarskoe Selo. Papa made plans to take Alexei on a long tour of the battlefront, from end to end. Alexei, who had been marching around at Mogilev in the uniform of an army private with leather boots up to his knees, was beside himself with joy at the prospect. It was hard for Mama to leave Alexei behind, although she must have been pleased to see how happy he was
with his life there—the life of a man. She also had a hard time leaving Papa, because she was always lonely without him. And Marie was downcast as well, for an obvious reason: Kolya.

We were welcomed back by our pets—Mama’s dog, Eira, Olga’s cat, Vaska, Alexei’s dog, Joy, and my spaniel, Jimmy—but learned the sad news that Tatiana’s French bulldog, Ortino, had sickened and died. Tatiana had so loved that misbehaving little dog! But her friend Dmitri Malama had already been informed of the death, and before Tatiana had even dried her tears, a replacement bulldog arrived at the palace. She named the new puppy Ortino the Second.

I asked her, “Do you love Dimka as much as you love the puppies he’s given you?”

Tatiana glared at me and answered in her stern Governess voice, “What a ridiculous question, Nastya! Loving a dog is not the same as loving a person.” Then she softened a little, picked up the new Ortino, and nuzzled him. “This is not a good time for falling in love,” she said. “Dimka is going to the front, and who knows when I’ll see him again.”

I knew what she meant: “
If
I’ll see him again.” Our men were dying by the thousands. Tatiana was right: It was not a good time for falling in love.

•  •  •

A few weeks after our visit to Mogilev, Mama got an urgent telegram from Papa. Alexei had a nosebleed—the result of a terrific sneezing fit while they were traveling to Galicia, where Uncle Nikolasha had had his brilliant victory, to inspect regiments of the Imperial Guard. The bleeding wouldn’t stop, and Papa was bringing him home.

We were with Mama at the station to meet the train when it arrived close to midnight. Alexei’s bandages were soaked with blood, and he was so pale he looked as though he might be dead, except that his eyes were huge with fright. The doctors did everything they could think of, cauterizing the tiny blood vessel in his nose, but nothing seemed to help. The bleeding went on and on. We thought certainly that this was the end and that Alexei was going to die. In a panic, Mama sent for Father Grigory.

We were kneeling around Alexei’s bed, praying with all our hearts, when Father Grigory quietly entered the room. Mama uttered a low moan, but Father Grigory laid a hand on her shoulder, and with the other hand he made the sign of the cross as he gazed down at my brother. “Don’t be alarmed,” he said gently. “Nothing will happen.”

Without another word he walked out of the room and left the palace. Within minutes Alexei was sleeping peacefully. The bleeding had stopped. The crisis was past.

Perhaps Father Grigory, known as Rasputin and hated by so many people, actually was a miracle worker. Or maybe it had just taken a while for the doctors’ efforts to succeed. I didn’t know. All I knew for certain was that Alexei was alive and he was getting better.

CHAPTER 14

A World Turned Upside Down

TSARSKOE SELO, 1916

O
n New Year’s Day, at Mama’s urging, Alexei started keeping a diary, “just like Papa does.” He had a curious habit of writing about things he’d done
before
he actually did them, like describing what he’d eaten for dinner before he even sat down at the table. He claimed that he didn’t always have time later, and anyway, what difference did it make?

“Writing in a diary every single day is boring,” he said. “My
life
is boring,” he complained, adding wistfully, “unless I’m at the front with Papa, and then it’s not.”

The important thing, Papa told him, was to be diligent with his diary. “Someday,” he said, “your future subjects will want to know what your life was like before you became their tsar.”

I saw Olga and Tatiana exchange quick glances, and I could guess what they were thinking
: Will Alexei live long enough to become tsar?

Papa returned to Mogilev. Alexei did not go back with him, and that made both of them sad. It took Alexei a long time to recover from those awful setbacks. Who could imagine that a person could almost die from a sneeze!

We resumed writing to Papa every day. Marie asked him to give her regards to Kolya. She even signed her letters “Mrs. Demenkov,” which I thought was terribly silly. When Demenkov was reassigned to the palace guards and could often be seen from Mama’s balcony, Marie found constant excuses to stand there, waiting for a chance to wave and grin at him and even shout down at him. She persuaded Anya to invite him to tea, and we were all present to observe her flirting. There was nothing subtle about it. And she was overjoyed when she spotted him in church and got to talk to him when we came out. He was not the handsomest boy I’d ever set eyes on, being somewhat chubby, but he did seem pleasant and sweet.

•  •  •

Marie, only sixteen, was still too young to be concerned about a future marriage, but Tatiana would be nineteen in a few months, and Olga was twenty, certainly old enough. If it had been a challenge before the war for our parents to come up with approved suitors, it was now practically impossible.

Then, apparently out of nowhere, Olga got a marriage proposal from Grand Duke Boris Romanov, a son of Papa’s oldest uncle. I hardly knew him, because he wasn’t included in any of our family gatherings. He was thirty-eight and going bald. It was well known that although he was a military man and supposedly in charge of a Cossack regiment, Boris had so far avoided doing any actual fighting. He had a son my age,
but he hadn’t married the boy’s mother. Mama said Boris had a reputation for flirting with married women and doing things that shocked and appalled her.

“All Boris cares about is taking his pleasure wherever he can find it,” Mama sniffed. “Many a woman has shared Boris’s life!”

Mama and Boris’s mother could not stand each other. They were exact opposites. His mother, Grand Duchess Marie Pavlovna, ranked third in the Empire, after Mama and Grandmère Marie, and she loved to entertain at great parties in her grand palace on the Neva. She had sent the marriage proposal jointly with her son.

“That woman is always looking for ways to raise the standing of her profligate son,” Mama said bitterly. “But she will not do it through any daughter of mine.”

And that was the end of that.

•  •  •

Mama and Olga and Tatiana put in long days at the hospital, and Marie and I spent mornings with one or another of our tutors. Every day Pyotr Petrov brought us the latest war news that had come in on the telegraph, and we resumed moving the pins on the big map. When we got good news and the pins moved in the right direction, we were buoyed and cheerful—we were winning the war! But the good news didn’t last, and everything began to go wrong again. Workers went on strike, there were shortages of food, revolutionaries stirred up trouble, and everyone seemed unhappy with everyone else.