Anastasia and Her Sisters (20 page)

Papa and Alexei arrived home to a desolate, grieving family where no one wished to eat, and sleep brought the only relief from our sadness. Papa ordered Dmitri to leave Petrograd immediately and to join the Russian troops fighting in Persia, not even allowing him a chance to say good-bye to his father and receive his blessing. Felix and Irina were banished in disgrace to one of the fifty-seven Yussoupov palaces.

On a bright winter morning, dressed in black mourning clothes, we were driven to the unfinished chapel that Anya was having built in an imperial park at some distance from Tsarskoe Selo. A grave had been dug in a corner of the park, an open wound in the sparkling white snow. The
starets
’s body in a plain wooden coffin arrived in a police motor van. Anya was already there, and Lili Dehn joined the seven of us—not because she loved him, but because she truly loved Mama. Before the coffin was sealed, Mama placed on the dead man’s breast an icon that we had all signed and a letter she’d written to Father Grigory. She’d brought some white flowers and gave some to each of us to scatter on the coffin after it had been lowered into the grave.

And that was the end of Grigory Efimovich Rasputin, our Father Grigory.

CHAPTER 15

After the Murder

TSARSKOE SELO, WINTER 1917

T
he murder of Father Grigory shook all of us, but Mama most deeply. She no longer had the adviser she depended on while Papa was away at the front, and she did not have the comfort of knowing that Father Grigory could do for Alexei what none of his doctors seemed able to do. Father Grigory had often told her, “If I die or you desert me, you will lose your son and your crown within six months.” She believed that.

Papa didn’t return to Stavka in January but spent long days shut up in his study, poring over his maps, planning the army’s next moves. Our “Ethiopian,” the American Negro Jim Hercules, stood guard at his door, hour after hour. Jim knew us well, but he would not let us in to see Papa, even for a minute. It had never been that way in the past. “Strict orders from His Imperial Majesty,” Jim told us stiffly. Then his face relaxed in a grin. “Papa says no.”

When Papa did leave his study, he looked tired. He had always been thin, but he seemed to have lost even more weight. He smoked constantly. This was not the Papa I knew. Both of my parents were different people. So much had changed since we were all in Mogilev.

During his stay in Tsarskoe Selo, Papa had visits from Uncle Sandro, Irina’s father, who made the long journey from his home in Kiev. Uncle Sandro, Papa, and the five of us had luncheon together, but Mama stayed in her boudoir. We made the greatest effort to be cheerful. Uncle Sandro must have felt terrible that Felix, his son-in-law, had done such an awful, horrible, unforgivable thing to Father Grigory. But that was not even mentioned, at least in the presence of me and my sisters and brother. Instead, leaving his food barely touched, our uncle talked about the Russian railways and how they were not able to transport goods.

“The problem has reached a crisis point,” he said. “It’s necessary to discuss this, Nicky. We’re on the verge of a catastrophe, there is no more coal being shipped, food shortages are growing, we are living from day to day, everything is in complete disarray—”

Papa smiled, a wan, unhappy smile, and held up his hand. “Not now, Sandro,” he said. “This is neither the time nor the place for such a discussion. My son and certainly my daughters have no need to be involved in such unpleasant conversations. You’ve told me that you want to talk to Alix about some of the problems facing our beloved country, and she has agreed to do that. But for now, out of consideration for my children, I suggest that we enjoy our meal and put aside such matters until a later time.”

I glanced at my sisters. Olga was frowning, a thin line deepening between her eyebrows. Tatiana’s face was a perfectly expressionless mask. Marie reached for another sweet. Alexei leaped into the conversation. “Uncle Sandro, you should come to Stavka with Papa and me. We’re going back next week, aren’t we, Papa? And it’s so much fun, being with all the soldiers!”

It was hard to believe, but Uncle Sandro ignored Papa’s wish to stop talking about “unpleasant matters.” He barely acknowledged what Alexei had just said and pressed on. “It’s not just a few extremist revolutionaries and troublemakers who are dissatisfied, Nicky,” he insisted. “You must listen to the ministers, the members of the Duma, the Russian people!”

Papa rose slowly to his feet. “That’s quite enough, Sandro. I believe the empress is ready to receive us.” He forced another humorless smile. “Excuse us, please, my darlings,” he said, and steered our uncle out of the dining room.

Alexei was incensed. “He’s rude!” he grumbled.

“Perhaps he’s also right,” Olga said softly—so softly I may have been the only one to hear.

I was curious to see what she would write in her notebook about Sandro’s visit. It was even worse than I expected.

What a terrible day! Uncle Sandro came and asked to meet with Mother. Father was with them. After a tense luncheon, I stood outside the door to her boudoir and tried to listen. Sandro began to argue, his voice growing louder until he was almost shouting. “You must stop interfering, Alix! I say this as your friend of many years, but you refuse to listen. You are doing great harm to your husband and to Russia. Everyone opposes what you are doing. You must stop at once and allow Nicky to share his powers with the Duma.”

I couldn’t make out Mother’s reply, but I could guess what she was saying, because I have heard her say it many times: “The tsar is the autocrat, the absolute ruler by divine right. All power is vested in him, as it should be, and he answers only to God! Certainly not to the Duma!”

Tanya happened to come along and demanded to know why I was eavesdropping. I hushed her and signaled her to listen. Sandro was roaring, “I have been silent for thirty months, while you and Rasputin took over the government. You and Nicky may be willing to die, to let the monarchy die, but what about your family? You are dragging all of us down with you.”

Neither Tanya nor I waited to hear any more. Uncle Sandro’s visit was a lot like Aunt Ella’s visit—very upsetting but accomplishing nothing.

I replaced the notebook and sat shaking on my bed. My dog, Jimmy, jumped up beside me and licked my hand. I stroked his silky ears and tried to think. What was happening to us, to our family? To Russia?

And what was going to happen next?

CHAPTER 16

Abdication

TSARSKOE SELO, MARCH 1917

M
aybe Uncle Sandro was right. Certain basic foods had become scarce. Butter Week almost didn’t happen, not the way it once did. Kharitonov managed to get enough butter and cheese for our blini, but when Count Benckendorff brought Mama the day’s menus, he told her that it was a good thing the Great Fast was beginning.

“The chefs will do their best, Your Majesty, but for the next seven weeks we shall all be eating very simply, even sparingly.”

Since our parents ate simply and sparingly anyway, this news didn’t seem to bother them as much as it did me.

“By Easter things will certainly be better,” Papa said, trying to cheer me up. “We’ll celebrate
Pascha
with a grand feast.”

Harder to endure than our dreary diet was Papa’s decision
late in February to go back to Mogilev—without Alexei. It was a bitterly cold day when we watched him drive off. The guards saluted smartly, frost glistening on their mustaches, and church bells rang out as they always did to mark the tsar’s departure. I thought their clamor sounded mournful, and Alexei was weeping with disappointment.

Within hours after Papa had gone, Olga and Alexei began complaining of headaches. When Dr. Botkin came for his daily visit, he took their temperatures, peered into their throats, and announced his diagnosis: measles. Mama remembered that a week earlier some boys from the military school had come to play with Alexei. One of the cadets was coughing and looked flushed.

“I should have sent him away,” Mama said. “The boy was coming down with measles but we didn’t know it. Alexei caught it, and now Olga, too, is ill. It’s only a matter of time until the rest have it.”

Tatiana and Anya were the next victims. Marie and I did what we could to help, bringing tea for Mama to give to the patients, fetching hot water bottles one minute and ice bags the next. We weren’t allowed in the sickrooms, which were kept dark because light hurt the eyes of the sick ones.

Mama called Lili Dehn and asked her to take the train from Petrograd to spend the day. Whenever Lili came for a visit, she usually brought delightful pastries for our afternoon tea from a shop near her mansion, but this time there were no pastries—only disturbing news.

“People broke into the bakeries, shouting that there was no bread and grabbing whatever they could get their hands
on,” she told us. “The Cossacks drove them off, but only after they’d done a lot of damage. The Cossacks weren’t using their whips—the Duma had ordered them not to interfere. Now the strikes are spreading, and nobody is doing anything to stop them.”

Mama shrugged it off. “They’re just a lot of hooligans trying to make trouble, Lili.”

Lili waited until the servants had poured tea from the samovar and left the boudoir. “Better not to talk about it in front of the servants. You don’t know what they may have heard or what they’re thinking.”

“Good heavens, Lili!” Mama said. “Our servants are completely loyal and trustworthy! They would never cause problems.”

“I’m just suggesting that it’s better to be cautious. You’re awfully isolated here,” she said. “I don’t think you understand how bad it is in the city. It’s been so cold and the snow is so deep that the trains haven’t been able to bring coal and flour into Petrograd. Some say it’s the troublemakers and not just the snow that halted the trains. People are hungry, and they’re angry. They’ve taken to the streets and brought Petrograd to a standstill. I had trouble just getting to the train station.”

“Nicky knows about it. He’s ordered troops from the garrison here in Tsarskoe Selo to settle things. We have nothing to worry about.”

Mama sounded completely confident. Maybe Uncle Sandro was wrong. Papa would solve the problem. I told myself to stop worrying.

But as the day went on, the news kept getting worse: The
soldiers garrisoned at Tsarskoe Selo had defected. Many other units were going over to the revolutionaries, and the railway workers would not let any new troops arrive.

So maybe Uncle Sandro was right! I started worrying again.

Lili’s son, Titi, was at home in Petrograd with his governess. “I’m sure they’ll be fine,” she said. Lili was like Mama, trying to put the best light on the situation, but I could see the anxiety in her eyes.

She decided not to try to get back to Petrograd that day but to stay the night with us. To keep us both occupied, we worked on a jigsaw puzzle, the pieces spread out around us on the carpet. Mama went out to talk privately to the grand marshal. “Count Benckendorff will know exactly what to do.”

Most of the puzzle seemed to be either sky or ocean, some shade of blue or gray. I tried a piece here, a piece there. Progress was slow. Mama came back, dropped into a chair nearby, and watched us. She looked exhausted. She was caring not only for three sick children, but also for Anya, and Anya seemed to require more of her attention than the others did.

“How are you feeling, Nastya?” she asked. I assured her that I felt fine. “No headache or sore throat or fever?”

“I’m fine, Mama, truly.”

“I want you to get plenty of rest,” she said. “Be a good girlie and go to bed now, please.”

I started to protest. I wanted to stay and listen to the conversation, but Lili shook her head, raising one reproving eyebrow, and I dragged myself away. Mama was probably going to tell Lili something—something important—that she didn’t want me to hear.

I went looking for Shura. My governess spent a lot of time with Monsieur Gilliard—I suspected they were in love—and our tutor would no doubt have learned something. He always did. When I found her warming my nightgown by the stove, her eyes were puffy from crying. She helped me undress and put on the cozy nightgown. I sat down at my dressing table, and she began to brush my hair. “Please, Shura,” I begged, “tell me what you know.”

More long, slow strokes of the brush. “Well, I can tell you this much: Your papa ordered a train to take all of you away, but your mama wouldn’t even consider leaving, because so many of you are sick.” Shura paused, brush in midair. “She says she will wait for your papa to come home. She’s sure he’ll be here soon.”

“It’s serious, isn’t it?” I asked her reflection in the mirror.

“Yes, dear child, it’s serious.”

I spun around and faced her. “Shura, why do so many people hate us?”

She stepped behind me and continued brushing to avoid meeting my eyes. “It’s true, many people are angry. But many others are devoted to the emperor and the empress, and they—
we
—will remain loyal, no matter what.” Suddenly the brush fell from her hand. “I beg your pardon, Anastasia Nikolaevna,” she sobbed, and rushed out of the room.