Romanov Page 3

  I plopped on the bed, grabbed the corset I loathed wearing, and set to work opening a seam. “At least there’s something we can do to resist this revolution.”

  “Tishe,” Tatiana hushed. She pored over her work as though stitching a soldier’s head wound—something she’d done plenty of times during the war. It reminded me that this was a mission. I needed to remain on guard.

  I tucked a strand of pearls between the ribbing of my corset, then threaded my needle. I pinched it too tightly as I shoved it through the material and it pricked me. We would not be able to pack any riches in our valises when we joined Papa, Mamma, and Maria. We would have to wear the jewels so that, should we escape the Red Army’s hold, we had money with which to live on.

  “Do you think we will join them soon?” Tatiana, at least, would give me a straight answer. She was like Papa in that way.

  Tatiana shoved a diamond bracelet into the hem of her coat cuff. “It will likely be another few weeks.”

  I sewed a thick length of cloth over my seam. “We’ve received no news. Are you . . . concerned?” I pulled the stitches tight so they would withstand any upcoming travel.

  “Double knot it.” Her needle flew through the fabric. “Of course I wish we had news, but I think the Bolsheviks are keeping it from us. They will let a letter through soon.”

  “Accursed Bolsheviks.” I knotted my thread so forcefully, it snapped. A prickle swept up my arms and I snapped my gaze toward the doorway.

  Zash the Bolshevik stood there watching us. My hands stilled. How did he arrive so silently? And how much had he heard? His sneer of loathing told me he’d caught at least my muttered curse. I gave him a sheepish grin. “Can you blame me?”

  Tatiana knotted her thread before giving him a more sophisticated response. “Do you bring news, sir?”

  “You are to do your mending and recreational activities in the sitting room.” He no longer wore his budenovka hat, and I took in his sweep of black hair. He stood out from the other Bolsheviks with his prominent cheekbones. The textured coloring of his skin spoke of many years spent beneath the sun. Not smooth and even like the men in the palaces. His was a soldier’s skin. A wild skin. I quite liked it.

  “In addition, doors to bedrooms are no longer allowed to be closed.”

  “What about for sleeping?” I exclaimed.

  “Not even then.”

  I opened my mouth, but Tatiana rested a hand on my arm. “We will comply, of course.” Her calm tone echoed Papa’s heart. I snapped my mouth shut. Humility. Obedience. For Papa.

  But leaving our doors open would release the small amounts of heat we managed to keep in our sleeping quarters. It would be freezing. And no privacy! Not even to change clothing!

  Zash stayed in the doorway until we’d gathered up our sewing. The “medicines” remained tucked in our baggage, waiting for us to take out piece by piece. I was lucky I’d gotten that pearl bracelet sewed up in time.

  Tatiana led the way to the sitting room, but I took longer, releasing my irritation upon my corset and overcoat as I folded them. It wasn’t Zash’s fault. He was delivering orders, so by the time I’d gathered my mending, I was in a proper state of mind.

  “Thank you for delivering the message.” I gave him a bright smile.

  He glowered. “You can drop the feigned kindness.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “It’s not feigned. It’s not easy either, but what is there to gain from animosity?”

  He closed our bedroom door and strode down the hall. I jogged to catch up. “Do you enjoy your hatred of us?”

  “You are no longer a grand duchess. I have no obligation to converse or bow to you.”

  My face warmed. “I am still a person. I do not expect conversation or bows. Just some cordial humanity!”

  “You and your family destroyed our country!” he burst out, stopping in the middle of the hall. “Your father’s one job was to care for the people. Instead, he hardly knew them. And because of your golden halls and fancy palaces, you have no idea what you’ve done to the citizens of Russia.”

  My jaw hung open. I had no argument. I had been raised differently. We weren’t among the common folk much, but I knew Papa. I knew his heart. I knew how Olga and Tatiana had served soldiers. I knew our love for the people. Did they not know that we loved them? Had they never known?

  Suddenly I wanted to know Zash’s story. He wasn’t an enemy. He was a confused Bolshevik who didn’t understand me . . . and I didn’t understand him. I reached for his arm and my folded corset tumbled to the ground. “Then tell me. I want to know.”

  He jerked away, seemingly taken aback by my response. “It’s too late. Just . . . just obey our orders and stop . . . stop talking to me.”

  I picked up the corset and followed him the rest of the way to the sitting room. I wanted to understand him. But he was wrong about us, too. We’d slept on cots, made our own beds, worn simple Russian clothing, and adored the Alexander Palace filled with wood furniture and rustic necessities rather than the gold walls of the Catherine Palace. Papa and Mamma had raised us to love family, not luxury.

  Papa didn’t want his throne back. All we craved was to be released to build a cottage somewhere. But I gathered that Zash wouldn’t believe that any more than he believed my kindness was genuine.

  * * *

  Maria’s first letter struck our household like the blade of an ax to a fallen log.

  We are not in Moscow.

  Papa had no trial.

  They have given us to the Bolsheviks.

  I stared at it, jaw slack, voice clogged as though I’d swallowed a pelmeni whole. They didn’t give Papa a trial? They didn’t send us to a new quiet home. Instead . . .

  “What does it say?” Dread hung thick in Alexei’s question. He could see on my face that something was wrong. I didn’t try to hide it. Not from Alexei. He’d remained frail—losing even more weight and unable to walk on his own. I tried not to be angry at his illness. It wasn’t his fault, and yet it kept us trapped in this Tobolsk house. Trapped waiting. Wondering.

  Abandoned.

  “Bolsheviks.” My mouth moved but my voice resisted, as though to say it aloud would speak it into existence. “There was no trial. They . . . they handed them—us—over to the Bolsheviks. For exile.” The enemy. Those who wished us dead. I passed him the letter with a trembling hand.

  Where I read only as much as I could swallow, Alexei scanned the entire letter, his eyes widening with each line. But he didn’t stop. He charged through the fire of information, despite the burns on our hearts. And he filled in the blanks I hadn’t been bold enough to read. Each sentence sliced like the swing of a pendulum.

  Tick. “They are in Ekaterinburg.” Tock. “They were sent by train.” Tick. “They were searched upon their arrival.” Tock. “We are to follow . . .”

  His voice trailed off and his gaze dropped to his legs. His electrotherapy machines. As though summoned by his fear, a cough broke through his chest. Dry. Wheezing. Bending his body with a gnarled hand.

  I didn’t know how to comfort him. I couldn’t heal him. The Bolsheviks were no longer just our guards. Now we belonged to them.

  Alexei wasn’t ready to travel.

  Exile would kill him.

  * * *

  My corset poked and pinched, but I knew—as with any pair of new boots or rough collar—I would build up a tolerance to the discomfort. I would have to, for I’d rarely be taking off these jewel-lined underclothes.

  Our trunks were packed with belongings and our hearts packed with memories. We would be leaving for Ekaterinburg once Commandant Yurovsky returned to gather us.

  I prayed he would come swiftly so I could be with my family.

  I prayed he would be delayed so Alexei could rest and heal as much as possible.

  I replied to Maria’s letter, telling her of our surprise at her news and our plans to join them as soon as possible. I wrote how Alexei was weak and thin, yet he seemed to be growing stronger through sheer willp
ower. All that remained was for me to pack the Matryoshka doll. I hadn’t touched it—the more dust it gathered and the more it blended in, the less the Bolsheviks would suspect it meant anything.

  Commandant Yurovsky arrived one week later. I followed Olga and Tatiana to the entryway so we could welcome him. “Behave,” Olga said before we descended the stairs.

  “Of course I’ll behave.” I would behave exactly as I always did.

  “You will leave in the morning,” Yurovsky announced the moment we three sisters entered. No greeting. No formalities. “All belongings will undergo inspection.”

  His Bolsheviks stood behind him, tall and stiff in freshly brushed uniforms. Zash stared at the back of Yurovsky’s head as though it bore a shining crown.

  The Tobolsk soldiers—our friendly soldiers—formed a separate clump, looking uncomfortable and out of place.

  “Inspection?” I asked Yurovsky. “What are you hoping to find? Perhaps we can help you.” I smiled sweetly, enjoying the press of diamonds against my ribs. Olga pinched my arm. Tatiana sighed.

  “I am expecting to find compliance.” Yurovsky pulled a pocket watch from his coat lining, glanced at the face, then snapped it shut.

  Olga, Tatiana, and I waited. He stared us down as though waiting for us to squirm. But I was no worm, and despite Olga’s tender heart, she could brandish a tongue of fire hotter than a crackling hearth.

  “You may begin,” Yurovsky said to his stone-faced soldiers. They broke from their lines and panic blossomed in my chest. The doll. My gaze found Zash’s. He appeared as moody as every other time we had interacted. It could have been my imagination, but it seemed as though he made a beeline for the hallway toward our bedroom.

  “I will go pack,” I said softly, but loud enough for Yurovsky to hear. I needed to make it sound like resignation, not desperation.

  Two Bolsheviks entered Mamma and Papa’s room. Another one entered Alexei’s. Joy, the spaniel, stood guard between Alexei and the soldier. Olga broke from our threesome to accompany Alexei during the search.

  I quickened my steps to catch Zash. I suspected he chose my bedroom because he mistrusted me. From the moment he stepped into the library he knew I was hiding something.

  I entered only a few steps behind him and the Matryoshka doll seemed to glow from the shelf over to my left. So I gestured to the left—because to gesture away from my valuables would raise more suspicion. “My trunks are there.” I pointed to the back right. “And those are Tatiana’s and Olga’s.”

  Zash surveyed the room for a moment. I waited for him to move toward one set of trunks or the other . . . or the doll. “You may go.”

  I was not accustomed to being sent out of my own space. I wanted to argue, but I imagined Papa’s voice in my mind—urging me to be kind to the Bolsheviks. To show them who we really were and to reflect what we hoped Russia would become.

  Humility. Ugh.

  “Of course, sir.” I bowed my head—and only my head, because my pride was a steel rod in my spine. I left, although walking up the hallway felt as if I strained against a current of resistance in my mind.

  I could only pray that Zash did not find the doll. There was no reason for him to suspect it. There wasn’t even a way to open it to find the spell Papa claimed it contained.

  What did Yurovsky command the soldiers to search for? Jewels? Hidden spells? Diaries? I headed to the kitchens to see if the cook, Kharitonov, needed help baking the day’s bread. I needed a distraction and was thankful he allowed us girls to help him. The heat from the baking oven warmed us beyond what the hearths upstairs could do.

  But the kitchen was empty. No bits of food to snatch. Only a basket of eggs sat on the windowsill, likely never to be eaten by us since we were leaving in the morning. Who would eat them? The Bolsheviks?

  Finally Kharitonov returned and we set to work. Olga joined us, too, her hair a nervous frizz. Tatiana was likely upstairs ensuring that Yurovsky had all the compliance he wanted. She was better at hiding her emotions than Olga or I.

  We expelled our anxiety through stirring, chopping, and kneading. “Bread dough has seen many an anxious person through difficult times,” Kharitonov remarked. “It is very receptive to abuse.”

  I punched my fist into the yeasty mass of dark rye.

  “Precisely, Nastya.”

  Commandant Yurovsky settled at his new post—a desk in the entryway. Throughout the day, he stared at his pocket watch as though counting down the minutes until he could send us to exile.

  We gathered with our servants for a farewell meal of borscht and hazel hen with rice. We also shared two bottles of wine that Kharitonov had kept hidden from the Bolsheviks and guards. Merriness bolstered our hearts, knowing we’d soon be on our way to our parents.

  After hours, the soldiers finally finished their inspections. I tried not to run back to my room. My valise already held most of the necessities—a change of clothing, writing utensils, and three books: Pushkin for my sanity, the Bibliya for my soul, and the German book on spell mastery for my education. Likely they were ruffled from Zash’s inspection.

  When I entered the room, my gaze went straight to the shelf on the left wall. The dusty, glittering objects seemed untouched. But a gap of air sat between the music box and the jeweled figure of a ballerina as though it were an artifact in itself.

  Papa’s Matryoshka doll was gone.

  3

  He’d found it. Zash had found the doll. How?

  I forced myself to fiddle with the valise buckle as though I was still packing, just in case Yurovsky or Zash were somehow watching for my reaction. But how could they? How could they have known?

  Yurovsky had been here for barely a day. If he’d discovered that we were harboring old spells, he would have said something when he was here weeks ago. We’d have been confronted and punished.

  It had to have been Zash. Somehow he’d known I took it from the library. Or maybe he saw it added to my room. I didn’t know how—but it was him.

  I had to get it back.

  The question was how. It was nightfall, and to wander around the house in the darkness would arouse suspicion. But I was good at sneaking around. My best time to search for the doll would be in the morning—with the light as my ally. Although we were to leave early. I needed to buy time.

  A delay.

  My favorite grin slipped out—the one that preceded a particularly fantastic prank. All it would cost me was a basket of eggs.

  * * *

  I rose before dawn, dressed, and carried my belongings to the entryway. Commandant Yurovsky would have no reason to accuse me of noncompliance.

  I was an angel.

  A few soldiers patrolled the corridors, eyes red and postures askew. They’d been on night watch and seemed far less rested than usual. Probably because now that Yurovsky was there, they actually stood watch the entire night.

  Yurovsky moved into the entryway as I plopped my valise by the door. I acted as though he wasn’t there, but I felt his gaze and it boiled my skin. Thankfully he would not be accompanying us to Ekaterinburg.

  I tried to look busy, and when the first startled cry broke the morning silence, I gasped like the rest of the servants. I must say, I almost convinced myself of my surprise.

  Yurovsky tilted his head—a minor acknowledgment of the distressed person. When a second cry was followed by a third, I put on my most concerned face and strode toward the noise—toward the soldiers’ hallway.

  Yurovsky was right behind me.

  I added a panicked little run to my steps. Yurovsky’s methodical stride down the hallway did not increase or decrease. A clockwork commandant. I appreciated his lack of alarm, because it allowed me to burst into the soldiers’ quarters a few seconds before him and take in the scene.

  Several soldiers sat on their bunks with boot in hand. Strings of egg yolk stretched from their gooey socks to the boot interior.

  “What is going on here?” Yurovsky demanded, halting behind me.

  “Ra
w eggs!” one of the Bolsheviks exclaimed. “Raw eggs in our boots!”

  The soldiers who had not yet slipped their feet into their boots dumped them over and, sure enough, eggs rolled out. Several of them chuckled. I scooted out of Yurovsky’s way, but not before Zash met my eyes, a question in his.

  He wore both his boots already, dressed and awake for duty. No egg debacle for him.

  “Oh, is that all?” I said to the distressed room. “I thought someone was injured!” I turned on a heel and walked away, leaving Yurovsky to sort out the mess.

  “You, go question the cook and find out who did this.” Yurovsky showed a level of control that didn’t surprise me from such a man as he. I didn’t want to be in his path, because the calmest voices could carry the cruelest words. But the footsteps that strode down the hall behind me were not clockwork. They were quick—a soldier on an errand. And I knew just which soldier the commandant had sent.

  Zash came alongside me. “Interesting that I was spared.”

  I shrugged and kept walking. “And why not? I would hate for you to track egg into the library. Or into my bedroom.”

  “That was extremely immature.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Those who cannot laugh cannot properly live.”

  “It was wasteful. Those eggs could have gone to the people.”

  Enough was enough. We rounded a corner and I faced him full on, coming to a stop in front of the kitchen door. “Why did I receive no report of the items you confiscated when you searched my room? Commandant Yurovsky has said nothing to me—did you report the items to him?”

  Zash’s gait hiccupped and he straightened into official Bolshevik stance, as though affronted. My words implied that he had kept my items—my Matryoshka doll—for himself.

  “I found nothing during my search of your rooms. Should I check again?” He sounded so serious. So confident. Even a little baffled.

  That tiny glimpse of confusion made me pause. “N-No. I . . . I . . .” Oy, what to say. “I suppose I’m sensitive because of our swift departure. I feel so . . . out of sorts.” That sounded like a nice girlish response. Perhaps he’d buy it.