The Romanov Bride

Chapter 25 ELLA

Yes, the revolution took great hold that year of 1905 and caused such turmoil that I thought we would all be washed away. On top of this, the war in Manchuria continued so poorly, and while I could not busy myself with the doings of the Empire, I did have my beloved Moscow and countless wounded and abandoned who were in need of my attention. In essence, I had begun my withdrawal from the magnificent world where fate had cast me, and it was sometime during these months that my great scheme took birth and grew, it seemed, by the day if not the moment.

I accomplished many things, and one of the first things I did was to gather as many of Sergei’s diaries and letters and papers as I could. I myself read only a handful or two of pages, but it was more than I could bear, and so that history would never know the beasts that tore at the poor man’s soul, I took the papers I had gathered and tossed them in the tiled stove in my chamber, burning Sergei’s confessions completely and absolutely. With that accomplished, I turned away from the pain of the past and looked forward to the future.

Too, I prayed for many months for poor Kalyayev’s soul, and in my heart I found forgiveness for his deed, just as I prayed he found forgiveness for any of my sins upon him. I never visited him a second time, but if I had I would have said to him that I told virtually no one of our conversation. My visit to him was reported everywhere, but the thought that I could have betrayed his spiritual confidence was and still is repugnant to me. The only thing I can imagine is that we were secretly listened upon, for someone quite apart from me spread our conversation.

The day my husband was killed was the day I turned away from animal meats and began to wear black garment and avoid festivities of any sort. It was a completely natural step, one that I took without even thinking. From then on, as if the decision had been made for me, I did not even partake of a glass of champagne at a christening and rarely appeared in public, and for these offenses society widely criticized me. But it made no matter what the tongues said, just more petty dishrags. Fortunately, Nicky gave me delicate kindness by permitting me to remain in the Nikolaevski Palace, and that I could live in that house was an intense comfort, and I found great strength and peace being near St. Aleksei’s relics and, of course, near my husband who had been laid to rest in a peaceful chapel of the Chudov. I made a request to Nicky, which was granted, to have the historical furniture taken out of my rooms and stored away with the catalogue kept in the Kremlin, so that after my death all would be put back as it was. With the luxurious appointments removed, I had my chambers painted white and the walls hung with icons, and there were those who with dismiss said my rooms quite resembled a nun’s cell. But I found it full of tranquillity. In addition, I gathered together some tattered pieces of Sergei’s clothing that he had worn on his last day, and I tucked them inside a large hollow cross, which I placed in a corner of my room. This, too, brought me great comfort.

The first step into my scheme was a small one, but that step led to a larger one and to yet another larger after that. That autumn I took a house beyond the walls of the Kremlin, and it was there that I organized a hospital for fifteen wounded soldiers. It was incredibly exciting, I must admit, for this was the first time I had ever been able to do such a thing, organize something beyond my official role without Red Cross or government participation, let alone Sergei’s heavy oversight. Virtually every decision was of my own, and I oversaw each and every detail, not as a Grand Duchess but both as an administrator and nurse. I spent nearly every day there, for it was among the suffering of these simple men that I was able to forget my own grief and, too, learn a new path. I so enjoyed reading to them and writing their letters for them and helping with their meals. They were my big babies.

However, that year was the most disgraceful of times, with many wondering why we were being reprimanded so by God-was it for the banishment of the Jews, for which I had long feared our punishment? Whatever the cause, in summer the war with Japan finally came to an end, albeit disastrously, and to add to our woes our shameful peace sparked such things as the mutiny on the battleship Potemkin. Just a nightmare for our poor Russia, there were so many assassinations, including that of Count Shuvalov, the military governor of the city, who had reached out to me that very day of Sergei’s death-the revolutionaries likewise extinguished him in a most bloody manner. Too, all across the countryside the peasants burned manor house after manor house and killed any number of landlord. It was all a great sin, perpetuated by the revolutionaries who told them that the Emperor himself had granted permission to do such, that is, take the land back from their greedy masters. What was happening to Russia? What disorganization, what disintegration, just like a piece of clothing that was beginning to rip and tear along the seams and fall completely open. Yes, it was the pure revolution.

The busier I kept the more at peace I felt, and yet late that September things took a particularly bad turn in Moscow. It seemed the entire city went out on strike, and the post, telegraph, telephone, and railroad, too, were all shut down. All the trams came to a halt and the bakeries as well, and also to my shock the ballet companies refused to work. Indeed, stranded as we were in the Nikolaevski Palace, the children and I were entirely cut off and abandoned from the outside world, guarded by those whose loyalty was at best dubious. Even the electrical workers walked away, so the entire city was left in dark, only in the distance could one see the glow of buildings that had been set afire. And while the Kremlin had its own power station, we feared turning on lights, so we too sat by oil lamp in the eve, the lamps themselves hidden from the windows-and to this several of my maids said it was all for the best, particularly for the children, as they had heard from someone of authority that reading by unnatural illumination was most poor for the eyes, damaging even. Then late one day came reports that the Kremlin was about to be assaulted and the children taken as hostages, and it was only then that I acquiesced and gave my permission for all the Kremlin gates to be shut and locked. Admittance was by special pass only. Another report claimed that the revolutionaries ’ plan was to catch the new Governor-General of Moscow and kill him, then kill countless other authorities throughout the city and seize the Kremlin along with the Arsenal and, in the hope that the troops would join, hold Moscow, a month later go to Tsarskoye and, of course, the horrible end was only too clear.

One beautiful afternoon toward the end of October we heard a particularly violent ruckus beyond the fortress walls. Street fighting, I could tell from the din, had broken out all over, for one could discern from every direction shouting and cries, any number of horses’ hooves, and the crack after crack of the Cossack whip. Gunfire as well. But I could not and would not be stuck here in the Kremlin, for I had duty, I had made promise.

Glancing out my window, I said, “I am needed at my hospital-there is to be an operation, an amputation, and I must be there to assist.”

“But, Your Highness, it’s far too dangerous,” gasped Countess Olsuvieva, my Grande Maîtresse, “Your carriage would be attacked the moment you were out the gate!”

“Then I’ll go on foot.”

“You mustn’t, Your Highness. Please, I beg you! There’s chaos everywhere. Even if you were to take a guard, your safety could not be guaranteed.”

“No, I won’t take a single person-that also would attract too much attention. I’ll change into something simple and go alone.”

“But it will be night soon!”

I had to admit that since the death of my dear one my reasoning had not been entirely logical, and yet here I knew a different kind of truth, certainly a more important one, and I said, “The soldier who needs my help doesn’t care in the least whether it’s day or night, dangerous or not, and neither do I. All that matters is that his leg is removed soonest so that the gangrene doesn’t spread further.”

My countess could not hide her disapproval, and she obeyed me only with the greatest hesitation, reluctantly helping me rid myself of all my jewelry, right down to and including my rings. Once I had put on an insignificant dress, I summoned our General Laiming.

To my husband’s aide-de-camp I said, “Sir, I am entrusting the children to you while I am away. If there are any disturbances of a profoundly serious nature, I ask you to hide them away or flee if need be.”

“But, Your Highness, where in the name of God are you-?”

“Please do not worry, for I have an important task at hand, and God will watch over me.”

I waved him away and made my way down, careful to keep my plans secret from the children. Exiting the Palace I made toward the Nikolsky Gate, passing the very spot where Sergei had met his end and where, according to my wishes, a large cross had been placed with the inscription, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” I stopped, crossed myself, and continued, leaving the vast complex of the Kremlin via a small portal.

Emerging on the other side of the thick Kremlin walls, I entered a world of chaos such as I had never seen and which in truth broke my heart. The great square before me, always such a source of beauty and national pride, had forever been known as Krasnaya Ploshchad, which in old Russia had meant “the Beautiful Square.” In more modern times, krasnaya also meant a particular color, and I could see that our country had indeed crossed a distinct line and sensed that this place would now forever be perceived by that very color: red.

Yes, I could see the blood of workers and peasants and students splashed across the cobbles.

A gust of wind blew a sheet of paper against my dress. Grabbing at the paper, I saw that it was a printed leaflet, of which, I was sure, thousands had been distributed, and which read: “Brothers! Sisters! Take up arms! Long live the uprising of the exhausted people!”

Tears welled in my eyes as I pressed the leaflet to my heart, and I glanced across the vast space toward the beautiful onion domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral and saw so much more: ripped and torn clothing, a dead horse here and there, rubbish lying about in great quantity, and a number of smoldering carriages. It was through this very square that Nicky and Alix had entered the Kremlin for their coronation, and at that time this place had been a sea of exuberant exultation, thousands upon thousands of joyous subjects casting flowers and hurrahs at their new Emperor and Empress. Today, however, I had heard cries of quite a different nature, those of rage and desperation, and with my own eyes I could see that what had been cast were not flowers but pitchforks and, too, cobblestones dug up from the pavements.

God save and protect Russia…

I was one of but two or three souls about, and I wiped at my eyes and crossed the square. Making haste, I passed by one end of the Upper Trading Row and descended into the narrow, twisting streets of Kitai Gorod. All seemed relatively quiet, in fact eerily peaceful, but this calm was soon shattered by a sudden breaking of glass and any number of shouts and coarse words. Of course I should have just continued on my way to my hospital, but I couldn’t, for so much more than my curiosity had been aroused, specifically my need to understand. Turning a corner, I headed toward the sound of rage and destruction, which grew more pronounced each and every second. I heard a scream, and yet another-good Lord, was someone being beaten to death?

And then from behind me came the clamorous noise of charging horses, their hooves thundering on the cobbles. I froze, glanced back, saw dragoons, their swords and whips drawn, coming round a corner and charging down the street right toward me. Making haste, I ducked into a small side alley, and within moments these men, some fifteen or so Cossacks on horseback, stormed past. No sooner had they disappeared around the next corner than a roar of panic and desperation emerged. A shot was fired, then another and another. I heard the clear sound of sword clanking upon metal, and of whips cracking here and there with rapidity. Above everything came the sudden wailing of a man or woman, just which I couldn’t tell, so shrill was the pitch.

I was only several blocks from my hospital, and for a moment I wondered if I should abandon my venture altogether and return with haste to the safety of the Kremlin and the beauty of my Palace. In truth, however, this was not a real consideration. Perhaps I had simply been taught well by my mother, for I did feel an intense need to go out amongst the people to better understand their plight, and so gathering up my dress, I stepped out of the alleyway and hurried directly toward the mayhem. A half block down I turned and came upon a small opening, a square of sorts, and I froze in place, horrified by what I saw. A war was taking place here, with shop windows shattered, and barrels of sauerkraut and herrings and salted gherkins smashed all about the ground, and any number of bodies lying about bleeding too. The Cossacks had been called in to suppress whatever had been happening here, and they were going about their task with aggressive devotion. Across the way I saw two mounted soldiers whipping a man, who tumbled to the ground, and, there, not fifty paces from me another Cossack was beating a boy with the flat of his sword.

I covered my mouth in horror and stepped forward, standing as still as a statue.

It was then that a Cossack spotted me and started charging toward me, his whip raised high, for of course he was completely unaware that I was part of the Imperial Family, not the rose thereof but her sister nonetheless. Yet I would not be intimidated, not because of my lofty rank but because my soul commanded me strength. As this bearded man with high hat raced at me, I raised my right hand. Still he came, with greater and greater speed, but I stood calmly, not so much as flinching. With three fingers I slowly pecked at my forehead, my lower stomach, my right shoulder, my left. Still he did not stop, and as the horse charged right at me, it seemed if nothing else that I would be run down by the beast. At the last moment, though, the Cossack, nimble horseman as were they all, veered to the side, and man and horse swooped past only a few hands from my left side, leaving me standing and my garment flapping wildly about in the vacuum.

And then with a whoop the Cossacks were gone, hurrying off in pursuit of a handful of young men who were fleeing down a side street.

All fell quickly and disturbingly quiet, the silence broken here and there only by desperate sobs, for there were a handful of people lying about in pain. The time-honored and hallowed manner of dealing with dissent or disturbance in Russia had always been the iron fist and, of course, the whip. Like all the Grand Dukes, my husband had been a great proponent of such, for amongst society it was widely believed that our uneducated masses understood nothing but force and could be controlled by nothing but a master’s power from above.

And yet… these were not animals…

Neither were they peasants or workers. No, it all came into my mind quite quickly, for judging by the clothing of those who had fled and of those who were left lying about-clothing that was neither fine nor ragged-these people, all seemingly young, were quite different. What were they, then, who were they?

Overwhelmed by the conflict, I rushed forward. First I came to a young man with the soft face of a boy, the silken blond hair of a child, and a bloody whip mark across his cheek. Reaching out, I helped him to his feet.

“What happened here?” I begged.

“There was a demonstration not far from here… we… we tried to force our way into the city council.”

“We? Who is this ‘we’?”

“A group of us from the University.”

“And this, the shops? Did you do all of this, break these windows and ravage these places?”

“The city is on strike!” said this boyish man in a surprisingly deep voice. “And these shopkeepers defied us. They stayed open during the strike, and so they got their punishment!”

“But-”

We both heard it then, another whoop, more clattering of hooves. Were the Cossacks coming back, or were they merely charging down a nearby street?

“Madame, you must get out of here before they return!” the young man said, turning and hobbling off. “Go, get out of here! Run! They show no mercy!”

He scurried off, as did a few others, terrified of what might come next. But I couldn’t move, so overwhelmed was I by the destruction. Were the people really so desperate? Was this really their only recourse?

Off to the side I saw a woman struggling to rise, and I hurried to her. She was a pretty, young thing, reddish hair, long blue skirt, her fair face now smeared with grime and a curl of blood.

“Please,” I said, reaching toward her with outstretched hands.

She accepted my aid and I pulled her to her feet. For a moment it seemed she might faint, and I clutched her.

“Oi, bozhe moi!” Oh, dear God, she cried, holding her side. “One of… one of them came alongside me and kicked me with his stirrup. But Misha…” she moaned, tears welling in her eyes as she searched the small square. “Where’s my Misha?”

“This Misha, he’s your-”

“My husband…” she said, starting to cry. “Misha! Mishenka, where are you?”

“I’m sure he’s fine, I’m sure you’ll find him. But please, child, let me help you. I know of a small hospital not too far away,” I said, nodding in the direction of my very own place.

I ripped away part of my sleeve, and with this scrap blotted at the blood seeping from her mouth. I prayed that she’d merely broken a rib, that there was nothing more serious damaged within her.

“I can’t leave!” she said almost in panic. “What if he’s lying somewhere? What if he’s hurt and he needs me?”

“Let’s just get you taken care of first. Let me get you to the hospital and I’ll come back and look for your Misha.”

Her eyes welled with a torrent of tears. “But-”

“Come along, the hospital’s just down several streets, just this way.”

“Wait, you can’t mean the hospital run by one of them, do you?”

“Them?” I hesitantly asked, fearful of the answer.

“Yes, them, the Romanovs, I’ve heard it’s run by one of their stupid cow princesses.”

“Why… yes… of course…” I managed to mutter.

“No,” she pleaded. “No, I won’t go there. Haven’t you heard, don’t you know? It’s the talk of the neighborhood.”

I felt a greater pain than any whip or sword could inflict as I inquired, “Know what, my child? What are you talking about?”

“That hospital is for officers and aristocrats only. They say they won’t help any of us!”

“No,” I gasped as if the wind had been knocked from me. “No, I’m quite sure that’s not true.”

“Yes, it is! I heard it from one of the strike organizers. He told us all about it, all about a babushka who went there for help. She was so sick, and all they gave her was dirty water!”

“No!”

“Yes, this striker told me he’d seen it all with his own eyes, that the Romanovs gave this old babushka dirty water with poison and she died the very next day, writhing in pain!” exclaimed the girl. “I won’t go there!”

And with that the girl, painfully clutching her side, hobbled off. Within moments she had disappeared, leaving me paralyzed with grief and with only one shocking thought:

Dear Lord, when and how had we come to be so widely hated?