The Romanov Bride (3 page)

After months of working, working, working, we came to realize one day that our prospects were not so very bright after all. And that is precisely why we decided to go to one of Father Gapon’s tearooms, which was called the Society of Russian Factory Hands. It was open to all, including Finns, Poles, and even Zhidki, the Yids. Simply, we wanted a better life. I had a child coming, and I didn’t want the little one to grow up in the filth of that cellar. I didn’t want to work every waking moment of my life, breathing the foul air from the smelter, only to die not as a human being but some kind of rat. And I didn’t want the little one getting ill with no medical help at hand. So we went to one of these tearooms organized by the Father Gapon, where only tea and mineral waters were served-absolutely no vodka-and where each meeting was opened and closed with prayer. And there, in the Assembly Hall, we heard about the condition of the worker and the need for betterment of his life and so on. It seemed very promising and very good at first. Father Gapon himself spoke with such power, and the portrait of Otets Rodnoi, Batushka-Our Own Dear Father, the Tsar-hung on the wall, and really there was no dark talk whatsoever. None. In fact, many praised our system-that we had an autocrat who stood above all classes and nobles and bureaucrats, a God-given leader who, when he learned of our sufferings, would make things right with a single ukaz.

But then the great strikes of January, 1905, broke out. It all started at the very place where I was employed, the Putilov Works, when three or four men were unjustly fired. I can’t even remember why they were sacked, but the manager, Smirnoff, who could easily have fixed the problem, only succeeded in making it worse by doing nothing, absolutely nothing. And so the list of demands from the workers grew and grew-including better ventilation for us smiths, which pleased me greatly-but when there was no agreement, all 13,000 of us walked out. Almost immediately the Schau Cotton Mills in the Vyborg Quarter stopped work, even work at the Semyannikov Shipyard and the Franco-Russo Shipyard ground to a halt, too. Why, by the end of the first week of January it all became a general strike-nearly 150,000 workers refusing to do anything!-and it scared the government a great deal because we were at war with the Yaposki, the Japs, in Manchuria and the production of ships and cannons and uniforms had completely stopped. I tell you, it was all amazing. Shocking even, especially for Shura and me. We were not but a few months in the capital-mere minnows! -and the world around us was being swept away by a great wave. It was all so very different from life in our quiet village.

It must have been that Friday that someone gave us a hectograph copy of an amazing idea-that we were all to go to the Tsar! Of course Shura, as the daughter of a priest, could read very nicely, and with a strong voice she recited:

Workers, Wives, Children!

We will gather together and all go to Batushka, the Dear Father Tsar, and bow before Him and tell Him how we, His children, hurt. We will tell Him how we toil and suffer and live in starvation. We will tell Him how the master foremen and bureaucrats at the factories fleece us. True, it is true, Batushka does not know how we need His help. But once He does our lives will become easier. For the sake of Mother Russia, let us gather! Let us march to Batushka and bow and kneel before Him so that He can bathe us with His love!

This was how we learned of the great demonstration, and the instant we learned about it, why, Shura and I were seized with excitement. Immediately we set off for Father Gapon’s Assembly Hall where we had drunk tea and which, by the time we got there, was already packed, so packed that people were fainting from lack of oxygen. When the kerosene lights even started going out because of the bad air, why, that was when I grabbed a copy of the petition and rushed my pregnant Shura from the hall. But it was a beautiful idea, so beautiful in its simplicity: We would all march peacefully to the Winter Palace, where Father Gapon would hand our Tsar-Batushka a petition telling him of our needs. It was even promised that the Sovereign himself would be there to receive us and hear of our sufferings.

“Oh, Pavel, we must go!” exclaimed my Shura, her face radiant with a smile, her breath steaming in the winter air.

“You just want to see the Tsar!” I laughed knowingly.

“Yes, you’re right. I want to see him because once he sees all of us kneeling before him, once he sees our love for him, he will understand how much we suffer. And then he will make everything right, our Tsar-Batushka will ease our pain and make our lives good. Just listen to the words on this paper.” And with a trembling hand she lifted up this paper, this plea to our Tsar, and read: “ ‘Sovereign! We, workers and inhabitants of the city of Sankt Peterburg, members of various classes, our wives, children, and poor old parents, call upon Thee, Sovereign, to seek justice and protection. We are poor and downtrodden, buried beneath work, and insulted. We are treated not like humans but slaves…’ ”

Shurochka read on and on, and I must tell you, it thrilled both of us, these words, calling for such unheard-of things as freedom of speech, equality for all before the law, compulsory and free education, and even an eight-hour workday. These things delighted me because in them I saw not just simple hope but a real future for my young family. Yes, with promises like these we could stay in the city, we could build a real life.

We could even prosper.

Like all women of my time, I was carefully taught in the arts of needlework, piano, and painting. It was the latter of these that I found most appealing. Often in the mornings I could be found at my desk, if not writing a letter, then drawing a design-a flower or forest scene-on an envelope or on the edge of a piece of blank stationery, which I would later write on and send.

One day soon after New Year’s as we were slowly but surely settling into our apartments in the Nikolaevski Palace of the Kremlin, I was doing just that, painting an envelope there in my cabinet. Hearing a quiet knock at my open doorway, I raised my head and saw standing there not only one of my footmen dressed in his fine white uniform but also my dear little dog, Petasha. Immediately I smiled, for in my eager companion’s mouth was a piece of paper.

“Come, my little postman!” I called.

With that, Petasha, a fox terrier of great personality, burst forward. The entire Palace, from servant to prince, took great joy in this pup and the way she delighted in bringing me my mail, and I lifted an envelope from her mouth as carefully as if I were taking a letter from a silver platter.

“Thank you, dorogaya maya.” My dear.

Good Petasha was gone as quickly as she had come, leaving me with a smile upon my face and a letter in hand. My good humor quickly vanished, however, when I recognized the handwriting of my sister, Alicky. Oh, dear. These days I had nothing but worry for her and Nicky.

Quickly opening the letter, I read:

My Own Darling,

Surely you have heard what worrisome times we are passing through here in the capital, and yet I write to tell you we are holding up well. Reports come daily that the strikes in the city have been terrible, and we hear of a socialist priest who is at the head of some dark movement. Apparently he plans to lead a great march upon the Winter Palace, hoping to deliver some paper-saying what we do not know-to Nicky. It’s all very concerning, of course, but we are told everything is under control and my dear, dear Nicky seems not too concerned.

Yes, it’s difficult these days, and I am generally very tired. The children, though, are well, and Baby is a continual bright spot in these…

My eyes flew over the last sentences, and then I clutched the letter and let my hands fall to my lap. Dear Lord, what was happening? What troubles lay ahead? I worried so for Alicky and Nicky, and I worried so for my new country and how it seemed to be coming apart. Nicky, I feared, was not being tough enough, for he was far too sweet to wield a strong hand like his father. Where were the ministers he needed? Where was the proper advice? I supposed it was a good thing that Alicky and he had their main residence outside the capital in Tsarskoye Selo-the countryside and the air were so good there-but I feared our royal couple was becoming too distant not simply from society but from events in general.

Oh, poor, poor Alicky, I thought, glancing out the window at the snowy courtyards of the Kremlin. For ages the entire Empire had been waiting and praying for a miracle, which was finally delivered upon us this past year: Alicky had given birth to a beautiful boy, Aleksei.

And yet…

I shook my head with grief. Yes, Russia had her heir to the 300-year-old House of Romanov, and, yes, the treasured boy was a wonderful, handsome child. But I knew the horrible truth, I knew what only a small handful did, that the dear, sweet baby was a bleeder. Only three or four of us in the immediate family knew this sad story, while to the rest of the Ruling House, the Empire, and the entire world, this fact was guarded as nothing less than a state secret. And so my poor sister suffered alone and in silence, forever fearful that her precious baby, her Alyosha, would befall the same fate as our own brother Frittie: he would simply bump himself and bleed to death. In the past year poor Alicky had aged ten.

Hopeful that my husband might know more, I wiped my eyes and rose from my desk. Stopping in front of a mirror, I checked myself, for Sergei expected nothing less than perfection from me. I primped at my fair hair, pinched at my cheeks, and made sure that the pale-pink satin dress I wore-which was decorated with a delicate pattern of acacia and was of my own design-was flattering. Although I had a weakness for jewels, Sergei was even more fond of them, and he was forever showering me with precious gifts. He often informed me which jewels he wanted to see on a specific day, and today he had told me to wear the large freshwater pearl earrings and long pearl necklace, all so perfectly matched in color and size. Yes, they were beautiful, I thought, straightening them. Then, as confidently as I could, I headed out, making my way toward the large front staircase and down to Sergei’s office on the ground level.

My husband was loath to be interrupted during his workday, but nevertheless the large, uniformed guard opened the double door for me. Entering Sergei’s cabinet, I found him in undress uniform at his large walnut desk, which was covered with photographs in Fabergé frames, jeweled mementos, and other bric-a -brac. After a moment or two of my standing there, he raised his head.

“What is it, my child?” he said in his slow Sankt Peterburg drawl.

Sergei was tall and thin, with both his light beard and hair cropped short, and while he was pleasing in appearance, he was forever hesitant to smile. Though he had received much criticism for his stern rule of Moscow, I could honestly say none worked harder, which was why he was clearly annoyed by my presence during his working hours.

“I’ve just received a letter from Alix,” I said. “Apparently there’s a group that plans to march upon the Winter Palace.”

“Yes, I’m aware of this. I’ve been receiving steady reports for the last week.”

“Oh…” I replied, surprised, though I shouldn’t have been that Sergei had not mentioned it. “Well… is there danger? Is there anything to worry about?”

Sergei reached for a pen and bottle of ink. “I’ve been informed this morning that this band of dissolutes means the Emperor harm.”

“Dear Lord…”

It had been over 20 years since Sergei’s father-and Nicky’s grandfather-was assassinated by revolutionaries, who’d thrown a bomb at the royal carriage and blown off the Emperor ’s legs. Ever since the entire Ruling House had been living in the shadow of that nightmare, forever fearful that it would happen again. For this reason, Sergei had practically dedicated his life to ridding the Empire of ungratefuls, which was why, sadly, his tenure as Governor-General had begun with the expulsion of the Jews from Moscow. Though I hadn’t been privy to great information at the time, I’d since heard that altogether some 20,000 souls had been herded out of Moscow, some to Siberia, most off to the Pale, women and children alike, and all in the freezing cold of winter, no less. While Sergei had always felt this had been wisely done for security, I had seen in it nothing but shame, and could not believe that for this we would not be judged in some way in the future.

Had that time now come? Were the dark days now falling upon the Empire merely a kind of retribution for the sad events of fourteen years past?

“Does this mean Nicky won’t be there, that he won’t meet them at the Palace?” I asked, tightly clasping my hands.

“The Director of Security has insisted that Nicky refrain from greeting these marchers. In fact, for the Emperor’s own safety they are requesting that he and Alicky not travel to the city for the next week but remain at their residence in Tsarskoye. ”

With that, Sergei picked up a document, which he began to read, and I retreated from his office, overcome with worry. So my sister and her husband would be safe… for now. But the shame of it all, Russia ’s Emperor all but imprisoned behind the gilded fence of his own Palace.

Oh, and what a tragedy that march turned out to be… how sinful, how painful. I still weep at the lost opportunity.

For weeks it had been dark and snowy in Peterburg, of course. And cold, so incredibly cold. But that morning of the march the sun came out in all its glory. True, it was still awfully chilly and there was snow on the ground-after all, it was January-but rarely do you see so bright a day in the middle of a Russian winter, the sun so low but so sharp, cutting across the roofs and into our faces. Just gorgeous.

And because of this beauty you could see it everywhere, hope on everyone’s faces, for we all took the sunshine as a golden omen. Some even claimed that the Tsar himself had ordered such a fine day. After all, we were not asking for a new government. We were not asking for the Tsar to abandon his mighty, God-given throne. Why, no, we just wanted our beloved Tsar-Batushka to come to our aid, to reach over the conniving courtiers and bureaucrats who divided us, his devoted children, from Him, our fatherly Tsar. He would stretch out his illustrious hand and help us up-yes, we were confident he would. The massive march to our Sovereign, we were told, was to be like one great krestnii xhod-religious procession-leading right to the home of our Sovereign so that we could sob our griefs on the chest of our Little Father. And so we wore our Sunday best clothes, that was how we were instructed. All of us were told, “Put on your nicest clothes, take your wives and your children, carry no weapons, not even a pocket knife!” Likewise we were instructed not to carry anything red, not even a red shawl or scarf, for the color red was of course the sign of the revolutionaries, which we absolutely were not. After all, just as it was impossible to go before the Almighty God bearing arms, so was it unclean to go before the Tsar with devious thoughts.

Because of the huge numbers wanting to see the Tsar, because the procession was to be so enormous-well over a hundred thousand were expected-we gathered in different parts of the city. I think there was one group that met on Vasilevski Island, another along Kameniiostrovski Prospekt, somewhere else, too, and we were all to march to the Palace and congregate there on Palace Square. Shura and I joined the crowd at the square in front of Father Gapon’s Assembly Hall in the Narva District, and naturally ours was the largest group.

A great “Hurrah!” went up when Father Gapon himself appeared on the steps of the hall.

“Look, Pavel!” said my Shura, clutching my arm. “Look at Father Gapon and how handsome he is!”

I turned and in the cold saw a handsome man, his hair long and dark, his beard thick. But honestly he seemed pale. Nervous, too. Did he know, did he fear, what lay ahead? Perhaps… but just then no one gave a thought or a worry, for the air was too crisp, the golden domes of the nearby church too bright, our hopes too high. And, as Father Gapon moved toward the head of the crowd, we parted. Wearing not simply his long black robes but a chasuble-a sleeveless outer garment that I had never seen a priest wear anytime but at Mass-he passed right before us, and I watched several old women reach out and kiss the hem of his cloth.

“Bless you, Father!” one of them called.

“Thank you for helping!” sobbed another.

Suddenly Shura was grabbing my hand and pulling me along, urgently saying in a hushed voice, “Come on, Pavel, let’s go to the front of the crowd! Hurry! I want to be right in the lead so as to better see the Tsar!”

And, laughing, I let her pull me along after Father Gapon. The mass of people closed behind us, and soon we were up there near the head of the vast crowd, which numbered, they were saying, somewhere near 20,000 folk. And yet everyone was peaceful, not a word of dissent was heard anywhere, so united were we. Just to make certain that our good and religious intentions were perfectly clear, a great call went out for icons and other items of the church. Within minutes we were surrounded not just by men and women workers of every age, from young to old, but by large crosses held high, tall banners from a nearby church, huge icons, and glorious portraits of our Tsar Nikolai II, too.

In fact, a man in felt boots hurried by, calling, “Who wishes to carry an image of Otets Rodnoi, Batushka!”

“I do, I do!” shouted Shura.

And such it was that Shura was given a framed portrait of the Tsar, pulled right from the wall of Father Gapon’s Assembly Hall, to hold high and carry forth. And such it was, too, that shortly after eleven in the morning on Sunday, the 9th of January, 1905, we slowly started forward, this great mass of suffering humanity that was so full of love and hope for Tsar and Motherland.

We had not gone five steps when one man pulled his fur shapka from his head and began singing our great national anthem, “God Save the Tsar!” Immediately we all fell into dutiful song, and when we came to the line blessing our Tsar, we sang, “God Save Nikolai Aleksandrovich.” Along with our solemn voices came the pealing of church bells, and though I should have been, I wasn’t at all nervous, not even when I saw a large banner held aloft that read, “Soldiers, Do Not Fire Upon Your Brothers!” No, I wasn’t nervous, because I saw several policemen pull their hats from their own heads and cross themselves as we passed. And when we proceeded to sing “Save Thy People, O Lord, and Bless Thy Inheritance” these policemen began to sing, too. No, I was quite sure of it, there was nothing to fear. We were in God’s hands and, as if to prove it, yet another group of officers ran up the side of the procession and began to clear the way for us. They even turned away a few carriages that attempted to cross our path.

Oh, if only the Tsar had been waiting for us…

It wasn’t long at all before we reached the great Petergofskoye Highway and turned north. By this time Father Gapon himself was no longer in the front rank but just behind, surrounded by a handful of what appeared to be bodyguards, big men who kept close and tight rank around him. Shura and I were not but three or four people away from this group, and it wasn’t long before the Narva Triumphal Arch, built to welcome home the troops from their victory over Napoleon, came into view. But what caught my attention wasn’t the glorious copper arch or the copper chariot with six ponies atop. No, what seized my heart was the sight of kneeling troops, rifles at the ready, blocking our passage over the small bridge spanning the Tarakanovka River in front of the arch.

“Shura,” I muttered, “there are soldati ahead.”

Still holding the Tsar’s portrait aloft, my dear wife, along with the crowd, was now singing “Our Father” and seemed barely concerned. In fact, she and everyone else only began to sing louder. But it scared me, I confess, and a shiver went through my body when I saw behind the troops a line of cavalry-men mounted on horseback, their faces stern, their fur hats tall. Oh, dear Mother of God, I thought. All we had wished for was that our meager voices be heard by our rightful ruler, not that the Cossacks be brought in.

“Shura,” I said, taking my young pregnant wife by the arm, “perhaps we shouldn’t be here, perhaps we-”

“Don’t worry, Pavel!” she said, holding the portrait higher.

“But-”

“It’s all right. Trust me, no one would dare fire at a picture of the Tsar!”

Instinctively I started to slow, for like all peasants of Russia -serfs that we had so recently been-there was nothing I feared more than my master’s whip. But these stout men atop their horses did not bear whips. No, it was far worse, for at their sides were swords. But whatever the danger, there was no stopping our mighty procession now. Even though I tried to slow my pace, I could not. Indeed, the great mass of humanity seethed with excitement, pushing me forward faster and faster.

When we were but 300 paces away, the line of kneeling troops suddenly parted and the Cossacks came roaring out on their small, strong horses.

“Gik! Gik!” they cried as they spurred on their horses.

Thanks be to God, though, their swords were still not drawn, and yet a great shout arose from all of us, and our procession parted down the middle. It was through this empty alley that the Cossacks charged, their horses bellowing steam like dragons as they thundered across the trampled snow. Yes, we parted for the Cossacks, but we did not disband, we did not scatter down side streets, as I am sure was the desire of the soldiers.

Father Gapon, his voice shaking, bellowed, “Be brave, Brothers! Freedom or death!”

All of us stood in shock as we watched the Cossacks pass through the entire crowd and then, like a great eagle, circle back. Because we had not fled, an order was given. In one lightning move, the Cossacks drew their shashki-their famous swords-and came charging back faster than before.

“Gik! Gik!” they shouted.

It was a dazzling sight, these brutes on horseback, the silvery metal of their shashki glinting in the golden winter sun. We pulled back even more, and again there was no incident as they surged past, their voices whooping and their swords raised high. They charged back across the small bridge and disappeared behind the line of soldiers.

Immediately, almost instinctively, the great mass of us, so many thousands, rushed back into the street like floodwaters whooshing into a void. My heart was pounding like a locomotive, and though I knew I should be carrying my young pregnant wife out of the way, I couldn’t stop myself. We were great, we were mighty, we workers so desperate for a good life, and all of a sudden we were locking arms, one to the next, united in our desperation. The singing erupted from us all-what song I can’t even remember, something religious, to be sure-and faster than ever we poured forward, those behind pushing us in the front. When we were less than 200 paces from the line of kneeling soldiers, I heard it, the bugler giving the call to fire. But nothing happened. It came again, the sound trumpeting into the thin winter air. Then a third time, all to no avail, for we were all brothers and sisters, workers and soldiers alike. Finally, I heard the scream of an officer ordering his young men to shoot upon us. And fire they did, the dry snap of their bullets shattering the air. But the rifles that had been aimed directly at us were by then raised to the heavens, firing high overhead. That was the first volley. Then came another order, and the second volley likewise went into the air. And somehow we were running by then, all of us gathering power and courage, our icons and religious banners and certainly the image of the Tsar held high. And I remember looking at the kneeling soldiers, seeing the fear on their young faces. Boys, they were, brought in from some provincial town, Pskov perhaps. Terrified boys who, faced with this mob, lowered their guns and, this time following their orders, took near-point-blank aim.

Again, that dry snap, over and over.

An unbelievable wail rose from our procession, unified at first, then shattering into one scream here, another there. A man not ten paces in front of me suddenly fell to the ground, his religious banner tumbling and ripping to shreds underfoot. I tried to stop but could not, so great was the force of the masses behind us. Glancing over at Father Gapon, I saw the horror in his eyes, then saw two of his bodyguards, the ones right in front of him, stumble and fall. And right above my Shura something exploded into a million pieces and she screamed… she screamed as the portrait of Tsar-Batushka was riddled with bullets.

“Shura!” I cried to the heavens.

There came another volley and yet another as the soldiers fired straight at us, and we all fell to the ground nearly as one, man atop woman, atop grandfather, atop child. Knocked down, I dug into the snowy street as the shots were fired over and over until their clips were completely spent.

At long last the guns were quiet. For the briefest of moments there was nothing. Then came something awful, wailing and sobbing that bubbled up all around me. Lifting my head, I looked around and saw a carpet of bodies. A young girl screamed to the heavens as she reached for her trampled mother. An old man tried to get up, stumbled, and fell again. Turning and looking back, I saw many people now fleeing, cutting into the side streets and running for their lives.

But my dear wife was just lying there, facedown and within reach, and I touched her, calling, “Shura! Shura! Come, we must run away! Get up!”

I scrambled to my feet as best I could and reached out, pulling at her arm. But why was she making no movement, why was she making no effort to get away? Why was she not rising?

“Shura!” I yelled. “Shura, get up!”

It was then that I saw that the snow in which my dear wife was lying was no longer white. No, it was a hot, steaming crimson, and she lay there in it, a rapidly growing sea of red snow, and I realized that I, too, was standing in it, a deep puddle of her blood.

And behind me a man cried like a child, muttering, “God has abandoned us and so… so has the Tsar!”