The Romanov Bride (6 page)

“Why do you always do that?” asked my husband.

“Do what?” I replied as we drove toward the Bolshoi.

“Greet people like you just did with that man back there. He charged up to our carriage and you met his curiosity with a pleasant nod of your head.”

“Well… well…” I said, rather flustered. “I suppose I was simply trying to do my duty.”

“In the future you shouldn’t be so open. People are always staring upon us, and if you acknowledge them in any way it only encourages them. Is that what you want, people looking upon us as if we were monkeys?”

My face burning, I muttered, “Of course not.”

I folded my hands in my lap and glanced out the window, not venturing another word and not daring to gaze upon the children, either, for I knew they were studying me, perhaps taking delight in my humiliation. But… but wasn’t that my duty, to reach out to our people, to inspire the best in them? Of course it was. And yet I couldn’t counter my husband, not in front of the young ones.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to lash out. Instead I reached out and rested my trembling hand upon my husband’s arm. Sergei ’s inner soul, I knew, was so conflicted, so tortured, and I had to remind myself that my greatest duty was to him, and my greatest task then was to soothe the poor man, who, it was true, had become embittered not just by his own appetites but by the murder of his father as well. Yes, it was Sergei’s own father, Aleksander II, who had freed the serfs in 1861, saying “Let us liberate the serfs from above or they will liberate themselves from below.” It was Aleksander II, as well, who had planned to end autocratic rule in Russia by introducing a European-style constitution. This would have long come to pass were it not for the revolutionaries, for just days before the constitution was to be released they had blown the Tsar apart.

And with what result?

The revolutionaries had believed this death would spark a great revolution, but in fact it created not a single demonstration, only widespread mourning. And the new Tsar, Aleksander III, what did he and the Grand Dukes think, including my dear Sergei? Well, they came to hate any kind of revolutionary or progressive thought, for it was the revolutionaries who had killed their father. Worse, they fully believed the murder of Aleksander II was God’s punishment for the Tsar’s folly with liberalism. My husband, shocked by the savage murder of his father, especially felt this, just as he believed that the only way to deal with unrest was by force. And so the great constitution, Russia ’s first, was promptly withdrawn.

Oh, I knew revolutionaries wanted to go from Tuesday to Friday in one giant leap, but were it not for them Russia would long ago have had a constitution. One had only to look upon the murder of Aleksander II to realize that that horrific act took our dear land not forward but back to Sunday, if not further.

And just look at what was now happening, I thought, peering out at a broken street lamp and windows that had been smashed during the recent riots. Just how far were we retreating into chaos? Oh, the simple people of our Russia didn’t know what they were doing in these dark days. They were like sick children whom one loved a hundred times more in their illness than when they were well and happy. One longed to ease their sufferings, to teach them patience. This, I knew, was what I felt more every day.

And then the opera…

Suddenly the grand building with its great columns and electric illumination came into view. Suffice to say that it was a command performance, that our beloved talent, Boris Shalyapin, sang his most famous role, Boris Godunov, which, Sergei remarked, the poor man probably had to sing as often as a tea-kettle whistles. And all society, dressed in their finest uniforms and gowns, were greatly pleased to see Sergei and me in attendance, so I did collect much money for my Charity Fund, and the evening was a grand success.

Having failed in my task, I retreated into the night shadows of the Aleksandrovski Gardens, shaking and sweating despite the frost. What had I done? Had I ruined the plan altogether? But how else could I have acted, what choice was there?

Little Kalyayev, his sweet face tense with anxiety and cradling the bomb, came dashing toward me, and demanded, “What is it? What happened? Was the Grand Duke not in the carriage?”

“He was there-I saw him!”

“Then what-?”

Shaking and nearly in tears, I pleaded, “I couldn’t kill children!”

“What do you mean, what children?”

“Tell me I did the right thing!”

“You fool, what are you talking about?”

Savinkov, the Polish fellow on the sleigh, the one from whom I had got the bomb, suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Together the two of them pulled and pushed me into a hidden area, where they pinned me against a tree.

Pressing a knife against my throat, Savinkov hissed, “The Grand Duke’s carriage passed right by me as it drove around the corner-he was in there! I saw him with my own eyes! And he’d already be dead if it weren’t for you! You failed and now you’ve put the entire operation in danger!”

“But children… I saw them in there, that young Grand Duchess and Duke, and… and…!”

“What children? I saw none!”

“They were in there, the young ones, sitting just opposite the Grand Duke Sergei!”

All but screaming in my ear, Kalyayev demanded, “Are you a traitor to our cause? Have you betrayed us to the police?”

“No, I swear!” I pleaded. “The Grand Duchess Elisavyeta was in there, too, and I would have given the signal… but the children, the two little ones! I saw the Grand Duke and Grand Duchess and the two children-I saw them all! But… but we never talked about this, what we should do if there were children present! Forgive me, I just couldn’t do it!”

Kalyayev turned away, slammed his fist against his own forehead, and said, “If all four of them were really in the carriage, then our friend here is correct, we couldn’t kill them, not the little ones.”

“What the devil are you talking about?” demanded Savinkov.

“We want the Grand Duke’s death to unleash revolution and… and…” Kalyayev fell into desperate thought. “And that wouldn’t happen if we started killing children. That would turn the workers and mothers against us, not for us.”

“But I saw no children!” snapped Savinkov. “He’s lying-I say we kill this one here and now!”

“Go ahead,” I said, only too eager to pass from this world. “But I swear all four of them were in the carriage!”

A long minute of argument followed, but Savinkov and Kalyayev decided to spare my life, at least for the moment, at least until they could figure out if I was telling the truth. And so they led me from the park and delivered both me and the bomb to several other conspirators, who were dressed as peasants and who in turn led me to a small apartment with only one window. There I was shoved onto a chair and my arms were tied behind my back. The bomb was placed on a table, and Dora Brilliant herself appeared before too long. It was her job to disarm the explosive, which she proceeded to do right before my eyes.

“Did I do the right thing?” I pleaded, my brow beading with perspiration. “Or did I ruin it all? What have I done?”

As she coolly went about her business, she shrugged, and muttered, “You did what you needed to do.”

“Yes, but-”

“Sh,” she said, carefully pulling some small piece from the bomb. “The others will discover for themselves that you are telling the truth-and I’m sure you are, for I can see it in your eyes-and then we will decide upon another time and place to put an end to the Grand Duke.”

Of course I was telling the truth. But of course I didn’t care if they killed me. And yet I couldn’t stop trembling, which perplexed me a great deal and only caused me to tremble more. I had thought everything dead within me, every morsel of compassion, of feeling, long gone. Or was it not? I realized that that was what scared me more than anything else-that I carried a weakness, a softness, which could and would dampen my thirst for blood. I’d felt not a moment of hesitation or remorse when I slit the throat of that unimportant bureaucrat in Novgorod, and yet the sight of those two royal children had caused me to fall apart. What did this mean, the end of my revolutionary path? Was I not destined to avenge the deaths of my wife and child and fellow workers who had fallen on Bloody Sunday?

No, I thought, just picture Shura lying there in that crimson snow, just remember her bright death in that blinding sunshine…

Her delicate work completed, Dora Brilliant disappeared behind a curtain and into the next room. Alone and tied to the chair, I drifted in and out of self-pity for what seemed like hours, one moment lashing myself for my failure to hasten the end of the Grand Duke, the next silently sobbing at the loss of my wife and unborn. I wanted to die. I thought of breaking loose and finding poison, of hanging myself, of taking a gun and blowing my brains out, of leaping across the room and grabbing the disarmed bomb and somehow making it explode…

Hours later the door opened. The two of them, Kalyayev and Savinkov, came stomping in. At the sound of them, Dora Brilliant and some other comrade reappeared. But one glance at Kalyayev and I knew my fate. From the satisfied smirk written all across his brow, I knew, unfortunately, that I was to live.

Throwing his fur hat on the table next to the disarmed bomb, Kalyayev said, “I waited outside the Bolshoi in the cold. Handfuls of drivers were huddled around fires, and I moved from one to the next, gleaning what information I could, asking: ‘Did the Grand Duke come to the theater tonight? Which carriage did he come in? Was his wife in attendance also? Was there anyone else with them?’ ”

“Meanwhile I went inside,” confessed Savinkov, who, owing to his aristocratic looks, I was sure, had had no trouble entering the Imperial Bolshoi. “And I asked and inquired, and everywhere I heard exactly what they were saying out on the street, that the Grand Duke had arrived with his wife as well as his two young wards.”

“Not only that,” added Kalyayev, “but I waited outside until the end of the performance and I saw the four of them for myself. All bundled up, they hurried through the cold and climbed back in the Grand Duke’s carriage, returning directly to the Kremlin.”

“So our little new revolutionary, our Pavel here, did quite the correct thing,” began Dora Brilliant, running a hand through her dark hair. “Not only would it have been morally wrong to kill the children but we would have lost many supporters and sympathizers. In fact, it would have set us back years.”

Realizing that I had told the truth as well as, by some fluke, acted in the best interests of the Revolution, they freed me, cutting loose the cords that bound me. I slumped forward, my face falling into my hands. More than anything I was overwhelmed with self-doubt, for the truth was that I had made no heroic decision, nor had I even briefly thought what might be best for the cause. Simply, I had been defeated by the sight of the two youths.

Or had I?

Rising to my feet, I crossed the dismal room to the window and peered through the small pane of glass. And what I saw on the other side was not the depths of the Moscow night but her, a white mirage of her, the Grand Duchess, staring back at me. Despite my failure that evening, all of us were determined to continue with our plan until either we succeeded or every last one of us was killed trying. And that was how we ventured out well after midnight that same night, eventually arriving at The Alpine Rose, a restaurant on Sofiyka. The restaurant was long closed, of course, but Savinkov bribed the porter and in we went, warming ourselves around a stove and formulating a new plan. We decided-or I should say, they decided, because I spoke not a single word-that the Grand Duke should not live to see another week. And then it was agreed upon that we should all separate for a few days of rest and rejoin on the fourth of February. With any luck, our next attempt at blowing up the bastard would take place on the fifth. Kalyayev pleaded to act alone, stating that if he were dependent on no one and nothing but his own resolve he could easily succeed. To this we all consented.

“Excellent, the glory will be all mine,” said Kalyayev with a smile as we stepped out of The Alpine Rose. “I doubt that I shall survive to see the Revolution, I doubt I shall live to see the masses rise up. However, I delight in the thought of killing the Grand Duke, which means I shall almost single-handedly cause the fall of the dynasty, for his death will certainly cause the masses to act. I shall act alone, and if I die in the blast as well, then so be it. Of course, it would be far better if I lived through the explosion and were caught and put on trial and hung before a great crowd, but there’s no guarantee of that. Nevertheless, I can dream, can I not? I really would love nothing more than a public execution, which would certainly stir the masses to action.”

Staring into his sweet face as we stood outside in the cold, I didn’t know what to think. I envied him everything, though-his enthusiasm, his passion, and especially his righteousness. All I knew, meanwhile, was a kind of exhaustion such as I had never felt before, a kind of overwhelming desperation as if I were bleeding and the life were dripping out of me drop by drop.

My allegiance to the Revolution still under suspicion, I was escorted to some small, pathetic hotel, where I slept for an entire day, and Savinkov himself stayed in the room next door just to make sure that I didn’t slip off to the authorities. As for Kalyayev, he took a train to a nearby village, while our bombmaker, Dora Brilliant, retired to a room at one of Moscow ’s nice hotels, the Slavyanski Bazar.

And thus we passed the time, resting and waiting until that fateful day.

A cloud of dread had been hanging over me those months, a cloud that by early February, 1905, seemed only to thicken and darken.

I worried about the unrest that had seized the entire country, about the safety of Alicky and Nicky and the children. I was saddened as well at the prospect of leaving my beloved Moscow, where I felt so at home, and I worried endlessly about my husband and the death threats against him. For the past several days he hadn’t been varying his routine-why wouldn’t he? The commander of security had just this morning suggested doing so, commenting that the Grand Duke’s afternoon visits to the Governor-General’s residence were becoming too regular and hence too well known. The eyes of the revolutionaries were everywhere, he added, and there was nothing they loved more than a predictable path.

“Sergei,” I gently pleaded after the last dish had been cleared from our noonday meal, “perhaps you should take a different route today, or perhaps you should be traveling with an escort or-”

“Matters of security are not your concern,” he replied in his autocratic manner as he rose from the massive walnut table.

“Then allow me to accompany you.”

“Children,” said Sergei, ignoring me and turning to our young wards, “you may kiss me goodbye and return immediately to your lessons.”

“But… but what about my mandolin,” muttered the young Grand Duchess Maria. “I… I wanted to talk to you about-”

“We will talk later this evening, my child. Your tutors are waiting. Please return to your studies at once.”

Knowing perfectly well that they had no choice but to do as their new papa commanded, the children dutifully approached the Grand Duke, who leaned down and pecked each of them on the cheek. Appearing out of nowhere and exactly on cue, the children’s governess, Mademoiselle Elena, escorted them off, Grand Duchess Maria to her mathematics lesson with an old gentleman, the young Grand Duke Dmitri to his lessons with his tutor, General Laiming.

Once the children were gone, I rose from the table and gently pressed the issue, saying, “What of it, Sergei, may I accompany you?”

“Absolutely not. And you are not to speak of such serious matters before the children ever again, am I clear?”

“Yes, of course.”

“They must not be raised to question the loyalty of their people.”

“My apologies.”

Standing there, I watched as my husband silently turned and strode out of the room. For months now Sergei had all but forbidden me to travel publicly with him-the other night to the opera had been one of the few exceptions-and I knew that while he was not concerned for his own safety, he did worry about mine. What troubled me, however, was that my husband was as determined as he was punctual, and I now steeled myself as I heard Sergei head down the great marble steps to his awaiting carriage. I knew, of course, that he was departing at exactly the same time he had the day before, and the day before that as well. If only he’d take his aide-de-camp with him, I thought, or better, allow an escort to lead his carriage. After all, his own father had been killed following a regular route in the capital.

As if to banish my worries, I quickly turned to a valet, and said, “Have my sleigh brought round front.”

The uniformed man silently bowed and disappeared.

There was so much war-work to be done this afternoon, I thought. However, before going to my workrooms here at the Kremlin or checking on my ambulance train, which was set to leave this evening on the Trans-Siberian tracks, I had one personal call to make. My chamberlain’s wife, Countess Mengden, was recovering from an operation, and of course it was my duty to pay her a visit, the least I could do for someone who had been so loyal to me.

Minutes later I had changed into the plain gray-blue walking-about dress I wore every day to the workrooms, for I went there not simply to supervise and oversee hundreds of women of every age but to work alongside simple seamstresses and common daughters of carriage drivers. In fact, later this afternoon I was expected in the bandage store. Truth be told, I enjoyed all this, for it not only presented the opportunity to be of use and to help those in need but gave me a function and employed a part of me theretofore unchallenged. And in this my sister, the Empress, was quite correct, that members of proper Russian society and rank were far too active not in helpful matters but rather in merriments and late-night get-abouts. Why, of course it was our Christian duty to take positions of responsibility, to do something constructive for our people below. And yet for this-her so-called prudish nature-my sister had been ostracized in the highest court circles, including her own mother-in-law’s. Perhaps the two of us, Alix in particular, were too Protestant or too English in our sense and view of duty, but the seeds of dissent in our adopted homeland were not sown by Alix’s withdrawn social nature, not by any means. All that was sown as a result of her lack of frivolity was ugly, ugly gossip, resentful and spiteful, which sprouted with great gusto even in the best circles.

And yet as I finished dressing all seemed so peaceful, the snow, the serene winter sky, the soft noises of the city going about its business. With a simple turn of my head, I peered outside. The sun would fade early, of course, as it always did in these dark winter months. Usually there were many balls at this time of year, including several wonderful bals roses for young marrieds, but this year so much had been curtailed because of the disturbances. Perhaps by springtime things would be different-surely the mood of the people would improve with the fine weather.

Then suddenly the quiet day was ripped in two by an enormous explosion.

Reflexively, I gasped and grabbed for a side table. It was as if one of the great bells had fallen from the Kremlin’s Assumption Cathedral. No, I thought in panic, for I still felt the reverberations in my chest. It was as if not one of the bells but the Ivan the Great Bell Tower itself had collapsed under the weight of the winter snow. Virtually every windowpane shook frightfully, and I, trembling, looked up and saw even the chandelier swing side to side. A moment or two later brought absolute quiet, a kind of total stillness that was even more frightening, as if everything and everyone were frozen in fright. Or death.

And in that moment of terrified silence I guessed exactly what had happened-a bomb!-and I clasped a hand to my mouth and cried aloud, “Sergei!”

I ran out of my chamber and to a small hallway window. Peering out, however, all I saw was a great flock of black crows wheeling around the golden church domes. Looking into the square below, I saw nothing, no one, only stillness… and then suddenly a great number of people running toward the Nikolsky Gate. At that moment, I knew. I knew by the direction in which the people ran that the worst was true, that my darkest fears had come to pass, for Sergei would have been heading toward those very gates. Gathering up the folds of my dress, I made as fast as I could down the corridor and toward the great staircase. Practically flying down the marble steps, I prayed, muttered, “Oh, dear God, please, no!” Had Russia ’s great dark demon-those bloodthirsty revolutionaries-swept down upon us again? Had those shameful barbarians, so determined to bring Mother Russia to her knees, attacked again, this time taking my dear Sergei?

Panic seized me, exploded within me like another bomb. As I ran across the vast entry a servant flew at me, rushing forward and throwing a sable pelisse over my shoulders, while behind I heard another set of quick steps. Glancing back, I saw the children ’s governess racing after me.

“Your Highness!” called Mademoiselle Elena as she desperately tried to catch up to me, her mistress.

As pale as the moon, I stared at her with terror, clasping a hand over my mouth, but, alas, I could say nothing. I had to get there, I had to be there. Sergei needed me, of that I was sure!

Yet another servant rushed forward with a man’s fur coat, which Mademoiselle Elena pulled awkwardly over her shoulders, and the two of us rushed out into the cold, barely covered and absolutely hatless. Directly in front of the Palace stood my awaiting sleigh, which had pulled up only moments earlier, and I clambered into it, followed immediately by the governess. With one bold snap of the whip and a sudden jolt, my driver set off, flying toward the gates. As we raced the brief distance, I felt my own heart beating with a fright and terror such as I had never before experienced. But no tears came to my eyes, nor did I mumble anything or even reach out and clasp Mademoiselle Elena’s hand for comfort. No, I had to be strong… strong… strong.

Of course I had seen many badly wounded soldiers, either on my own ambulance trains or in one of the hospitals I sponsored, men who had lost eyes and arms and legs in the fight against the Japanese, men who had been horrifically burned or riddled by bullets or who were slowly dying of gangrene. But by the time I saw these soldiers they had long been attended to, cleaned up, operated on, and bandaged. Never had I seen these men in action and under attack, bleeding in the field or pulled screaming from the waters, their bodies blown wide and their insides spilling forth. Never until this moment had I seen any such reality.

Within seconds the sleigh reached a massive crowd gathering just before the gate and the driver was forced to slow. When he could go no farther through the dense mass of people, I alighted from the still moving sleigh and charged ahead. I had gone but a few paces, however, when two peasant women, kerchiefs tied tightly around their puckered faces, charged right at me, waving their hands frantically.

“Nyet, nyet, Your Highness!” cried one babushka, falling at my feet and clutching and kissing the hem of my dress. “You must turn back, you mustn’t see!”

“Turn away, Your Highness!” sobbed the other. “Turn away!”

But I would not be deterred. I couldn’t say why, and I certainly didn’t know what took over, but something hardened right then and there within me, and my face turned cold and blank and practical. I pressed forward. Suddenly, recognizing me as the wife of this dreaded Romanov, the throng of people bowed and parted. And what opened up before me was a battlefield of carnage and destruction such as I had never dared imagine.

Not only was my husband dead, but of the man himself and his fine carriage there was little that remained.

I gasped, nearly fell to my knees, and yet not a single tear came as my eyes swept the scene and tried to comprehend what had taken place. I saw a bent wheel, searched for a recognizable bit of my husband, but… but…

The remains of Sergei’s once substantial carriage barely rose above my knee. Of my once mighty and indomitable husband, the severely proud Grand Duke Sergei Aleksandrovich, all that I could see was, here, a chunk of his torso from which hung, somehow, his right arm, and, there, a leg with a foot torn away, and, glancing downward, a severed hand lying in the reddened snow. As if the bomb had landed directly upon my husband’s lap and he had stared down upon it in horror, nothing remained of his head, face, or neck. The rest of my beloved Sergei was scattered everywhere, bloody pieces of muscle and organ and bone blown wide across the snow.

The shock seized me cold and hard. Ever tearless, I started trembling as I tried to comprehend what had happened, what this meant, where my husband had got, what I must do.

Up ahead I saw some men grabbing the terrified horses, which were dragging behind them a single wheel and some shattered planks, that was all. Off to the side I noticed someone struggling, heard someone shouting. There was a man there whom the police were seizing upon and holding. This man, rather young, was actually doing nothing to resist, and I saw that his clothes were torn and singed and that his face, seared by the heat of the explosion and pierced by hundreds of slivers of wood, was streaming with rivulets of blood.

It was the revolutionary, the very one, I understood, who had thrown the bomb, and who now shouted, “Down with the Tsar! Long live freedom! Long live the Social Revolutionary Party!”

Above the mayhem someone else was calling that a cab be fetched at the moment. Within seconds one pulled up, and two policemen stuffed the man into the sleigh and sped off.

Off to my left I noticed more commotion, and I saw a handful of people struggling to support someone else, a man not fully conscious and dreadfully hurt, his body shot full of nails and splinters. Dear Lord, it was our dear Rudinkin, the coachman who had so dutifully served the Grand Duke for so many years.

Finding a strength and resolve that I had never before possessed, I commanded, “Get him to the hospital at once!”

A stretcher, already fetched from the Kremlin hospital, was put down with great haste, and my husband’s man carefully laid upon it. Wasting not a precious moment, two soldiers quickly carried off the mortally wounded servant.

Stepping forward, I saw a precious glint of something golden in the snow and I reached down. It was the chain of medals Sergei had always worn about his neck, and I grabbed it up, clutching it tightly in my hand. Quite nearby I saw something brilliantly red, and I snatched it up, too. A finger. And there, I realized, dropping to my knees and picking up something else as well: his boot with the foot still in it. Next a mound of flesh and then a bone of some sort. And, yes, some clothing, part of his jacket, the blue one he had put on just before lunch.

Kneeling there, I pawed through the snow for more and more remnants of my husband, all of which I desperately gathered up into the folds of my dress. Only then did I look up and only then did I take notice of the crowd of people, larger than ever, pressing forward not simply to get a look at the carnage but to stare upon me, Her Imperial Highness Grand Duchess Elisavyeta Fyodorovna, wife of their feared Governor-General of Moscow. Carefully holding the bits of my husband in the folds of my bloodied dress, I rose to my feet, shocked by the incredible affront: everyone staring upon me still wore their hats, which no one had ever dared in the presence of a Romanov, let alone in a situation such as this.

“You, all of you!” I shouted as forcefully as a tsaritsa of olden Moscow. “You shouldn’t be here, you shouldn’t be standing around staring like this! At least you can take off your hats! At least you can do that-show some respect for the dead! Go on, off with them!”