The Romanov Bride (7 page)

Behind me, I heard a weak and quavering voice, that of Mademoiselle Elena, whose own face was streaked with a massive quantity of tears, and who now struggled to say, “Do… do as Her Highness commands… take off your hats! Do it!”

While no one was shamed into leaving, virtually all of them reached for their hats and pulled them off. Crossing themselves, some over and over, all continued to gawk at me, more so than ever, actually, for I was smeared with the blood of my murdered husband.

And assuming control of a situation in a way I never had, I called, “Get me a stretcher and bring it here-now!”

Within moments a pair of soldiers broke through the crowd and set a stretcher in the snow alongside the demolished carriage. I went directly to the litter, knelt down, and gently placed the remains of my husband there in a pile. I then turned to gather more, and the soldiers did likewise, picking up the hunk of the torso, the other boot, part of his hat, and everything else that they could find, scrap by bloody scrap, placing it in the small heap. Hysterically and silently determined, I continued searching under shattered carriage seats and pawing through snow, finding still more and more splintered bones and pieces of flesh and shreds of clothing. Yet still not a single tear fell to my icy cheeks, this despite the blood dripping from my own clothing and caught up, as well, under my finely manicured fingernails.

Clutching my husband’s gold medals more tightly than ever, I searched on and on, desperate to find every last scrap of him, and all the while thinking, “Hurry, hurry-Sergei so hates mess and blood!”

We killed the Grand Duke-hurrah! Word raced across town, the Grand Duke was dead, his body blown to smithereens-hurrah! All Moscow was rushing to the Kremlin to see the blood-hurrah!

Oh, we had such a celebration, and we rejoiced at every single story, that someone saw the Grand Duke’s heart on the roof of a neighboring building, that a finger with a gold ring was found on the other side of the square, that the snow on the cobbles was sure to remain red until the first thaw melted it through the cracks and into the soil. We took delight in it all! The Grand Duke was dead!

Our magnificent bombmaker, Dora Brilliant, nearly fainted with joy, muttering, “I did it, I killed the Grand Duke!”

Everyone else seemed to take credit, too. Our Savinkov, who’d been so active in the planning. Kalyayev, our little poet, who had actually tossed the bomb. And others, like Azev, that notorious inciting double agent, who was always in the background of every revolutionary act. And even me to a degree. There were dozens who’d had a hand in the murder, and we felt so very proud. I guessed, too, that there were those who hadn’t played a part at all but who perhaps felt guilty, maybe an aide-de -camp or a colonel, those close to that wretched man whose minds might have echoed with all the things they could have done, should have done, would have done, to avoid calamity.

But, no, none of that was correct, for none of us was actually due the glory or, for that matter, the blame. Only one person was responsible for the murder of the Grand Duke Sergei Aleksandrovich, and that was the Grand Duke himself. He was so arrogant, so pompous, so reactionary, and so convinced of the holiness of himself and the Tsar. Just think how different things would have been if he’d even been able to tolerate talk of a constitution, let alone admit that we, his downtrodden subjects, were not animals, after all, but human beings.

And over and over we shouted, “Da zdravstvuet revolutsiya! ” Long live the Revolution! The Grand Duke is dead!

Within minutes after the bombing some priest had got himself back to the Kremlin’s Chudov Monastery, where he started ringing a lone bell against the steely winter sky. In turn that single bell, a beautiful but, oh, so sad sound, sparked many others, and within a few short minutes all of Moscow ’s forty-on-forty-yes, all 1600 of her churches-had a bell ringing. This was how my poor Sergei was carried to the heavens, to the toll of bells and on the wings of my very own prayers.

It was only when I had scoured the bloody site again and again and felt certain I had gathered all the scattered pieces of my husband that I rose to my feet. A handful of soldiers hurriedly rushed about, roping off the murder site, and at my command the remains of my husband, nothing more really than a small pile, were covered with a soldier’s greatcoat.

“To the monastery,” I ordered.

Two soldiers stepped forward and took the stretcher by either end and silently started off, and I, clutching the chain of my husband ’s medals, followed. Once I began to move, the dense crowd, which was still silent and hatless, erupted into piercing cries and deep wails of grief. But I, as if carved from stone with my lips pinched tight and my eyes still dry, belied neither the shock nor pain I felt. All that I was focused on were the drops of my husband ’s blood falling from the stretcher as it was carried along, drops which fell one after another and which formed a bright albeit haphazard trail through the Kremlin’s territory.

To the side I noticed our Mademoiselle Elena, whose face was red and twisted and soaked with tears, and I ordered, “Hurry ahead… don’t let the children onto the square… and keep them away from the windows… they mustn’t see.”

Mademoiselle Elena, trembling and hysterical and blue with fright, managed to nod. She then turned and hurriedly stumbled along through the snow, desperate to reach the Nikolaevski Palace before this parade of horror passed on its way to the Chudov Monastery.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a figure rush toward me. I turned, saw an old man with a big tangled beard, a long dirty coat of uncured skin, and tall felt boots. He doffed his rough fur hat, tucked it under his arm, and then started bowing to me quickly and repeatedly, one deep bow after the other, the way the old peasants-particularly the ones who’d been serfs-did at our country estate.

“Forgive me, forgive me,” he muttered through broken teeth as he held something in his outstretched hands.

I looked at his gnarled, worn hands and in them saw something wrapped in a white handkerchief that was blooming a brighter and brighter red right before my eyes. I immediately understood that he had found something I had missed, a part of my husband, a piece none too large for it was a small package, hastily wrapped as well. A finger, perhaps.

“Spacibo.” Thank you, I said, motioning toward the stretcher with a sweep of my hand.

The peasant man hurried forward and carefully tucked the royal remains under the greatcoat. He then backed away, crossing himself-three fingers to the forehead, stomach, right shoulder, left-and bowed once deeply at the waist and froze thus, bent over in humble respect.

“Oi, gospodi!” Oh, for the sake of God, sobbed a woman, a kerchief tied around her apple-fat, tear-streaked face, as she likewise rushed forward, a torn piece of material clutched in her hands.

I silently watched as this woman, without seeking permission, tenderly reached for the greatcoat, lifted it, and laid the torn material there among the ghoulish remains. It was then that I recognized the brass buttons, for it was a singed part of Sergei’s own coat, part of the collar from the very uniform he’d been wearing.

“Spacibo,” I repeated.

The woman, with tears enough to fill a dry salty marsh, scurried toward me, fell to her knees, and grabbed the hem of my coat, which she clutched and kissed. Soon she was bowing all the way down, pressing her forehead firmly against the frigid cobbles.

I moved on, uttering not a sob, dispersing not a tear. Overcome with shock, my breathing was quick but shallow, my thoughts intent but scattered. I could not faint, I would not allow it, but where was I? What must I do? Oh, yes, the stretcher. I must follow the stretcher and that, those drops, the trail of blood. And this I did, one foot after the other, unaware of the wailing crowd following behind, or for that matter the multitude of wet eyes focused upon me. As if in a trance, I trailed the soldiers step by step, traipsing along as they made their way to the Chudov Monastery and into the main chapel, which was attached by covered walkway to our own Nikolaevski Palace.

Entering the chapel, I was embraced by something, a soothing darkness that felt like the warm hands of the Lord upon my aching soul. Breathing in, I inhaled the sweet perfume of incense and familiar mustiness of centuries past and, too, I felt lifted upward as if into a cloud. In the flickering candlelight I watched as the soldiers gently, carefully placed the remains of my husband upon the ambo, that raised area directly before the iconostasis. I dropped to my knees and fell into prayer, unaware of the low murmurs and shuffling feet of the panicked priests circling about. Hearing the steady drip of something, I opened my eyes and glanced at the stretcher. That single boot with the foot was poking out, cockeyed, from beneath the greatcoat, and from it fell one drop of blood after another, splattering with strange regularity upon the stone floor. My eyes traveled farther down the stretcher and caught a glimpse of that scrap of uniform, the very one the merchant woman had tucked into the litter.

Dear Lord, I realized with a violent start when I recognized it! Sergei had been wearing a coat of the Kiev Regiment! Now what was I to do? I knew all too well-I could remember the exact time and place when he’d told me-that my husband desired nothing more than to be buried in the uniform of his favorite regiment, the Preobrajensky! But how in the world could I dress him as he wished when there was no body left to clothe?

Washing away my senseless earthly thoughts came a rich, melodic voice, which flowed over my soul like a great wave. Briefly glancing up, I saw a bearded, golden-robed priest, who with but trembling voice intoned the service for the newly departed servant of God, my Sergei. Chanting, the priest called out to God the Almighty, and the crowd, swelling by the moment, surged forward and in turn sang their reply, their mournful voices as raw and discordant as my pain. Another priest in golden robe stepped out and swung an incense burner over the remains of my husband, and the next moment I was engulfed by a cloud of sweet-smoky frankincense. I crossed myself and bowed my head to the floor, begging God for forgiveness and praying for mercy upon my dead husband’s soul.

I had no idea how long I knelt prostrate, my soul and body inextricably bound in grief and prayer. Only once the service had been completed did I sense someone by my side. Looking up, I saw the highborn Count Shuvalov, which came as no surprise since he was in fact the military governor for the city of Moscow and had worked so hard for my husband.

“May I assist you, Your Highness?” said the uniformed count gently, offering his arm.

Without a word I reached for him and rose to my feet, my bloodied dress glistening in the candlelight. Only then, turning, did I see that the chapel was thronged with loyal subjects, virtually all of whom were kneeling upon the stones, many crying, many clutching candles. Looking farther, I saw General Laiming, my husband’s aide-de-camp, standing by a column and weeping. And there, toward the rear, by the small corridor that led from our Palace, was Mademoiselle Elena. Her face contorted and blue, she was holding the hands of the dears, our adopted children, Maria and Dmitri.

I muttered, “Please, I must see them…”

With the service concluded and the congregation now rising, Count Shuvalov led me directly to the young ones. I could see the fright clearly pocked on their innocent faces-what had happened, who killed, what next? Their eyes darted all about me, for I certainly looked a horror, my blue dress stained red, my face twisted in pain, my skin pale and so very cold. Although still not a tear came to my eye, I was flooded with emotion and nearly rushed the last steps, and when I held out my hands to the children they ran to me and I took them into my arms, embracing them as I never had before.

Pressing their beautiful heads into me, I murmured over and over, “He loved you so, he loved you.”

And I would never have moved again had the dear young sweets not gently and by slow degrees led me away from the curious eyes there in the church and to my rooms deep within the Palace.

Back in the small apartment with one window, we poured cheap vodka from a bottle with a red label and drank toast after toast, the brew burning my throat each time I tossed down a shot. Da, da, the Grand Duke was dead!

After her fourth or fifth glass, Dora Brilliant, her eyes glistening with joyful tears and her speech slurred, turned to me, clasped my hand, and said, “Pavel, history has told us that the luxurious tree of freedom needs blood to quicken its roots!”

I looked into her dark eyes, and replied, “What beautiful words.”

“Yes, but it also needs money.”

And that was how, right then and there in the middle of our celebration, we started planning our next murder, that of Fat Yuri the Sugar Baron, whose factories produced most of the sugar in the Empire. He was known, too, for hoarding his gold rubles in his huge mansion in the Arbat District. So that day we made a drunken plan and I, my poor head spinning from the vodka, took another shot of brew and a chomp on a freshly salted gherkin, and swore I could accomplish this one on my own. That was how eager I was to prove my loyalty to the Revolution. And accomplish it I did, within days as a matter of fact. Deep in the night, I climbed over the iron railing of Yuri Mikhailovich’s mansion, broke through a window, and traipsed right through the huge front room with its rotunda ceiling. Then I crept up to the bedroom and shot both Yuri and his fat wife in the head, but not before getting him to hand over a sack full of nearly 10,000 gold rubles!

Inspired by our glorious success, we worked harder than ever in the weeks and months ahead, spreading strikes like wildfire, cutting phone lines and looting stores. And we did it again and again: Murder! Assassination! Governors! Factory bosses! Landowners! Sure, we killed as many as we could, for as our poet Kalyayev himself decreed from prison:

“You have declared war on the people, and we have accepted the challenge!”