The Family Romanov: Murder, Rebellion, and the Fall of Imperial Russia (7 page)

Her words summed up the country’s feelings.

Some people shook their heads in disbelief, or spat three times on the pavement, a traditional Russian gesture of disgust. A few even exclaimed,
“Doloi nemku
”—“Away with that German woman on the throne!”

Newspapers around the world gloomily reported the birth. “
Czar Has Another Daughter,” read the
New York Times
headline the next morning. “Russian People Again Disappointed.”

Meanwhile, Nicholas struggled with his emotions. Whistling for one of his collies, he set off on a long walk through the gardens. They’d followed “Dr.” Philippe’s instructions exactly. So when Alexandra’s pains began at three a.m. that June morning in 1901, they’d both felt utterly confident. And yet …

It was God’s will, Nicholas now told himself. And God’s will must always be accepted without complaint. After all, everything that happened in life was the result of God’s will, so it was pointless to question the meaning of events. “
God knows what is good for us,” Nicholas often reminded himself. “We must bow down our heads [and] repeat the sacred words, ‘Thy will be done.’ ”

Resigned, masking his true feelings behind a forced smile, he headed inside to kiss his wife and newborn. Then he set about sending telegrams to relatives and friends all around the world. Glad news, he told them: his fourth daughter—the grand duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna—was born.

By 1903, four little girls romped in the nursery. Seven-year-old Olga and six-year-old Tatiana shared one of the bedrooms, and were called “the Big Pair” by their parents. Four-year-old Marie and two-year-old Anastasia shared another of the bedrooms, and were called “the Little Pair.”

By the look of their bedrooms, no one would have guessed their father was the richest ruler in the world. Fitted out with a hodgepodge of furniture that had been found around the palace, the rooms were a clutter of overstuffed chairs and mismatched tables. And unlike many of their royal cousins, who slumbered on silky-soft beds, all four of the girls slept on narrow, folding army cots. This was a Romanov family tradition meant to teach self-discipline and guard against self-indulgence. Each cot was covered with a blue satin comforter monogrammed with its owner’s initials, and was so light that even little Anastasia could easily move it around. And she did. In the summer, along with her sisters, she dragged her cot closer to the open windows. In the winter, she moved it closer to the furnace grate. And at Christmastime, she hauled it into the playroom, where every year one of the family’s six holiday trees was set up. There, under the sparkling ornaments, the sisters drifted contentedly off to sleep.

Just down the hall from the girls’ bedroom was their bathroom, where two tubs waited: one made of ordinary porcelain, the other of solid silver and engraved with the names of all the imperial children who had ever splashed about in it. But as with the army cots,
bath time was another chance for the girls to learn self-discipline. Every morning, they shivered in the porcelain tub as their nursemaid poured buckets of cold water over their heads. Mercifully, warm baths were allowed at night. These were taken in the silver tub and, later in their teenaged years, would be scented with one of the few luxuries the girls were permitted: perfumes made just for them by Coty of Paris—rose for Olga, jasmine for Tatiana, lilac for Marie, and violet for Anastasia.

One item the empress did not stint on was the girls’ clothing. She liked to outfit the grand duchesses by pairs in matching and expensive dresses. These were usually “
fresh white frocks and colored sashes,” recalled one family friend. Their long hair was tied back with blue satin bows.

And so the family’s days passed comfortably and pleasantly. But most of all, they passed predictably. Every morning after their nanny, Margaretta Eagar, woke them, the grand duchesses—still sleepy and in their nightgowns—slipped down the narrow wooden stairs that connected their rooms to those of their parents.

Nicholas was long gone. Having risen at dawn, he’d already been at work in his study for hours, plowing through the mountain of documents that appeared on his desk each day. Alexandra, propped up on pillows in bed, put aside the letters she’d been writing to greet her daughters.

Good morning, “
sweety darling Mama,” the girls would chirp. Dutifully, they each kissed their mother’s cheek, then perched on the side of the bed or curled up in a chair to listen as Alexandra went over the day’s schedule, and reminded them yet again about
proper manners: “
Remember, elbows off the table, sit straight and eat your meat nicely.”

Afterward, the girls scampered back upstairs to find the wardrobe maid waiting to help them bathe and dress, before the chambermaid served breakfast at the little table in the nursery playroom. Then it was time for their daily medical examination. Ticklish little Anastasia always giggled when Dr. Botkin, the court physician, pressed his stethoscope to her chest.

By midmorning, the grand duchesses headed for the park. Supervised by Nanny Eagar and protected by a dozen sentries, the girls pedaled their bicycles down the shaded lanes or played in the little house built on Children’s Island. Located in the middle of a pond, the house had a sitting room and a study fitted out with child-size furniture. All they had to do was lower a drawbridge to cross over to the island. Sometimes Olga and Tatiana were allowed to paddle across the pond in a small rowboat, tying up to the island’s tiny dock. In the winter, the girls built snowmen or whooshed down the sled run on their toboggans.

Soon it was lunchtime—the only formal meal of the day. That was when members of Nicholas’s court gathered in the palace’s semicircular hall. Though Alexandra rarely appeared, Nicholas always took his place at the head of the table. The grand duchesses—even little Anastasia—sat beside him. Before the army of white-gloved waiters served the cabbage soup, boiled fish, or suckling pig with horseradish, a priest stood to give the blessing. Sometimes their French chef stood in the doorway, waiting to accept compliments.

After lunch, Nicholas returned to his study, and the girls headed for the playroom. Marie liked to act out stories in the puppet theater, while Anastasia played with a one-eyed, one-armed doll she’d named Vera. Sometimes the girls went with their mother for a ride through the park or around the town outside the gates. That was
when the stable boys pushed out the carriage and hitched up the horses. Two footmen took their places at the rear. The coachman took his place behind the reins. And squads of Cossack guards, sentries, and policemen took their places along the route. By the time the carriage rolled away from the palace, there was a protector hiding behind every tree and bush.

It wasn’t until four o’clock, teatime, that the entire family finally came together. Just scrubbed and wearing fresh white dresses, the girls joined their parents in the lilac drawing room. Alexandra poured the tea, then handed around plates of hot bread, butter, and English biscuits. Nicholas smoked and read. Olga and Tatiana, who were just learning to sew, labored over their embroidery hoops. And Marie and Anastasia played on the thick green carpet. “
It is very pleasant to spend [time] in a small family circle,” declared Nicholas.

But the family circle was still incomplete. It needed a son.

Despite the birth of a fourth daughter, Nicholas and Alexandra continued to meet with “Dr.” Philippe, and the charlatan soon convinced the empress that she was pregnant with a son. Alexandra grew round. She began wearing loose clothing. Eventually, she retired to her drawing room too tired and heavy, she claimed, to appear in public.

News of her pregnancy swirled through the court. Everyone—the empress most of all—looked forward to the birth of an heir. But the miracle did not happen. Finally, court physicians were called in.
They told her the truth: there was no pregnancy, and there never had been. When she heard the news, recalled Nicholas’s cousin Konstantin, “
Alix cried a lot.”

Scandalized, members of Nicholas’s family insisted the fake doctor leave Russia immediately. To avoid further embarrassment, the imperial couple agreed. But Alexandra still had faith in the mystic. So “Dr.” Philippe was called to the tsar’s study for one last consultation. With the curtains closed tight and just a single candle flickering, the mystic took Alexandra’s hand. Their wish for a son would be gratified, he told them, if and only if she prayed to Seraphim of Sarov.

Seraphim, a holy man who had lived years earlier, was remembered by common people as a miracle worker. But were the stories true? Orthodox Church officials, hoping to declare Seraphim a saint, had been searching for evidence of these miracles. But they had found nothing conclusive.