The Romanov Bride (8 page)

Without a doubt, all went from bad to worse in the months ahead, the mess was all around. Our post and electricity were stopped over and over, and one could not make oneself any illusions of better times for months to come. We were in the Revolution. What turn all would take, nobody knew, as the government was so weak, or sooner to say-did not seem to exist. Nonetheless, I felt physically very well and had good nerves. Of course if the nightmare came about, I knew I could always have the children safely sent off, but nothing would have made me leave that place, as I was determined to live or die there. Somehow I seemed to have grown into Russia, and did not fear whatever might come my way. And in the months soon after Sergei’s passing I became quite calm and happy-yes, happy to know that my darling was at peace near God, and, too, that he was spared that awful time. In the depths of my suffering it became all so beautifully clear to me: we must at any time be ready-as far as our weak souls can be-to go to our real home.

So there I was, stunned by the path that that violent explosion had opened before me…

Upon my return to my boudoir, I sank into a chair, from which I did not move for a great length of time. I cannot recall what was in my head or what lay before my eyes, but I sat there so cold, my hands white except for one thing, the blackish red blood dried now beneath my fine nails. My servants and my ladies of my court nervously shuffled in and out of my room and all about the Palace, none of them knowing what must be done, nor, for that matter, to whom to turn for direction, for it was from Sergei that we had all received command. Suddenly it occurred to me that I was quite alone now, and alone actually for the first time in my entire life, and it was up to me and me alone to act, for with the flash of a bomb I had become complete mistress of both my own life and this house and all the people therein. Yes, it became perfectly clear that I had gone from beneath the protective roof of my father directly to the heavy, sheltering wing of my husband-my husband who for more than twenty years had not only issued every household order but also directed nearly my every movement and thought. And now he was quite gone from this world. As if awakening from all those years and from the day’s tragedy, I rose to my feet, flooded with a frenzy of energy such as I had never before experienced.

Calling to Varya, my young lady’s maid, I ordered in a loud voice that no one had ever heard of me, “Fetch me my black mourning frock! And someone tell me, does our Coachman Rudinkin still live? Someone go find this out-at once!”

My maids changed me, gladly so, from my bloodied blue dress into a frock of black, and immediately I entered my cabinet. There I sat down at my desk and, by my own hand, began the task of drafting telegrams. At first I took quill and inkpot, but then pushed them aside, for to write with these tools was too tedious and slow. Instead, taking a pencil, I began the first, which was of course to the Emperor, and in French I quickly wrote:

Son Majesté Imperial, l’Imperator Nicholas Alexandrovich,

Zarskoe Zelo

Oh, I thought, momentarily buckling beneath my grief, I wanted Nicky here, and I wanted my sister, my Alix, by my side, so that I could sob on her shoulder and find solace in the family of my youth. Yes, absolutely. But I couldn’t fall apart, and, no, they mustn’t and they couldn’t come. For Nicky the trip was too dangerous; who knew what else the revolutionaries had planned. For Alix it was too arduous; she had the young Heir Tsarevich to nurse. And so I composed a telegram, informing them of the horrible events that had befallen, that I was unharmed and could see to myself, and that they must not under any circumstance come the distance to Moscow to attend the funeral. Wasting not a moment, I drafted the next and the next, for I had telegrams aplenty to draft to my relatives abroad-to my sister, Princess Victoria of Battenberg, to Sergei’s sister, the Duchess of Edinburgh, and to my own dear sweet brother, Grand Duke Ernest of Hesse und bei Rhein. After these I rose to my feet and nervously paced about, momentarily overwhelmed by all that needed to be done, and then I sat down once again and composed many more wires.

As the wintry Moscow sky turned grayer to black, word came back to me that our faithful Coachman Rudinkin lay terribly wounded and on the edge of death. I knew what must be done.

Calling to a footman who cowered in the hallway, I brusquely ordered, “Bring my sleigh round front at once-I must go to the hospital immediately!” And spinning the other way to the maid Varya, I demanded, “Help me off with this frock! If Coachman Rudinkin sees me dressed in black, he’ll know the worst. I must change back into my blue dress.” When she screwed up her eyes, I said loudly, “The doctors will not want my visit to distress him-so I don’t care how soiled it is, just fetch me my dress!”

The girl made a frantic curtsey and darted off for the dress that was streaked with Sergei’s dried blood. I was changed and out of the Palace within minutes.

Oh, our poor, poor Rudinkin-so jolly, so full of life and devotion. Never had there been a more dear servant of man or God. What harm had he ever done another soul? Why could he not have been spared?

I arrived at the hospital toward six and found him drifting in and out of consciousness. The poor fellow, quite a substantial man with big beard and big stomach, too, had been ripped wide, not to mention pierced by countless splinters of wood. As I approached his bed, the sister of mercy quietly told me he had suffered more than a hundred wounds to his back and that gangrene had set in.

Bending over him and gently taking his weak hand in mine, I quietly said, “Oh, my dear man.”

Opening his eyes, he stared up at me in vague recognition, clutched my fingers, and with no great ease, asked, “How is… how… how is my master, the Grand Duke Sergei Aleksandrovich?”

It would have been far too easy to finally unleash a torrent of tears. It would have been far too simple both to confess Sergei ’s death and to express at last my piteous grief. But what good would that kind of answer done him? How would that have helped his soul, let alone his damaged body, in these, his final hours?

“All is well with him,” I said with the gentlest of smiles. “Why, it is he who sent me to see you.”

Relieved of worry, the man ever so slightly smiled through his pain, and said, “Slava bogu.” Thank God.

His eyes closed again, and I remained there for quite some time, holding his hand. And it was good, for I sensed it, his soul focusing on what was soon to come: his earthly end. Yes, dear Rudinkin died later that night. In short, in the days to come I walked behind his coffin as well, and from my own purse I of course saw to his funeral and made accommodation for his widow and also arrangements that his eldest son, Aleksandr, should attend the Imperial Trade School.

Returning that eve to the Nikolaevski, I found that the Palace continued to run like clockwork, as if nothing at all had happened, for my personnel, like all servants, feared the variation of routine. Quite on regular time, dinner had been announced and served, and the only thing that was remarkable was that the children were eating alone. Still wearing the blue dress, I entered the dining room and took my seat, but I could neither face food nor make conversation. The children stared upon me but spoke not and ate little, as if ashamed.

Soon thereafter I once again donned black, and afterward I knelt down in prayer with the children. I saw young Dmitri to bed, but as for returning alone to my own apartments I could not, so I accompanied Maria to her room.

“May I, child, sleep up here?” I humbly asked.

Although Maria could not hide her surprise at my pathetic need for the very tenderness that I myself had denied her, she acquiesced. We laid down side by side, and, with my eyes fixed on the ceiling, I began to speak of my darling, of how much he loved Maria and her brother, and, too, I confessed to Maria how I had suffered at Sergei’s so total devotion to her and her brother, and begged forgiveness for my brusqueness. The girl listened and held my hand, and I talked on and on. Completely forgetting the physical attention that Sergei had so crudely denied me, I felt immeasurable sadness for the tormented life he had been forced to live. And then I rambled on of everything that was truly sweet between us-of our happy days at Ilyinskoye, of the books Sergei loved to read to me, of the music he loved to hear, of our walks, the dinners, the balls, the operas. And somewhere in the midst of all this, something broke within me and one tear finally came and then all the rest, and I wept well into the hours until I thought I, too, would die.

When I first heard the story, I couldn’t believe it, it was too incredible. They said she wished it kept secret, that no one was supposed to learn of her hush-hush trip. Russians feasted on gossip, though, and it wasn’t long before word of her bizarre actions spread to every corner of the Empire. The guards were perhaps the ones who leaked it, maybe first to their wives, then over tea or beer at the corner traktir. None of which was a surprise, because stories of the tongue were the way those who couldn’t read have always passed news from hut to hut and village to village. I’d even heard some of our educated masters say, “Who can trust the papers and their censors, anyway?” Right, what better way was there to get information than gossip?

But the trouble was, which story was true?

One fat droshky driver told me that one of the guards personally told him she was allowed all the way into his cell, but when Kalyayev recognized her he went crazy and leaped at her and nearly ripped out her throat-and she would have been killed on the spot had not two loyal guards pulled her away. Another, a charwoman at the prison, swore that with her own eyes she saw Kalyayev fall to his knees upon seeing her, that they talked of God and mercy, and that in the end he kissed her hands and feet and begged for mercy. Yet someone else, a herring man at the market, said he’d heard that she had arranged for Kalyayev to be transferred to a monastery lost in the farthest parts of Siberia, where he was to be walled into a cave with just a window for food, buried alive like a forgotten hermit. Still another story claimed that she begged the Emperor for clemency, but that one I didn’t believe at all. She couldn’t be that crazy, could she?

So why did she do it? Why did the Grand Duchess take it upon herself to visit Kalyayev, the man who’d murdered her husband, the very next day? It made not a bit of sense to me.

There were countless matters of importance, but first came the children, to whom I tried to amend my ways and see after as I never had. I worried about them constantly in the days and weeks to come, and I prayed to God for his guidance, that I might bring up Maria and Dmitri as well as Sergei had begun. I promised my very best and knowing his ideas and principles, only needed to try and follow what had always been before my eyes and warm up those tender little hearts as true Christians and real Russians, founding all on faith and duty.

With good speed Sergei’s remains were placed in a coffin beneath a silver canopy there in the Church of St. Aleksei. The cof fin had to rest open, naturally, for such were the standards of Orthodoxy, but of course this presented quite a situation, for so much damage had been done to him, so much blown away, even, God forbid, lost. And so it was that I ordered and the next day found my husband in the open box, his destroyed face and hands-what was left of them, anyway-completely veiled, and his lower body draped in brocade edged with gold braid. In front, placed on a brass stand, stood the icon Savior Not Made by Hands, which I know would have pleased Sergei, while stacked all around were nearly 300 wreaths and floral decorations. Services were held all that day long, and while the children came only for morning and evening prayers, I remained on my knees before the bier nearly the entire time. Indeed, I attended services each and every one of the following six days, and after the funeral I was at all prayers for the following forty days.

I, who had never so much as commissioned a new dress without Sergei’s express approval and permission, was suddenly issuing constant instruction with surprising confidence. By my command-and expressly against the advice of my security-the gates of the Kremlin remained unlocked and open to all, and access to the church itself was completely at will to Muscovites of every rank and walk of life, who were allowed inside one hundred at a time. Most touching to me was that as they passed by so many, if not all, dropped coins into Sergei’s coffin, wanting that the whole of the Orthodox people pay for continued masses for this “True Believer.” So moved was I by this and countless other kindnesses that on the day of the funeral I ordered that Moscow’s poor receive, at the expense of my private purse, a free meal in memory of the newly departed.

To my horror, sad word had got round that the revolutionaries were intent on exterminating the entire Ruling House, so travel to Moscow was not simply deemed too risky for any member of the Imperial Family, it was forbidden by strict order of the Emperor himself. A gathering of royals, it was feared, might stir the revolutionaries to more violent action, or at the very least prompt more strikes in the factories and shops. Indeed, it was reported to me that it had been discovered that another of us, the Grand Duke Aleksei, was being hunted like a wolf. For this and other reasons it was deemed too dangerous for Their Majesties to leave Tsarskoye, and by official letter all Grand Dukes were even forbidden to attend requiem services at either the Kazanski or Isakovski Cathedral in Peterburg. This was all quite shocking and what a disgrace, and I knew how inconsolable were the two Empresses-both Alicky and Minnie-that they could not pay their last respects to the dead, and how particularly pained was my sister that I was alone, but it made no matter, not really. In the end, lovely Grand Duke Konstantin managed to get permission to come and, too, Pavel-the children’s father, who had been banished from the Empire but had received special permission to return to Russia and Moscow. From abroad also came my brother and sister and a small handful of others, so that in the end there was not a complete absence of relations at the funeral, and this was intense comfort. In any case, I had any number of things that needed my immediate attention, and though my ladies and my doctors predicted my collapse, I could not and would not and did not.

The day after the explosion, as I knelt in prayer before my Sergei’s coffin, I understood more profoundly than ever the differences between the faith of my birth, the Lutheran Church, and the faith to which I had converted, Russian Orthodoxy. Western faiths adhered strictly to a belief in purgatory, of course, whereas in my new land we turned away from such absolute condemnation. Instead, we believed that there was not a sin that could not be redeemed by complete spiritual cleansing and impulse. Simply, we Orthodox held firmly that in an attempt to get closer to God all souls passed from stage to stage, suffering agony for past sins, as we all awaited judgment. Where my Sergei’s soul now lay on that path to God and just how much he was suffering, I did not know, but I feared for his past sins, I feared that he had far to go. And for this I doubled my prayers for him, hoping that my earnest requests to the Lord would pull Sergei further along, moving him a touch closer unto the feet of God.

And then as I knelt there, a remarkable thing came to my attention: I heard a voice, quite mystical but entirely clear in both voice and intent. As if my dearest were whispering intimately into my ear, I was told that I must not concern myself with earthly justice, specifically that I was to think of Kalyayev’s soul and not his body. Taking this entirely to heart, I commanded a carriage, and that afternoon a black brougham draped with black crape was brought to the Palace. And so off I set for the Piatnitsky police station, for my husband’s murderer was being kept there. Too, by my most forceful order, word of my visit was to be kept with the utmost secrecy, but of course little success came of that. Oh, people, people! As my sister once said to me, “Without character, without love for their Motherland, for God, people of any rank can be such petty dishrags…” And on that subject I did agree a wee bit with my Alix.

Needless to say, beginning with my household and right to the police station, my visit did throw officials into quite a muddle, for I daresay that a princess of any rank, let alone royal, had rarely, if ever, set foot in such an institution. However, the request of a Grand Duchess could not be denied by any excepting husband or Emperor. So toward evening I was taken to the Piatnitsky District, and the director-chief himself led me to a small office where the young Ivan Kalyayev was already waiting for me. I had strongly insisted as well that no one else should be in attendance-not even a guard-and so it was that we were left alone.

What shocked me immediately upon entering the small room was how young he was, how kind and pleasant-looking, this despite the numerous small wounds the blast had left on his face. As the door shut behind me, it struck me how proud he looked, of this I was quite sure, for there appeared not an inkling of regret or remorse. And this nearly knocked me over: how could a civilized person, someone certainly literate, take it upon himself as duty to kill another human being, let alone my husband, a Grand Duke?

I couldn’t stop staring at him, for this young man was not the monster I had imagined, and I slowly crossed the small room, my black dress dragging the floor, my eyes unexpectedly blooming with slow tears.

“Have you come to identify me?” he asked without rising from his chair.

“No.”

“Then why are you here?” Obviously not recognizing me, he pressed, “Who are you?”

“I am his wife.”

A sharp look of surprise crossed his face, yet he did not rise, nor for that matter did he bow. I didn’t care in the least for matters of etiquette, however. I slumped into the chair next to him and quite against my will the tears came aplenty.

Gently, he said, “Princess, don’t cry. It had to be so.” And then, as if thinking aloud, he snapped, “Why do they talk to me only after I have committed a murder?”

I found my eyes staring upon his small hands, the very ones that had hurled the bomb, and to banish that path of thought from my mind I reached out and clasped one of his soft hands, and quietly said, “You must have suffered a great deal to take this decision.”

Clearly, he felt somehow belittled or otherwise offended by my comment, which was of total innocence, and he pulled away and leaped to his feet, blurting out, “What difference does it matter whether I have suffered or not? But, it’s true, I have suffered throughout my life, and I join my suffering to millions of others. Too much blood is being spilt around us, yet we have no other form of protest against a cruel government and a terrible war.” He slammed a clenched fist into his leg, again repeating, “Radi boga,” for the sake of God, “why do they talk to me only after I have committed murder?”

I felt this man’s pain, his torture. Surely there was something good within him, surely there was reason to appeal for mercy for the fallen. He was, after all, as a second godly creature after God.

And, quietly, I said, “It’s a pity that you did not come to see us, that we did not know you earlier.”

“What? You must know what they did to the workers on January ninth, when the people went to see the Tsar, yes? Did you really think that this could go unpunished? There’s a war of hatred being waged against the people. I would give my life a thousand times again, not just once. Russia must be free!”

“But honor, the honor of our country-”

“Honor?” he barked, interrupting me. “What honor?”

“Do you really imagine that we don’t suffer?” I pleaded, for my heart was breaking not simply for my husband but for my country. “Do you honestly believe that we do not wish for the good of the people?”

“Well… you are suffering now…”

We both fell into silence, and he, somewhat calmer, sat down again next to me.

I softly said, “The Grand Duke was a good man, but he had been expecting death, which was the great reason he was preparing to leave the post of Governor-General.”

“Let’s not talk about the Grand Duke. I don’t want to discuss him with you. I’ll tell everything at the trial. You know that I carried this out completely consciously. The Grand Duke assumed a specific political role. He knew what he wanted.”

“Yes, but…” I shook my head. “I’m sorry, I can’t enter into political discussions with you. I only wanted you to know…” I took a deep breath. “I only wanted you to know that the Grand Duke forgives you, and that I will pray for you.”

He looked upon me with soft eyes, then turned away, and confessed, “People have been spared. By will of the Organization, by my will as well, people-and by this I mean you and the children-have avoided bloodshed.”

“What-? You mean-?”

He nodded, and replied, “We could have acted sooner, and nearly did, but we decided to wait until the Grand Duke was alone.”

It was too incredible a thought: the children nearly killed as well? Dear Lord! I gasped, didn’t know how to reply. I felt only a duty to weep with the weeping.

Entering the curious air between us, Kalyayev said, “Between the act of killing your husband and my scaffold lies, I confess, a whole eternity. Which is to say, I can’t wait-I should like to die immediately. You see, Princess, to commit the deed and later die on the scaffold-it is like sacrificing one’s life twice. It’s wonderful.”

His words took my breath away. There was hardly anything to say or do, so great was the abyss between us. And from my handbag I took an icon.

“I beg you to accept this icon in memory of me,” I said. “I will pray for you.”

He tenderly accepted the icon and in fact kissed my hand, and I departed the room. That eve, perhaps as he sat in his dark cell, he wrote a poem, which in due time was shown me:

A woman like a shadow, a ghost with no life

Sat next to me clasping my hand

She looked, and she whispered to me: “I’m his wife”

And wept and shed tears with no end.

Her frock was so black and it smelled of the grave,

But her tears… They simply told everything

So I didn’t reject her, I spared woman-slave

From the camp of the Enemy King.

Then she nervously murmured: “I’m praying for you…”

Without a doubt, I was touched by Kalyayev’s writing, for he was quite a capable wordsmith, but most importantly he was reaching for a kind of understanding.

And I did do exactly that: I prayed on my knees for that man’s soul.