Anastasia and Her Sisters (19 page)

Marie longed for a glimpse of her Kolya. She had begun having conversations with him on the telephone, forbidding
me to come anywhere near while she murmured and giggled into the receiver. “This is
private
, Nastya!”

The day came when Kolya received his orders to go to the front. Marie decided to make him a shirt, and every evening for a couple of weeks she concentrated on her sewing. When she’d finished the shirt, she wrapped it with one of her handkerchiefs dabbed with a few drops of her lilac-scented perfume, to remember her by. She arranged to spend a few minutes alone with him, and I suspect that they kissed and made promises to write. After their last time together she looked so sad and puffy-eyed that I couldn’t even tease her that Lieutenant Demenkov would go into battle smelling like a flower.

We didn’t see much of our cousin Dmitri Pavlovich, which I thought was a shame, because he was always so amusing, so charming—even Mama said so. She was quite fond of him, but she complained about him, too. She thought he was spending too much time in Petrograd, drinking and carousing with Irina’s husband, Felix, and she advised Papa to order Dmitri back to his regiment.

Olga had a very low opinion of Felix. “He’s nothing but an idler,” she said. He had gotten out of joining the military through a law that exempted only-sons, although he did enter the Cadet Corps and even went through officers’ training and liked to parade around in his brown uniform—but he avoided joining a regiment. Olga visited Irina at their main palace on the Moika River and noted that Felix had converted one wing into a hospital for wounded soldiers. “Probably Mama shamed him into doing even that much,” Olga said.

In March we had a visit from another Dmitri, Dmitri
Malama, who had given Tatiana her first Ortino, now dead. Dmitri sat beside Tatiana in the mauve boudoir with the new Ortino he’d given her romping around, three sisters listening to every word, and Mama observing every move.

Mama called him “my little Malama.” “What an adorable boy he is still,” she told Lili Dehn, “even though he’s become a man. He would have made a perfect son-in-law. Why are foreign princes not as nice as he is?” It’s hard to say what Tatiana was thinking. She was the last to let anyone know.

Easter was disappointing. We’d expected to have Papa with us, but he could not leave Mogilev. He felt he had to spend all his time now with his troops. The Fabergé egg that year was terribly ugly, made of steel and mounted on four bulletlike legs. Papa called it a Military Egg. I hoped he didn’t have such an awful-looking thing sent to Grandmère Marie. She’d have hated it.

•  •  •

In May Mama was finally persuaded to let Alexei join Papa at Stavka. Alexei was overjoyed—not only to be back with Papa and the men, but also to be promoted from private to corporal and have a second stripe sewn on his sleeve.

Father Grigory was spending more and more time with Mama, and Mama insisted she didn’t know what she’d do without his advice. “Your papa relies on me to keep things going as smoothly here as possible,” she said. “He has so much to do as commander-in-chief of the army—someone at home has to attend to the behavior of some of those awful men in the Duma. They do everything possible to thwart him at every turn. And just as Papa relies on me, I rely on Father Grigory to
suggest which ministers can be most helpful and which ministers are a hindrance and must simply be sent on their way.”

We listened and nodded, not saying anything. But Olga had serious worries:

I hope the advice Fr. G gives Mother is good, because she does just what he says. She writes long, long letters to Father every day, so I have to believe he knows what is happening.

Mother seems blind to everything going on around her and deaf to what so many are saying. At the hospital, many of the soldiers, even those to whom she has been kind, speak about her disrespectfully. Even the doctors are unkind! She works so hard, and to hear them refer to her as
Nemka
is painful. They laugh behind her back, forgetting that I’m there or maybe not caring if I overhear them, suggesting that she and Rasputin—Fr. G—do the most disgusting things together. I don’t mean just discussing the war and the Duma!

Tanya and I considered trying to warn her about what people are saying, but my sister believes it would do no good and will only anger her. I suggested speaking to Father when he comes home next, but Tanya thinks he already knows what lies people are repeating and is powerless to stop the lies and to stop Mother’s reliance on Fr. G.

I read that passage and cried, forgetting that I might be discovered with Olga’s notebook. But maybe it didn’t matter if I was caught. Maybe my older sisters would realize that I was no
longer an infant and should be included in conversations about matters that at my age—I was now fifteen—I was certainly old enough to understand. Marie was a different story. She still believed absolutely in the goodness of Father Grigory—
starets
, man of God, and worker of miracles.

As I put Olga’s notebook away, I wondered if she already knew I was a regular reader. Maybe this was her way of letting me know what was going on without actually
talking
about it. Or maybe I was just making excuses for prying into her private world.

•  •  •

There was one bright spot in the midst of the gloomy war news. Aunt Olga finally persuaded Papa to allow her to divorce Uncle Petya and marry Nikolai Kulikovsky, the cavalry officer she’s been in love with for years and years. In November they were married in the Church of St. Nicholas in Kiev. Unlike her elaborate wedding to Uncle Petya—I suppose he is no longer our uncle—this was a simple ceremony. Grandmère Marie, who was now living in her palace in Kiev, Aunt Xenia, Uncle Sandro, and the officers of Aunt Olga’s Akhtyrsky Regiment, as well as nurses from the hospital she had founded, were the only guests. Aunt Olga sent us a photograph. She’s wearing a plain white wool dress with a little white embroidery, a wreath of flowers on her head, and a short veil. Kolya is dressed in his uniform.

I so wished we had been allowed to go to that wedding, but Mama wouldn’t hear of it.

“Had she chosen to marry in Petrograd—better yet, here in Tsarskoe Selo—it might be a different story,” she’d said, but
I wondered if that was true. I could tell by the tight line of Mama’s mouth that she didn’t approve of the marriage. “Olga Alexandrovna has not been discreet about her affair with Kulikovsky. They’ve been carrying on quite openly for years.”

After the war, I hoped, Mama would get over her disapproval, and we’d meet Uncle Kolya. Maybe Aunt Olga would be invited to bring her new husband to Alexander Palace, or to Livadia, or on the next cruise of the
Standart
. I was sure we’d love him, if Aunt Olga did.

•  •  •

We saw so few people that we were all pleased when Mama’s sister Ella came again from her convent in Moscow to spend several days in Tsarskoe Selo. Mama arranged to take time away from her hospital duties—Olga and Tatiana, too—and ordered Chef Kharitonov to prepare a special luncheon. Mama just picked at her food, as she always did, but I ate my share and would have eaten hers as well if she had not frowned at me so disapprovingly. Lately she had become concerned that I was getting fat—“round as a barrel,” according to Olga and Tatiana, who were both tall and slender. I was short and
not
slender, though describing me as a barrel was going too far.

The talk during the meal was mostly about the war, the shortages in Moscow, the dark mood of the people, the anti-German insults that were often aimed at Aunt Ella.

Coffee—another scarcity—had just been served, a special treat for Aunt Ella, who for some reason preferred it to tea, when she brought up the subject of Father Grigory, suddenly blurting out, “I beg you, Alix, to consider not just your own devotion to Grigory Efimovich, to you a holy man, a man of God—”

“There is nothing to consider,” Mama interrupted sharply. “He is all that you have said I believe he is. I have no doubt of his miraculous ability to heal. You know what he has done for Baby and for Anya Vyrubova as well.”

Aunt Ella leaned forward and attempted to say something, but Mama held up her hand and continued. “In addition, he offers me excellent advice whenever I ask for it. As you know, while Nicky is at the front, I have tried to help him by taking over some of his responsibilities here at home, replacing ineffectual ministers with those Father Grigory agrees with me are more appropriate. Since Nicky cannot be two places at once, this is a great help to him and to Russia.”

“Of course he cannot be two places at once, but Nicky should be in Petrograd, leading the entire country, not at the front with the army. He’s not a military man, Alix. He’s a tsar. I wonder if he’s forgotten that.”

Mama, who’d greeted Aunt Ella so warmly when she stepped out of the carriage that morning, had turned cold as ice. “You spout absurdities! Nicky knows exactly where his duties lie, and I support him in that. And Father Grigory supports me.” She said this in a tone that we, her daughters, understood meant
This conversation is over
.

I glanced uneasily at my sisters: Olga and Tatiana sat stiffly, their faces masks of calm, but Marie had tears rolling down her cheeks. She was always the one to show her feelings.

“And that is what is particularly alarming,” Aunt Ella continued, ignoring Mama’s harsh tone. “Rasputin is thoroughly despised by almost everyone. He is not seen as a man of God but as a ruffian who consorts with prostitutes, drinks, and
carouses.” Aunt Ella glanced at us, but she didn’t stop. “He is suspected of being a German spy. You and I know that none of this has even a grain of truth in it, but I don’t believe you realize, Alix, how your association with this man is damaging the reputation of the tsar almost beyond repair. Rasputin is taking the Romanov dynasty to ruin, and you are doing nothing to stop it.”

“Enough!” Mama cried, slamming her fists on the table so hard that the silverware rattled—and I jumped. “Not one more word, Ella! Everything you have said about Father Grigory is slander and completely baseless. You and I have no more to say on this subject.”

“I will not be silenced,” said Aunt Ella calmly. “You must hear the truth, and I believe there is no one better suited than I, your own sister, to speak it.”

“It is not the truth, not a word of it, and since you will not respect my wishes to speak no more on this subject, I must ask you to leave.”

Aunt Ella slumped in her chair. “Perhaps it would have been better if I hadn’t come,” she said sadly.

“Yes,” Mama replied. She called a servant, instructed him to summon a carriage to take Aunt Ella to the train, and stalked out of the dining room.

We four sisters stared miserably at our aunt and at Mama’s empty place at the table. No one dared say a word. Marie was sobbing quietly. When Aunt Ella reached out to take her hand, Marie shrank away. Aunt Ella sighed, rose from her chair, and walked slowly around the table, laying a hand on each of our heads and whispering a blessing. Then she left without another
word. Marie’s sobbing grew louder, Olga buried her head in her hands, and Tatiana pulled out a cigarette and lit it, a habit she had recently acquired. I waited for somebody to say
something
, but no one did. Eventually we left the table, and my older sisters went to change into their uniforms and return to the hospital.

“Mashka, are you coming to the lazaret?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Maybe later,” she said miserably. “It’s all too sad.”

It was snowing hard when I left Alexander Palace for Feodorovsky Gorodok. We did not speak again of Aunt Ella’s visit.

•  •  •

Just before Papa and Alexei were due to arrive home for Christmas, something terrible happened that shattered Mama’s world: Father Grigory disappeared.

Anya came late one evening with a strange story. She had gone to Father Grigory’s apartment in Petrograd to deliver a gift from Mama. He mentioned that he’d been invited to the Yussoupovs’ Moika Palace to meet Princess Irina, and Felix was sending a car for him at midnight. Mama knew that Father Grigory often spent time with Felix, but Anya’s story puzzled her.

“None of this makes sense,” Mama said. “Midnight seems an odd time to visit anyone. And Irina isn’t in Petrograd! Xenia told me that she’s gone to Crimea.”

The next morning while we were having breakfast in her boudoir, Mama left to receive a telephone call. When she returned a little later, her always pale features had turned
deadly white. She looked as though she was going to collapse. Tatiana leaped up to help her to her daybed.

“That was the minister of the interior,” she said, gasping. “He called to report that gunshots were heard last night at the Yussoupov palace, and one of Felix’s friends, quite drunk, bragged to a policeman that he’d killed Rasputin.”

Too shocked to know what to say, we gathered close to her.

“Perhaps it’s a mistake,” she said. “I ordered the minister to investigate. And now I must send a telegram to your father and beg him to come home immediately.”

Olga ran to fetch Anya. “He’s dead!” Anya wailed when she heard the news. “Murdered! I’m sure of it!”

We sat with Mama and Anya throughout the day, weeping and praying that a miracle would happen and we would have word from Father Grigory, but none came. Rumors flew. Not only was Felix involved—he was even heard boasting about it, saying that he had done it for the good of Russia—but so, too, was Dmitri Pavlovich. Our cousin Dmitri, who’d spent so much time with us, who’d danced the Boston with me—a murderer? Papa had even thought of him as a possible husband for Olga. Impossible!

The minister of the interior reported to Mama that Dmitri’s father had asked Dmitri to swear on a holy icon and a picture of his dead mother that he had not murdered Rasputin. He had sworn it, but Mama did not believe him—she’d warned Papa that he was on the wrong path. She ordered Dmitri and Felix to be held under house arrest.

Father Grigory’s body was found under the ice of the Neva River. He had been dead for three days. The authorities
claimed he had been poisoned and then shot, tied up, and shoved through a hole in the ice. Somehow, they said, he’d survived all that and died by drowning.