The Romanov Bride (19 page)

If one had pondered the war figures, one would have gone insane with worry: 1,500,000 of our brave men killed, 4,000,000 wounded, 2,000,000 taken prisoner. It was no wonder there was such despair, such rabble-rousing. It was no wonder, too, that riots akin to those of twelve years past broke out all over my beloved Moscow. By the end of that February, 1917, gunshots could be heard throughout the day and from every direction. Electricity ceased, as did the trams everywhere. The post and telegraphs as well. Worse, they said the prison doors all across town had been thrown wide open and that the homes for lunatics had been emptied as well. In quick speed almost every factory went on strike, and the streets themselves became totally derelict and frightfully dangerous, and while I forbade my sisters to travel beyond our walls, I refused to close and lock our gates. I was determined that all those in need should be able to reach us, that we must not cut ourselves off. Of course there were those who said I should take shelter once again behind the Kremlin walls, but I would not leave my sisters, for I had not decided those long years ago to leave the Kremlin only to be driven back to it by anarchy.

Word from the outside world was sparse at best, and though I sent letter after letter to Alicky, I doubted that any of them reached her, and certainly I received not a word from her. Yes, it was perfectly clear we were in the revolution again, right where we had been in 1905.

When the chaos late in the month was at its height, Countess Tarlova, one of my ladies from days past, somehow managed to make her way to my community, not arriving by carriage or motorcar but on foot and in simplest dress. I knew she had been in Petrograd and yet she had somehow managed her way here, despite the railways having halted.

It was she who brought the monumental news, she who delivered the blow.

“Well, what of it?” I desperately asked, rising to my feet when this faithful woman was shown into my reception room. “Did you see my sister? Is there any news of Nicky?”

In that instant, tears bloomed in her eyes, and in French she muttered but a single word: “Abdiqué!”

It was a knife to my heart-Nicky had abdicated!-and instantly I began weeping. “But… but…”

I could not walk, could speak no more, and were it not for this good Countess I certainly would have fallen. My confusion was immense. How could Nicky have been pulled from the Throne? What trials had the Lord Himself hurled upon poor Russia? For a good long while I could find no wisdom, no understanding, and my lady held me tightly, steadying me as my tears came aplenty, whereupon I somehow managed my way to my private chapel. Sinking to my knees, I fell to the floor and bowed before the altar and my icons, pressing my head down upon the stone. Even in my prayers I could not restrain my tears, and there I stayed well into the depths of the night, chanting and bowing and searching for the wisdom of the God Almighty. My sorrow knew no depth-what lay ahead for my dear, dear Russia?-and I took relief only in the Jesus Prayer, chanting it over and over, some three or four hundred times, in Church Slavonic: “Gospodi Isusye Xristye Siin Bozhii pomiloi mnye greshnuyuu.” Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner. Yes, as I had been taught, I prayed without ceasing, hoping to find humility, hoping to bring my mind into my heart, hoping to reach a greater understanding.

Sleep came eventually but reluctantly, and I rested a mere hour, perhaps two at most. The monumental news of Nicky’s fall reached the city the following day, but instead of bringing appeasement it only accelerated the chaos. There were reports of palaces and homes of every sort being plundered and burned, and all around us I could see it, too, gray plumes of smoke rising into the wintry sky. Desperate word came round as well of murders of every sort, that merchant so-and-so had been gunned down and his clothing store plundered, that sundry princes and even princesses had been butchered in their own homes, and, unbelievably, that almost all our faithful soldiers had mutinied and shot officers here and there all about the city. My heart was breaking, and I sent telegram after telegram to my sister, but they all came back, not one delivered, and it would be some time before I learned that Kerensky, head of the Provisional Government, had placed Nicky and she and all the children under arrest there at Tsarskoye, their own home having become their own prison. Russia it seemed had come right to the edge of a dangerous precipice and not turned away but thrown herself head over heels into the dark waters below. For months thereafter I could not speak of my sister without weeping.

And while for days I could take no food save tea, I soon forced myself to find strength, for I had my sisters and our sick ones to watch over, and to all of them I repeated, “There is nothing to fear. The Lord watches over us, and no harm will come our way unless it is His will.”

But such harm did in fact come to us, passing right through our very own gates.

I was out in our garden, standing in the shallow snow and enjoying the light of the morning and, too, a kind of quiet we had not experienced in weeks. God willing, perhaps the blood-letting of the revolution had passed, perhaps in the spring months ahead our country, like the wondrous lilacs and laburnums of my garden, would wake from its dark sleep and bloom once again in splendor. Indeed, in the distance I heard not the sound of gunfire but of singing. At first my heart filled with both joy and relief-perhaps we could all get down to what Nicky himself had only wanted, the lifting of his people to a better life-but then the voices came closer and louder, louder and closer. It was then that I recognized the tune being sung: the “Internationale.” My spine tensed, for I was quite sure where those voices were headed. Hearing the determined song as well as the sound of approaching motor vehicles, a handful of sisters came scurrying outside, for despite my best efforts they had all become so protective of me.

“Matushka,” ventured my Nun Varvara, breaching protocol that it was I who knew best, “perhaps you should retire to your reception room.”

“No, my children, I shall handle this alone,” I said as not one but two motor lorries sped right up to our front gates. “I will directly meet whatever fate awaits me. Now all of you inside-be gone this moment!”

“We will pray for you in the church, Matushka!” called Nun Varvara as she and the others hurried off.

“Pray for us all!” I replied.

I wanted to beseech my sisters with the words of the Gospel: “Ye shall be hated of all men for My Name’s sake.” There was no time, though, for the lorries had come to a halt, and rather than have them start back up and barge through our premises and cause any sort of trouble, I went directly to the large main gates and pulled them open. Looking out, I saw that in the backs of the two vehicles stood thirty or forty dispirited souls, singing and shouting, laughing and smoking. Like our previous visitors, most of them were men and they had red ribbons pinned to their coats and many were waving red banners-Freedom and Bread! Peace and Land! All Power to the Soviets! Practically each and every one of them had a rifle hanging from his shoulder and a coarse cigarette dangling from his lips. Upon seeing me standing humbly there in my gray robes, their craggy music all but faded away.

As an odd silence settled upon us, I gently asked, “How is it that I may help you?”

“We’re here to arrest the Matushka!” shouted one, the apparent leader, who wore a large mustache. “Where is she?”

“Right before you,” I replied, with a bow of my head. “I am she, the Abbess of the Marfo-Marinski Obitel.”

“And just what is it that you do here? Now that you’re no longer ‘Her Imperial Highness,’ who are you, eh?”

“I serve the sick and needy, that is all.”

“Well, you’re going to be put on trial as a German spy!” he said.

“That’s right, we’re going to take you away and toss you in prison!” came a shout from the truck.

“Down with the Romanovs, all power to the people!” shouted another.

“Hurrah!” came the voice of the mob.

Their leader, the one with the mustache, jumped down from the back and said, “We have orders to arrest you, but first we have to search the convent. We’re going to arrest all the German spies you’re hiding and take all the guns and ammunitions you have as well.”

It seemed that half of them flew off the backs of the lorries, leaping to the ground and swarming toward me. But I would not be so intimidated, and standing there in my work robes I held out the flat of my hand.

“My good people, we have never hidden any spies or prisoners of war within these walls, nor have we ever, ever possessed armaments of any sort,” I said in a most firm voice. “To do so would be a most grievous breach of our pledges to the Lord. But to satisfy yourselves you are more than welcome to search anywhere and everywhere.” As with the previous incident, I stated, “However, I ask that there shall be no more than six of you who enter, for under these roofs we have many wounded soldiers and sick patients, not to mention our orphan girls and beggar boys, and I will not have them disturbed or worried. Their well-being is my only concern.”

“Well…” grumbled their leader.

“Further,” I continued most forcefully, “it will take me a few minutes to issue instructions for the care of all our dear ones, and I must also bid my dear sisters farewell. Once I have accomplished these things, I will gladly go with you.”

This threw them into an unexpected muddle. I supposed they had come, fully certain to find what all the tongues had told them lay here: a nest of German spies and guns aplenty, perhaps a pile or two of gold nuggets as well. They seemed determined to find all this, and quickly so, and had planned, too, on ripping me away, screaming and flailing.

Stepping into their confusion, I asked, “But first, my friends, would you be so kind as to join us in church? I would like to gather my sisters and have Father Mitrofan perform a Te Deum for my journey.”

Not knowing if they would follow, I turned and proceeded across the flagstones toward my church.

Russian peasants, I had come to learn in my years here, were a peculiar sort, one moment all politeness, bowing and submissive, next angry and so violent, not afraid to kill. But such were the shadows, the hangovers, of their recent serfdom, when these poor people had been traded as not much more than slaves. Warm, loving of family and friends, and hardworking-I had found all this in my adopted people. All that they lacked was a proper sense of self-worth and a literate, educated manner in which to express their frustrations. Simply, they were still so afraid of their master’s whip, for without education, without intelligent words, the only way they could do battle against that whip was to resort to sheer violence itself.

Oh, I pondered with the heaviest of hearts, had we but ten more years of peace our Russia would have made it, we would not have come to so destructive a time. God save and protect Russia, I silently prayed as I walked along, my head bowed.

Despite the rifles slung over their shoulders and the harsh words that escaped their lips, these were essentially good men here today, not evil, merely fearful, their fear having been churned to an evil frenzy. Which is to say that they did in fact follow me to my sweet church. Without turning, I walked on, wondering what they might do. Then I heard their booted steps behind me, proceeding if not with respect, then neither with immediate threat. Reaching the double doors of my church, I looked back and saw that there were six men, not one more, just as I had asked. All the others were waiting just beyond the gate.

And upon opening one of the large wooden doors I nearly tripped over a handful of novices and sisters, all huddled there in the dark, shocked and worried.

To two novices, I said, “Will you young ones please fetch Father Mitrofan, for I am about to go on a journey and I would like him to perform a service. The rest of you, would you please gather all the sisters here for the service, and, please, light all the lamps and candles, too?” Addressing the men, who stood outside, I politely asked, “I would very much appreciate it if all of you would join us here in the church-I assure you that we will be brief. After that, Father Mitrofan will escort you through our buildings, and you may search hi and lo to suit your needs. Yes, yes, please do come in, but I ask you to leave your rifles just outside here, for weapons are of course not needed in the house of the Lord.”

Though they were hesitant to abandon their guns, one by one they did as I requested, shrugging off their rifles and propping them up outside. They then stepped into our haven, pulling caps from heads, and bowing their heads ever so respectfully toward the iconostasis. I was pleased for their souls.

Father Mitrofan, my tall, round, bearded confessor, vested himself quickly and, fastening up the last of his garments, appeared more than startled upon the ambo. His big, wide face was red, his eyes darted about with worry, but I smiled gently before him, determined to remain calm, for there was naught that I could do but accept my fate. I fully expected to be taken away by these men, yet I tried to exude a kind of calm as my sisters poured into the church, for I had no wish to sow anxiety among my loved ones.

“There is nothing to fear,” I said, slowly moving through the clouds of incense and smoke toward the front. “And, please, I will tolerate no tears.”

Reaching the altar, I stared upon the beautiful images lining the iconostasis and crossed myself. As gracefully as I had once curtsied before king and queen, I then dropped to my knees, bowing all the way over and pressing my forehead upon the cool, soothing stones. It was there that I remained on my knees throughout the brief service, repeating the prayers, crossing myself, rising and falling over and over in humility and devotion. My sisters in the choir sang like angels, and this, too, gave me strength.

With the conclusion of the brief service, I came to my feet, and kissed the gold cross which Father Mitrofan held before me. One by one all my sisters did likewise, and as I stepped aside I was more than pleased to see the revolutionaries do likewise. Good village boys that they had once surely been, they each received Father’s blessing. This also warmed my heart and gave me a kind of hope that one day Russia would heal itself.