Diary of a Wimpy Czarovitch

by JG Hampton

the presence of my parents. I was beyond tears now. I'd cried so many in the past month that I was as dry as the Sahara Desert. I was regaining my strength from my attack of measles but was still quite weak. I hadn't lost any of my curiosity or my resilient joie d'vivre, thanks be to God for that.

  Writing in my diary, I am recording recent events noting that history was being made which was one of the reasons Papa had given me my diary. I was being obedient to Papa. Would he feel differently about record keeping now that he was no longer czar? What would he write about his own downfall? Would he want these thoughts spread abroad for everyone to peruse? Old habits died hard; would he continue his diaries? I will finish this diary and then deposit it in a safe place like a spider burying her egg sac at the end of summer before we are forced to leave.

  I'd decided to put it in the cellar under one of the oldest wine bottles; perhaps years later when this revolution is over and our way of life has disappeared, some servant or new inhabitant of our palace will find and publish my diary. Then I might rise like a phoenix after all.

  Rising from my desk, I went into my dark room closet to review the photographs that I was developing of my bald headed sisters. The pictures had all turned out remarkably well and had I the heart for it, I knew that the older pair would pay a heavy ransom for them, but I no longer had the self-possession to be so cruel. My sisters had never looked uglier. Would bald Romanov eaglets ever find husbands?

  Olga's head was the largest now that her dark blonde locks had been shorn and it appeared oddly misshapen, but even Marie's head was immense and her once beautiful eyes looked out from the photos like round metal storm drain covers on a street in Petrograd. Tatiana peered back at me with every ounce of her dignity missing in action .Baldness would have done that to any beguiling princess of storybook fame. Now she peculiarly reminded me of Count Beckendorff, but of course I would never tell her of the similarity. She'd never forgive me for that.

  Only the imp, Anastasia, was left with a shred of self respect, because of the huge grin on her face. True to form, nothing ever fazed my sister Anastasia, not even baldness. All of my sisters were clearly out of the marriage market for the time being. Prince Carol would not pine for his lost love as he now pined for his besieged country if he could see Olga now. Auntie Annya had been right. It was a blessing that Olga was still here with us rather than trying to survive as a refugee in a foreign land. Who would want to marry my bald headed sisters? I read of a French King who selfishly kept all of his daughters as virgins at home. However, one somehow still managed to sow her wild oats.

  What would my fastidious English cousin David think of Olga now if he had spurned her crowned with her own hair at the height of her beauty? Papa was still a rich man, but I doubted that even large dowries would find them husbands. Then it occurred to me - perhaps this was the real reason for their shorn locks. Mama had no intention of parting with any of them after all her sacrifices she'd made for the motherland. Had she realized she needed her daughters around her after all?

  Perhaps there really was a method in my mother's madness. Hadn't my Mama and my Papa given their all for their country? Was this another of my intelligent mother's defense mechanisms? If it was, it was certainly working. Even I, their loving brother, found them unattractive. Thank heavens Papa was home; I'd ask his opinion on the subject. I went down to the kitchen to forage for a piece of black bread and a carrot or two since I'm always hungry.

  24 March 1917 - 6 April 1917 - Our routine life as a family was soon established. Papa and Mama had breakfast with us as well as lunch, tea, and dinner. Papa received permission to chop wood to restore the palace wood supply. I followed him out and talked with him while he chopped. Papa thought that chopping wood was an art and showed me his technique, but he wouldn't let me chop any wood, because it was too dangerous for me. Knowing me as he does, I'd probably miss and chop off one of my feet and bleed to death. Soon his paleness was replaced with bright pink cheeks as the fresh air and sun performed magic on his skin as the wood supply grew as large as a mountain.

  Papa disclosed that he had abdicated for me after he learned that the new government would not allow the two of us to remain together. I would have been taken to Moscow to live until I reached my majority indoctrinated by the state and he would be exiled. Would I have preferred this?

  Much chagrined, I admitted that I would not have wanted this to happen. I would never have managed without my loved ones near particularly Mama since I was such a wimp. Papa had made the right decision, even if it had cost me my throne. Even though I am tall at thirteen, I still need to nestle under Mama's wings at night. How well Papa knew me.

  I repented of the harsh feelings that I'd felt in my heart towards Papa. I forgave him so that the Saviour can forgive me. A large weight was removed from Papa's shoulders as well as mine. He'd fretted over how I'd take the loss of my throne and had dragged his feet coming home.

  The nosy guards listened to every word that we said and watched every thing we did. Much to my amusement, we were forbidden to speak anything other than Russian. Truly in life, what goes around comes around just like my merry go round. My mother had to laugh at this turn of events since she well remembered how as a child, I'd stubbornly refused to speak anything but Russian. Now it annoyed me that my liberties had been restricted and I longed to speak a little French, English, and even guttural sounding German.

  I could not get used to the guards rudeness to my Papa calling him "Colonel" and "Mr. Romanov" while spitting and urinating in his presence, sometimes on his shoes or the bike wheels when he rode one of the bicycles. Papa simply looked away and always turned the other cheek except when they did this in front of my sisters. That always riled him, and he told the blackguards to stop being so vulgar, but there was little he could do about it.

  At night, Papa reads to us or we had musical recitals or performed plays written by my sisters and M. Gilliard. Sometimes Papa and Mama went to Auntie Annya's bedroom and visited with her discussing topics that they didn't want to alarm us about and various rumors that they had heard. Often, Mama sat on Papa's lap and they reminisced about the past. We all waited on pins and needles expecting to board the train to Murmansk, to freedom at any moment like General Guchkov had promised; but the weeks turned into months and it appeared that Murmansk was only a pipe dream that dissipated in the air along with the government's other idle promises. Had they already confiscated the yaught and sold it to compensate the people by now on behalf of the new republic? Had Grandmama's yaught been sold?

  We were to be permanently jailed in our palace while they debated over what to do with us. No word had come from King George granting us permission to immigrate. An officer was left to act as go between the palace and the new authorities. The new government vacillated back and forth and ministers disappeared and were replaced. Would they replace as many as Papa had during the years he ruled? I tried to keep track, but when the newspapers were cut off, I could not continue to follow what was happening in the government.

  Mama was relieved we were still together; she didn't want to go to England anyway, especially without her children. Her fondest wish was that we remain together at all costs. She knew that the cold, wet climate in England would not suit me; at least that is what she said. Or was this sour grapes like in Aesop's old fox tales since the English king had not granted us asylum anywhere in his vast dominion? How that must have hurt Mama's feelings after having been one of Queen Victoria's favorite granddaughters. Wasn't her Aunt Alexandra King George's mother? Bertie had even come to hers and her husband's aid when Czar Alexander died. She thought she and her family were valued in England, but learned otherwise. My Papa was as upset as she was, but learned that beggars cannot be choosers.

  25 March 1917 - 7 April 1917 - The guards would not allow any of my sisters' privacy not even using the bathroom. My Mama insisted that she accompany them and held up a blanket whenever they had to pee, because we were not permitted to shut the door. But the vulgar guards conti
nuously made rude remarks and sounds. Tatiana left a note on the toilet saying" "Please leave it as clean as you found it." Naturally this vexed our wardens and Tatiana found the note and the toilet seat defiled with excrement the next time she used it.

  I would stare the guards down making eye contact with them with a Rasputin stare and say: "True gentlemen would not behave this way." Sometimes they'd back down, but more often, that would only cause them to come up with more devilish things to do. Not long afterwards, the guards made known to me that Rasputin's body had been dug up and burned. These men were truly fiends of the eternal pit, but I refused to flinch at the news having long ago reconciled myself that nothing could harm my healer any longer since he was in a different realm.

  The guards would strip and bathe in the lake in front of my sisters and prudish Mama, intentionally trying to rouse her priggish ways. Mama would become incensed and Auntie Annya and Tatiana and I would have to defuse her and grab her arms in order to hold her back from the guards. She was like a bomb ready to explode at any moment which wouldn't help our situation any. After all, we were nothing but lowly