The Witches of St. Petersburg

by Imogen Edwards-Jones

  “Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come; thy will be done . . . Oh, please, God, dear God, please let me speak to May . . .”

  Suddenly, the gentle pitter-patter of feet was heard in the room. Militza sat quite still, her hands clasping those of the tsar and tsarina. Stana did not move a muscle. The little footsteps circled the table at a gentle trot, and then the rhythm changed and they began to skip. Hop skip, hop skip.

  “She’s here,” announced Militza. “You can open your eyes.” As the group opened their eyes, two candles blew out, leaving the room in a more profound darkness.

  The four remaining candles lit up Militza’s face. Her eyes shone, her topaz earrings glittered, and her bosom rose and fell with increasing heaviness. It was as if she were in some sort of trance. She nodded as if in response to a question and then laughed silently at a joke that only she could hear.

  “All right, May,” she said and smiled and nodded again. “I understand the joke. Four candles because you are four. Don’t blow them all out—otherwise we won’t be able to see anything.” Militza chuckled. Peter glanced across at his wife. It was not a laugh he recognized. “Your sister is here, May,” she said.

  The sound of skipping increased dramatically, and the whole group felt a wind on their backs as if a small child were running around behind them. The silver servant’s bell on the mantelpiece rang three times, and random books flew off the library shelves while the smell of spring flowers filled the air. A May bough. Alexandra looked around the room, trying to see where the heady scent was coming from.

  “May, stop showing off,” said Militza, shaking her head from side to side. Her tone was kind but firm. “Your big sister wants to speak to you.” She turned to look at the tsarina, her eyebrows raised in expectation. The empress looked blank. Eighteen years of sorrow and sadness, and she did not know what to say. Her mouth went dry. She looked across at her husband for support. His pale blue eyes stared back.

  “Um,” said Alexandra, clearing her throat. She looked around the room, as if hoping to catch a glimpse of her. “May? Is it really you?” Three more books fell off the shelves as the patter of feet continued to run around the room. George shifted in his seat, more than slightly uncomfortable; he was not enjoying himself. In fact, if the tsar had not been expected, George would sure as hell not have been there either.

  “May?” the tsarina continued, glancing around. “How are you? I miss you so very much.”

  Militza nodded. “Are you sure that is what you want to say?”

  “How do we know you’re actually talking to her?” asked George, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.

  “I am fine,” continued Militza in a sweet singsong voice that bore little resemblance to her own. She turned to face Alexandra, completely ignoring George. “May is fine. She is happy. Lots of people are looking after her. How is Mrs. Orchard? Is she still looking after you?”

  “Mrs. Orchard!” Alexandra held her hands up to cover her mouth. Her face softened slightly as a wave of sadness rolled over it. “Dear Mrs. Orchard . . . our English nurse,” she announced to the table and then shook her head in disbelief. “Marie was always her favorite. How extraordinary! She is well, May. She is looking after my little Olga now. Just like she looked after you.” Alexandra’s voice was high and strained, cracking slightly with emotion. “I have a little girl, just three months old. But then, you probably know that already.”

  Militza smiled suddenly, a playful smile. She raised her shoulders with the sort of exaggerated exuberant delight that adults use towards small children. “Oh, that sounds delicious. Lucky you!” Alexandra looked at her expectantly. “Sorry.” Militza shook her head. “She said that she loves baked apples and rice pudding.”

  “Really . . . ?” said Alexandra quietly. She bowed her head and took a lace hankie out of her evening purse. Her tears were almost entirely silent, and she barely moved. Finally, she looked up. “She always asked for them . . .”

  “It’s almost every child’s favorite,” declared George, pushing his chair back slightly and stretching his arms above his head. “Does anyone mind if I get a little brandy?” As he stood up to make his way to the library door, two more candles suddenly blew out and a tray of small crystal glasses crashed to the floor. The noise was shocking and the whole table recoiled.

  “May!” shouted Militza, holding up her right hand. “Calm down!”

  “Calm down, Marie,” Alexandra joined in.

  “Darling! George! Please sit down,” hissed Stana. “Spirits don’t like being ignored, especially four-year-old girls.”

  George walked very slowly back to his seat, and as he sat down, the two candles ignited once more.

  “Good.” Militza nodded. “She is happy,” she declared. “OK.” She nodded. “And she wants to say she is sorry about all your toys.”

  “My toys?” asked Alexandra.

  “Yes,” confirmed Militza. “The ones they burnt. What a terrible smell!” She shook her head. “My nostrils are filling with the smell of soot and burning.” She stared at the tsarina. “They burnt your toys after she died?”

  “All of them.” Alexandra shook her head again. “All my lovely toys. Gosh,” she sighed, as the memories came flooding back, “they burnt everything to prevent the spread of diphtheria.”

  “How terrible,” Stana sympathized.

  “My favorite toys were gone, as well as Mother and my sister . . . I remember weeping in the playroom, not being able to find my teddy bear, not being able to find anything . . .”

  The tsar leaned across the table and took hold of his wife’s hand. “But you are all right now, darling,” he said, gently patting her hand. “You have me and little Olga.”

  “Your mother gives you her blessing,” Militza interrupted suddenly, sitting up. “Right, of course.” She looked at Alexandra. “She says not to mourn her, that she is happy. She is with . . . Frittie?”

  “Frederick,” whispered Alexandra, looking down at her hankie as she picked at the lace edge with her fingers. “He died at the age of two and a half. A hemorrhage.”

  “A hemorrhage?” asked Stana.

  “He fell; he had weak blood,” said Alexandra. “He wouldn’t stop bleeding.”

  “She says she wants you to be happy,” Militza declared very formally. “She urges you to be happy. Be happy, my love, that is all she is saying, over and over . . . Try and be happy.”

  “Excellent,” said George, rubbing his hands together and pushing his chair away from the table. “That’s all good advice. Now . . .”

  Suddenly Militza slumped forward on the table and three candles blew out. A whistling wind rushed through the room, and a lamp fell off the table by the door; the temperature in the room dropped dramatically and Stana reached out and grabbed Peter’s hand.

  “This isn’t good,” she mumbled.

  “What’s wrong with Militza?” demanded Peter, standing up.

  “Sit down!” said Stana, her dark eyes rounded with fear, and she grabbed hold of his hand again. “Everyone has to keep sitting down! Sit down and don’t break the circle!”

  Militza dragged herself up off the table, slowly raising her head. In the light of one candle her face looked dramatically different; the flesh was hanging, the muscles flaccid, her mouth drooping at the corners, her shoulders hunched, and her eyes heavily lidded. She looked remarkably like an old man. Peter gasped. He was horrified. He had never seen anything like it. Even George sat back and stared. The tsar let go of Militza’s hand.

  “She’s transfiguring,” said Stana, staring at her sister.

  “How extraordinary,” mumbled Peter.

  “How unpleasant,” said George.

  “Your . . . father . . . is . . . here,” Militza announced very slowly in a deep voice that seemed not to come from her own body at all.

  “Whose father?” whispered Peter.

  “Your . . . father!” she said, raising a finger and pointing to Nicholas.

&n
bsp; “The tsar!” said Nicholas, looking shocked.

  “You’re the tsar,” said George.

  Nicholas turned and looked at Militza; not only did she look terrifying, with her flaccid gray skin and half-closed eyes, but she also looked vaguely familiar. Nicholas’s already pale face blanched further as the blood drained. His large watery blue eyes shone in the candlelight as he remembered the last time he’d seen his father: the thick fog that surrounded the Maly Palace in Livadia, the horrific sound of blood being coughed up, the oxygen tanks, the nosebleeds, the vomiting, the emperor awaiting death while the holy man John of Kronstadt held him in his arms, whispering words of religious comfort as the last rays of the sun disappeared from the sky. The noise of the holy man’s mutterings, his hooded black cloak, his long dark beard—Nicholas would never forget it. His mother, Maria Fyodorovna, weeping, plus the sweet smell of death and the constant religious chanting, still haunted him in the early hours.

  “Should I ask him some questions?” he stammered. He had always been slightly afraid of his father, and he knew that the emperor had never really had a high opinion of him.

  “No,” replied Militza, inhaling and exhaling heavily, her palms flat on the table as she fought the powerful waves of the spirit. The whole experience was obviously exhausting her. “He wants to tell you something.” She looked up again at Nicholas. Her black eyes were blank as if she were blind. “And he wants you to listen!”

  “Right.” He looked across the table at his wife. She smiled weakly in support.

  “Fear not,” began Militza, “I am well. The illness is past and I am well.” Nicholas nodded, thankful. “The coronation will pass well. Many thousands will come. Many thousands will want to come and pay tribute. But beware the advice of others. My brothers.”

  “Absolutely.” Nicholas looked puzzled.

  Militza shook her head. Her eyes were rolling backwards in her skull as she gripped the table again. Her fingernails dug deep into the cloth. “Beware the advice of others,” she repeated, rocking in her chair, her head moving from side to side. “And Khodynka Field.”

  “What field?” asked Alexandra.

  “This is ridiculous!” declared George, getting up from the table.

  “Sit down!” said Peter, tugging at the sleeve of his brother-in-law’s dinner jacket, forcing him back into his seat.

  “I am not sure I understand what you mean, Father?” ventured Nicholas tentatively, as if he were talking to a cankerous old man, his eyes shifting nervously from his wife to Militza and back again.

  “My brothers,” Militza whispered deeply and quietly. Her whole body hunched and twisted over itself in exasperation. Her hands clawed at the tablecloth, pulling it towards her.

  Nicholas stared at his wife for guidance. She nodded at him with encouragement. “Um, thank you . . . Father . . . I shall listen to your advice. I shall listen to it and act upon it faithfully.”

  And then, suddenly, the heavy, tense atmosphere dissipated. Militza hung her head at the table for a few more minutes, catching her breath; then she slowly raised her chin. Levity had returned to her. Her hands released the tablecloth and her shoulders visibly relaxed. She puffed her cheeks, exhaling the last vestiges of what appeared to be the old tsar. A shiny, youthful luminosity graced her skin, and she once more began to resemble a charming young wife in her twenties. Her cheeks plumped, a smile played across her pretty lips, and her dark eyes glittered again in the candlelight.

  “Who would like some wine?” suggested Peter, his hands shaking. “I am suddenly extremely thirsty.”

  AS EVERYONE WALKED BACK INTO THE RED SALON, THE ATMOSPHERE was subdued. Neither the tsar nor the tsarina had expected quite such an evening, and the tsarina was overcome. The combination of wine, henbane, and hashish only exacerbated her reaction, causing her to collapse onto the nearest sofa, weeping and talking rapidly.

  “I remember hearing my mother scream when she arrived too late to save May,” she said, looking across at both Militza and Stana. “It was awful. But what I also remember are the lies and the secrets after May’s death, the way they pretended she was still alive and the way they hid her in the family mausoleum.”

  “Diphtheria is a terrible disease,” agreed Stana.

  “It swept through that house, choosing its victims irrespective of age. Even the physician sent by Queen Victoria could not save my sister. Or my mother.” The tears flowed freely down her face as Alexandra smiled ruefully. “She was thirty-five and buried alongside her two little children.” She sighed and then looked up at Militza. “I can’t thank you enough. Really, I can’t. I am so very grateful. Don’t you agree, Nicky?”

  “Indeed.” The tsar nodded, looking haunted, his hand gripping his glass; he did not know what to make of the whole damn thing at all.

  “Well, I thought it was all very jolly,” declared Peter brightly, opening up a large silver cigarette box and offering them around. “Fascinating stuff, don’t you think?”

  “If you say so,” muttered George, taking a cigarette and lighting it. He looked from one sister to the other. “A rum business.”

  “Who knew my wife was so talented!” declared Peter.

  “A very good show indeed,” said George, staring at Militza as he exhaled. “Where did you learn such tricks?”

  “Indeed!” laughed Peter, walking over to his wife’s side. “Indeed . . . So,” he said, turning his back on the room, his face etched with nerves, “are you all right?” he whispered, holding on to Militza’s arm. “That was quite something. I have never seen anything like it.”

  “I’m perfectly fine.” She smiled. “It could not have gone better.”

  “Oh, good, because you know I would hate . . .”

  “Don’t worry.” She smiled again, patting him on the arm. “You worry too much.”

  IT WAS ANOTHER HALF AN HOUR OR SO BEFORE THE TSAR FELT suitably recovered enough to leave.

  “An extraordinary evening,” he said, embracing her, caressing Militza’s cheek with his soft mustache. “Thank you, we shall most certainly return to do that again,” he murmured into her ear, before walking rather slowly towards the waiting carriage.

  “Thank you,” agreed Alexandra, holding Militza’s hand in hers, her eyes still full of tears. “I can’t tell you what it means to me to know my sister is safe and well and being looked after.” She smiled, still holding on to Militza’s hand. “Eating baked apples! You have made me so happy tonight. For the first time in this sad and lonely city.”

  Chapter 6

  August 1899, Tsarskoye Selo, St. Petersburg

  AFTER THAT SEMINAL DINNER, THE TSARINA CONTINUED to visit Znamenka with increasing regularity—each time revealing a little more about herself, each time shedding another layer. However, it wasn’t until the morning of August 10, 1899, when Militza received that fateful telephone call, that all resistance crumbled.

  Militza could hear the sound of the tsarina weeping as she ran across the bridge. The agony and the raw emotion were all too obvious as her cries floated across the lake. Not since the death of Militza’s own stillborn daughter a year and a half ago had she heard a cry so painful. And how she remembered that agony. It was visceral; it stopped her heart and tore through her like a burnished sword. Dear Sofia. Poor, sweet Sofia, born to die so her twin sister, Nadezhda, should live. Born to never draw breath . . .

  Militza picked up her skirts and ran faster.

  “Wait for me!” begged Stana as she tried desperately to keep up. George was abroad, again, and so she had her hands full with her two children, seven-year-old Elena and nine-year-old Sergei, neither of whom were inclined to run on such a hot and humid day. Their clothes were uncomfortable, the sun was beating down, and they were desperate to get into one of the rowboats lying upturned on the grassy bank.

  Militza didn’t look back. Ignoring her sister and hitching her white chiffon dress even higher, she held tightly to her picture hat and the rope of pearls around her neck and ran faster. She could see A
lix now through the leaves, under the shade of a large oak tree, reclined on a long wicker chaise surrounded by cushions. Her two daughters were playing on a rug in front of her, and the prim and tight-lipped nanny, Miss Margaretta Eagar, and the more elderly yet robust nurse, Mrs. Mary Anne Orchard, were also in attendance, entertaining Grand Duchess Olga and Grand Duchess Tatiana so they did not disturb their grief-stricken mother.

  “Oh, Milly!” wailed Alix on seeing Militza approach. She half rose from the chaise, her tiny six-week-old daughter, Maria, still suckling at her partially exposed breast. “I am so glad you are here. Thank you for coming.”

  “I came as soon as I heard,” said Militza, trying to catch her breath as she wiped the glow of sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand.

  “Isn’t it awful?” Alix wailed. She began to shake, her red-rimmed eyes streaming with tears. She held her newborn to her bosom and tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle a cry. The sound was so miserable that her other children stopped playing with their dolls and stared. “When I think about it,” she whispered, fighting her own emotions for air. “Him lying there on the road, blood trickling out of his mouth, his motorbike lying next to him. He should never have gone for a drive. He was told not to go out on his own. I can’t bear it.” She struggled to inhale through her sobs. “No one should die like that, Milly. No one should die alone.”

  Militza sat down on the end of the chaise and took hold of Alix’s hot hand, still gripping her handkerchief.

  “He didn’t die alone,” she soothed. “A peasant woman held him in her arms until he passed.”

  “He may as well have been on his own,” the tsarina replied, flapping away the suggestion. “He was only twenty-eight.” Her eyes filled again with tears.

  “Not many people live for ten years with tuberculosis—he did well. How is the tsar?”

  “He is so upset, so sad.” Alix shook her head as more tears tumbled silently down her face. “I know the agony of losing a brother, but I don’t think even I can help him. Georgie was not only Nicky’s younger brother, but also his best friend, he was so brilliant—”