Maria might have feigned drama to catch the attention of Ivan, but I ended up with the true moment of rescue and flattery and winks.
I’d never felt so unsafe at the Ipatiev House as I did just then.
* * *
“Security has been increased.” Avdeev paced in front of the sitting room window. “You are forbidden from putting your head outside or attempting to signal anyone . . . on pain of being shot.”
He stopped his pacing. “After inspection, the Committee has agreed that we should unseal one window.” He pushed against the window and it opened a small crack. The twitter of birdsong burst into our space.
The window had been unsealed—the entire window! The Window Committee—or whatever Avdeev had called them—had granted us fresh air. Already, our five-room prison smelled fresher. Cleaner. Like life had returned.
“Thank you,” Papa said sincerely.
Avdeev nodded and left. None of us cheered, but we exchanged expressions of such astonishment and delight we might as well have been shouting, “Huzzah!”
Now we could send the White Army officer a reply. This rescue might really happen. What perfect timing for a window to be opened. Almost too perfect. “Papa,” I whispered. “Do you think they know? About the rescue?”
“If they knew, Nastya, they would not have opened the window.”
“But they increased security.” I’d instigated enough sneaky escapades that I recognized the blare of warning in my mind. When things came too easily, that implied a catch. A danger.
“Our escape is being blessed,” Papa said. “But we will proceed with the highest caution. I am counting on your analytical mind.”
Once we deemed it safe, Olga sat to write the response to the White Army officer. We gave the details of the newly opened window and the locations of the upstairs guards. We explained the surprise inspections and how the soldiers had a system of alarm bells they could use at any moment. We also made sure to mention the guards across the street that we never saw but we knew about because they shot at me.
Lastly, we asked if the rescue included our friends—Dr. Botkin, Anna, Cook Kharitonov, etc. Papa asked Olga to also make a small note about his diaries and personal documents that still filled a crate in the outhouse. “Be certain to assure this officer of our composure. Make sure he knows we will remain poised and calm during the rescue and during correspondence.”
It was our longest letter yet and made the rescue seem real. For all we knew we could be free within days!
I slipped away to pull the Matryoshka doll from my blouse. It seemed warmer but still no seam. More than ever, I expected it to open any day. And I would use it on the night of our escape. My mind wandered to the hidden spell ink. If we were to escape soon, I should fill a tin with relief spells for Alexei. For travel. It would be best to have them all formed and ready so I wouldn’t have to make them during our rescue—especially since none of my family save Alexei knew I was secretly doing spell mastery.
Papa read us Scripture before bed as he did every night, and the room shrank as our hearts swelled with hope. What a wild day—almost four hours out in the garden, an unsealed window, a planned rescue, and . . . and a wink that wouldn’t leave my consciousness.
I missed the last half of Papa’s prayer as the wink replayed in my mind—like some sort of naughty reminder that my heart had dared to flutter when met by those long-lashed soldier eyes. I hadn’t even looked in them long enough to know their color, though I was sure if I asked Maria she would be able to tell me. She paid attention to those things.
When she and I finally climbed onto our cots that night and the lights went out, I rolled to face her, about to ask if she knew the color of Zash’s eyes. But she spoke first.
“I want to tell Ivan.”
I gaped. “What?” To ensure I understood, I asked, “Tell him what?”
“About the rescue. I want him to come with us.”
I reached for her hand. “Oh, Maria, you can’t. Not yet. Not now. Wait until we’ve heard back from the White Army officer. Wait until a plan is more permanently in motion.”
“Why should I wait?”
“Because to reveal such a risky endeavor so early puts us in danger.”
“Like when you almost got shot?” she retorted.
The pain in that memory erased Zash’s wink. “Yes. Exactly like that.”
“Ivan is a good man. He will not harm me. He won’t tell anyone.”
“I can see that he is kind and gentle with you, but for the safety of our family—and you know Papa would agree—wait a little longer.” She was silent for a long time. “Maria . . . I do not oppose your attraction to him. I want you to be happy.”
“Do you?” She sounded teary. “You scolded Ivan the other day. Scolded him!”
I reached across the small gap of our cots and cupped both hands around her fist. “Oh, sweet Sister, I want you to be happy, but you must be careful in your interactions here. Don’t you see that? You’re endangering all of us. You’re endangering Ivan. He is endangering you! For now, you must quiet your feelings.” I lowered my voice to a bare breath. “Wait until the White Army rescues us. I’m sure Ivan will join us if this plan works.”
“But what if they kill him first?” she whimpered. “What if the White Army arrives and they don’t know he is gentle and kind and caring? What if they shoot him in the head and . . . and . . .” She started to sob.
Only then did I realize how deeply involved she and Ivan were. I’d seen her flirt before. I’d seen her wail over boys, but not like this. And I was sure our imprisonment and torment made every act of kindness feel that much more longed for.
I squeezed her fists. “We must trust that Iisus will protect us. Like Papa read tonight.” I said it mostly for my benefit as well as hers. But my own traitorous heart started thumping its concern about Zash. What if he got injured—or even killed—during our rescue?
“Does Iisus protect Bolshevik soldiers?”
I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “Ivan is not a Bolshevik. You said so yourself. He is a soldier.” He was here because of her. But if I told Maria that now, there’d be no stopping her from risking all our lives through her love for him.
He was not a Bolshevik. He was a boy in love. No Bolshevik would tell a lice-ridden former princess that she was beautiful.
No Bolshevik would risk his reputation with his commandant to push that girl on a swing.
And no Bolshevik would steady her on her feet, hold her close . . . and wink at her.
My heart flipped again. I tugged my hands away from Maria, feeling like a dreadful hypocrite.
13
June 26
“S dnem rozhdeniya!” Everyone encircled Maria’s bed and shouted the birthday greeting as loud as we could. Her eyes popped open and a smile quickly followed.
We cheered and danced around her bed. Well, all except Mamma. She sat in her wheelchair, trying to smile. Papa held Alexei and we shouted, “Huzzah!” so loud that the soldiers in the basement likely heard us.
Maria squealed and pulled the blanket over her head. Tatiana and I jumped forward to tickle her. None of us had any gifts, so we did what we could to pamper her. Mamma braided lace pieces together as a new ribbon for her head. Both Alexei and I gave her our servings of cocoa. Even Joy seemed to understand Maria deserved extra licks, rubs, and pouncing today.
Around noon, I snuck into our small kitchen to see what items we had in stock. I found nothing but a small bag of lentils and some broth. Nothing that could make a cake or even a sweet blini for her birthday. The basket from the sisters had not yet been brought up. When it did arrive, I’d be digging for far more than eggs and sugar. Was it too soon for the White Army officer to reply?
“What do you want to do today?” Papa asked Maria when I reentered the room. “More card games? I can read any book you like.”
“Will you tell me how you and Mamma met?” Maria settled on the floor nearest the window, but her gaze flickered toward t
he main door. I didn’t know which guards were on duty today, but she was likely thinking about Ivan. And romance.
I sat next to her, wanting to hear the story. Trying—and failing—not to think about Zash. Papa’s eyes twinkled. “Ah, so you request a fairy tale!” He scratched Joy’s furry head. “How can I resist?”
Even Mamma cracked a smile as her eyes took on a reminiscent shine.
“I was sixteen and first saw your mamma at the wedding of her sister. It was the way you always hope to meet your love—at a ball where I could ask for her hand dance after dance after dance.”
All us girls sighed and sank deeper into the story. I pictured the Catherine Palace with its gold floors and tall windows. I imagined twirling in a lovely gown with hair still on my head—braided and pearled and assembled in a way that would make me appear graceful.
“It was a whirlwind meeting and we visited only long enough to know we both wished for more time. She went back to Hesse and I stayed in Russia. For five years we didn’t get to see each other. We didn’t get to write to each other. But then she visited for six weeks and I determined, during that time, to win her as my wife.”
“Only I said no.” Mamma covered her grin with a handkerchief. We knew the story—she’d said no despite adoring him and despite being the courting age of seventeen.
“She may have said no, but she did agree to write me letters in secret when she went back home. Not only that, but she turned down all other marriage proposals—including one that would have made her the next queen of the United Kingdom!”
“That proposal was my grandmother, Queen Victoria’s, doing. I don’t even think he wanted to marry me.”
“His loss.” Papa waved a hand in the air. “Finally, another wedding brought us together in Coburg and I knew if I didn’t win her then, I would not have another chance. So I declared my undying affection in the most romantic way possible—”
“You begged me through tears, if I recall,” Mamma chirped.
“—in the most romantic way possible. And you know what she said?”
We all knew this part of the story and turned to Mamma to finish it. Her pale cheeks flushed and she gave Papa an apologetic pout. “I said, ‘Very well. Who else is there to marry, anyway?’”
“Yes, you did say that. And all I heard was a resounding yes.” He planted a kiss right on her lips. “There was no one else to marry because you had refused all the other princes.”
A knock on the door interrupted us. The knock was so light I might have imagined it, but everyone stilled. Avdeev never knocked—he walked in. The knock did not repeat, but the knob turned slowly and the door inched open.
Our first sight was a nose and then brown hair. Ivan. He saw us and his freckled face broke into an enormous grin. “I hear there is a birthday to celebrate.”
Maria bloomed pink as a pomegranate. Her hand fumbled for mine amidst the folds of our dresses and I squeezed it. Ivan didn’t wait for an invitation. He stepped into the room and held before him a tiny decorated chocolate cake.
Everyone gasped. Cake. Real cake!
Ivan glanced over his shoulder back out into the hallway. Then he strode in and placed the cake on the table. He held Maria’s gaze and reddened a little himself. “Happy birthday, Grand Duchess Maria.”
His other hand deposited the basket of food from the sisters. With a little bow he left, and all of our astonished faces turned as one toward Maria. Her jaw hung open and she rose slowly, approaching the cake.
“There’s a note,” she whispered, lifting a small torn piece of paper from the top of the cake. “‘May this cake be sweet, lovely, and unexpected . . . like you have been to me.’”
My heart melted right along with the thin frosting dripping down the side of the cake. And I decided never to scold her about Ivan again. We all hugged her and then divided up the small treat. I didn’t know if he’d purchased it, baked it, or bribed someone for it, but it tasted like clouds and dreams.
“Nastya, take that basket in to Kharitonov,” Papa said with a meaningful look.
I nodded and took it to the kitchen. By the time I arrived in the small cooking space, I’d found the letter from the White Army officer. I unfurled it and read it quickly. Enough to get an idea of its contents. This one wasn’t asking for information.
This letter held the plan for our escape.
14
It was the worst rescue plan I’d ever read. “I could plan an escape better than this,” I hissed to Papa.
“Joy could make a better plan,” Alexei grumbled. The spaniel sniffed as though agreeing.
According to the letter, we were supposed to wait for a signal at night. Once that signal—whatever it was—came, we were to barricade the door with furniture and then climb out our one open window using a rope that we were supposed to make between now and then.
I couldn’t imagine Mamma or Alexei strong enough to shimmy down a shoddy rope in the dark. And what about the night patrols who constantly guarded our windows? What about the guards who monitored the perimeter between the two palisades? What about the ones with machine guns on the ground floor who watched the area below us at all times ever since word came of the White Army’s approach?
“We told them of all these dangers,” Papa said. “This officer and his men don’t wish to die. They will have thought through everything.” He didn’t sound confident.
That night we all waited, fully clothed, out of view of the windows. My sisters and I had braided sheets into a rope with plenty of knots to hold on to. The tension caused by this flabby rescue plan had dampened Maria’s birthday joy.
We sat the closest and she spent most of the time fidgeting with the note that Ivan had delivered with his little cake. “I need to tell him. I can’t escape without him. I can’t, Nastya.”
I didn’t know what to say. Everything felt too rushed. “The rescue probably won’t happen tonight. It’s too soon. They’ll wait until tomorrow night.”
“Do you think so?”
No. I didn’t. I couldn’t read this officer’s thinking. I didn’t trust it. It was too unpredictable. I’d spent the afternoon using up the last of Zash’s spell ink and filling an empty butter tin with four relief spells. The minute we heard the signal, I would apply a spell to Alexei’s knee and we’d escape.
But my body sat in unrest. The Matryoshka doll stayed resolutely sealed and this White Army officer lost my respect with every passing minute. His plan held barely any details. He was putting our lives in jeopardy.
And the lives of the Bolsheviks we’d come to love.
There was no way to alert Ivan, and I wasn’t sure that was a good idea anyway. Though, as a guard, he could possibly help if we were to get stopped by another guard. The logic in my head said it was best to keep him out of it. But the drumming of my heart urged me to do the same as Maria—to warn Zash. To invite him to escape with us.
I focused on the message of my head. I would miss Zash. I would leave that part of my story unfinished if we escaped and I never saw or heard from him again. But my family’s safety and survival were more important.
We waited. And waited. And waited.
Maria whispered for hours how sweet Ivan was. How thoughtful Ivan was. How caring Ivan was. I couldn’t disagree, but it was a relief when she finally nodded off. Papa and Alexei remained the most vigilant. Mamma sat with her eyes closed, but I knew she wasn’t asleep.
I slipped the Matryoshka doll free from my blouse. Having checked it so many times, I didn’t expect to see anything different, but this time there was a slight glow around the middle of the faceless doll. Not quite a seam, but definitely magic.
I gasped a whisper. “Papa.”
He moved to my side and I showed him the glow.
“The spell is almost ready.” He grinned. “This is a sign. Whatever spell that doll is going to release will help us. Save us. I am certain.”
Immense relief covered me. If this rescue attempt went awry, at least we had a backup plan. A spell
from Dochkin, the great spell master.
The night passed without a signal. Neither Papa, Alexei, nor I slept. When breakfast came, I could hardly swallow the dry black bread. A basket of goods came from the sisters, but there was no new note. I was torn between longing for bed and longing for the sunlit garden to wake me up.
We’d had to untie the sheet rope and return the sheets to our beds so no soldiers suspected anything. My fingers hurt from picking at the knots. I dreaded reknotting the sheets tonight.
The time finally came for us to go outside. Alexei and Mamma stayed inside. Olga cared for them. Maria, red-eyed from a long night, burst into the sunlight and ran straight to Ivan. I didn’t blame her. She was going to tell him everything.
And there was nothing I could do to stop her.
Papa noticed the same thing after yesterday’s cake incident and, as a family, we agreed not to share any more fragile information with her. She had suffered the most in this house—being confined longer than the rest of us children without a companion.
Once I’d finally realized the rescue wasn’t happening last night, I had spent the hours of picking at sheet knots thinking about Zash. Letting my heart and head war. I acknowledged that part of me sought out every small motion or twitch of an eye that might insinuate kindness. But really, I knew nothing about him. I wanted to know more. I wanted to talk to him more. And I couldn’t bring myself to think of a good reason not to.
So when we were in the garden and Ivan and Maria whispered away in their tree corner by the swing, I approached Zash. Avdeev wasn’t joining us today, so there was little risk of scolding. Soldiers muttered about his vodka supply. I’d heard the constant clink of glass on glass followed by a splash and a cough. Papa said that there was always a reason behind drink. Perhaps Avdeev was indulging more and more because the White Army was closing in. Or maybe because he was growing to like us and wasn’t sure how to handle his position.
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