* * *
—
WITH THE GRAND duchesses and Alexandra, rigid in her court finery, I stood at the Winter Palace balcony overlooking the Neva for the Blessing of the Waters. The grand dukes and Nicky, bearing lit tapers, were out on the frozen river, assembled under the canopy as the metropolitan dipped his gem-studded crucifix into the hole cut in the ice.
It was one of those perfect January days that polished everything to brilliance, the people assembled at the distant cordons, wreathed in the vapor of their own breath, bearing pails to gather the blessed water. Alexandra was taut beside me, anxious for the ceremony to end; I wanted to chide her. Miechen and the other grand duchesses were eyeing her; I wasn’t the only one who could see how unwilling she was to be here. By now rumors ran amok that something awful ailed her son and he wouldn’t survive his first year. When Miechen confronted me, I said nothing was wrong save for the usual babe’s ailments.
She laughed. “Minnie, do you want everyone to think you’re a liar? No one hides the tsarevich away for a colic.”
Concluding his prayers, the metropolitan turned with the chalice to Nicky, in tandem to booming gun salutes from the fortress.
A sudden explosion shattered the balcony window. As the grand duchesses shrieked, flinging themselves back to avoid the shards of glass, I stood as if paralyzed, slivers showering me. Pandemonium ensued. Guards raced out from the palace to haul Nicky and his uncles inside. Alexandra bolted away, shoving aside the grand duchesses to hasten down the corridor, surrounded by Cossacks assigned to her protection.
Like me, Miechen was bathed in broken glass. A cut on her cheek seeped blood. She stepped forward on the balcony, peering out into the cloud of dust dissipating in the frigid air.
“A shell has hit the wall below us.” She turned to me. “I thought the cannons only fired blanks for the ceremony.”
“They do.” I was breathless, fighting my own panic, memories of the detonation in the dining hall and the train derailment assaulting me with visceral force. The terror of the Nihilists had been crushed by Sasha, but their shadow remained, their zeal to destroy us taken up by this new revolutionary cause. We’d had no word from the Okhrana of any threat and no one was seriously hurt, but I felt a deep foreboding as Miechen took me by my arm to lead me away.
“Well,” she said, our thin-soled court slippers crunching over the debris on the floor. “That was not a blank.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
PROTESTERS TO MARCH ON WINTER PALACE. LEAVE AT ONCE.
“I will not,” I told Obolensky, dictating my reply to Nicky’s urgent telegram. “Inform my son that I will stay right here and prove everything is as it should be.”
But it was not as it should be, as Miechen emphasized when she arrived to see me that evening, having fearlessly crossed the city in her troika with its distinct insignia, as if she dared anyone to throw a bomb at her. She still had the nick on her cheek, for it was only two days since that mysterious shell had hit below our balcony at the Winter Palace. None of the guards in the fortress responsible for the cannon had confessed they’d armed one with an actual shell, even by mistake, so all Nicky could do was dismiss those on duty that day and issue a decree that henceforth no cannon would be fired for state events.
“Have you heard?” she asked, unhooking her sable mantle in my sitting room.
“Yes,” I said. “Nicky has ordered me to depart for Gatchina. He says there’s to be a massive protest tomorrow.”
She let out an exasperated breath. “He’s also ordered Vladimir to contend with the mob, should they approach the palace. Vladimir doesn’t know what to do; he says the Okhrana has infiltrated their ranks. There are revolutionaries among them, of course, but most are factory workers out on strike because of the war and their working conditions. They plan to march with a priest at their head, with their wives and children, to present a petition. They say the tsar has always—”
“Met with his subjects in person.” I sank into my chair. “But not since Alexander was assassinated. Is Vladimir certain they will march in peace?”
She met my stare. “Nicky is prepared to act as if they won’t.”
I sent another telegram to Nicky, imploring him to come at once to the city. Again, he issued the order for me to leave. Again, I refused.
The next morning, January 22, I sent for Xenia. Olga was already here, and Miechen came, as well. A household of women, we huddled in my drawing room as the demonstrators proceeded down the Nevsky Prospekt toward the Palace Square, singing “God Save the Tsar” and carrying placards with Nicky’s likeness.
“Do they know he isn’t here?” I said, casting a worried look at Miechen.
She gave a grim nod. “Vladimir informed them. They didn’t believe him. They said their Little Father would not abandon them in their time of need.”
When we heard the sudden rattle of gunfire, I lunged to the window facing the Prospekt. People came staggering back down the road, bleeding, holding others crumpled between them. I issued my command: “Fetch the carriages. We must leave at once.”
“Now?” Xenia said in horror.
Miechen shook her head. “Minnie, now is not the time. If we try to leave…” She left her conclusion unvoiced. “We must stay inside until it is safe.”
I had Obolensky set extra guards at my gates. My palace wasn’t disturbed, but he was, returning inside with a sickened expression from the carnage he’d witnessed. By nightfall, Vladimir arrived, perspiring despite the cold, as if he’d been through battle.
“The guards’ commander, Vasilchikov.” He collapsed onto my couch as Miechen thrust a cognac at him. “That old fool ordered his regiment to open fire. Right there in the square! They were singing hymns and he shot at them. Then he had the Cossacks ride in with their sabers and whips.” He drank the cognac in a gulp. “Hundreds. Slaughtered by us.”
“Dear God.” I pressed my hands together so tightly that my rings cut into my palms. Our subjects, killed by us in the Palace Square. It was that field in Moscow after Nicky’s coronation again; it would rain more calumny upon our heads, add more cause to the grievances piling up against us. I should have admitted as much, but I only whispered, “Nicky will be beside himself. He—”
“Ordered it,” Vladimir bellowed. “Nicky ordered it. He told us under no circumstances were we to let the mob near the palace, and now they’ll tear us apart.”
“He didn’t know,” I said desperately.
“He knew.” Vladimir hauled himself to his feet. “You wired him. I begged him to come to attend to the matter in person. He refused to listen.”
I regarded him, seeing my brother-in-law for the first time for who he was, no longer the charming rogue of our youth but a fifty-seven-year-old man, overweight and in poor health, enraged by circumstances that had denied him his superiority, as he believed he would have made a better tsar. “He knew, and now we’ll be blamed for it. Because he’s a weakling who should never have taken the throne. Sasha would be ashamed of him. He was ashamed. My brother died too young and left Russia to a mewling coward who lives only for his wife’s approval and cannot make a decision on his own.”
“You forget yourself,” I said. “I am the tsar’s mother. I suggest you leave, before you say something you’ll regret and I cannot forgive.”
Miechen took him by his arm. Her eyes bored into me as she murmured, “Vladimir, come. We’ll not be thrown out, even by the tsar’s mother.”
He shook her away. As he tromped past me, he said, “You know I speak the truth, Minnie. I’ve always respected you, but I’ll not be his lackey any longer. Your son is unfit. If he doesn’t recognize it, we will all pay for his mistakes.”
I stood immobile. Xenia was so upset she was crying, and Olga patted her hand as she might a disconsolate child. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t admit it.
Yet I too feared that this t
ime, Nicky had gone too far.
* * *
ST. PETERSBURG AND Moscow erupted in riots, with mass demonstrations in the streets over the massacre dubbed “Bloody Sunday.” Martial law was declared. As armed soldiers corralled the city, factory workers went on strike by the thousands, bringing our industries to a standstill, though we needed supplies for our unresolved war with Japan. Anyone who wasn’t outside, hoisting inflammatory banners or inciting turmoil, stayed indoors to pray that a worse cataclysm would not befall us.
Aristocrats closed up their palaces to take extended vacations abroad, “as if the guillotine were being mounted at the Narva Gate,” sneered Miechen, when we met at her palace for tea. To me, her indifference was further evidence that to those of us in the ruling class, the discontent must be ignored or disdained.
Riding in my unmarked carriage back to my Anichkov, I forced myself to lift the blinds at the window. I saw beggars huddled in the cold by the bridges, while women in tattered shawls trudged with their baskets to market stalls stripped bare by the war. I felt despair claw at me like a talon. The vibrant city I had known was gone, replaced by the specter of revolution, by the insidious scarcity and resentment that crept in like thieves in the night.
I wanted to leave to visit my father in Denmark but wasn’t certain if I should under the circumstances, so I boarded my private train for Tsarskoe Selo to consult with Nicky. The railway to the Alexander Palace, used exclusively by family or provisions for the estate, was heavily monitored. I had to endure guards boarding my carriage to inspect my luggage until I exclaimed, “That box contains chocolates for my grandchildren, not a bomb!”
In the palace, I found Alexandra confined to her rooms with an attack of her lumbago. The girls, studying under their tutors, were happy to see me. Alexei was plump and content, watched over by Derevenko, his devoted sailor dyadka, a constant bodyguard lest he injure himself. He cooed when I bent over him, yanking a jet bead from my sleeve and trying to stuff it into his mouth. I caught him by his wrist to pry it from him. He pouted and then howled at me. Seized by fear, I checked his wrist for bruising. He had no mark. He was merely upset that I’d deprived him of something sparkly to chew.
As soon as I entered his study, Nicky looked up from his desk, his face haggard from the aftermath of the massacre. He lifted a sheaf. “A twenty-page letter from the kaiser. He says he wrote the same one to you. Did you receive it?”
“Yes.” I lit a cigarette. “I haven’t read it yet. I assume it’s a lecture?”
“It’s a warning,” said Nicky. “He dares advise me to avert revolution and defeat by Japan. He chastises me for not acting sooner in Moscow after that unfortunate incident at the field and for not averting this recent one in St. Petersburg. He says I must strip Sergei of his governor generalship of Moscow, as my uncle is too reactionary, and declare my intent to establish a parliament. I must rouse my countrymen to patriotism, as clearly Russians have lost their sense of duty.” He tossed the voluminous letter back onto his desk. “According to him, the Japanese will die for their cause to a man, unlike our sailors, who mutiny in mid-battle, and our soldiers, who sing out revolutionary slogans.”
“Well. The kaiser certainly thinks much of himself, like every German.” As soon as I spoke, I bit my lip; my anti-Prussian sentiment, while well known, wasn’t welcome here, with his German-born wife, but Nicky seemed not to hear me, too engrossed in his travails.
“Perhaps he has a point,” I ventured. “Defeat after defeat can only cause more discontent. And Moscow and St. Petersburg under martial law, while factory workers call for our heads, is hardly conducive to stability.”
“You agree with the kaiser?”
“Never. But the advice is sound. About Sergei, at least. Your uncle has made himself the most despised Romanov—”
“After me,” Nicky said bitterly.
“You are not despised. You’re blamed. As the tsar, you can still put matters to right. But Sergei has exceeded his authority, sentencing thousands to imprisonment or the gallows. By his very actions as our representative, he abets this fury against us. You should ask him to resign as a conciliatory move, to prove you intend to make amends.”
“He already has,” Nicky said, to my surprise. “He had no choice. He received a death threat. Ella is distraught. She has Paul’s children with them and fears for their safety. She implored Sergei to resign his post. I’ll have to appoint another in his stead.”
I watched him pace to his window, his perennial cigarette in hand. “I know it’s my fault,” he said at length. “You advised me to go to the city and deal with the protesters in person, as did Vladimir. Now he too has resigned. He came here in person to rip the medals from his uniform and upbraid me, saying he’ll not serve in my cabinet because I’m now called the Bloody Tsar, even after his own son Cyril went abroad to marry Ducky without my consent.”
I felt on more solid footing when it came to family matters. “I told Miechen it wouldn’t be tolerated. She knew perfectly well what would ensue if her son went ahead and married Ducky.”
Nicky returned to his desk. “Yes, but I cannot go through with it.” He lifted another letter off the stack. “From Aunt Marie. She’s incensed that I’ve deprived Cyril of his title and income, leaving him and Ducky without recourse. She says I’m a traitor to the family. And I need Vladimir back at court. He alone tried to keep the guard from opening fire on the people. He was right; I should have listened to him. And to you.”
What could I say? He should have. We both knew it.
“Will you restore Cyril?” I asked, thinking of Miechen, who, since the incident at my palace with Vladimir, had turned her back on me. I missed her, even if I wondered why. Nothing was ever easy where she was concerned. I suspected she’d incited Cyril to wed Ducky on purpose. Gaining Alexandra’s former sister-in-law as her new daughter-in-law was a slap to our tsarina’s pride that Miechen couldn’t resist.
Nicky sighed. “What else can I do? I don’t approve of their marriage and Sunny is outraged, but with the situation as it stands, I cannot have us at one another’s throats.”
It was perhaps the wisest thing I’d heard him say since he took the throne, and it made me more confident to tell him, “This impossible war with Japan is also at our throats. If it requires humiliation for the sake of peace, so be it. Send Witte to negotiate. You must act now, before it gets any worse.”
He gave me an exhausted nod. “Yes. This time, I promise to do as you say.”
* * *
—
ALEXANDRA BESTIRRED HERSELF from her couch to sup with us and listen to Olga and Tatiana play a duet on the piano. In the isolation of the estate, I slept better than I had in weeks, without the nightmares I’d suffered in St. Petersburg, running down corridors pursued by a mob I couldn’t see but could clearly hear, baying at my heels.
When I woke and went down to the dining room—breakfasts were informal at the palace, as Nicky rose much earlier than Alexandra, and the girls ate in their apartments—I found my son waiting, his eyes red, as if he’d been crying.
“No.” I came to a frightened halt. “Not again. Is Alexei…?”
“Not Alexei.” He took my hands in his. “Sergei. A bomb, as he went out in his carriage from the Kremlin.” His voice snagged in his throat. “They murdered him.”
“Murdered? It’s not possible….” I couldn’t draw in a full breath. “Didn’t he resign his governorship? We were only speaking of him yesterday.”
“They blew him apart, like Grandpère Alexander.” Nicky’s voice quavered as he fought back tears. “Ella telegraphed us; she went out to retrieve his remains. She and Paul’s children were supposed to go out with Sergei, but Dmitri had a stomachache, so they stayed behind. They would have been killed, too. The explosion was so powerful, it shattered a spire on the cathedral.”
I swayed, gripping his hands, recalling Sergei’s l
ean grace, those green eyes and erect carriage on horseback when he’d stopped me on the road to Khodynka. They had never forgiven him for that day. They’d waited for the hour to exact their revenge.
“Ella says there’s hardly anything left of him for the funeral. I’ve ordered the malefactors arrested, but Moscow is a cesspool. Who knows if they’ll be found.” Nicky swallowed, summoning fortitude for what awaited him. “Sunny doesn’t know yet. She’s still asleep. Alexei had a restless night. He’s starting to teethe. She stayed up to rub his gums.”
“We must attend the funeral—” I started to say.
He gripped my hands tighter. “No. Other threats were sent to the police, saying Sergei was the first but not the last. I forbid it. None of us can set foot in Moscow. I’ll ensure he’s laid to rest with full honors, but I forbid anyone of the family to attend.”
“But Ella is caring for the children because Paul is in exile abroad. What shall they do without Sergei?” I searched his face, feeling in that moment as aimless as he did, adrift on this storm of violence, where the next wave, exploding out of nowhere, might submerge us.
“I will provide whatever they need.” He kissed my cheek. “You must leave as soon as possible, Mama. Go to Denmark. Visit Aunt Alix in England. Don’t return until I call for you.”
He strode away to inform Alexandra that her sister’s husband was dead. He left me in the dining room with the servants tiptoeing about me, setting out coffee and pastries; when I heard Alexandra’s cry of despair, I pressed my hands to my mouth and turned away.
* * *
UPON MY ARRIVAL in Denmark, Nicky fulfilled his promise and dispatched Count Witte to the United States, where he persuaded President Roosevelt to support our refusal to pay indemnities, in exchange for our immediate evacuation of Manchuria. Witte was heralded for bringing about the end of a war that had cost thousands of lives and plunged us into revolution, and Nicky rewarded the count by entrusting him with devising the Manifesto for the Improvement of State Order—my son’s first step toward a constitution.
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