Olga watched in silence as I threw articles of clothing into valises and my staff hurried to prepare my train. Then she brought me to a halt. “What if you’re too late?”
I didn’t look at her, pausing over the heap of shawls and shoes in my open suitcase.
“What if nothing you do can change it?” she said. “Nicky has abdicated. They have his wife and children under their so-called protection, and he’s undoubtedly their prisoner. What if they take you prisoner, too? What if they decide all of us should be imprisoned?”
I turned to her. “Three hundred years of Romanovs cannot be so easily discarded. We still have many supporters. We are not anyone’s prisoner yet.”
Olga gave me a troubled look. “Mama, I’ve always admired your courage, even when I thought you were wrong. You never admit defeat. But this time, you cannot win. Nicky did this to himself. To us. He was warned time and time again we were headed for disaster, and he—”
“Enough.” I held up my hand. “His abdication was forced by the Duma and this horrid Soviet. They’ve seized power illegally. You sound like Miechen. I’ll not tolerate it.”
“Miechen might be many things,” she replied, “but she’s never been stupid.”
I ignored her, flinging shut my bags and ordering my immediate departure. Not until I was on my train did I realize that I might have packed a hundred shawls and not a single pair of extra undergarments. I hadn’t even looked over what I’d packed, and Sophie and Tania were so flustered by my determination to leave, I was sure they hadn’t checked, either.
No matter. I settled into my carriage as the train lurched toward Mogilev. If I arrived at his base camp in my one petticoat, at least I would arrive.
I would save him from himself. While I had breath in my body, my son must rule.
* * *
A BLINDING SNOWSTORM turned the world into a white blur as my train pulled into the station at Mogilev after four long days of travel. I couldn’t see anything outside the frosted windows, rubbing at the panes with my gloved hands until Sandro, attired in his uniform, came into my compartment. “They’re bringing him to us. We’re not allowed to disembark.”
“So much for Olga’s fear that I’d be taken prisoner.” I snorted. “They fear me, as well they should. Were the troops to see their dowager empress, another cock might crow.”
Sandro smiled wanly. “It might, indeed.”
“Have every carriage light turned on. Let them see that I am here.”
I had Tania and Sophie set me to rights, or as right as I could be under the circumstances. No jewels this time, no fancy gown. Stark. Simple. Black.
When Sandro returned to inform me that Nicky was coming down the platform, I insisted on going outside to greet him. The cold hit me like a fist. As I sucked in air that turned to icicles in my lungs, blinking my watery eyes against flurries of snow kicked up by the wind, I caught sight of him, escorted by revolutionary soldiers with red armbands. No Cossacks flanking him. None of the panoply of his rank. In his belted greatcoat with his cap tilted at an angle to shield his face, even with his beard he looked like the diffident boy he’d once been, so reduced in stature that I couldn’t move, my voice catching in my throat.
“Mama.” He embraced me, holding me close. I felt the bones of his shoulders through his coat as he whispered, “You shouldn’t have come. It’s not safe.”
I drew back, looking into his eyes. He did not seem sad. Tired, yes—beyond fatigue, that weariness of the soul that plagued him now laying claim to him in its entirety—but not sad. Had I not known better, I might have thought he was relieved. “I had to come,” I finally said, taking him by his arm. “Come. We’ll have supper together on the train and talk.”
He glanced at his escort. For a moment I feared they’d refuse us privacy, but they stepped aside to allow him to mount the train, Sandro behind us.
“Alone,” I told Sandro, and my son-in-law retreated.
In my compartment, Nicky stood as if unsure of whether to sit, fishing out his cigarette case as I made myself say with as much calm as I could muster, “Now, tell me.”
He gave a half shrug. “You must have heard everything by now. My generals advised me it was what I must do to save the country.”
“Your generals do not rule Russia.”
“Neither do I. Not anymore. Not ever, according to some,” he replied, and before I could lift protest, he said softly, “I never wanted the burden. If this is to be my fate, I embrace it. I was born on the day of Job. Like him, I must now pass through my trial of faith.”
I swallowed. He had done it willingly. He’d not been forced. He may have felt he had no alternative, but he hadn’t resisted it. I knew then that Olga was right. I was indeed too late. Years too late. Alexandra had poisoned him as surely as if she’d dosed him with cyanide, as Felix had done to the mystic. I blamed her entirely, though I knew it was unfair, that my son could have prevented this calamity had he shown the strength of will required.
When he said nothing else, I asked, “What will you do?”
“Return to Sunny and the children, of course. They must be very frightened. My family needs me, and—”
“No. Think, Nicky. What will you do once they strip you of everything? There are Bolsheviks among them, calling for your head. You mustn’t think that because you abdicated, their revolution is over. You must negotiate honorable terms for your surrender.”
I couldn’t believe I was speaking these words; I couldn’t accept that what his father and his ancestors before him had fought to defend, he’d set aside like an ill-fitting garment. Vladimir, God rest his soul, had predicted it. He’d told me on that infamous Sunday after the protesters were fired upon outside the Winter Palace that my son was unfit. Sasha would have been ashamed. I was ashamed, but I couldn’t say it. What good would it do?
“Such as?” He spoke as if he hadn’t given the future any thought.
“Where you will go,” I burst out. “How you and the rest of us will survive this.”
“We’ll stay here, of course,” he said, to my amazement. “Russia is our home.”
I gnawed at the inside of my lip; when I tasted my own blood, I said, “Russia will never be your home again. You abandoned it when you set aside your crown. You cannot stay. You must demand to be sent to England, be assured of safe passage, and depart at once. Negotiate for Alexandra and the children’s removal from Tsarskoe Selo as soon as possible, as well; they have no escape from there. Have them sent to Peterhof. There’s a harbor nearby in case they must flee. But you must go first. Without you, they mean nothing. With you, they’re in as much danger as you are.”
His face shifted, the weariness vanquished in an instant. “No.”
“No?” I stared at him. “You will not negotiate for their protection?”
“Sunny telegrammed me before—before all this, to say the girls had contracted measles. She was nursing them when—” He reached to the inset ashtray by my seat to crush out his cigarette. “They had high fevers and are still convalescing; Sunny had to shave their heads. I’ll not endanger their health. Later, once the situation settles, we’ll see where we might go, if we must leave. But now is not the time.” His voice darkened. “Misha has again proven a grave disappointment. I abdicated because I believed he’d assume the throne in my stead. None of this would be a concern if he’d only done as I asked.”
“None of this would be a concern if you’d listened to me,” I said. And then I saw it, the despair draining his expression. “You should have listened. It might never have occurred.”
He sighed. “Or it might have anyway. Where’s the use in reproaches now?”
“None. No use. But you still must listen to me. For the children’s sake, if nothing else. Ask to meet with the British ambassador. King George is your cousin. He will—”
“George’s parliament does not want
me,” he interrupted, with an arid smile. “Bloody Nicholas is not welcome in England. I’ve already been informed as much.”
“It’s a mistake.” I came to my feet. “I will write to Alix myself. George mustn’t realize the gravity of our circumstances, but once he’s informed, he will behave accordingly. You must have safe haven. He is family. He treated you like a brother when you were children.”
“All the more reason. No one wants a disgraced brother on their doorstep.”
Sandro came to the compartment door. “It is time.”
“Time?” I whirled to him. “He only just arrived!”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Nicky bent to me, kissing my cheek, then he strode out to his waiting escort as I stood there, stunned, looking in bewilderment at Sandro.
When my tears finally came, I could not stop them. They seeped down my cheeks as I let the sorrow overwhelm me, like the odious red flags now blanketing our country.
* * *
WE HAD THREE days together. We heard mass in Mogilev’s chapel, where for the first time since my arrival in Russia, the names of the imperial family were not included in the blessing. Then we had to witness the revolutionary flag hoisted onto the pole in the camp, replacing our imperial standard. Nicky walked before his assembled troops. Some of the soldiers began to cry, begging to kiss his hand. In that brief moment, he was their Little Father again. His generals looked bereft, but none asked him to reconsider. It would have been futile. My son had given his word of honor that he would not seek to reclaim his throne.
After a sparse luncheon on my train, where words failed us, Sandro left us alone, escorting the members of Nicky’s staff out—now dismissed, they’d donned the red armband for protection—and Nicky told me the Petrograd Soviet had granted him permission to return to Tsarskoe Selo and reunite with his family.
“You can still escape,” I started to say, recalling the broken expressions of his troops and his generals. “There is still time—”
He shook his head, cutting off my plea. “The only thing left for me to do is be a loving father and husband. All the rest…it is finished.”
On the platform, I clung to him. I couldn’t control myself; I wouldn’t let him go as he kissed me over and over, whispering, “Be strong for everyone, as you always are. We will see each other again soon,” until he pulled away and Sandro stepped to my side. I forgot my dignity, leaning against my son-in-law and stifling my anguished cry as Nicky, escorted by rebel soldiers, proceeded to his train, the outline of his dismantled insignia still visible on the carriage doors.
Just as he started to board, he turned toward me. My heart leapt. I thought for a breathless moment that he’d decided to rally his men and make his escape. He lifted his gloved hand. Though he was too far away, I could see his expression as if he stood before me, his sorrow evident now. Heartrending and absolute.
I might have sunk to my knees in the snow had Sandro not kept hold of me.
We did not move from the platform until his train had vanished into the endless horizon.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
In Kiev, the revolution had reached our threshold. Pushing past baleful civilians sporting red armbands or cockades in their hats, we had to hire a public carriage to the palace. Our guard of honor had been replaced by revolutionaries lounging in the guard hut, who did not rise to their feet to salute us. As I took one glance at the bare flagpole over the palace, my sorrow boiled into outrage. They had removed my standard.
Olga hurried out in her nursing uniform. Before she could speak, I said angrily, “Have my standard flown at once. This is still an imperial residence.”
“Not here, Mama.” Olga hauled me upstairs to our apartments, to the very drawing room where a year ago I’d received Miechen. I saw evidence of their loathsome intrusion: empty vodka bottles scattered about, soiled glasses on the tables, mud-crusted boot prints dirtying the parquet, and half of the extra furnishings we’d stored here upended or looted.
As I glared at her, Olga said in a hushed voice, “They’re singing ‘La Marseillaise’ in the streets and freeing political prisoners, tearing down our crest from every building. Members of the Kiev Soviet came to inform me that they’ll take over the palace and our infirmary in the name of the people.”
Sandro went white. I snarled, “They would not dare.”
“Mama.” Olga looked as if she might clamp her hand over my mouth. “The Petrograd Soviet has issued a manifesto, calling us enemies of the state. They want to arrest us. All of us. Every member of the imperial family.”
“They haven’t arrested you,” I pointed out.
“Because I’m married to a civilian,” she replied, but there was no pride in her avowal. For the first time since the crisis began, my daughter sounded terrified.
She directed her next words at Sandro. “Xenia sent a letter; a Cossack risked his life to bring it to me. She’s gone to Ai-Todor in the Crimea with your sons and the Yusupovs. She says they couldn’t remain in Kursk. Lenin is on his way to Petrograd to assume charge of the revolution, and everyone is fleeing. Xenia begs us to join them as soon as we can. I was only waiting for your return.”
“Never,” I said, before Sandro could reply. “We are not going anywhere. We don’t know what will happen yet. The people—not everyone is a revolutionary. Many love their tsar and will soon realize how much we need him. We’re still at war with Germany. Without our emperor, who will lead our troops? Lenin?” I scoffed. “And what of our patients in the infirmary? I’m the president of the Red Cross. Absolutely not. We stay here.”
“We cannot.” Olga was trembling. “Mama, listen to me for once in your life. You are not the president of the Red Cross any longer. You are not the dowager empress and I am not a grand duchess. Did you not hear what I said? They’re going to take over this palace and arrest us. I’m pregnant. I won’t stay here with our very lives at risk.”
This momentous news—at almost thirty-five, she’d shown no maternal inclination, so I hadn’t expected it—gave me pause. “How far along are you?”
“Three months or so. We must leave. Sandro, can you help us?”
My son-in-law gave a wary nod. “I can try. We must have some supporters here—”
“Use my train,” I said. “Take Olga with you. When you can, send it back to me.”
“Minnie,” he said. “If we return to the station, they’ll know we’re trying to leave. They’ve probably confiscated your train by now. Give me a few days to find another way.”
“Do so. In the meantime, I will go to the hospital tomorrow to oversee the wards that my Red Cross financed. Then we shall see if I’m still the dowager empress.”
Nothing Olga said could dissuade me; she was in near despair when I left the following day with Tania in my carriage for Kiev’s main hospital, where I’d gone many times to visit convalescing soldiers transferred for care we couldn’t provide in our infirmary. The gates were shut. Despite my demands, the sentry on duty refused to admit me. Tania kept imploring me to leave, while I stood at the gates, my boots soaked through by the snow. Finally, the hospital director, a kind and perennially overworked man, hurried out. From behind the gates, he informed me that my services were no longer required.
“Since when?” I was so irate, I rapped my knuckles on the gate and bruised them through my gloves. “This hospital is still open because of my services.”
“You must leave Kiev,” he said, as the sentry yawned and turned back into his hut. The director lowered his voice. “They will come for Your Majesty. It’s only a matter of time.”
“How do you know? Are you one of them now?”
“I am not, but everyone knows. Please, Majesty, I beg you.” He left me at the gates, staring after him.
As I ordered my coachman to return us to my palace, Tania grasped my bruised hand so tightly, I winced. “Don’t you start. No one is going to arr
est us.”
But she wouldn’t release my hand, and I no longer believed my own assertion.
* * *
WE CREPT OUT of Kiev in the dead of a freezing night, swathed in dark hooded cloaks, as the raucous shouts of drunken celebrations resounded throughout the city. The situation had descended so swiftly into anarchy—the police force abolished, jurisdiction given over to the Kiev Soviet—that I had difficulty accepting the fact that we were now being hunted like beasts, as my father-in-law had described his own stalking years ago by the Nihilists.
Though Olga was frantic to depart, I refused to leave any of our personal belongings behind, which meant her husband Kulikovsky, my loyal steward Obolensky, his wife Tania, and my Sophie staggered under the weight of our valises. In truth, my valises contained more than my china and photographs; we had our jewel coffers, and one of my precious Fabergé eggs: my Order of St. George egg, given to me by Nicky. Once Sandro had told us he’d found the means to escape, Olga and I sewed our most valuable jewels into our corsets, doing it so quickly that the filigree settings, brooch pins, and latches poked our ribs with every step. Later, we’d find our flesh riddled with prick wounds, like stigmata.
On a deserted platform outside the city, we boarded the old train Sandro had commandeered from loyalists, pandering our name and a few jewels. None of us could draw a full breath until the train, belching black smoke, pulled out. Even as it gained speed toward the Crimea, where we must transfer to motorcars to reach Ai-Todor, we huddled together in a single compartment, my pug, Tip, squeezed between us, as we anticipated sudden detainment, the boarding of the train by Bolsheviks, and our subsequent arrest.
None of us slept. We did not eat and we barely drank. Like the refugees we’d become, we endured privation for three days, until we arrived in Sevastopol. Roaming bands of rebel sailors eyed us malevolently as we boarded the motorcars provided by the Military Aviation Academy, which had served under Sandro and rallied to his call, taking us on the winding roads to the Crimean estate.
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