The Romanov Empress

by C. W. Gortner

  I hadn’t been to Ai-Todor in years, having barely visited the Crimea since Sasha’s death. Livadia was deemed too dangerous; as our traditional vacation palace in this Black Sea coastal region, if they came looking for us, they’d go there first. I’d forgotten how lovely Ai-Todor was, its whitewashed complex comprised of several villas, with fluted turrets like an Arabian fantasy, encircled by wind-shaped cypress and gardens of jasmine.

  Xenia came running out. My eldest daughter had lost too much weight, her eyes circled by shadows and her cheeks hollowed. I started to cry as she flew into my arms. Felix and Irina, and Xenia’s six handsome sons, surrounded us. The boys embraced their father, Sandro, who couldn’t hold back his own tears. Clinging to her colonel’s hand, Olga seemed ready to fall to her knees to kiss the very ground in gratitude.

  That evening, by candlelight with the curtains drawn, we ate a frugal meal as Xenia related their harrowing flight, as well as the fragmented tale—patched together by rumors, week-old letters, and the occasional telegram—of the exodus by others in the family.

  “Cyril was the first to disavow us,” she said. “That coward went to the Duma in person to rip off his imperial honors, pledging fealty to their provisional government.”

  “Trust a German to know when to switch her allegiances.” I lit a cigarette, not caring to hide my smoking anymore. “Miechen made Cyril marry Ducky to suit herself and then sent him to do her dirty deed before the Duma. I suppose she thinks she can keep that garish palace of hers if she pretends she’s no longer one of us.”

  “It did her no good,” said Xenia. “She had to flee. We don’t know where, but Cyril and her other sons joined her after they received warning they were about to be arrested.”

  I snorted. “Probably halfway across the Caucasus by now, if I know her. Disguised as a gypsy, with her Cartier diamonds stuffed into her corset.”

  Silence descended at my acerbic remark. Then Irina giggled, her two-year-old daughter, Bébé, on her lap, and Felix, who looked remarkably well, all things considered, drawled, “Grand Duchess Pavlovna would certainly not permit a revolution to deprive her of her Cartier. I don’t intend to let them take anything of mine, either, not if I can help it.”

  We softly sang “God Save the Tsar” but didn’t dare play the pianoforte in the drawing room, out of fear that the sound might carry. We had no delusion that we’d come here unperceived, but with the whispering sea outside and no demonstrators shouting nearby, it almost felt as if we were safe, protected by this place that had always been our haven. Felix assured us the Crimean Tartar regiment remained loyal, volunteering to patrol the estate.

  After everyone went to bed, I stayed up with Xenia. Olga’s pregnancy fatigued her; she kept nodding to sleep on her chair until I told her to go to bed. Her husband the colonel—whose first name was Nikolai, even if I refused to say it aloud lest he mistake it as a sign of familiarity—led her upstairs. Alone with my eldest daughter, I listened in silence as she told me she’d lost contact with Misha, last seen in Gatchina with Natalia and their son, and that she’d petitioned the provisional government in vain to visit Tsarskoe Selo.

  “They refused me.” She kneaded her hands. “I never had the chance to say goodbye to Nicky, Alicky, and the children.” She went still, realizing what she’d just said. Then she whispered, “What will happen to them?”

  “I don’t know.” I took her chafed hands in mine, hers like a servant’s now from cooking meals and lugging bags, when once they’d been so tender she complained that her gloves pinched. “We mustn’t lose hope. Nicky isn’t their enemy. Not even Alexandra, for all her faults, wished any ill upon the people. We must do all we can for them, to see them freed and sent abroad.”

  “You do not think that…” Xenia’s voice faltered.

  “Do not say it,” I said. “Do not even think it. What good would it do to harm a deposed tsar or his innocent family?”

  * * *

  SPRING BROUGHT OUT the rugged beauty of the Crimea, the weather turning balmy and the gardens exploding in bloom. We opened the terrace doors to let in the air, mixed with the scent of wild roses and spindrift. We took excursions in our motorcars, always with our Tartar guard, never straying too far. Irina and Felix had taken residence in the Yusupov villa, a short distance away, and came every evening to sup with us, often staying overnight. We were left alone, even if we soon learned it didn’t mean we were forgotten. Our incomes, dispersed through the Imperial Ministry, were cut off; we now had to count our rubles. Xenia and Sandro sent away their remaining servants, as we couldn’t afford to keep them. Sufficient food also became a mounting concern. There was little to be found, let alone for a pittance.

  Then Felix announced that he would go to Petrograd, over Xenia and Sandro’s horrified objections. He had money and jewels stashed in the Yusupov Palace, as well as valuables he could try to sell. As he wouldn’t be deterred, I asked him to check on my Anichkov, for I’d been unable to communicate with my staff there. Irina insisted on accompanying him, leaving Bébé with me and Xenia. The child cried after her parents departed and toddled after me, sleeping in a cot in my room, though she had her nanny.

  With summer upon us, we bathed in the sea and slept with our windows open. In August, Olga gave birth to a boy, christened Tikhon. In her typical manner, she didn’t inform me that her labor pangs had even begun; as her belly grew larger, she’d reverted to her old self, unearthing a roll of canvas and a rickety easel from one of the villa closets. She filled her vivid paintings with riotous bougainvillea and views of the turquoise sea, making me think that of all of us, she’d adapt best to an ordinary life, having never been comfortable with our constraints. I rushed to her side as soon as Xenia told me she was in labor, so I was present for her child’s birth. As a christening gift, I gave her one of my sapphire rings.

  She smiled weakly. “Milk would be better, don’t you think?”

  “We have that, too,” I said. “The local farmers have brought us crates of fresh produce, plenty of eggs, milk, and cheese. They insisted we accept it without pay. See? Not everyone is a revolutionary. We’re still respected by some.”

  Olga cradled her boy. She looked at peace, blissful even, for the first time in her life.

  Nevertheless, the unknown haunted us. Although we avoided any speculation that would salt our wounds, it was always there. We had no further word of Misha or of how Nicky and his family fared. And I was cut off from my family abroad. Telegraphing or sending letters was impossible. I could only hope my sister Alix, her son King George, and my relatives in Denmark were doing everything possible to assist us.

  When Felix and Irina returned, driving up to the estate in a motorcar laden with trunks filled with cutlery, extra clothing, bedding, and supplies, including haunches of smoked ham and beef, we applauded as we might have a ballet at the Mariinsky. Xenia’s six sons, ranging in age from twenty-year-old Andrei to ten-year-old Vasili—whose youth had resulted in a state of restlessness that had them leaping stark naked from the cliffs into the sea, to Xenia’s dismay—were overjoyed to find books in one of the trunks. Avid readers, they’d pored through the library at Ai-Todor and now had something useful to occupy their time, rather than stomping over the kitchen garden we painstakingly nurtured.

  Xenia thawed in her chastisement of Felix for endangering himself and Irina, once he showed her the necessities he’d brought. While Irina tried to entice wide-eyed Bébé from behind my skirts, my nephews wandered off with their books, Xenia and Olga went upstairs with the changes of linen for our beds, and Sandro took the food supplies to the kitchen.

  Only then did Felix remark that the situation in Petrograd wasn’t as terrible as had been reported. “The vice chairman of the Soviet, Kerensky, is a moderate,” he said as I eyed him, for this same moderate had been one of those who’d called for Nicky’s abdication. “He has declared Russia a republic and must appear to be on terms wi
th the Bolsheviks, but he doesn’t like the tumult. He wants to set matters to right. I also walked into our palaces without any trouble. Others do, as well, as the sentries supposedly guarding our gates aren’t averse to bribes. But they let me go about my business.”

  The way he let slip that sentries were at our doors in the city but not deterring intruders caused me to narrow my gaze. “Are our homes being looted?”

  Felix’s grimace betrayed not all was as facile as he made it appear. “Not exactly. They’ve confiscated our palaces and everything in them. I had to slip into my Moika late at night to check if Mama’s jewels were still in the vault. They were, but I didn’t think it wise to remove all of them. Our trunks were searched at the station; transporting an excess of jewels seemed too dangerous, even for me. I did, however, fetch the best pieces and my Rembrandts. No one can afford to buy paintings now. Maybe later.”

  “And my Anichkov?” I asked, in dread. My home, where I’d lived with my husband and raised my children, now open to revolutionary riffraff.

  “It’s still standing and, for the most part, unharmed,” he said. “It’s been designated for some Soviet ministry. Your staff has been dismissed, but I went there as promised.” He reached into one of the empty trunks, peeling back its lining to extract a paper-wrapped parcel; inside was a rolled-up canvas. “Irina told me how much you love it.”

  With hands that suddenly trembled, I unrolled the painting on the dining room table and went still, looking down at the portrait of Sasha in his blue Life Guards uniform. It had hung prominently over my sitting room mantel, my favorite portrait of him.

  “It was all I could take for you,” Felix said quietly. “I cut it out of the frame. They’re destroying our portraits; I saw heaps of charred paintings in the squares. But not yours at the Smolny Institute. When the Soviet tried to remove it, the students formed a barricade around it.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered. “This is far more valuable to me than any jewel.”

  “And this.” Felix removed a crumpled envelope from within his boot, of all places. He pressed it into my hand. “From Nicholas.”

  As I clutched the envelope, Irina said, “Kerensky gave it to me in person.” She sat on the couch with her daughter, who’d let herself be enticed onto her mother’s lap. “It’s a few months old and has been opened, of course, but he’s safe. Kerensky assured me of it.”

  “You saw the vice chairman?” I was incredulous. The jaws of the wolf, indeed. My granddaughter, who’d wept when the German mob threw stones at our train in Berlin, had apparently walked right into them.

  She nodded. “I petitioned him. He’s living in the Winter Palace, with the servants and guards, even if their hideous red flag now flies over it. He received me in Great-Grandpère’s study.” As I flinched in revulsion that the Soviet vice chairman had appropriated my father-in-law’s place of death, where Nicky himself had refused to work, she said, “Kerensky holds you in high esteem; he told me he’ll try to have your income restored and promises to send half of whatever is due. He said, your rights as an emperor’s widow should not be hindered. If you wish to send any letters abroad, he’ll also do his utmost to see them dispatched.” She smiled. “Go on. Read it. Felix carried it in his boot the entire trip back.”

  I held the letter to my chest like a talisman. “Later. Before the family,” I said, resisting the urge to rip open the envelope. I searched Felix’s face. “Any word of Misha?”

  He shook his head. “All we know is that he was at Gatchina when the estate was taken over. No one knows where he is now. Irina asked Kerensky, because we’d heard a rumor that Misha had been arrested. Kerensky said he’d make inquiries.”

  “Inquiries?” Fear surged in me. “How can the very man who oversees the Petrograd Soviet not know where the tsar’s brother is?”

  Felix gave a pained sigh. “He may not have felt he could tell us. It was enough of a risk to receive Irina. Lenin is in Petrograd; he’s taken the former mansion of that ballerina, Little K, and is giving speeches from the balcony. Kerensky is not a radical; as I said, he wishes us no harm. But he fears Lenin. That impudent little exile is calling for our arrest, and many are flocking to him. The people think Lenin will be their savior.”

  “Sasha had the little exile’s brother executed,” I said. “Lenin despises us. No matter what this letter or Kerensky claims, Nicky isn’t safe. None of us are safe.”

  “For the moment we are,” replied Felix. “Who knows for how long?”

  * * *

  —

  I READ THE letter first in the privacy of my bedroom. It sundered me to see Nicky’s handwriting; I could hear his voice in his words, even if what he wrote was obviously meant to be seen by others—a few brief paragraphs, relaying that the girls were on the mend from the measles, Alexei was well, and they’d planted a vegetable garden at the estate.

  “An emperor,” moaned Xenia. “Working the land like a serf.”

  “What of it?” I retorted. “We’re doing the same here. At least he’s occupied and spending time outdoors, which is good for him and the children. Nicky once told me he’d rather tend sheep than rule. He sounds happy enough.” I was lying; he couldn’t be happy, living under constant surveillance. And while he might put up a brave front for the children, Alexandra surely could not. She must be near hysteria that her idyllic world in the Alexander Palace had been turned upside down, for my son hadn’t mentioned her once in his letter.

  “We mustn’t believe everything he says,” ventured Sandro, giving voice to my thoughts. “They’re not allowed to leave the estate, so they are definitely prisoners.”

  “They could be released soon.” I made myself sound more confident than I felt. “We apparently have an ally in the Petrograd Soviet. Irina, tell them what Kerensky said.”

  The news heartened the others, although if even half of the money due to me arrived, it wouldn’t be enough to sustain us. But it was a start. The revolution hadn’t become quite the terror we’d feared. We still had supporters. We were here, together. Perhaps they would recognize the futility of holding Nicky captive and let him come to us.

  Perhaps, given time, Russia would come to her senses.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  “Get up. Now.”

  The stranger’s voice slashed through my shallow sleep; as I struggled upright in bed, I heard my Tip barking downstairs and Tania’s irate protest in the corridor. In the diffused light coming through the doorway, I saw a hulking figure on my threshold, pointing at me as a group of faceless others leered behind him. I couldn’t believe it as the man lumbered into my room, his boots pounding on the floor. His companions followed, one holding a kerosene lantern, casting greasy light as I yanked my sheet to my chest.

  “And who have we here, eh?” The man gave me an ugly grin. He and his rebel friends wore a mishmash of clothing, shapeless greatcoats or sailor jackets coupled with army-regulation trousers, and frayed red armbands sagged about their sleeves. He was clearly the leader, for he stabbed his finger at me—“Get up. Or we’ll drag you up”—as the others laughed. My heart started pounding so fast, I had to suppress a scream.

  Bolsheviks. Here, in my room. They had finally come for us.

  “She’s the dowager empress,” cried Tania from the hallway. “You cannot—”

  “Empress?” The man guffawed. “I see no empress here. I see an old woman, cozy in bed in her villa, where there’s enough room for ten families. We have no empresses in Russia anymore.” His laughter faded. “I am Senior Commissar Spiro of the Sebastopol Soviet, so don’t think of disrespecting me. What are you hiding in that bed, eh?” He took a step toward me. “Shall we search it while you’re still in it? Would you like that, comrade?”

  “How dare you.” I meant to speak with assurance, only my voice trembled and he heard it. “I am the widow of Tsar Alexander III. You have no business here.”

 
He cocked his hand at his hip, next to the pistol in a holster at his belt. “No business, she says. The Widow Feodorovna must think she’s still in the Winter Palace. Old ladies get confused; we understand.” He waved to my dressing screen in the corner. “You can wait there while we search. We know you’re hiding something. Letters to your friends, no doubt, and who knows what else. Romanov vermin, the lot of you. Up. I won’t ask again.”

  Tania managed to tear herself away from whomever detained her and burst into the room. “Give her privacy, please. We don’t have anything. Just take what you like and go.”

  She moved toward me, holding out a shawl. Inching out of bed, I let her wrap the shawl around my shoulders, but as she started to guide me out, I said, “Let them search. I’ve nothing to hide.” I made myself walk past the commissar to the dressing screen. “Do be careful,” I told him. “I’ve very few things left. Whatever I still have, I treasure.”

  He brusquely motioned. His comrades, all seven of them, began ransacking my room. Tania and I cowered against each other behind the screen, wincing as we heard them yank out my bureau and desk drawers, upending my linens on the floor, ringing my alarm clock on my bedside table, tearing apart my bed, and riffling through my coffers.

  Meeting Tania’s terrified gaze, I gave her a thin smile. They wouldn’t find any jewels or the sole Fabergé egg I’d brought with me from Kiev. We’d anticipated something like this. Xenia and I had hidden the jewels and the egg in cocoa tins Felix brought from the city, smothering our diamonds, sapphires, rubies, pearls, and emeralds in powdered chocolate.

  “Nothing,” I heard one of the men snarl. “No letters. Nothing worth a shit.”

  “Well, she’s written them. We know she has. She sent some through that traitor Kerensky,” said the commissar. I heard his boot crunch over something they’d broken. Then he growled at us, “Get dressed and come downstairs. Don’t delay or we’ll haul you down in your shift.”