The Last Romanov

by Dora Levy Mossanen

  The aroma of citrus blossoms from the lime trees outside wafts into the salon. A bird of paradise lands on the windowsill, its puffy chest heaving lightly, a worm dangling from its yellow beak.

  Darya scrubs her concerns out of her mind, attempts a smile. “Ladies and gentlemen, I don’t need to tell you that the Imperial Couple are fierce advocates of the arts. I don’t need to tell you that you are here because their Majesties admire your work. So do not disappoint them!”

  The mahogany doors swing open, and the master of ceremonies taps his ebony staff three times on the parquet underfoot, announcing their Imperial Majesties.

  The Empress is regal in a flowing silk dress adorned with lace and designed by Worth in Paris. She touches the pink pearls hugging her white throat, reaches out for her husband’s arm, and as if they were alone, he smiles at her and gives her hand an encouraging squeeze.

  He is wearing his most simple military gear, cinched at the waist with a leather belt, his imperial medals left behind. The salon is his wife’s brainchild, and he has no intention of eclipsing her.

  The artists bow to their monarchs. Remain standing as the Tsar and Tsarina make their way across the expanse of gleaming parquet toward their chairs, above which hangs a Gobelin silk tapestry, depicting the ill-fated Maria Antoinette and her children, a thoughtless gift from the French government.

  The Empress gestures toward the artists to take their seats, her smile softening her grave expression. She is pleased with her decision to establish a salon. No one will ever learn about her pain, her broken heart, her endless search for a miracle to cure her son. What the artists will project to the world are the vivid scenes of imperial life, vibrant, varied, and dramatic, a close-knit family whose only care is the well-being of their people.

  She addresses the artists in a blend of British- and German-accented Russian. “Welcome to our court, ladies and gentlemen. I hope you will be inspired here to achieve great honors for our country. I will personally support you in your future endeavors as it is the belief of this court that our great culture is measured by the genius of our artists. I shall follow your progress and at year’s end confer an honorary award upon the artist whose work best portrays the soul of our dear country.”

  An enameled easel, holding a large photograph of the heir apparent, Alexei Romanov, is brought in and set between the Imperial Couple.

  The beardless Cossack of the guard runs forward to snap photographs.

  The Empress gazes proudly at the image of her son. She thought long and hard about selecting Avram Bensheimer to paint her son’s portrait, discussed the matter with the Tsar, who emphatically opposes the choice, and for the first time in her married life, she disregarded his advice in hope that Bensheimer will succeed in creating a masterpiece superior to The Cure. She studies each artist, groups them together in her mind, then separates them again, attempting to decide which is the Jewish artist. She settles on Joseph with his beady eyes and greedy ears. “Avram Bensheimer,” she declares, “we commission you to paint a portrait of your Tsarevich.”

  Joseph is shriveling under her stare, glances around, subtly shakes his head. The silence is universal. Not a single tap of an impatient foot, a single rasp from an infected lung, a click of the camera, a shriek of swans, or a whoop of courting birds outside.

  Darya’s heart is drumming in her temples, the Fabergé egg necklace as heavy as the gallows around her throat. She struggles to collect herself, to appear calm, unruffled. “My apologies, Your Majesties, I don’t know why Bensheimer did not come.”

  Rosa whispers in Igor’s ear, who tugs at Joseph’s sleeve, and a low murmur scurries across the salon like a rat on fire.

  The Emperor’s jaws are clenched. His face is splotched red with rage. He clutches the cane handle and squeezes the two-headed eagle emblem of his imperial house. He rises to his feet, offering his arm to his wife. They stand together at the head of the salon, regal in their indignation, their incriminating glares directed at Darya.

  The flap of wings can be heard outside the window. A dog barks in the park. Count Trebla curses in his coarse voice.

  “We will learn why!” The Emperor’s eyes rest on Darya, and she wants to curl into herself and melt away. “And you, Darya Borisovna!” He stops there, handling his bottled rage, mindful of the Empress at his side, her affection for the girl. But he does not need to say more. His pronouncement echoes and agitates long after he turns on his heels and walks out with the Tsarina.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Darya reaches out to knock on the paint-peeled door, steals her hand back, stuffs it in the pocket of her hooded cape, and draws the cape around her as if to disappear inside its dark folds. Avram Bensheimer’s apartment is on the third floor of a narrow yellow-brick building, a part of Tsarskoe Selo she has never seen. On her way here, the imperial horse-drawn carriage, out-of-place in these narrow streets, trotted past a few art studios, a butchery, a synagogue, a bakery, an elementary school, and closely huddled shops, houses, and galleries, as if no other space is left in all of Russia to accommodate these people.

  The imperial carriage is at her disposal for the day, presumably for her bimonthly shopping ventures to back-alley stores and out-of-the-way antique shops to look for new fabrics—taffeta, grosgrain, velvets of all colors, silk brocades in various weaves—to embellish her dresses, feathers and scarlet flowers for her hats, and once every now and then, a special find for the Empress, such as a pearl-splashed ribbon the imperial seamstress weaves as a skirt waist or a bejeweled feather to adorn a hat.

  She is not in this primarily Jewish section of town to purchase ribbons and laces and feathers, but to confront Avram Bensheimer. An unprecedented honor was conferred upon the artist, and in return, he offended their Majesties. The Emperor is expecting an explanation.

  She knocks on the door once then harder twice. At first there is no sound from inside, then the squeak of wood. Footsteps. She takes a deep breath, locks her fingers behind her, steps farther away from the door. A cockroach scurries past, stops disoriented, and takes shelter under a dust ball.

  The door creaks open on its rusted hinges, and a tall man appears in the dim light of the bare lamp overhead. A palette of dry paint—sands and russets and indigos—clings to his shoulder-grazing blond hair. His green-flecked eyes rest on Darya with a start of recognition. “Darya Borisovna!” he utters in an Austrian accent. “Tyotia Dasha of the Romanov!”

  Darya is stunned into momentary silence. Has she knocked on the wrong door? That he recognizes her is not surprising. Her opal eye is her undisputable calling card, an immediate introduction. But the man appraising her with the attentiveness of an artist is the same man she saw defending the Jewish boy in court that day. “Avram Bensheimer?” She asks. “The painter?”

  “Avram the painter,” he replies, a smile lighting his sad eyes. “And you are the brave Darya Borisovna who defended me in the court of law. Here you are, when I need you again.”

  “Of course you need me, Mr. Bensheimer, but I don’t think I can do much for you. What you have done is unforgivable. You offended the Imperial Couple. In fact, you wouldn’t have been invited to the Artists’ Salon if it were not for The Cure, which the Empress happens to admire.” She appraises him, struggling to separate the twenty-four-year-old Jewish artist, who would dare keep the Tsar and Tsarina waiting, from the heroic man who stood up in court. “You did not come, Mr. Bensheimer. You were invited. You were expected.”

  He flicks his hair off his forehead and points at a fresh scar. “I needed medical help.” He opens the door wide and gestures for her to enter.

  She follows him into a small, tidy room, the walls covered with studies for his paintings—human anatomy, arms, legs, fingers, different shapes of eyes, some tearful, others curious or shocked, all types of wounds, bleeding, scabbed, healed, always a mark left behind. Despite the surrounding images, the room is pleasing to Darya. A pearly sun filters in through the sheer curtains, a faint sound of rustling leaves, the lau
ghter of children playing in the street below. She points to his forehead. “What happened?”

  “I was attacked,” he replies, as if it was a minor accident. Nimble as a panther, he ambles across the room, grabs two of the four wooden chairs around a round table, and brings one to her. “Please rest. It’s a long ride from the palace.”

  “Why were you attacked, Mr. Bensheimer?”

  “Because I am Jewish.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He can tell that her sheltered life insulates her from the surrounding horrors. She has no access to Bessarabetz or Svet, the anti-Jewish newspapers, is unaware of the message Theodore Roosevelt sent Nicholas II to stop his cruel oppression of the Jews, the violent riots, mob attacks, killings, and destruction of their homes. She is unaware of the recent and most serious pogrom against the Jews.

  “There was another massacre, this one worse than the other. I tried to save a neighbor, a child, from a police officer. We got into a fight. I was stabbed; it’s a deep cut. I apologize.”

  He tells her that people had poured into the streets to protest the Tsar’s political views, it seemed. Then, suddenly and inexplicably, the rioters turned against the Jews. They were ferocious, breaking windows, looting shops, dragging women by their hair. Glass was strewn underfoot, stuck in people’s hair, shards blinding old and young. Blood-splattered horses trampled children to death under their wild hooves. Twenty-five hundred Jews were killed.

  The wooden chair groans under Darya when she sits. She is pale, fraying at the edges as if her entire being is unraveling. How is it possible that she was ignorant of such atrocities inflicted upon a people in her country? And the Imperial Couple, are they aware? If so, why do they tolerate it? “I am sorry,” she tells Avram Bensheimer. What else is there to say?

  “I had no intention of putting you in a difficult position. Not after what you did for us in court. You are brave. Very brave, Opal-Eyed Jewess.”

  She does not know why he calls her Opal-Eyed Jewess, whether he intends to offend or praise her. “I am not a Jew,” she tells him.

  “No, of course not. But Jews can only depend on their own for help, yet here you are defending us in court. So make me happy, accept this honorary title. Or I could call you Opal-Eyed Queen, since you, too, like Queen Esther, came to our defense.”

  Accept both titles! The Ancient One levitates behind the sheer, billowing curtains, different today, her outline precise, solid, none of the earlier obscuring cloudiness. She is beautiful, Darya thinks, a certain soothing quality to her wise eyes, her message encouraging—suitable titles, she says, yours to display like priceless medals.

  Avram is leaning back in the chair opposite her, observing her like a painter facing a blank canvas, an arena of endless possibilities opening up to him. “I’d like to paint your portrait,” he says with a certain sense of entitlement.

  She locks her eyes on his, the gravity of the situation hitting her with renewed force. “Mr. Bensheimer, you don’t seem to grasp the seriousness of affairs. You are barred from the salon. The Empress is expecting an explanation.” She gestures toward the wound on his forehead, a few drops of blood visible around the stitches. “This will not be enough. It’s not life threatening. You could have come after you took care of it. Or at the least, sent a messenger to let us know you weren’t coming. As for my portrait, I will not have you paint me. You paint all types of scars, and even naked bodies. I, alas, do not have a scar on my body, nor will I ever take off my clothes for you.”

  “You are angry with me, Opal-Eyed Queen. It makes me sad.”

  The muscles of her cheeks hurt. She does not know whether to laugh or cry. She has never seen such grief, such persistence, such warmth in a pair of eyes. He exudes a sense of anticipation that excites and scares her. “What am I supposed to do, Mr. Bensheimer?”

  “Call me Avram. Please. Not many Bensheimers are left. Murdered in one pogrom or another. By their Imperial Majesties, the Romanovs!”

  She flinches as if each word is a knife in her chest. “It’s not true, Avram. Do not blame their Majesties. They would never tolerate such atrocities!”

  He hears the hesitation in her voice, observes her tug at her necklace, lower her hand and tuck it into her velvet sleeve with the elaborate lace border. He pulls away from his pain. “I don’t want to cause you trouble. Tell me how I can help and I will.”

  “You can’t come to the salon, and you might not be safe at home. I want to help you, I really do. I admire your portrayal of the underbelly of society, the seedier side, as well as its beauty.”

  “If that’s so, why won’t you model for me? It is my greatest wish.”

  “You don’t understand, Mr. Bensheimer. You are in danger. The Tsar has ordered the Ministry of Police to investigate your affairs. This is not good. No telling where you will be tomorrow.” She reaches out a hand to bid him farewell. “I am sorry, Avram, I do not know what to do.”

  He raises her hand to his lips and holds it there for a long time.

  Outside, the sun is flitting away. It begins to drizzle. There’s a chill in the air.

  A mysterious spark comes to life in her opal eye. An idea has dawned. She snaps her fingers as if to change the course of events. “You are an artist, Avram. Go and walk in a park, disappear, and don’t even think of going back home or to your studio. Go to a museum, to a friend, do something, anything that will inspire you to find a way for the Imperial Couple to forgive you. If you do, then I’ll pose for you. Know that the only way to the Tsarina’s heart is through her son.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  — 1905 —

  Steam curls up from a pot-bellied samovar in a corner of Portrait Hall. Limoges cups with the Romanov insignia stand on a gilded tray. Mead, brandy, buttermilk pancakes, pickled mushrooms, and herb-scented vodkas are set on a table spread with rose petals. Bowls of the Tsarina’s favorite Crimean wild berries adorn the table. Her Imperial Majesty is expected at any moment.

  A silver-threaded cloth covers an easel displayed on a platform at the head of the Portrait Hall. Avram paces back and forth in front of the easel, a nervous lion guarding his lair.

  Darya walks around, stops at every station to oversee last-minute details. A leaden weight presses against her chest, and she thinks that if she survives this day, then she might survive any future hurdles fate may toss her way.

  Avram’s left hand creeps up to his forehead, he winces, runs his thumb over the scar. There is a new worry in his eyes, more depth, an added sadness. He knows the Empress has not forgiven him, knows that by inviting him to the salon, Darya has put herself in a precarious situation. He tugs at a loosened silver thread, pulls it off the cloth, twisting it around his fingers, rolling it into a ball. Nothing can be undone now. Whatever is meant to happen will.

  Up on the scaffolding, Rosa Koristanova is preparing a massive block of agate alabaster. The Empress has paid for its transportation from Italy. The luminous, flesh-colored stone has been moistened with water, the fault lines and grain located, and the design of a triumphant Ipabog, god of the hunt, drawn with pencil on the stone. Mallet in hand and without protective gear, eye mask, dust mask, or fingerless gloves, Rosa strokes the alabaster, preoccupied with how to best shave off pieces of unwanted stone, careful not to leave bruises and sacrifice the heart.

  “Who is your model, Rosa?”

  The startled Rosa looks up to find Darya has climbed the ladder and is standing behind her atop the scaffolding. “Oh, my! You really shouldn’t be up here with all this dust. It isn’t healthy at all. Oh! You were asking me, weren’t you, who my model is. Well, let me think, the truth is that this one is especially important to me…and…if I may, well, I would rather not tempt the devil by calling attention to it.”

  “Of course, of course,” Darya quickly assures, certain she recognizes Joseph’s profile drawn on the stone. “Many artists share your feelings. Good luck, then, and we’ll talk later.” She taps Rosa on the shoulder and, to the ceaseless click
of Joseph’s camera, climbs down the ladder.

  In another corner of the hall, Igor Vasiliev is accompanied by two dancers impersonating the Tsar and his German cousin, Kaiser Wilhelm II. One of the dancers soars above a makeshift stage as if defying gravity. He embarks on a set of bold turns before landing in a graceful plié on the back of the other dancer, a Tsar impersonator, who is on all fours. With naughty twists of the arm, the kaiser slaps the buttocks of the Tsar, who all but carries his cousin on his back.

  “What’s the story of your ballet?” Darya asks Igor. “Why is this dancer riding on the back of the other?”

  Igor bites his lip. He turns to Darya and his smile is free of malice. “It’s the story of a kind merchant who made a pact with his donkey. In the spirit of equality, the merchant will ride the donkey in the morning and will allow the donkey to ride him in the evenings.”

  An expression of amusement scurries across Darya’s face. “Does it work? Do they get along?”

  “Time will tell,” Igor replies. “It’s just the beginning.”

  At that moment, the leg of one of the dancers cuts through the air like a swift arrow and inadvertently kicks the caricaturist in the shin. He jumps up and lands a punch on the dancer’s nose.

  Punches fly and legs flail as the horrified Darya tries to separate them, admonishing them, warning them that the Empress is expected at any moment.

  The scaffolding rattles and Rosa, as if she were a Cossack of the imperial guard, jumps down, brandishing her mallet in the men’s faces. “Shame! Shame on every one of your shit-stuffed heads! How dare you! Go out and piss on each other in the street. Stop acting like frustrated eunuchs.” She grabs the men by their arms and marches them toward their assigned spaces just in time for the other artists to scramble back to their stations as the grand master of ceremonies announces her Imperial Majesty.