The Family Romanov: Murder, Rebellion, and the Fall of Imperial Russia

by Candace Fleming

  But just as before, the boom of the one hundred and first shot was followed by … silence. It was another girl.

  “My God, what a disappointment!” exclaimed Xenia.

  Her words summed up the country’s feelings.

  Some people shook their heads in disbelief, or spat three times on the pavement, a traditional Russian gesture of disgust. A few even exclaimed, “Doloi nemku”—“Away with that German woman on the throne!”

  Newspapers around the world gloomily reported the birth. “Czar Has Another Daughter,” read the New York Times headline the next morning. “Russian People Again Disappointed.”

  Meanwhile, Nicholas struggled with his emotions. Whistling for one of his collies, he set off on a long walk through the gardens. They’d followed “Dr.” Philippe’s instructions exactly. So when Alexandra’s pains began at three a.m. that June morning in 1901, they’d both felt utterly confident. And yet …

  It was God’s will, Nicholas now told himself. And God’s will must always be accepted without complaint. After all, everything that happened in life was the result of God’s will, so it was pointless to question the meaning of events. “God knows what is good for us,” Nicholas often reminded himself. “We must bow down our heads [and] repeat the sacred words, ‘Thy will be done.’ ”

  Resigned, masking his true feelings behind a forced smile, he headed inside to kiss his wife and newborn. Then he set about sending telegrams to relatives and friends all around the world. Glad news, he told them: his fourth daughter—the grand duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna—was born.

  FOUR LITTLE ROMANOVS

  By 1903, four little girls romped in the nursery. Seven-year-old Olga and six-year-old Tatiana shared one of the bedrooms, and were called “the Big Pair” by their parents. Four-year-old Marie and two-year-old Anastasia shared another of the bedrooms, and were called “the Little Pair.”

  By the look of their bedrooms, no one would have guessed their father was the richest ruler in the world. Fitted out with a hodgepodge of furniture that had been found around the palace, the rooms were a clutter of overstuffed chairs and mismatched tables. And unlike many of their royal cousins, who slumbered on silky-soft beds, all four of the girls slept on narrow, folding army cots. This was a Romanov family tradition meant to teach self-discipline and guard against self-indulgence. Each cot was covered with a blue satin comforter monogrammed with its owner’s initials, and was so light that even little Anastasia could easily move it around. And she did. In the summer, along with her sisters, she dragged her cot closer to the open windows. In the winter, she moved it closer to the furnace grate. And at Christmastime, she hauled it into the playroom, where every year one of the family’s six holiday trees was set up. There, under the sparkling ornaments, the sisters drifted contentedly off to sleep.

  Just down the hall from the girls’ bedroom was their bathroom, where two tubs waited: one made of ordinary porcelain, the other of solid silver and engraved with the names of all the imperial children who had ever splashed about in it. But as with the army cots, bath time was another chance for the girls to learn self-discipline. Every morning, they shivered in the porcelain tub as their nursemaid poured buckets of cold water over their heads. Mercifully, warm baths were allowed at night. These were taken in the silver tub and, later in their teenaged years, would be scented with one of the few luxuries the girls were permitted: perfumes made just for them by Coty of Paris—rose for Olga, jasmine for Tatiana, lilac for Marie, and violet for Anastasia.

  One item the empress did not stint on was the girls’ clothing. She liked to outfit the grand duchesses by pairs in matching and expensive dresses. These were usually “fresh white frocks and colored sashes,” recalled one family friend. Their long hair was tied back with blue satin bows.

  A ROYAL DAY

  And so the family’s days passed comfortably and pleasantly. But most of all, they passed predictably. Every morning after their nanny, Margaretta Eagar, woke them, the grand duchesses—still sleepy and in their nightgowns—slipped down the narrow wooden stairs that connected their rooms to those of their parents.

  Nicholas was long gone. Having risen at dawn, he’d already been at work in his study for hours, plowing through the mountain of documents that appeared on his desk each day. Alexandra, propped up on pillows in bed, put aside the letters she’d been writing to greet her daughters.

  Good morning, “sweety darling Mama,” the girls would chirp. Dutifully, they each kissed their mother’s cheek, then perched on the side of the bed or curled up in a chair to listen as Alexandra went over the day’s schedule, and reminded them yet again about proper manners: “Remember, elbows off the table, sit straight and eat your meat nicely.”

  Afterward, the girls scampered back upstairs to find the wardrobe maid waiting to help them bathe and dress, before the chambermaid served breakfast at the little table in the nursery playroom. Then it was time for their daily medical examination. Ticklish little Anastasia always giggled when Dr. Botkin, the court physician, pressed his stethoscope to her chest.

  By midmorning, the grand duchesses headed for the park. Supervised by Nanny Eagar and protected by a dozen sentries, the girls pedaled their bicycles down the shaded lanes or played in the little house built on Children’s Island. Located in the middle of a pond, the house had a sitting room and a study fitted out with child-size furniture. All they had to do was lower a drawbridge to cross over to the island. Sometimes Olga and Tatiana were allowed to paddle across the pond in a small rowboat, tying up to the island’s tiny dock. In the winter, the girls built snowmen or whooshed down the sled run on their toboggans.

  Soon it was lunchtime—the only formal meal of the day. That was when members of Nicholas’s court gathered in the palace’s semicircular hall. Though Alexandra rarely appeared, Nicholas always took his place at the head of the table. The grand duchesses—even little Anastasia—sat beside him. Before the army of white-gloved waiters served the cabbage soup, boiled fish, or suckling pig with horseradish, a priest stood to give the blessing. Sometimes their French chef stood in the doorway, waiting to accept compliments.

  After lunch, Nicholas returned to his study, and the girls headed for the playroom. Marie liked to act out stories in the puppet theater, while Anastasia played with a one-eyed, one-armed doll she’d named Vera. Sometimes the girls went with their mother for a ride through the park or around the town outside the gates. That was when the stable boys pushed out the carriage and hitched up the horses. Two footmen took their places at the rear. The coachman took his place behind the reins. And squads of Cossack guards, sentries, and policemen took their places along the route. By the time the carriage rolled away from the palace, there was a protector hiding behind every tree and bush.

  It wasn’t until four o’clock, teatime, that the entire family finally came together. Just scrubbed and wearing fresh white dresses, the girls joined their parents in the lilac drawing room. Alexandra poured the tea, then handed around plates of hot bread, butter, and English biscuits. Nicholas smoked and read. Olga and Tatiana, who were just learning to sew, labored over their embroidery hoops. And Marie and Anastasia played on the thick green carpet. “It is very pleasant to spend [time] in a small family circle,” declared Nicholas.

  But the family circle was still incomplete. It needed a son.

  BEYOND THE PALACE GATES:

  ANOTHER FAMILY CIRCLE

  Alexei Peshkov (later known as the writer Maxim Gorky) grew up in his grandfathers household in Nizhny Novgorod, an industrial city on the Volga River. In his book first published under the title My Childhood (1913), he describes his life the year he turned nine:

  Grandpa rented two dim cellar rooms in an old house at the bottom of a small hill.… Nearby rose factory stacks discharging a thick smoke, which the winter wind beat down over the whole city; there was always a burnt odor in our rooms. In the morning hours we heard wolves howling.

  Grandma was maid of all work from morning to night. She cooked, scrubbed,
split firewood, kept the water pails filled; and when she came to bed she sighed with fatigue.

  I, too, made my contribution.… I went through the streets and the backyards with a sack, collecting rags, paper, bones and metal scraps. Junkmen paid me two greven [ten cents] for a forty-pound bundle.… When grandma accepted the money from me, she hastily stuffed it into her skirt pocket, looked down and [said], “Ah, thanks, darling. This will get us our food.” … A tear wobbled on the tip of her grainy nose.…

  My stepfather had run up debts, lost his job and gone off, so [that summer] mama came back to grandpa’s with my baby brother, Nicky, whom I had to tend.… Mama [was] so anemic and feeble she could hardly stand up … and the baby … was too weak to cry out; hunger only brought a whimper from him. In his naps, after meals, his breathing had a curious sound, like a kitten mewing.

  After a good look at him, grandpa said, “What he needs is lots of rich food; but I haven’t enough to feed all of you.”

  From the bed in the corner, mama … said hoarsely, “It’s little enough that he wants.”

  “A little here and a little there makes a heap.” Then, to me, with a wave of his hand, he said, “Nicky needs the sun—[take] him out[side].”

  I … did as grandpa advised.… I felt an immediate attachment to my brother. I felt he understood everything I was thinking.… The little one held out his hands to me, with a shake of his little white head. His scanty hair was almost gray, and there was a sage and elderly expression in his [tiny] face.…

  The yard was small, foul and … gave off sharp scents of decay. Next door there was a place where cattle were butchered … [and] the bellow of calves was succeeded by the odor of blood which … [hung] in the air like a transparent, purple web.

  When a beast bellowed … Nick would blink; his lips would puff out in attempted mimicry; but all he could do was blow out a “phoo.”

  At noon grandpa … would announce, “Dinner!”

  He saw to the child’s feeding. He took him on his knee, pushed bits of bread and potatoes into [his] mouth … and the dribble covered Nicky’s thin lips and pointed chin. After the child had taken a little food, grandpa would raise the baby’s shirt, prod the swollen abdomen, and consider aloud, “Has he had enough? Does he have to have any more?”

  And from the dark corner would come mama’s voice. “See how he’s going after the bread?”

  “Little fool. How could he know how much he needs?” But he gave Nick another morsel.

  This feeding made me ashamed; I always felt a sickening lump in my throat.

  “That’s all,” grandpa would conclude. “Give him to his mother.”

  I lifted Nicky, who whimpered and reached his hands toward the table. Mother, painfully raising herself, advanced toward me, holding out her dreadfully emaciated arms, dry and long and thin, like boughs off a Christmas tree.…

  The end came on a Sunday in August about noon. My stepfather had just come back to town and gotten a job. Grandma had brought Nicky to him.… Mama was to be moved there in a few days.…

  “Some water!” [mama called.]

  I brought her a cup and, struggling to raise her head, she drank a little.… Slowly her long lashes closed over her eyes [and] a shadow invaded her face, occupying her every feature.… How long I stood at my mother’s deathbed, I don’t know; I stood there, holding the cup, watching her face turn gray and cold.

  Just a day or two after mama’s funeral grandpa told me, “Alex, I can’t have you hanging around my neck. There’s no room for you here. You’ll have to go out into the world.”

  And out into the world I went.

  MYSTIC MEDICINE

  Despite the birth of a fourth daughter, Nicholas and Alexandra continued to meet with “Dr.” Philippe, and the charlatan soon convinced the empress that she was pregnant with a son. Alexandra grew round. She began wearing loose clothing. Eventually, she retired to her drawing room too tired and heavy, she claimed, to appear in public.

  News of her pregnancy swirled through the court. Everyone—the empress most of all—looked forward to the birth of an heir. But the miracle did not happen. Finally, court physicians were called in. They told her the truth: there was no pregnancy, and there never had been. When she heard the news, recalled Nicholas’s cousin Konstantin, “Alix cried a lot.”

  Scandalized, members of Nicholas’s family insisted the fake doctor leave Russia immediately. To avoid further embarrassment, the imperial couple agreed. But Alexandra still had faith in the mystic. So “Dr.” Philippe was called to the tsar’s study for one last consultation. With the curtains closed tight and just a single candle flickering, the mystic took Alexandra’s hand. Their wish for a son would be gratified, he told them, if and only if she prayed to Seraphim of Sarov.

  Seraphim, a holy man who had lived years earlier, was remembered by common people as a miracle worker. But were the stories true? Orthodox Church officials, hoping to declare Seraphim a saint, had been searching for evidence of these miracles. But they had found nothing conclusive.

  “Dr.” Philippe now suggested the imperial couple step in on Seraphim’s behalf. Make him a saint, he urged. Then he bent down and whispered the rest of his instructions into Alexandra’s ear.

  Eager to fulfill the mystic’s instructions, Nicholas called in church officials. He commanded them to declare Seraphim a saint. But the churchmen refused. Saints are not made simply because the tsar orders it, they said.

  “Everything is within the Emperor’s province,” Alexandra replied in a steely voice. He could even send certain Orthodox officials to jail.

  The officials understood. They hastily declared Seraphim a saint.

  And so, in July 1903, Nicholas and Alexandra traveled to Seraphim’s hometown of Sarov in southeast Russia for the canonization ceremony. Publicly, they visited churches and marched in holy processions. But privately, in the dead of night, Alexandra followed a winding path through the deep forest to a spring said to be the source of St. Seraphim’s healing powers. Following “Dr.” Philippe’s whispered instructions, she lowered herself into its moonlit waters and prayed for a son.

  Just three months later, an overjoyed Alexandra learned she was pregnant. She was convinced it was because of “Dr.” Philippe. He had interceded with the Almighty on her behalf, and God had blessed her.

  This event cemented her belief in mysticism. From now on, she would blindly throw open the palace doors to many a strange or shady character who claimed to have holy powers. “Someday you will have another friend like me who will speak to you of God,” “Dr.” Philippe had also whispered to her that night in Nicholas’s study.

  Alexandra looked forward to that day.

  THE HEIR

  On August 12, 1904, as the imperial family was sitting down to lunch, Alexandra suddenly felt pains. She rushed to her bedroom. Just one hour later, she gave birth to an eight-pound baby boy. Wrote Nicholas in his diary, “A great never-to-be-forgotten day when the mercy of God visited us so clearly.” The celebratory cannons began—three hundred salvos this time. Across Russia, bells rang and flags waved. In village churches and city cathedrals, special thanksgiving services were held where jubilant Russians packed the pews.

  His Imperial Highness Alexei Nikolaevich, Sovereign Heir Tsarevich, Grand Duke of Russia looked like a healthy baby. Court official A. A. Mosolov recalled the first time he saw him: “The baby was being given a bath. He was lustily kicking out in the water.” Plucking the infant from the tub, the tsar dried him off and held him up. “There he was,” said Mosolov, “naked, chubby, rosy—a wonderful boy!”

  But just six weeks after his birth, Alexei started bleeding from the navel. In his diary, a worried Nicholas wrote: “A hemorrhage began this morning without the slightest cause.… It lasted until evening. The child was remarkably quiet and even merry but it was a dreadful thing to have to live through such anxiety.”

  The bleeding continued on and off for the next two days. Then it stopped. But his parents’ fears continued
to grow. What was wrong with their boy?

  Hemophilia, the court physicians diagnosed.

  Alexei’s blood did not clot properly. Even a minor cut could take hours or even days to stop bleeding. But the greatest danger came from minor blows that might—or might not—start a slow oozing of blood beneath the skin that flowed for hours (or even days) into surrounding muscles and joints. This internal bleeding caused big purple swellings that pressed on Alexei’s nerves. The pain from this pressure was so agonizing that he would scream out in pain for days on end, unable to sleep or eat. Relief came only when he fainted. This pressure, however, was his body’s way of trying to slow the bleeding enough for a clot to form. Once this happened, the process of reabsorption would take place, the skin changing from purple to yellow to a normal color once again. The disease was, and still is, incurable. There was no effective treatment for hemophilia’s symptoms as there is nowadays, and any episode meant weeks in bed. Far worse, every episode was life-threatening—if the bleeding did not stop, Alexei would die.

  The only way to prevent internal bleeding was to keep Alexei from getting bumped or bruised. He would never be allowed to ride a bike or climb a tree, play tennis with his sisters, gallop on a horse, or wrestle on the ground with the tsar’s collies. Instead, he would be watched carefully, kept from doing the things boys naturally did. His parents even appointed two sailors—Andrey Derevenko and Klementy Nagorny—to watch Alexei around the clock. Called the sailor nannies, the men stuck so close they could, claimed one historian, “reach out and catch [Alexei] before he fell.”