by Gill Paul
Dmitri dreaded what this might portend for the royal family. If men dared to murder someone their sovereigns held dear, it meant that the last vestiges of respect for the monarchy were ebbing away. But if it was overthrown, what would take its place? A republic, as in France? What would that mean for the Russian people? Who would uphold the traditions of their great nation? And, more urgently, what would happen to the Romanovs?
If only Dmitri were close enough to protect his new wife! He felt impotent to be stuck hundreds of miles south. It was unbearable to think of her coming face to face with a stone-throwing mob, such as were said to be attacking public buildings in St Petersburg. The Alexander Palace had no regiment to defend it – merely a few under-qualified guards.
Unable to contain his anxiety, he wrote an impassioned letter to Tsar Nicholas, saying that in such inflamed times there should be plenty of loyal retainers stationed in Tsarskoe Selo to watch over the Tsarina and the grand duchesses. The old imperial guardsmen with whom he had trained would have laid down their lives to protect the family, but they had all been sent to war and the current royal escort was composed of raw recruits with less dedication and training. He begged Nicholas to recall him to the palace to do what he could to keep them safe.
Dmitri did not expect his letter to have any effect – he had little faith in his Tsar’s perspicacity – but perhaps the man had more of an inkling of the state of the nation than he revealed, because he replied by return that Dmitri should travel to Tsarskoe Selo post-haste to take a place in the royal escort. He added: ‘I know that you are a good and true friend to my family, and trust you will report to me directly any concerns you might have.’
Dmitri packed his kit and caught the first train for St Petersburg, arriving on the 7th of January, the Russian Orthodox Christmas. He travelled on to the Alexander Palace at Tsarskoe Selo and before even going to his quarters he asked the butler to deliver a note requesting that Tatiana come down to the side entrance.
He had been waiting just ten minutes, shivering in the brutal cold, when Tatiana appeared in a thin gown. She gave a little cry when she saw him and hurled herself into his arms. ‘For the rest of my life, no Christmas gift will ever mean as much as this.’
Dmitri opened his coat and wrapped it tightly around them both so their bodies were pressed together for warmth. He vowed, silently, that as long as he had breath in his lungs he would not let anyone harm a hair on her head. If necessary, he would lay down his life to protect her.
Chapter Seventeen
Tsarskoe Selo, Russia, February 1917
Tsar Nicholas stayed in the Alexander Palace at Tsarskoe Selo for two months after the murder of Rasputin, making plans for a spring offensive against the Germans. The billiard room was covered in maps marked with a profusion of arrows, crosses and scribbles, which he pored over night and day. Dmitri thought he was deluded to imagine he was capable of planning such a campaign. Did he have any idea that levels of desertion from the Russian army were rising daily and that there was a growing threat of all-out mutiny? Like them, he had no faith in his Tsar’s abilities as a commander and wished he would hand over the reins to one of his experienced generals. Nicholas sometimes acknowledged him with a quick nod when they passed in a corridor, but never spoke to him, and Dmitri wasn’t sure that he knew who he was.
For six blissful weeks he was able to see Tatiana every day. She was hard at work in the hospital while he had many duties as a member of the royal escort but they sought each other during breaks, when they would talk and play with Ortipo, just as in the old days. He teased her that her training of her pet had been so lax that when they went for walks, Ortipo chose the route; that when she threw a ball for her, she invariably ended up fetching it herself. Ortipo was the boss.
In the evenings he sometimes joined her in the wards to listen to a group of Romanian musicians who had been hired to play chamber music to the patients, and they sat close, not quite touching. Dmitri felt the air between them charged with the delicious secret that they were man and wife. He heard Volodya had been transferred elsewhere to convalesce and was relieved not to come face to face with his erstwhile rival.
Tatiana had no inkling of life outside the palace and Dmitri decided not to enlighten her. It would cause her distress to no purpose because she could not solve the country’s economic problems. For ordinary Russians bread was scarce, meat unheard of, and prices in the few shops that still stocked food were sky-high. Her father had outlawed the production and sale of vodka at the outbreak of war and men were brewing home-made versions that made them wild drunk and uncontrollable. Ugly mobs burnt pictures of her parents in the streets and cartoons in the press showed the Tsar and Tsarina eating meals of caviar and lobster or lighting cigarettes with hundred-rouble notes while their people starved. Tatiana would have been baffled and greatly upset had she seen them.
The mood of the public was the foremost worry preying on Dmitri’s mind until in mid February, Tatiana came to tell him that both Olga and Alexei had succumbed to fever and hacking coughs and the doctor had diagnosed measles.
‘Poor little Alexei,’ she sighed. ‘He so wanted to return to Mogilev with Papa. I think the men there are very kind to him.’
‘You will stay away from the sick room, won’t you?’ Dmitri urged. ‘I don’t want you to catch it.’
‘Mama is nursing them as she has already had measles and I don’t think you can catch it twice. I have moved into Maria and Anastasia’s room.’
That evening, Dmitri thought Tatiana looked a little flushed as she went about her duties in the hospital. ‘Do wrap up warmly for your journey back to the palace,’ he cautioned, but it was too late: the following morning his fears were confirmed when her ladies’ maid, Trina, came to tell him Tatiana too had fallen ill. She sent a quick note but her handwriting was scrawled and quite unlike its normal copperplate: ‘I pray I have not passed the sickness to you, my darling. This really is the most horrid affliction. Forgive me that I do not feel sufficiently well to write more.’
Dmitri sent her a note with an early snowdrop pressed between the pages, saying that he was sure she would still look dazzling, even when covered in spots. There was no reply and within days Trina brought news that the illness had worsened. Tatiana developed abscesses in her ears that made her deaf and the doctor was concerned her hearing might be permanently affected. It was agony for Dmitri to think of her suffering. If only it were possible, he would have taken the measles upon himself to spare her; he had already had a dose as a child and did not suffer too badly. Trina told him that Tatiana’s beautiful auburn hair had been cut short to quell the fever, and he begged for a lock. When she brought one he slipped it under his pillow and every night he stroked the soft hair across his cheek and in his head he whispered words of love to his secret wife. He pined for her.
Dmitri’s thoughts were focused on the invalids, but he heard rumblings from the town that thousands of women had taken to the streets to protest about the food shortages and that their numbers were being swollen by the hour. On the afternoon of the 25th of February he heard the sound of gunfire outside the palace gates and gathered a handful of guards before running out to seek the cause of the commotion. Several hundred townspeople were protesting, many waving placards and some of them armed.
‘Pray calm, I beg you,’ he shouted over the noise. ‘The royal children are critically ill.’
‘Let them rot in hell!’ a woman yelled. ‘At least they are fed, unlike my children.’
Dmitri sent two guards to fetch bread from the palace kitchen and a telegram was dispatched to Nicholas in Mogilev to ask what he would have them do. While they waited for a reply Dmitri urged the kitchen staff to bake as much bread as they could for distribution to the crowd. What they would do if supplies ran out, he could not imagine. Perhaps by then some solution could be reached.
The following day, Nicholas telephoned from the front and ordered the captain of the guards to suppress the demonstrations by force. He was inc
andescent with rage that the mob were scaring his sick children and said the men should not hesitate to open fire. Dmitri felt sick to his stomach. Had the Tsar learned nothing from the revolution in 1905, when he had been forced to hand many of his powers to a newly created government body known as the Duma? His only option was to negotiate because most of his army was at the front and, besides, he could no longer rely on the troops’ loyalty.
After the telephone call, the captain convened a meeting of the guard to pass on this order and Dmitri knew from his colleagues’ grim expressions that it was useless.
‘I’ve had enough,’ one man said, laying down his weapon. ‘The army opened fire in St Petersburg and hundreds are lying dead in the streets. Me, I won’t shoot my own people.’
A chorus of voices joined him, all in agreement. Dmitri and the captain remonstrated, but half-heartedly. They knew there was not enough manpower to hold back a determined mob, and any more casualties would only inflame tensions. The Tsar’s orders would not be carried out.
Every day brought news of further regiments that had mutinied. This revolution had been building for a long time but now it had begun no one knew what would happen next or which direction it might take. It largely depended on Nicholas. If he was determined to try and shoot his way out of trouble, Dmitri feared the consequences – for him and for the country as a whole.
He and his royal escort comrades patrolled the palace grounds with rifles and bayonets shouldered, ignoring the shouts of the crowd and the intermittent sounds of gunfire in the city. The snow was deep and the temperature bitterly cold but he marched with determination: no one would break into the palace where Tatiana lay while he was on hand to protect her.
On the evening of the 28th of February Alexandra came out into the courtyard to talk to the guard, swathed from head to toe in furs. ‘For God’s sake, I ask all of you not to let any blood be shed on our account,’ she pleaded. Dmitri was shocked to see how much she had aged in a few days, her complexion pale as parchment.
‘How are the grand duchesses, Your Imperial Highness?’ he ventured to ask.
She shook her head. ‘Not yet recovered. The Chairman of the Duma has advised that we evacuate the palace but the girls simply cannot be moved.’
‘You can count on us to remain at our posts,’ Dmitri promised. ‘No matter what.’
She pursed her lips and nodded her thanks, anxiety etched on her brow.
Dmitri couldn’t believe it when rumours began to spread on the 2nd of March that the Tsar had abdicated. It didn’t ring true. Nicholas was too arrogant, too wedded to the idea of his divine right. At first it was said that he had stepped down in favour of Alexei, which seemed ridiculous given the boy’s frailty and lack of experience. Next came word that Nicholas wanted his brother Michael to take the throne, but Michael had refused. Gradually Dmitri realised the gossips must be right. Who would lead the nation now?
Orders came that the Guards Equipage were to vacate the palace, leaving officers of the royal escort as the only force guarding the perimeter. They rearranged their rotas and cut down on sleep so there would always appear to be enough guards on view to deter the mob from breaking in. It was a game of brinksmanship. As Dmitri marched by the railings, someone with a harmonica began to play the ‘Marseillaise’, the anthem written after the French Revolution of 1789. Dmitri’s fingers tightened on his rifle: he felt like shooting that man on the spot. Everyone was jumpy, but none could have as much at stake as him, with his wife desperately ill inside the besieged palace.
Still there was no word from Nicholas. He had promised to return to Tsarskoe Selo on the 1st of March but the days dragged by without any sign. On the 5th of March the telephone and electricity lines to the palace were cut and food supplies were beginning to dwindle. When Dmitri rushed to the kitchen after an overnight shift to thaw his fingers and toes in front of the great ovens, the only food he could find was a tough loaf and some chicken bones from the day before.
As he walked through the courtyard, charred scraps floated from the chimneys and drifted on the breeze like oversized black snowflakes. A colleague told him Alexandra was burning her correspondence and diaries. Why would she do that if she had nothing to hide? Dmitri could not help wondering what injudicious disclosures might have graced the pages of her letters to Rasputin. Better if they did not reach the hands of the new rulers, whoever they might prove to be. One scrap still had some legible words on the edges and he ground it to dust beneath his heel.
During the morning of the 8th of March a delegation arrived from the provisional government. Dmitri recognised the politician Alexander Kerensky among them and was faintly reassured; he had seemed a moderate influence in the Duma. They marched briskly into the palace and were occupied inside for several hours. Dmitri watched the entrance, scarcely daring to breathe. Was Kerensky telling the family what their fate was to be? Was Tatiana well enough to attend the meeting? He glanced up at her bedroom but the curtains were drawn.
At noon their captain called them for orders. ‘We must leave the palace this afternoon,’ he said, eyes downcast and the words sticking in his throat. There was a chorus of disbelief as he continued: ‘The 1st Rifles will replace us. They are in town this very moment and due here imminently.’
Dmitri felt sick to the pit of his stomach. The 1st Rifles had vowed allegiance to the revolutionary government.
‘The Tsarina asks that we go peacefully and refrain from any action that might delay the Tsar’s arrival and affect the fate of her children.’
He passed round some small jewelled icons of the Holy Mother that Alexandra had given him for all the men of the escort who had served so faithfully.
Dmitri fingered his icon, fluttery panic in his chest. What should he do? He couldn’t bear to leave the palace. It was insufferable to be so powerless. He considered hiding somewhere in the building so as to remain close to Tatiana, but knew he would be arrested if he were discovered. Instead he sought Trina, the ladies’ maid, to ask for news of Tatiana’s health. He hoped it might be possible to see her, to explain that he must leave but would remain nearby.
‘She still cannot receive visitors,’ Trina told him. ‘But I have been given a pass to get in and out of the palace. If you like I can meet you and convey letters between you.’
Dmitri arranged that he would meet her at a side entrance every morning then, with feet dragging, he went to his quarters, took off his imperial guard’s uniform and changed into civilian clothes, packed his knapsack and wandered out into the grounds.
He gazed up at Tatiana’s window, willing her to look out. He yearned to see her, both to reassure her and to reassure himself. Who knew how long before they would be reunited, or under what circumstances? Walking out the palace gates and away from her felt wrong, as if he was wrenching off a limb.
Chapter Eighteen
Tsarskoe Selo, Russia, March 1917
The vitriol directed against the Romanovs in Tsarskoe Selo was staggering. Everywhere Dmitri went, townsfolk gossiped about Alexandra’s supposed promiscuity, speculated that Alexei was not the Tsar’s son, and even cast aspersions that the grand duchesses took lovers amongst the palace staff. It was hard not to lose his temper and lash out, but he restrained himself and occupied his time writing to old friends from the imperial guard, men such as Malevich, whom he knew would be loyal to the Romanovs. Surely together they could find a way to help them? In public, he was careful not to identify himself as a scion of the family, because the mood was so ugly he could have been attacked by a mob. He saw one aristocrat fleeing on foot after his carriage was overturned.
Every day, Dmitri scanned the newspapers, trying to work out, like other Russians, who would be their new leader. Prince George Lvov seemed the current face of the provisional government but a council in St Petersburg, the Petrograd Soviet of Workers’ and Soldiers’ Deputies, was increasingly influential, and more soviets were springing up around the nation. The stridency of their pronouncements alarmed Dmitri: what Russia ne
eded more than anything was a wise leader who could get food to the people and quell the urge to blame all the country’s ills on one absurdly wealthy family.
Tatiana was slowly recovering from her illness and, judging by her letters, seemed to have no idea of the danger the family faced.
My dearest love, I wish we could meet but at the same time I am far too vain to allow you to see me like this. You will be shocked to learn that my remaining hair has been falling out in clumps and I must wear a headscarf to cover the bald patches. I know how you loved my hair and promise I will grow it again as soon as I can! I am also much thinner but can eat solid food once more and aim to gain weight very soon … We are all in reasonable spirits. I think we are going to sail to England for a holiday with our relatives, George V and his family, until the revolution is suppressed. We are waiting to be told when a ship will arrive to collect us. I miss my work in the hospital but am occupying my time with reading and trying to stop the younger ones from arguing (a mammoth task). I miss you and wish I could be with you even for just one moment to lean my forehead against yours and see if I can read your thoughts.
Dmitri was glad she could not read his thoughts, because he couldn’t imagine how the British would simply send a ship through the Baltic, which was patrolled by German warships. Would Germany guarantee them safe passage? That would not go down well in revolutionary Russia. But in his reply he did not mention his doubts:
Now that your vanity has returned, I am reassured you will soon be yourself again … Once you sail for England, I will follow hot on your heels. Perhaps your parents will allow us to be officially wed there if the revolution is prolonged. We could buy a manor house in the countryside and keep horses and dogs. I will have to polish my English, which is nowhere near as fluent as yours, and adopt an accent that sounds like a man being strangled, such as their aristocrats use, but all in all I think it a good plan.
