Natalie Tereshchenko - The Other Side
Copyright © 2014 by Elizabeth Audrey Mills
Elizabeth Audrey Mills asserts her right to be identified as author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Written using yWriter by Spacejock Software
Plume-Creator by Cyril Jacquet
and LibreOffice by The Document Foundation
Cover by The Cover Collection
Email: [email protected]
Website: www.itsliz.net
"The story of Natalie Tereshchenko is the story of the Russian people."
My thanks go to Jane Austen and Bernadine Evaristo for pointing the way, to Gabrielle Kimm for showing how it should be done, to Sandra Goose and Aubree Lane for spotting those inevitable little typing errors and plot-holes in my drafts, to my friends in Facebook and the real world for their encouragement, and to my hubby, Douglas, for his patience and advice.
Dedicated with love to my daughter, Tina.
Overture
~ Moscow, Saturday 27 July 1918 ~
A figure loomed in the half-light at the edge of the officer's vision. "Someone's coming out of the front doors, Sir," it said.
Captain Sergeyev looked up from the chart he was studying by the glow of a flash-light, and saw the silhouette of Sergeant Korovin saluting him. Vaguely returning the salute, he turned to look at the convent. A small, grey shape was visible at the top of the steps, but at this distance, in the long shadows of dawn, he was unable to see any detail.
"Turn on the searchlights, and tell your men to be ready," he instructed, grabbing his binoculars and stepping out from his position of concealment behind the truck to get a better look.
The sergeant shouted his orders, and there was a clatter of weapons being armed, followed by a sharp thud as the nearest searchlight flared, quickly repeated by the other two. The three beams stabbed the darkness, wavering for a moment before meeting on the church front.
Sergeyev raised his binoculars to examine the figure suddenly illuminated at their convergence, and was surprised at what he saw. Many sights had passed through those brown eyes, including some that he would like to forget, but never anything like this. A skinny young woman was standing at the top of the church steps, her arms raised at her sides as though in welcome, and, as far as he could see, she was completely naked.
"Hold your fire," he shouted over his shoulder as he began to stride briskly towards the diminutive, white figure, then ducked as one nervous soldier jerked the trigger of his rifle, sending a shot whistling close past his head. He turned back to glare at his sergeant. "Get that man's name," he spat.
Sergeant Korovin saluted, and the Captain resumed his march to where the figure was now lying on slabs at the top of the wide, stone steps of the convent.
Sergeyev was a man of action. In February 1917 he had led his men of the Volynsky regiment out from their barracks in Petrograd to join the revolution. These brave Cossacks, who had faced death for years fighting for the Tzar against Germany, found the command to open fire on unarmed civilians an affront to even their hardened souls. Instead, they took their guns and crossed the divide to march alongside the men and women from the factories. Now, a year-and-a-half later, he commanded those same soldiers in Moscow, in the name of the new communist government.
"Who the hell are you?" he asked the inert form when he reached her, removing his jacket and, kneeling beside her, laying it over her body, covering her nakedness. She looked like a child ~ pale-skinned, her pretty face at rest, a trickle of blood running across her brow from a furrow close to her hairline, to where it flowed into her long hair that lay like a cushion under her head, hair and blood merging in a dark pool. One hand was raised to her chest, touching a pendant that hung by a fine silver chain that glinted at her neck. As though to dramatise the moment, he heard, floating on the morning air, the ethereal voices of the nuns inside the convent, singing their prayers.
Standing up, he turned back to the line of soldiers and gestured to his sergeant to join him.
"Take her to the hospital, Yuri," he said, when the man arrived, "and stay with her until she regains consciousness. Find out who she is."
"Yes, sir," answered Korovin, stooping to gently pick up the limp body.
"And bring my jacket back," Sergeyev added, gruffly.
The sergeant grinned, and the Captain watched him depart, then turned, hands on hips, to face the church, silently debating his next move. All his plans were now void.
"What a mess!" he said, shaking his head.
Then, a decision made, he strode up to the doors, threw them open, and entered.
Chapter 1
~ Heaven Delayed ~
My arrival in heaven was disappointing, to say the least. As consciousness returned, I was surprised to find that the journey there was much bumpier than I had expected ... and I had a headache.
I was sure I must be dead ~ fifty bullets (give or take a few) should have made certain of that. But, when I opened my eyes, I saw that heaven appeared to be remarkably like the place I had just left. Trees, lamp-posts and very ordinary buildings were flitting past, starkly lit by the low sun against a deep blue sky. I turned my head a little to take in my surroundings, and winced as a sharp stab of pain shot between my temples. I had been aware of the hurt nestling like a hiding cat behind my forehead ~ lurking, quietly pulsing, pressing against my eye sockets ~ but with the slight movement it leapt out and savaged me. I closed my eyes again, submitting to the agony.
When it subsided again, and I reopened my eyes, I saw, close to my face, a male chest in soldier's uniform, and, above it, the chin of a man, his image blurred by the constant bouncing. I could hear the roar of a motor car engine, and smell the hot-oil aroma of its exhaust.
The man became aware that I had woken. "Hello, miss. Sorry it's so rough," he said, kindly, in a voice I thought I vaguely recognised.
At that moment, I realised that I could feel the cold leather of the car seat against the skin of my back. Not only was I lying with my head in the lap of a strange man, in the back of a strange vehicle, but also, except for the loose cover of a rough army jacket draped over me, I was completely naked. A memory flashed of my recent actions, and a little squeal of panic rose from my throat.
The man's expression became concerned. "Please do not be afraid," he said, quickly. "I will not harm you. I am taking you to hospital, you have been hurt."
I began to remember details ... Sacha and my mother, badgering me to be the new Tsarina, to front the Whites' counter-revolution. Then a spotlight ... no, three ... and many hidden soldiers ... the first gunshot. If I was not dead, then I must surely be gravely injured. I tried to use my hands to feel for wounds in my body, but each movement caused the jacket to slip a little, so I stopped, my eyes wide with desperation, grasping at the fabric to hold it over me.
The man smiled, looking down at me kindly, and rearranging the scant covering a little for me. His young face was oddly familiar, like seeing a familiar landscape from a different angle.
"You are not badly hurt," he said reassuringly,
just a graze on your head."
"A graze!" I spluttered. "Are they all such terrible shots in the new army?"
He laughed. "Only one man actually fired his gun, and he is to be reprimanded."
"But I thought you had come to kill me," I said, puzzled.
"No," he grinned. "Why would we want to do that?"
It was then that I saw his full face clearly for the first time, and the pieces fell together.
"Yuri?" I cried. Yuri had been a good friend to me, a year earlier, when I was carted off into exile in the company of the royal family.
He nodded. "I could not believe it when I saw you lying on the steps of the convent," he said, "and I dared not mention anything to the captain."
I was about to reply, but before either of us could say any more the vehicle swerved right and left ~ sending pain stabbing again through my head ~ and screeched to a halt.
"We are at the hospital," Yuri announced. "Just relax, the doctors will check you over."
The door above my head was opened by another soldier, and Yuri carefully and effortlessly carried me into the outside world, holding the jacket in place to make sure that I was at least sem-decently covered. I felt air around parts of my body that should not be exposed, and his hands on skin that only Max had touched before. I wanted to curl up and die with shame.
* * *
Later, when the doctors had finished with me, and I had been transferred onto a ward 'for observation' Yuri came to my bedside. He had gained weight since I last saw him ~ it suited him, he looked ... content and healthy. His hair was cut close to his scalp, and he was neatly shaved. He wore the uniform of a sergeant comfortably, as though he had held the rank all his life, and he carried a soft cap rolled up in his hand.
"Well," he said as he brought a chair to my bedside and sat beside me, "this is a strange moment. How do you feel?"
"Better than I expected," I replied, smiling. "And more respectably dressed. You have been promoted, I see."
I had first known Yuri when he was just a private, guarding the royal family at Alexander Palace and on the train when we went into exile. At a time when feelings against the Tsar and Empress were running high, and the soldiers assigned to protect them were, for the most part, resentful and hostile, he was kind and thoughtful. It was not that he was a supporter of the monarchy, I knew that he was as critical as anyone about the way they had exploited the people and mismanaged the country's affairs, but his intelligence and professionalism rose to suppress any dislike he held for them and to conduct himself with dignity.
"Yes," he grinned, twisting his arm to look at the stripes on his sleeve. "Sergeant Korovin of the Red Army; they know a good man when they see one." He laughed. "But what a shock to see you again, and in such strange circumstances. I'm glad it was me with the captain, and of course I am happy to see you again, but I have been instructed to report back to him with details of why you did such a strange and foolish thing."
I knew that I was safe with Yuri, but I did not want to reveal too much. The fact that I was still alive was puzzling, and I needed to learn more about the situation. I deflected his question with one of my own:
"Why were you all gathered outside the church?" I asked, side-stepping an explanation that would be difficult.
For a moment, it looked as though he was not going to answer. His eyes wandered vaguely off towards the opposite side of the ward, and he stared briefly at the space in between, deep in thought. Then, decisively, he returned his attention to me. "I suppose I can tell you," he answered, quietly, "as our mission is now completed. We were there to close the convent and arrest the Abbess, Elizabeth Feodorovna. There is a new law that all churches are to become property of the State."
'They were not there for me!' I thought. 'Apart from Yuri they don't even know who I am!'
"Why? What has she done?" I asked, my mind racing.
"It is not so much that she has done anything, but that she is the sister of Alexandra, the former Empress," he replied. "Did you not know that?"
"I knew," I told him. "I was shocked when I met her ~ the likeness was uncanny. But I don't think many of the others were aware; we referred to her only as Mother Superior." I hesitated. "Do you know that the whole royal family was murdered?"
"I had heard a rumour; though nothing official, of course."
"Everyone," I told him, bluntly. "The children, Ivan, Doctor Botkin, even poor Alexei Trupp!" I felt tears welling up as I remembered them all.
He reached out a hand and touched mine, a gesture of friendship and sympathy. "Why did they spare you?" he asked, puzzled.
Without thinking, I shook my head, then regretted it as pain surged across my temples and nausea swept through me. With a grunt, I closed my eyes and took a slow breath to steady myself; I felt his hand squeeze mine reassuringly. After a while I was able to answer him:
"They didn't, I was able to escape with the help of one of the guards."
I told him about Max and our flight from the murdering Avadeyev and his men. "With the help of the nuns, I became sister Ephraimia," I told him, "and came with them from Nizhny Novgorod to the convent on a pilgrimage. The plan is to rejoin Max here in a few days, then continue together to England, somehow."
"So, if you were in hiding, why did you walk out through the front doors of the church wearing nothing but the skin you were born in?" he probed, a slight smile on his lips.
A natural question, and difficult to answer. I certainly could not admit the real reason, the complicated decision to end my own life ~ I would not burden my friend with knowledge of my royal blood ~ but a credible excuse eluded me. It was a most irrational thing for any woman to do, if you did not know the agonising process by which I had reached that conclusion. As I thought about it, I felt my face flush and I looked down at my hands. "I am very embarrassed," I whispered. "Will you just accept my assurance that it is not something I have ever done before, and have no intention of ever doing again?" I looked up into his eyes, which were studying my face, kindly. Yuri was a good man, a family man; I could imagine him with his children and adoring wife.
"You could have been killed," he admonished, berating me with a fierce expression. Then his face broke into a grin. "I am happy to see you again, and you don't have to explain anything to me, but I have to tell my commanding officer something, and he will not be easily misled. What do you want me to tell him? I will say whatever you wish, but he will want to know your full name, at least, and some kind of explanation."
"Will you tell him that I have no memory of whatever events led me to be there? Amnesia from the bullet wound. If he doesn't accept that, I will have to try something else. As for my identity, I cannot use my real name. If Avadeyev is still searching for me, he is looking for Natalie Tereshchenko, and will have circulated my name to every town in western Russia. The false papers that I have been using are all in my room at the convent,"
"I may be able to get them for you. What was your adopted surname?"
"Thank you; it was Nestorova ~ Ephraimia Nestorova. I think I should keep that identity, as it gives me a past, albeit a fake one. My real identity must never come out." I stopped and wagged a finger, smiling, but it was an important point I had to make. "From now on, you must remember to call me Mia."
He pursed his lips, clearly suppressing a grin. "That will not be easy at first. But I will practise." He stood and scooped up his cap and the jacket in which I had arrived at the hospital. "I must go now and return the captain's jacket. I will report to him that you cannot remember anything about the incident. If I can get your papers, I will bring them here for you." He stood and leaned over to kiss my cheek. "I am very pleased to see you again."
"Me too," I smiled, holding him close.
Chapter 2
~ Sacha ~
I was not alone for long after he departed, for as I began to nod off I received another visitor, my friend Sacha. Her face was set in a grim expression; she was clearly agitated. "What on earth are you playing at?" she demanded
, vehemently, as soon as she was seated beside my bed.
We had met when she stayed briefly at Alexander palace, a lifetime ago, when our troubles were just beginning, and we had immediately formed a bond. Then our fates sent us in opposite directions, and I had not seen her since, until her surprise visit at the convent yesterday (was it really only yesterday?) with my mother.
"Thank you for your concern," I replied caustically, "I'm not too bad, considering that a bullet bounced off my skull this morning. I just have concussion and a raging headache; nothing to worry about."
"Well you have no-one to blame but yourself," she said, glaring at me.
"I know that, but why are you so angry?" I asked, surprised at the force of her response.
"I just don't understand why you did it," she replied. "Getting yourself shot like that." Then, seeing that I was about to speak, she continued, pointing an accusing finger at me: "And don't tell me it wasn't deliberate."
Chastened, I chose not to answer, but instead asked a question of my own; this deflection technique was becoming part of my repertoire. "How did you find out I am here?"
She eyed me, piercingly, aware that I was holding out. "Before the Abbess Elizabeth was arrested, she managed to send one of the nuns with a message for your mother, who was staying overnight with us, telling her what had happened."
My mother, Sofiya, was the cause of my predicament. When she was much younger, she had an affair with one of the Tsar's brothers, and I was the result of their liaison. Not only had that placed me with the royal family through their trials, but it had also burdened me with a secret link to the monarchy. Now she saw an opportunity to cash in on it; she wanted me to exploit my half-royal blood and become a figurehead for the White resistance movement.
"Why does she have to interfere in my life?" I asked, angrily. "She managed to stay out of it for sixteen years. Why can she not just leave me alone now?"
"Because she wants something better for you," Sacha said, trying to sound reasonable, conciliatory.
"No," I responded hotly, "she wants a good life for herself, and would see me dead while she schemes and manoeuvres to get it. Is she here with you now?" I looked towards the door, half expecting to see her lurking there. "If she is, I do not want to see her. Tell her I am too weak for visitors. No, tell her I never want to see her again."
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