The last time I had been to the ballet, though I could not tell Yakov, was at the Mariinsky Theatre in Saint Petersburg, four years earlier, with The Tsar and Empress and their two eldest daughters. On that occasion, I had sat with them in the royal box.
The Bolshoi Theatre proved to be just as impressive, with thick red carpets, gold-and-blue painted ceilings, marble columns and golden cherubs. We were enthusiastically welcomed at the door by Yakov's friend, the Ballet Master, Alexander Gorsky, who accompanied us to the seats he had reserved. I was shocked when, after climbing plush stairs, we emerged above the theatre between velvet drapes ~ once again I was in a royal box.
We sat, and Gorsky remained with us for a while, chatting as the orchestra tuned up and the audience began to fill the theatre, before excusing himself to attend to other matters. I saw heads turn as patrons scrutinised the new royalty, and heard whisperings as they drew their conclusions. I was embarrassed, and would have preferred the relative anonymity of a stalls seat, or perhaps a regular box. But I was determined to enjoy my evening and not be put off by the ostentation and the gossiping.
I was not disappointed. When the lights went down and the performance began, I was regaled by Tchaikovsky's beautiful music and the stunning dancing of Yekaterina Geltzer and the Bolshoi company ~ it was a delight for me from start to finish. However, not everyone felt the same, and there were some loud mutterings of discontent from the stalls during the performance ~ as Yakov had told me, some patrons did not like the changes Gorsky had made to the 'usual' way things were done. A few people even marched out indignantly before the end, but not many, and there were cheers and thunderous applause at the conclusion.
* * *
Afterwards, we stopped outside my apartment, with our escort keeping respectfully out of sight around the corner in the stairway.
"I've had a lovely time, thank you Yakov," I said. "Just what I needed to forget what happened this morning."
He smiled and gently held my hand, then surprised me by suddenly leaning forward and kissing me on the lips. It was not passionate, but it was tender and lingering, his moustache slightly scratchy on my skin. "I hope it will be the first of many," he said, softly.
I was flustered, it had happened so quickly, so unexpectedly. "I hope so too," I answered. "But, Yakov, I cannot ... " I didn't know what to say, how to tell him that I was not available, that I had a past he would not like. "I am ... my life is … complicated," I eventually managed to blurt out.
He looked disappointed. "I am sorry," he said, quickly. "How selfish of me; I am rushing you; you have been through so much, and you hardly know me." He lifted my hand to his lips, and kissed my fingers. "I will see you tomorrow at work."
I kept hold of his hand, so that, when he turned to go, he had to stop. "It's not what you think," I said, smiling. "I hope that I can explain, soon. You are a lovely man, and a good friend. I would really like to go out with you again."
Explain what? That I was a niece of the Tsar? That I barely escaped with my life when Nicholas and his family were murdered by the Bolsheviks? How could I possibly tell him?
Chapter 12
~ Friday 9 August 1918 ~
The next day, Friday, mid-morning, I knocked on the door from my office to Yakov's and walked in, as had become our routine, with his tea and toast on a tray. I was smiling in recollection of our pleasant evening together, and looking forward to some friendly conversation. Unexpectedly, though, he had a guest, and their heads turned towards me in unison. A smile began to form on Yakov's face, and he rose to introduce me, but I had already recognised his guest, and he had recognised me.
"Well, if it isn't the uppity little lady's maid!" A sneer spread across Yurovsky's face as he turned back to Yakov. "What's she doing here?"
I was frozen to the spot, my mind racing. Yakov's head was turning from me to Yurovsky and back to me, a look of surprise on his face. "She's my secretary," he said, slowly. "How do you know her?"
There was no escape for me, so I walked over to his desk and put the tray in a space at one end, avoiding eye contact with Yurovsky, then stepped behind it and stood beside Yakov to face the onslaught that I knew was coming.
Yurovsky laughed. "She hasn't told you? Now, why does that not surprise me? Miss Tereshchenko and I are old friends, aren't we, Natalie?"
"Hardly friends," I retorted, huffily.
"What is going on here?" Yakov asked, turning to me, his face a mixture of confusion and rising anger.
"It's true," I replied, desolately. "My name is Natalie Tereshchenko. I met comrade Yurovsky in Tobolsk, earlier this year, when he took over custody of the ex-Tsar and his family; I used to work for them as a Lady in Waiting."
Yakov stared at me for what felt like a lifetime. I didn't know what to say or do, I couldn't meet his eyes, and stared instead at the floor. Eventually, he turned back to Yurovsky. "Will you please excuse us, Comrade? My secretary and I need to talk."
Grinning, Yurovsky nodded, bowed slightly at the waist, and left. As the outer door closed, Sverdlov glared at me. Then, without a word, he stood up from his desk and walked through the still-open doorway into my office. He disappeared from my sight as he crossed the room, but I heard him open Aleksandra's door, and heard his voice. Then, a moment later, they came back together.
Yakov returned to his desk, and Aleksandra stood in the doorway, a puzzled expression on her face. I was still standing beside his chair, had not moved.
"Tell her what you just told me," Yakov barked at me.
Miserably, I repeated it. I was terrified. Yakov's anger was almost physical, his hands were closed tightly into fists on the desk before him, his mouth tight, his lips white. Aleksandra's face was unreadable.
"Are you a spy for the Whites?" Sverdlov asked, his voice trembling.
"No!" I answered quickly, shaking my head vigorously. "I am on your side." I turned to Aleksandra. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you; I was afraid for my life."
"Do you think we are such brutes?" she said, simply.
I shook my head. "I know now that you are not." I said, then pointed to the door through which Yurovsky had left. "But he is, and I had no way of knowing, when we met, that you were not the same."
"So you let me make a fool of myself," Yakov said.
I looked from one to the other; I didn't know how to show them how much they meant to me.
"I didn't intend to, honestly. At first, I thought it would be just a job, I didn't expect to get close to anyone, to really care as I do for both of you. Over time, as we have become friends, I have been trying to find a way to break the news, but couldn't find the right time. Will you let me tell you now, so you can understand?"
Aleksandra took the few steps needed to bring her to my side, then led me by the arm to the chairs before Yakov's desk. She sat in the one vacated by Yurovsky, and I lowered my trembling body into the other.
Hesitantly, at first, I recounted my years with the royal family, described my work, my feelings about them, and my antipathy towards their power. Of course, I carefully omitted to reveal my own royal blood ~ somehow, I felt that it would be one fact too many.
I told them about our exile and imprisonment. My voice faltered when I recalled the carnage of that night in Yekaterinburg. "I was there, in that house, when Nicholas and Alexandra and all their children were murdered by the butcher Avadeyev and his men, on Lenin's orders. That is why I was afraid to tell you before. My friends, innocent servants, were also slaughtered. Yurovsky was there, complicit in the murder."
I paused, studying them. I sensed some sympathy in Aleksandra's face, and Yakov's expression had changed, his eyes had opened a little wider, as though he was seeing something unexpected. I thought he was beginning to understand, until I resumed my account and told them about Max ~ then I saw his jaw tighten and his mouth again squeeze tightly closed. I forced myself to ignore it, and pressed on.
"Max helped me to avoid the shooting and flee from the house. Avadeyev has been trying since that nigh
t to find me. We caught a train, hoping to flee to England, where I thought we would be safe, but Max was injured in a struggle with one of Avadeyev's men, and we had to get off again at Nizhny. After a doctor had removed the bullet, we separated to be less conspicuous. I travelled to Moscow with the nuns, and Max joined the travelling circus, which was also supposed to be coming to Moscow."
And then I reached the moment in my account when I described my attempt to end my life outside the convent. "I knew that Avadeyev wanted me for what I knew, and I saw soldiers massing outside the convent. I put the facts as I knew them together, and thought they were there to arrest me. Knowing what Avadeyev is capable of, I decided it was better to let them kill me."
"But, instead, the soldiers were there to close the convent," Aleksandra was nodding. "Natalie, we knew nothing about you. Our friend Yurovsky and his associate Avadeyev, have managed to keep your escape a secret." She turned to Sverdlov, who was also nodding, though his expression was still grim, and his eyes stabbed at me like flashes of lightening.
"A little honesty would have been nice," he said, petulantly, after a pause.
I could understand why he was hurt and jealous, but I was also angry that he dismissed my fears without seeing my point of view. "Oh yes," I retorted, "that's easy for you to say. I'm just trying to stay alive in a country that wants to see me dead ~ and none of it is my fault. Can you honestly say that you would have accepted me, in the beginning, if I had told you who I really am?"
"I would have liked the chance to," he replied.
I glared at him. "Well, it wouldn't have been your neck on the block, would it?"
Aleksandra held up her hands. "Enough, already. Natalie is right. Having heard her story, I can understand why she preferred to adopt a new persona. The question is: what are we going to do now?"
I looked from one to the other. "Please don't hand me over to Avadeyev, he is a sadist. If you want to kill me, just do it quickly."
Aleksandra stood, suddenly, her head down. "You really think we are all evil, don't you?" she said, quietly. "And who can blame you, after what you have seen." She cast a glance at Sverdlov, who refused to meet her eyes. There was something in her look, and in his reticence, that told of secrets I did not know.
I rose to my feet and moved to her side. Her head was down; I thought she could even be crying. "Until I met you," I said, "I had known only one side of the revolution; and it was brutal. I'm sorry, I know now that you are not like them." I reached out a hand and brushed her arm. "I have grown to love you as a friend, and admire you for what you do." She took my hand in hers, and held it tightly.
I turned to Sverdlov. "Yakov, I do like you very much, and I wanted to tell you everything. I'm sorry."
He shrugged; but though he didn't speak, I had a feeling he was softening a little.
Aleksandra sucked in a deep breath through her nose, then blew it out slowly between pursed lips. She was back in control.
"This is not necessarily a bad thing," she said, assertively, to Sverdlov. "Perhaps we can even make some propaganda out of it."
"But Avadeyev ... " I began.
"Avadeyev is a throwback to the Mongols, an animal. Leave him to me." Yakov interrupted.
"But he was acting on Lenin's orders." The words were out before I could stop them. Was this really me speaking? Why could I not think before opening my mouth? I had never been that bold, that rash, before. Somehow, my experiences over the past year had made me more confrontational, and this was not really the best time to bring out that trait.
"Yes, that is true," he replied, "and there were good reasons, believe me."
Aleksandra spoke again, returning to her point. "The first part of the revolution is over," she resumed, speaking to me again. "But now we are bogged down in civil war. The Whites have a powerful resistance movement, with help from abroad. They fight us unceasingly, many people are dying unnecessarily, they are holding up food supplies, and our economy cannot recover until all citizens are united."
"And you think that a convert from the Tsar's household could give the proletariat a stronger reason to fight?" I said, incredulously.
She laughed. "Well, that may be hoping for a little too much. But, perhaps, if the people saw you working with us, they may be less likely to believe the Whites' propaganda."
Suddenly, the door to the office burst open, and a big man, wearing a military uniform and sporting a large moustache, barged in. It was my first encounter with Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin.
Chapter 13
~ Stalin ~
"Ah, Joseph," said Aleksandra, coldly, "I wondered how long it would be before we saw you. And Comrade Yurovsky, what a surprise." Yurovsky was lurking in the doorway behind Stalin, smirking.
Stalin was a giant of a man, tall, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested. He had a mass of black hair and a wide, bushy moustache. He wore a smartly tailored uniform, adorned with medals.
He glared at Aleksandra for a moment, without speaking, then at me, then turned to Yakov. "This time you have gone too far, Sverdlov," he bellowed. "I have called an immediate emergency meeting of the Council. You are to attend." Then he pointed a finger at me. "And bring her with you!" Then he spun on his heels and departed, practically mowing down the still-grinning Yurovsky, who gave me a cheery wave as he closed the door behind them.
Suddenly my secret past was common knowledge, and I feared that I was living my last hours. My life was in the balance, and I had only two people to speak for me. But there was one small blessing: yes, they had found out that I used to work for the Romanovs, and that I was present at their demise, but thankfully no-one knew about my royal blood ~ that would surely have guaranteed my execution.
* * *
Together, the three of us trudged silently through busy corridors, falling into step with others heading in the same direction, presumably council members, who stared at me with blatant and hostile curiosity.
We entered the council chamber ~ a large, bright room, with windows along one side, like a row of pictures. It looked to me as though it may once have been a dining hall, in the times when the Kremlin was used by the monarch. Occupying almost the whole of the centre of the room, and running a considerable part of the length of it, was a mahogany table, where council members had already started to take their places with a scraping of plush, ornate chairs on the polished parquet floor.
I recognised Leon Trotsky, nominally the Second-in-Command to Lenin, though probably ranking no higher in the power structure than Sverdlov, taking the seat at the head of the table, asserting himself as acting Chairman. And there was Stalin, sitting with Yurovsky, about halfway down the side facing the window. I looked nervously around the room; there were no other faces I recognised. Aleksandra and Yakov led me to a chair almost opposite Stalin, and seated themselves protectively on each side of me. As more members arrived, Aleksandra whispered their names and roles to me. I tried to remember, but there were so many new faces and names, and I was so tense that I knew I would not remember them.
* * *
Trotsky tersely opened the proceedings, and, instantly, Stalin jumped to his feet, determined to say his piece before anyone else had a chance to speak.
"Comrade Stalin," announced the acting chairman, dryly.
"I want to know why we have an alien in our midst," Stalin began, hotly, pointing at me, his thick moustache quivering as he repeatedly pursed his lips. "Comrades Sverdlov and Kollontai have compromised our security by bringing a refugee from the privileged classes here into the seat of our government! How did it happen? And what is more, what are we going to do about it?"
He sat down again, glaring across the table at me. I looked down at my hands, sensing all the eyes in the room turning to me, heard the hiss of their voices as they exchanged hostile whispers. I suppressed a shiver, then felt Aleksandra's hand seeking mine under the table, and I held it tightly.
To my surprise, Yakov stood and looked to the chair for recognition. "Comrade Sverdlov," Trotsky said,
with a single nod of his head.
What would he say? His pride was injured, and he was still angry at me. I could only guess at the thoughts churning inside his head. My life was in his hands, and his hands were shaking.
"Comrade Chairman," he said. "Brothers." He paused, looking up and down the table, waiting for them to settle. When he had their attention, he began, and managed to shock the whole room, including me. "What, exactly, is the problem?" he asked, holding his hands out in a shrugging gesture.
Stalin's mouth fell open, and there were gasps around the room. I looked up at Yakov; his lips were white, but he managed to sound confident as he continued. "So my secretary used to work for the Tsar. Does that make her complicit in his crimes? No! It makes her as much a victim as any other citizen. In the time we have worked together I have seen her enthusiasm for our cause. She is not a spy for the Whites, I stake my name on it. She has already served Comrade Kollontai well as an assistant, happy to do the most menial work. I say, give her a chance. Who knows, having an ex-servant of the royals on our team could even be an asset."
He sat down without looking at me. I could read nothing in his face.
Stalin was on his feet in a flash, before Yakov was even in his seat, and launched into a tirade without waiting for Trotsky to recognise him.
"Give her a chance?" he spluttered, looking around at the other commissars, indignantly. "An asset?" His eyes flashed at me, and again he pointed across the table at the three of us. "A liability is what we will get!"
He held up his left hand, fingers extended, and began to pinch each one in turn with the finger and thumb of his right hand as he counted off his objections:
The thumb: "What is she going to be? A secretary? Privy to every secret that the Whites would love to know? And why is she needed? Comrades Sverdlov and Kollontai were managing perfectly well on their own before ~ why do they suddenly need an assistant now?"
Natalie Tereshchenko - The Other Side Page 7
