“What is it? Why do we have to get up?”
As usual he ignored all questions and concentrated his energy on yelling at us and at the guards, who were also crudely roused from their slumbers and lined up, ready to receive his orders.
I looked at the clock. It was not yet six in the morning.
When we had washed, as quickly as we could, from the bucket of meltwater on top of the stove and put on our clean but rumpled clothes he looked us over.
“Coats! Hats! Boots!”
Olga and I looked at each other in astonishment. We were going outside! And not just into the yard, it seemed, but into the town. A first, in all those months! But why? Were we going to be put on public trial?
There was a squabble, first over Alexei, who was far too ill to be moved, and then over mama’s wheeled chair, which she insisted she needed, because she could not walk very well on her bad leg. The Bayonet was insulting, mama was insistent—though her querulous tone was much more feeble than in the past—and in the end the long-unused chair was found and one of the guards assigned to push her.
When we went outside the cold assaulted us far more cruelly than the voice of the Bayonet. We were driven, sleigh bells jingling, in a closed carriage along Freedom Street to a large two-story building and taken inside. It was the town hall.
As soon as we went inside a blast of hot air shocked us with its very welcome embrace. We were in a spacious candlelit wood-paneled room with not one but three stoves, and we sat down gratefully next to the nearest of them, luxuriating in the unaccustomed warmth. The room was full of benches crudely made from split logs, evidently more people were expected.
For several hours we waited there, as the room slowly filled with townspeople who nodded and bowed to us, some kneeling briefly to papa. There was a raised stage at the front of the hall with several long tables and a dozen chairs arranged around them. Men I assumed to be town officials took their seats on the stage. None of the men, I noticed, had the keen-eyed, lean and hungry look of dedicated revolutionaries, nor the brusque, nervous energy of the former prime minister Kerensky. Instead they looked like prosperous country folk, unaffected as yet by the unsettling events in Petrograd and more recently in Moscow, men and women who had not yet begun to appreciate the extent of the political upheaval going on in their midst.
I was aware of a stirring in the room, a ripple of excitement. Two men entered, walking side by side in a companionable way, nodding to those in the audience as they approached the stage. One of the men was dark-haired, burly and bearded, wearing the rough shirt of a laborer and trousers held up by a rope belt. The other, tall, blond and handsome in his white naval uniform and long golden sword—was Adalbert!
I blinked. I looked more closely. But I was not mistaken. It was indeed Adalbert, confident, smiling, looking every inch the prince he was, and looking benign as well, despite his naval uniform. I hardly had time to grasp the improbable sight of Adalbert when I realized that he and his companion were coming toward us.
“Sir,” Adalbert said, bowing to papa and also to mama, who very pointedly avoided meeting his eyes.
“And Tania.” Smiling broadly, he reached for my hand and raised it to his lips, which led to an audible murmur of surprised approval from the onlookers. “What a beautiful woman you have become!”
Oh no, I was thinking. I am too thin, my clothes are shamefully plain, my hair needs arranging, and my poor hand—the hand you kiss—is scarred from chilblains.
“This beautiful woman,” Adalbert was saying to his bearded companion, “once did me the honor of considering becoming my wife. But we were kept apart by—political circumstances.”
“How very unfortunate,” the bearded man responded, looking at me so intently that I was in no doubt he meant to convey something of vital importance. His wordless message could only mean one thing: that Adalbert’s presence in Tobolsk was for the benefit of our family.
“I’m so very glad to see you Adalbert,” I said, kissing his cheek in what I hoped was a familial way, “so very glad.”
“Dear Tania, we must talk after this meeting concludes. Promise me you will.”
“If the guards permit.”
“I think we can persuade them,” the burly man assured me with a slight smile.
Adalbert and his companion climbed the steps onto the stage and the audience rose. The burly man began to sing the “Internationale,” the anthem of the revolution, and a number of voices joined in. My family kept silent, though I’m sorry to say we did know the song well, having heard it sung and whistled and hummed so many times by the soldiers. Even the Bayonet bawled it out stridently on occasion.
When the song was ended everyone sat down again, but the burly man kept standing.
“Comrades,” he began, “some of you know me but many of you don’t. Let me introduce myself. I am Commissar Yuri Pyatakov. I am sent here by the Military Revolutionary Committee in Moscow, of which I am a member. I bring with me my friend Prince Adalbert who comes to us, not as our adversary from the German Empire, but as an emissary of future peace and good will. But I will let him enlighten you further. Comrades, I give you Prince Adalbert. I will translate his words.”
Mild applause greeted this announcement as Adalbert stood and began to speak. I heard mama whisper loudly, “What’s he doing here? What does he want?” Because her own hearing was failing, she spoke more loudly than she should have, and her words were overheard. I saw some of those sitting near us look at her with puzzled expressions.
“My new Russian friends,” Adalbert began, his warmth and sincerity apparent, “I bring good news. A peace agreement is being reached between the Military Revolutionary Committee and the Central Powers. Your commissar Pyatakov and I, along with many others, are privileged to serve as negotiators of this most welcome peace.” There was a pause while the commissar turned Adalbert’s German sentiments into Russian.
At first there was no response from the listeners, only silence, but then, gradually, there came a trickle of applause that broadened into a resounding, then a thunderous ovation. People around us, as they realized the full implications of what was being said, wept openly, hugged one another and shouted approval. Some even went forward toward the stage and reached out toward the commissar and Adalbert in gestures of thanks and good will.
But papa, who not only had worn his old soldier’s shirt, khaki trousers and scuffed officer’s boots but had added his officer’s epaulets that day in defiance of the Bayonet and our guards, sat silent, his head in his hands.
“I too rejoice,” Adalbert said as he resumed speaking once the hubbub in the room died down. “More than you can know. When I was young, before this terrible war swept across Europe, I was a man of peace. I came to Russia with the Young People’s Peace Initiative, a group drawn from many countries—France, Sweden, Italy, even England. We were joined in a common purpose: to be a living example of cooperation between countries and nationalities, to show that we can understand one another and not provoke each other to conflict. I believed in that mission. Despite all that has happened to me and to my country and yours, I still believe in it.”
Once again there was a delay while the commissar translated, then more applause.
“And my friend Yuri, who was also a member of the Peace Initiative, and whom I met here in Russia all those years ago, believes in it with me.”
Yuri translated, then bowed to Adalbert, and the two men embraced. It was such an emotional moment that I was quite overcome. All the ideals I wanted to believe in but had put out of my heart and mind for so long—goodness, hope, trust, the tight human bonds that develop and flourish when unselfishness prevails—seemed alive in that overheated room, and I allowed myself to believe in them again.
“Much has changed in the years since I first came to Russia,” Adalbert was saying. “I served my country in the war. I was wounded. My ship was hit by a British shell and sank under me, and I lost many dear friends and fine officers and sailors on that horrible day
. I almost drowned. Throughout the war I did my duty—and I was lucky. I survived. Many of those who served alongside me did not.
“And I am only too aware, looking around this room, that many of you here lost sons and brothers and fathers in the war. Much courageous Russian blood was spilled. May it never, ever, happen again!”
“Never again, never again,” I heard many in the audience murmur, as they crossed themselves.
“Never again!” came a rough-voiced shout from the back of the room. “Never again! What nonsense! Wake up, comrades! Right now, today, this very day, Russians are fighting! Not the Germans but each other! The armies of the Whites are attacking, good revolutionaries are dying!! This man—this German in his fancy uniform—he wants to weaken you, to turn you into old women, gutless, spineless babies!”
“Who is that!” barked Pyatakov. “Arrest him at once!”
It was the Bayonet, roused to fury by all the talk of peace.
“You can’t arrest me! I am sent here from the Ekaterinburg Soviet to fight for the revolution!”
“And I,” thundered Pyatakov, “am sent from Moscow, to speak of peace, and I order your immediate arrest!” Cursing and protesting, the Bayonet was seized by soldiers standing near him who had been guarding the doorway, and thrust outside into the cold.
“Now,” the commissar went on, “we can conclude our meeting.” He composed himself, looked at Adalbert, and spoke again. “Once when I was a boy,” he said in a confiding tone, “I studied to be a priest. I enrolled in a distinguished seminary, and I worked very hard at my studies for years, hoping to be worthy of my calling. I no longer profess the Christianity of my youth, instead I have put my faith in you, the Russian people, and in others of like minds who hope to build a better future for us all. But I still pray—not to the Christian God, but to humanity. To the best in all of us. In that spirit, let us join together in solemn supplication.”
Those around me bowed their heads. The room grew very still—except for the faint yelling of the Bayonet, who was evidently continuing his protests outside in the street.
“Great spirit of hope that unites us all,” the commissar began, “give us courage to look beyond what divides us. Bring us together. Give us peace. Let us join hands, friend to friend. Let those hands reach throughout the world, until all conflict ends, even such conflict as may arise in our midst. We ask this in the name of humanity, amen.”
As he spoke, there was shuffling sound as hands reached out, clasped, and held. I reached for Olga’s hand on one side, and Marie’s on the other. It was a moment I will never forget, as long as I live.
Fifty-six
Istayed behind as the people in the Tobolsk town hall filed out of the meeting, their faces, as it seemed to me, alight with hope and uplift. I was waiting to talk to Adalbert, and I said as much to papa, whose spirits seemed to me as low as those of the people of Tobolsk were high.
“Do what you like, Tania. This is a sorry day for Russia. A day of dishonor and loss.”
“But at least there will be an honorable peace.”
Papa shook his head, a wry smile on his thin lips. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that. Come girls,” he said to my sisters. He began slowly walking toward the exit, pushing mama’s wheeled chair in front of him.
“It’s an outrage,” I heard her mutter to no one in particular. “Imagine that boy coming here. An outrage!”
“I feel sure Adalbert has come here in order to arrange for our release,” I murmured to papa. “Surely that is some comfort.”
“A German? Don’t you know, Tania, that the Germans have stolen nearly a third of our country? And the richest third at that! You can be sure their theft will be in your precious peace treaty! And as to your friend Adalbert, I suspect he is at best misguided. The Bolsheviks are using him to gain their own ends.”
“I’ll see when I talk to him.”
There was no sign of the Bayonet but our guards came forward to take the family back to the Governor’s Mansion.
“The girl stays,” Yuri Pyatakov called out to the guards from the stage. I looked up and saw that Adalbert was beckoning me to climb the steps and join him and the commissar.
“That was a beautiful speech you made,” I said to him when I had gone up onto the stage.
“It was from my heart.”
“But did you see how papa reacted? He has become cynical. He distrusts everyone, even you. And mama wouldn’t even look at you. I was ashamed for both of them.”
“I can understand how he feels. His pride has been injured by Russia’s defeat. No doubt he feels responsible.”
“But he was forced to abdicate,” I said. “He wasn’t the one who lost the war.”
“Wasn’t he? Admit the truth, Tania. He was a poor commander. He got worse as the war went on. He was the one who allowed Russia to fall into ruin, because he did nothing to prevent it.”
Though it pained me to admit it, I knew that Adalbert was right, and I nodded.
“But the responsibility for the war is not his alone. My father has far more to answer for. He was the aggressor. Just as when we met at Cowes, and my father was bullying the other yachtsmen into racing him, so he could win.”
“And win by cheating.”
“Yes.”
We looked at one another, both sorrowful, both filled with regret. “How long ago it all seems!”
“No need to look back now—only forward,” said Pyatakov. “Blaming will not help us. Besides, we are here in Tobolsk to talk of something else, are we not?”
Once again I nodded. “I hope so.”
“We may speak freely here. I have made certain of that.” He paused, then went on. “Tania, the Committee in Moscow is divided over the question of how to deal with your family. It is a grim decision, and must be made soon. Adalbert assures me that I can be frank with you, that you are brave enough to face the truth. Is he right?”
I took a deep breath. “Yes,” I said.
“Well, here it is. There are many who want your family eliminated. As quickly as possible. Then there are others, like me, who want you all to be simply removed, out of Russia, with guarantees that you will not cooperate with any individuals or governments who may attempt to restore Romanov rule.
“But the argument always arises that wherever you are living, either in Siberia or London or Denmark—those being the three most likely places—you will attract enormous publicity and sympathy, and all the forces that hate our revolution will rally around your father and your brother as his heir. Even if he gives his word not to meet with them or encourage them, he will inevitably become their champion. They will raise money, buy arms, recruit or hire fighting men. Your father will become a Cause, and we, the Committee in Moscow, will be made to look like devils.”
“Surely you look that way already for deposing my father and keeping our family in such miserable captivity.”
“My own view is that if we arrange your family’s release we will look merciful. And we will save many lives.”
For a moment I hesitated, wondering whether I ought to trust the commissar and Adalbert with the information I had about the Brotherhood. I decided to go ahead.
“It is happening already. There is a group—”
Pyatakov laughed. “Oh, so you have heard about the Brotherhood. We know all about them. You mustn’t take them seriously. They are just a group of old men, full of fantasies of military glory. Their guns are rusty and they haven’t the least idea how to fight against a real army, certainly not our Red Army. Have you heard that they have thousands of members, thousands of supporters?”
“Yes.”
He chuckled. “Idle dreams, idle dreams, as your father used to say years ago about the dream of democracy in Russia.” But then his expression hardened. “The Brotherhood is no threat to us and never will be. But there are others who are gathering dangerous weapons and recruiting young men, men who do know how to fight. Foreign governments are encouraging them and even supporting them. I’m afraid that ho
thead who was shouting about warfare in the back of the hall here was quite right. Russia is at war with itself, and the war will be spreading. The revolution is already under assault. A day of reckoning is coming. Before that day arrives, I want very much to ensure that your family has been sent away to safety.”
“That is why I am here, Tania,” Adalbert broke in. “I came with an escort of soldiers. Not Red Guards. They are waiting in Tiumen. I have troikas to take you to there.”
“When can we leave?”
“Ah, that is the difficulty,” the commissar said. “I must convince the Ekaterinburg soviet to let you leave. And I have just arrested one of its most vociferous members.”
“We call him the Bayonet. He is cruel. Even to his own men. He is always threatening to bring in Red Guards to watch us.”
“It may be necessary for you to arrange to leave Tobolsk without his permission, without the Ekaterinburg Soviet’s permission. Can you do that?”
“I don’t know. I will try.”
“It must be done quickly, Tania. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep the soldiers here safely.”
“I will do my best. The nuns from the Ivanovsky convent come to the Governor’s Mansion every day. They carry messages for us. Where can you be reached?”
“I am staying with the mayor,” Pyatakov said. “Adalbert is also a guest in the mayoral lodge. But the mayor must not know of our plan. When you escape, he will be blamed.”
“I understand.” I looked at the commissar, with his burning eyes and thick beard, and was reminded of what he had said about being a seminarian in his youth.
“Commissar,” I said, “you once studied for the priesthood. Tell me, can you read Old Church Slavonic?”
“I have studied it, yes. But I am not really proficient. Why do you ask?”
“My mother has been receiving anonymous notes in a language she believes may be Old Church Slavonic, but she can’t read it. Here is one of them.”
I took a scrap of paper from my pocket and handed it to Pyatakov.
The Tsarina's Daughter (Reading Group Gold) Page 29
