Nikolai fell to his knees. ‘I … can’t … go … any … further,’ he gasped.
Also breathing heavily, Ivanov dropped his pack and sat on it. ‘We can only rest for a short while. We must keep moving. It’s too dangerous to return to the road.’
Nikolai looked around at the forest. ‘Which way should we go?’
Ivanov reached for his compass and flicked open its lid. ‘That’s east.’ He pointed. ‘We head that way to the Russian border.’
As his adrenalin receded, Nikolai was overcome by a wave of fatigue. ‘I’m ready to fall asleep right here.’
‘No, we can’t stay here … Listen!’ Ivanov stood very still, head cocked. ‘There’s a river close by.’
‘I can’t hear it.’
Ivanov picked up Nikolai’s rifle and threw it at him. ‘You were raised soft.’ He said it without malice. ‘You’ve never had to survive in the forest.’
‘How dare you say such a thing to a superior officer?’ Nikolai retorted. ‘I’ll have you know I often went on hunting parties.’
‘Hunting parties?’ Ivanov scoffed. ‘Like I said –’ he pulled his pack across his shoulders ‘– you were raised soft.’
As the Cossack set off to the east, Nikolai followed on unsteady legs, not caring where he was stepping. Above them, the sky filled with thousands of stars. They walked until they reached the river. Dropping to his knees, Nikolai drank from the water, greedily. Ivanov walked along the banks looking for a way to cross.
‘We can grab one of these fallen logs and let the currents move us downstream to the other bank.’
‘Are you crazy? We’ll drown. And my clothes are only just starting to dry.’ Leaning against a tree, Nikolai rested his elbows on his knees. ‘We’ve been travelling non-stop. You can go into that river if you want, but I’m staying here.’
Ivanov looked at the water, briefly mesmerised by the reflection of the moon. He was anxious to put as much distance as he could between himself and both armies. Once they crossed the Russian border, he planned to desert and make his way back to his family. He intended to say nothing of his plans to Nikolai; when the time came, he decided, he would slip away in the middle of the night.
‘I’ll keep first watch,’ he said and threw down his pack. ‘I’ll wake you in a couple of hours.’
Sitting on his haunches, he watched Nikolai gather leaves and make a bed, using his jacket as a pillow. Nikolai fell asleep almost instantly and was soon snoring softly.
Leaning against the trunk of a birch, Ivanov stared at the river, his rifle resting across his lap. The lapping of the water against the bank was as soothing as a child’s lullaby and soon his eyelids grew heavy. He fought the urge to sleep, but eventually fatigue overcame him and his head dropped to his chest.
It felt like only a few minutes had passed before he was woken by a noise. Startled, Ivanov’s eyes snapped open. What was it he had heard? Remaining very still, he listened to the sounds of the forest.
‘Lieutenant,’ he whispered.
Nikolai groaned but didn’t wake.
Ivanov listened. There it was again: the sound of a branch snapping under a heavy boot.
His blood froze in his veins. The sound had come from the other side of the tree he was leaning on. He tried to scramble to his feet, but was thrown back by a punch to his face. Pain exploded behind his right eye.
‘What in the world …’ The words died in his throat. Standing in an arc around him were four German soldiers, their rifles aimed at his chest.
Reluctantly, Ivanov raised his hands above his head.
‘Aufstehen! Get up!’ one of them ordered. ‘Mach schnell!’
He rose slowly to his feet, careful not to make any sudden movements. A few metres away, one of the Germans woke Nikolai with a sharp kick to his sternum.
‘Search him,’ their commander ordered.
One of the soldiers threw his rifle over his shoulder and stepped forward, checking inside Nikolai’s boots and socks for knives.
The soldier finished his searching and handed the few things he had found to his senior officer, who then motioned him to check Ivanov.
Ivanov’s right eye had swollen closed. ‘Bastards,’ he breathed as the German patted him down.
Smiling, the officer took out his tobacco pouch, sat on a fallen log, rolled a slim cigarette and lit it.
In a steady voice, Nikolai asked him something in German.
The officer took his time answering. Inhaling deep into his lungs, he breathed out, his face disappearing behind ribbons of blue smoke. When at last he spoke, Nikolai recoiled at the answer.
‘What?’ Ivanov leant in to Nikolai. ‘What did you ask him?’
Nikolai hesitated. ‘I asked him what he planned to do with us.’
‘And? What did he say?’
‘He said we’ll be joining our comrades in one of Germany’s best POW resorts.’
Ivanov looked once more at the river. He had missed his chance. Turning his head away, he cursed.
23
Petrograd, August 1915
Sitting on the balcony that led off her living room, Marie heard a knock on the door but didn’t turn her head. No doubt it was another invitation to an outing or supper. She would refuse it as usual, choosing instead to work an extra shift at the hospital.
The picnics, horse races, balls, concerts and theatre which she had found so exciting barely two years ago, no longer held the same thrill for her.
She heard a murmuring, then the sound of the door closing. Seconds later, Anna stepped onto the balcony waving an envelope. She looked awestruck. ‘It was the palace messenger with a letter from the Empress!’ she exclaimed.
Curious, Marie took it and opened the seal.
The Empress wishes to award all the nurses volunteering at the hospital with a certificate in a ceremony in September. Afterwards, a horse race will be run in the Empress’s honour in the fields outside Tsarskoe Selo.
‘Is the messenger still here?’ Marie handed the invitation to Anna.
‘He’s waiting downstairs.’
‘I suppose I should attend.’ Marie pushed her chair back. ‘I can’t refuse the Empress’s wishes.’ Stepping inside, she went directly to her writing table. ‘I’ll invite Darya to come with me. It might stop her from complaining that I never go anywhere with her.’
After giving her letter to Anna she returned to the balcony, and looked down at the street, busy with traffic and people. It was a mild afternoon and she considered going for a walk across the Palace Bridge but dismissed the idea. The city held too many memories. Thoughts of Pyotr and Nikolai loomed large but increasingly it was Alexei who dominated them. Once, she mistook another officer strolling in the Summer Garden for Alexei, and her pulse had quickened. Her heart sank with disappointment once she realised her mistake.
She was still thinking of Alexei when Anna joined her, carrying a tray of tea and delicate jam piroshkies. In the street, the palace messenger had disappeared in the direction of the Winter Palace. He passed a pair of well-dressed women and tipped his hat. Walking arm in arm, the women were chatting animatedly.
A refugee begging in the street with her child approached hesitantly and held out her palm. ‘Alms for the poor,’ she pleaded. ‘So my child can eat,’ she added when the women ignored her.
Without pausing their conversation, one of the women reached into her purse and dropped a couple of coins at the refugee’s feet.
‘God bless you,’ the mother called after them. The women did not look back.
‘I’m not hungry.’ Marie handed Anna the plate of piroshkies. ‘Take these and give them to the mother and her child.’
A few minutes later Anna crossed the street to where two refugees crouched against the wall. The woman kissed Anna’s hand in gratitude before hastily gathering the buns. She handed one to her child, who stuffed it into his small mouth.
‘They are from Poland,’ Anna told Marie when she returned. ‘The retreating Russian army destroyed their village so nothing
useful was left for the advancing German army. They’ve been on the road ever since.’
‘Where is her husband?’
‘Killed,’ Anna replied flatly. ‘Her two eldest sons are fighting somewhere in the south-west.’
Marie shook her head sadly. ‘That poor woman,’ she said. ‘How will they survive winter?’
The officers’ hospital in Tsarskoe Selo was not far from Alexander Palace, and an hour’s tram ride from Petrograd.
Alexei sat up in bed; the bandages covering his face had been replaced by smaller dressings. He was reading the latest report from Stavka and the news made him scowl. All along the line, the German army was forcing the Russians back.
A hot flush spread through his body and, finding the wound at his neck, made it throb. Putting a hand over the dressings further aggravated the pain and he closed his eyes.
A moment later, a doctor pulled back the curtain.
‘Good morning, Excellency.’ After looking at Alexei’s chart, he examined his wound and the broken ribs.
‘I’m happy with how these are healing,’ he remarked. He held a stethoscope to Alexei’s chest then frowned. ‘There’s still wheezing in your lungs, though, which concerns me.’ He called for a nurse, who listened intently to the doctor’s instructions before hurrying away. She returned a few minutes later with a form, followed closely by Grigory.
‘Considering the severity of your injuries,’ the doctor said, ‘I’m going to recommend you be invalided from active duty.’ He signed the form the nurse had given him, then put it on Alexei’s bedside table. As he turned to leave, Alexei grabbed his wrist. Surprised, the doctor looked at him questioningly.
Alexei pointed to his throat. ‘How long?’
The doctor sat on the chair next to the bed and regarded Alexei with tired eyes. ‘Your lungs and your vocal cords have been damaged,’ he explained. ‘In time you will regain your speech. However, the damage to your lungs could continue to cause discomfort.’
Alexei slumped back against the pillows. He pointed to the form the doctor had signed. ‘I am a soldier,’ he said in a harsh voice.
‘I know this must be very hard for you.’ The doctor’s voice sounded sympathetic. ‘I’m very sorry.’
Once the doctor had left, Grigory, in an attempt to distract Alexei, held up an invitation from the palace.
Alexei barely registered what Grigory was saying. His mind was still reeling. Invalided from the army? Unthinkable. He was a professional soldier. What else could he do? His importance, his status and pride were all bound up in his identity as a commander.
‘Your Excellency?’
Alexei looked up at Grigory, who was regarding him with concern. ‘How would you like me to respond to the Empress’s invitation?’
‘Hmm?’
‘The invitation, Your Excellency. To the ceremony and horse race organised by the Empress.’
Alexei shook his head. ‘Send my apologies.’
‘The change of scenery might do you good,’ Grigory cajoled.
Alexei sighed. ‘Alright. Then I will go, but have a carriage ready in case I wish to leave early.’
24
Novo-Georgievsk, Poland, August 1915
Bogoleev paced the room, tears of frustration blurring his vision. North-west of Warsaw, the fortress of Novo-Georgievsk was defended by a series of outer forts that had been modified at the start of the war to thwart a German advance on the city. For the past few weeks, the German army had surrounded Novo-Georgievsk, bombarding it with their guns.
Bogoleev ran a hand through his hair. With Warsaw evacuated, he believed the army must abandon the fortress. Cut off by the siege, the garrison of ninety thousand men was fast running out of ammunition and supplies. But Grand Duke Nicholas, the supreme commander of Russia’s military, had ordered that the army defend the fortress at any cost.
Outside, a German shell exploded in a nearby building, showering Bogoleev with dirt and dust. Before he could react, there was another explosion and the floor shifted beneath him. Soot and smoke filled the room.
The door flew open and a soldier rushed in. ‘The building’s been hit! We have to evacuate!’
Bogoleev followed the man to the corridor and saw there was already a crowd blocking the small staircase that led outside.
The force of the next explosion threw him backwards and, losing his balance, he fell heavily. A pair of hands grabbed him under the armpits and lifted him to his feet.
‘We have to get out before the building collapses.’
Bogoleev turned towards the voice but the man had already vanished in the press of people rushing to get out. Ahead of him, the thickening smoke folded around the men, giving the impression they were being dissolved into grey fog. Steadying himself against the railing, Bogoleev descended the stairs towards the prism of light. Once outside, he fell to his knees, coughing, and was momentarily blinded by the smoke. Breathing hard, he stood up and looked around at the burning fortress. Men carrying buckets of water raced to put out fires.
There was nothing more to be done, he thought. The fortress was lost. He had to find a way to save himself.
Staggering away from the wall, he stumbled towards the stables. The door had been blown off its hinges. Frightened horses neighed and stamped their hooves. Bogoleev followed a group of men rushing to rescue them. Grabbing a horse’s bridle, he patted its neck. ‘I’ll get you out,’ he said gently to the animal.
Above him orange flames had spread to the roof. Creaking loudly, the walls looked ready to buckle. As Bogoleev tugged at the horse’s bridle, a section of the roof broke off and crashed to the ground close by. Startled, the horse reared.
‘Easy boy.’ He patted the animal’s head.
Acrid smoke filled the stables. Squinting into the haze, Bogoleev looked for a way out. To his left, flames licked at a hole left by an explosion. He kicked at the hole to make it bigger. The planks, singed almost to ash, fell away easily.
‘Come now.’ The horse pulled its head away, reluctant to move. Bogoleev tugged harder. ‘Come!’ he shouted over the roar of the fire, and this time his horse obeyed, following Bogoleev through the gap.
Outside the barn, guns drowned out all other sounds. Gripping the bridle Bogoleev hauled himself onto the horse’s back and urged him forward, but the guards barred his passage at the gates.
‘We have orders not to let anyone through.’
‘Let me pass,’ he commanded. ‘I am carrying an important message from the general for the grand duke,’ he lied.
The guards exchanged a look, uncertain what to do.
‘There’s little time. I must pass!’ Bogoleev shouted over the rattle of gunfire.
Relenting, the guards opened the gates.
‘There are German snipers hiding,’ one guard warned. Crouching low against the horse’s neck, Bogoleev rode hard towards the trees, bullets whistling past him. His pulse racing in his throat, Bogoleev reached the cover of the woods and turned the horse towards the border.
Alexander Palace, August
Tsar Nicholas sat on the balcony, looking out over the garden. On the table sat the remains of the afternoon tea he had shared with his wife and her adviser, Rasputin.
The war was not going in his favour. The fall of Warsaw and the surrender of Novo-Georgievsk had rattled Russian morale. In parlours and breadlines, rumours spread of Germany’s plans to invade Petrograd and the evacuation of the royal family. The growing number of dead, missing and captured men, coupled with the shortage of food, threatened to lead to mass unrest in the streets and factories. Worried, Nicholas had decided to seek his wife’s counsel.
‘Nicky darling,’ Alexandra said, once he had enumerated Russia’s troubles, ‘there is no doubt that you’ve been placed in a very difficult position. In the matter of us leaving, you should immediately put a stop to all rumours. I have no plans to abandon my duty in the hospitals.’ She gestured to the tall man sitting beside her. ‘Rasputin and I are in complete agreement that you have don
e your very best for your country.’
Nicholas leant over and squeezed his wife’s hand affectionately. ‘You’re the only one who truly understands me.’
She returned the squeeze with a loving smile but it quickly slipped from her face. ‘However, there are certain individuals who continue to let you and Russia down. Of course I don’t wish to place blame on any one individual, but –’ she paused and, gently releasing her hand from his, placed it on her lap ‘– your uncle, for instance …’
‘I’m in no mood to discuss my uncle. There is no one I can trust to replace him.’
‘No need to get upset, my dear Nicky. I’m sure the grand duke had done his best. But one cannot deny that he is terribly unpopular with the Russian people.’
‘They are ignorant. They don’t know what they are talking about.’
‘That may be so, but the people are hurting and they are looking for someone to blame.’
‘My uncle is not a sacrificial lamb.’
‘And no one is suggesting he should be. All I’m proposing …’ She turned to look again at Rasputin, who nodded in encouragement. ‘I think that much of the potential unrest would subside if you take over your uncle as the supreme commander.’
Nicholas looked from one face to the other. ‘You can’t seriously be suggesting that I should replace my uncle? It would be a betrayal of our relationship, of the trust I placed in him as a military commander.’
His wife nodded gravely. ‘I understand how difficult this must be for you to hear, but we truly believe it will be for the good of the country.’ Taking another sip of her tea, she smiled sweetly at him again. ‘But of course the decision is entirely yours to make.’
25
Galicia, July 1915
The long line of Russian POWs snaked along the road. Nikolai and Ivanov marched silently side by side in the middle of the group. Raising his head, Nikolai looked at the procession of men that stretched as far as he could see. Reaching an open field, they were ordered to sit on the grass. Pressed close, the men spoke softly among themselves, each one relating the circumstances of their capture, as they waited for their names and details to be recorded on individual cards.
The Russian Tapestry Page 14
