“It is only in the cities like St. Petersburg and Moscow that these dangerous revolutionaries are found,” the Empress said to the Tsar. “In the countryside, which is the real Russia, the peasants all love you and would willingly give their lives for you.”
“Da, da,” Mama agreed. “At my dacha, The Oaks, all those on my small estate think of the Tsar as a god.”
The Empress looked pleased. “There, you see, my dear,” she said. “What did I tell you?”
The Tsar patted the Empress’s hand. “Yes, I know you are right, my dear. Now I must excuse myself. There is always work to be done.”
Shortly after the Tsar left, Mama and I were shown to our rooms in another wing of the palace. As we looked about at our pretty quarters, Mama warned me, “Enjoy this luxury while you can, Katya. I have heard the Alexander Palace is more plain.”
“The tea was very plain, Mama.”
“Yes, Katya. The Tsar and the Empress have no wish to make a show of their wealth. What’s more, they are determined to bring up the Grand Duchesses in as simple a way as possible. They don’t want their children to be spoiled or arrogant.”
My own life at the Zhukovsky mansion was not so simple. I wondered if Misha was right, and I really was spoiled.
That evening I sighed as I watched Mama dress for the ball. I would have given anything to see such a spectacle. “Be patient, Katya. One of these days you will be the belle of the ball.”
“One of these days” seemed a lifetime away. After Mama left, I sat at her dressing table and stared into the mirror. A child stared back at me. I tried pinning up my hair, but I was clumsy and only managed to look like those birds with a topknot that sticks up. I daubed on some of Mama’s Coty perfume and wound one of her sable scarfs around my neck. I was just about to slide on an elbow-length kidskin glove when there was a knock at the door. Hastily I snatched off the fur and let down my hair. I opened the door to Stana.
She looked conspiratorially about her and then slid into the room. “Do you want to see the ball?” she asked. “I know a place where we can watch and no one can see us.”
I forgot all about the Tsar’s request that I set a good example for Stana. “Khorosho,” I eagerly agreed. I followed Stana down the hall. Then began a journey through the palace. Where a room was empty, we ran. Where there were servants about, we walked purposefully, as if we had been sent on an errand. Finally Stana led me through a door and up several flights of dark, narrow stairs, until at last she opened a small door that led to a narrow balcony. I could hear music and the sound of voices. She motioned me to come close to the edge.
There below us was a ballroom filled with hundreds of swirling couples. Most of the men were in uniform—some in white jackets, some in red, and some in blue. The jackets were covered with gold trim, and there were red sashes across the men’s chests, and rows of decorations. The men were more colorful than the women, but the women in their light silks seemed to float over the dance floor. In an enclosure topped with a red-velvet canopy sat the Empress and the ladies-in-waiting, Mama among them. Standing behind them were the Tsar and the Grand Dukes, all with the blue sash of the court across their chests.
Stana pointed out one of the Grand Dukes. “That’s my uncle,” she said. “Papa is very angry with him, because he wants to marry a ballerina. That would be a great shame for our family. In front of him is my grandmama Marie. She gave a ball in her St. Petersburg palace for Olga and Tatiana. They danced until four in the morning, and the orchestra played tangos! Mama won’t let them go there again unless she’s with them. Over there—the woman with the pink dress and the red hair—she had to sell her jewels because her husband gambles at cards.”
Stana had many such stories, but I didn’t listen. With the dancers swirling below me and the waltzes drifting upward, I didn’t want unpleasant stories in my head. I wanted only to look and look so that what I was seeing would stay in my memory forever.
CHAPTER THREE
MISHA’S ST. PETERSBURG
Summer 1913
I could not wait to return home and fill Misha’s ears with the wonders I had seen at the palace. Misha spoiled my stories by scolding, “Thousands of rubles for such extravagance while half the city goes to bed hungry.”
“But Misha, the Tsar and his family have nothing but buttered bread for tea, no cakes or sweets.”
“And footmen to serve it and a silver samovar,” Misha mocked.
“We have footmen here, and why should you be against pretty things?”
“I know we have footmen here; it’s a great embarrassment to me. And I’m not against pretty things. But why should one person have them and not another? You don’t want to believe it, Katya, but I promise you a revolution is coming. In the Black Sea a part of the Russian navy has mutinied.”
I shrugged. “The Black Sea is far away.”
“You don’t even know what goes on right here under your nose in St. Petersburg.”
“That’s not true! Lidya and I walk everywhere in the city.”
“There are places Lidya doesn’t take you.”
“Then take me yourself,” I challenged him. “Tomorrow Lidya leaves to visit her sister in Moscow, and Mama is going to a reception.”
He shook his head. “Such places are not for you. They would only make you unhappy.”
I teased him until he finally agreed. “Very well, but don’t blame me if you don’t like what you see. And, Katya”—he frowned at my dress with its sash and silk ruffles—“dress in the simplest clothes you have. I don’t want people staring at us.”
The next morning, as soon as Mama and Lidya left, I changed into a plain white blouse, a dark skirt, and a straw hat I had once sat upon. I hurried downstairs, eager for my adventure. Misha was there, but I could see from the unwelcoming expression on his face that he regretted his invitation.
Once outside he strode rapidly along the Nevsky as if he hoped I would tire and drop away. All of St. Petersburg was suffering with the heat. Dampness crept up from the river and canals and oozed down from the gray clouds that clotted the sky and threatened rain. As I hurried after Misha, I felt that with every step I was parting thick, muggy air.
As we passed the city’s library, Misha was careful to keep his distance from me. He often met his friends there and would not want to be seen with some young girl tagging after him. The library faced a large square with a monument to Ekaterina the Great. It was the Empress Ekaterina that I was named after. Though she was called “the Great,” she was not an especially nice ruler, what with murdering her husband and taking a lover who was such a peacock that he had millions of rubles worth of diamonds sewn on his suit.
A little farther along the Nevsky we came to my favorite bridge, the Anichkov, with its great prancing bronze horses. We crossed the Fontanka Canal and walked by Moscow Station, where all day long trains arrived and left on their journeys to Moscow. It was where Mama and I took the train when we journeyed to The Oaks. We passed the station, leaving the center of the city that I knew, with its fine homes and elegant shops now behind us.
Misha turned down a narrow street and slowed to my pace, taking hold of my arm. People were staring at us, for we clearly did not look like we belonged there. The homes were simple wooden buildings with a few goats or a pig in each yard. I wanted to hang over the fences and pat the goats, with their floppy ears and yellow eyes, but Misha pulled me along.
There were dreary-looking factories set among the homes. Misha turned into one of them. As he opened the door and pushed me through, I was overcome with the heat and stench. I held my nose. “Ugh, what is it?” I whispered.
We were in a large, cavernous room crowded with people picking through bins of soiled rags. More rags were heaped in baskets and tied in bales. “What are they doing?”
“They’re sorting the rags, which are used to make paper,” Misha said.
“But the rags are filthy. How can they touch them? Won’t the paper be dirty?”
“People don’
t throw away clean rags. Before they are made into paper, they will be boiled in lye.”
I was amazed to see that most of the workers were boys and girls, some of them younger than I was. They were all dressed alike, the boys in peasant smocks and trousers, the girls in plain dresses, their hair covered with kerchiefs. “Why are there so many children?” I asked.
“Their wages are low. They’ll work all day for next to nothing.”
“And when school starts again?”
“This is their school. This is what they learn.”
“Surely the government should be told. They would not allow such a thing.”
“It’s the Tsar’s government that employs them, Katya. These dirty rags will be turned into government paper to do the government’s dirty business.”
I started to protest, but I couldn’t find the words. By now some of the children had noticed us and paused in their work to stare. One of them was a girl who looked my age. Her face was pinched and thin, and she had enormous brown eyes with dark circles under them. A skimpy braid hung down her back. She was looking so hard at me that I started to walk toward her, thinking to speak to her, but two inspectors noticed us. They shouted at the children to get back to work and headed in our direction. Quickly Misha pulled me out into the street. As hot as it was, it was ten times cooler than it had been inside, and I dared to breathe again.
“For once, Katya, you have nothing to say.”
I didn’t. I was thinking what it would be like to awaken in the morning, knowing you would spend all day in such a place, and worse still, the next day and the day after.
“Why don’t they complain?” I asked.
Misha shrugged. “They need the work in order to eat. Anyhow, who would listen to them? They are only children. Now I’ll show you some workers who do complain.”
While I followed Misha, a plan was forming in my mind. I did not care what Misha said about the Tsar’s government being the one that employed the children in such miserable work. I was sure that if he knew of it, the Tsar would never allow such a thing. His government must be keeping it a secret from him. The gentle man who sat nibbling on the bit of buttered bread, the kindly man who patted Stana’s and my wet curls with no scolding, would put an end to such a horror. I resolved to find a way to tell the Tsar.
Thinking only of my plan, I trotted along after Misha through streets and alleys until we came to a square wooden building. A group of women were carrying placards on sticks. They walked back and forth, holding up their signs. At first I thought they were some sort of street amusement, like the man with the dancing bear Lidya and I often saw on the palace square, or the Gypsies with their tambourines who danced to invite coins.
Yet these women had no costume, and there was no music or dance, only a kind of sad marching back and forth. As we got closer, I could read the signs. WE DEMAND A FIFTY-FIVE-HOUR WEEK, one said. On another was written: A FAIR WAGE.
The woman who was leading the march was about my mama’s age, but stocky with fat red cheeks and a tangle of black hair that had not seen a comb for some time. The hardness in her eyes told me that the marching was not an entertainment but something much more serious. Misha clapped her on the shoulder as one man would another. “Galya, tovarich, how goes it?” he asked.
“My little Misha, have you come to give us a hand? Where are the other students? All asleep in their comfy beds, the lazy fellows. They promised they would be here this morning. I should have known better. You aristocrats are all alike. You encourage us to strike, but you are never here when we need you.”
So that was what it was. A zabastovka. I had heard Mama complain when some shoes she had ordered did not arrive because the factory was on strike. “Why should there be a strike?” she had asked. “The workmen are lucky to have a job.” Angrily she had decided to buy shoes from another factory. She had vowed, “Never again will those men get my trade.”
Recalling Mama’s words, I said to Galya, “But you all have jobs.”
She looked at me as if she would have liked to put out her hand and brush me away like a troublesome fly. Turning to Misha, she said, “What is this? You have brought me a little aristocrat who has never done a day’s work in her life to stand here and sneer at me.” Then she laughed. “Never mind. It’s time we understood that we are on our own with no one we can depend upon. You revolutionaries come to our meetings and encourage us to strike. You say, ‘It is only right that you should demand enough money to eat.’ Where are you brave revolutionaries now? All you want is trouble for the Tsar, so you can have the country to play with like some spoiled child who sees a toy he must have.”
For once Misha was without words. Finally he managed to say, “That’s unfair, Galya. We do support you. We won’t let you down. You can count on us joining in the demonstration.”
Just then four Cossacks, special guards on horseback, rounded the corner. The women stopped marching and stared at them. One of the Cossacks shouted, “This zabastovka is illegal. Disperse at once!” He had a whip, which he raised as his horse cantered toward the women.
Terrified, the women huddled about Galya as if they were chicks seeking shelter beneath the wings of a mother hen. Galya did not move but stood glaring at the policemen.
Misha grabbed me by the arm, and we began to run. When we were at a safe distance, I glanced back. The Cossacks were lashing at the fleeing women with their whips. I stopped running and began to wail. Misha put his hand over my mouth and dragged me away.
When we had put several blocks between us and the women, Misha paused so that we could catch our breath. I asked, “Why did you run away?”
Misha’s face became white. I saw that my question infuriated him. “Because I had you with me. Was I to leave you to be trampled by those horses?”
“You could have told me to run. If you had stayed, the Cossacks might have listened to you.”
“They listen to no one. And you are not the one to tell me what I must do. You are a useless, spoiled child, a lapdog to amuse the Tsar’s daughters. You’ll fritter away your days in a palace while the citizens of St. Petersburg plan to tear the palace down. You’re no better than one of the Tsar’s fifteen thousand servants.”
I was indignant. “The people love the Tsar, and he loves them. How can he know everything that goes on in the city? When I tell him about the children and the rags, he will put a stop to it. You wait and see.”
We were back on the Nevsky Prospekt. People were staring at us. We fell silent, walking the rest of the way home without a word. The sun had broken through the clouds, and the day was hotter than ever. My blouse clung damply to my arms and chest. I was grateful to escape into our cool, high-ceilinged mansion.
Once we were inside, Misha stomped up the stairs to his room. I trailed up the stairway behind him, wandering through Mama’s bedroom and into her sitting room. The sitting room, with its pale-yellow walls decorated with a border of painted flowers, was my favorite room. The windows opened out onto a balcony that overlooked the Nevsky Prospekt. Now the windows were closed against the muggy June day, and the yellow draperies were drawn. The sun filtering through the silk turned the room to gold. I could smell Mama’s perfume, a fragrance like gardenias that lingered after her.
I knew I would never have the courage to tell the Tsar my story to his face, yet he had to know. In front of me was Mama’s little French desk. On the desk was a neat stack of Mama’s thick ivory writing paper with the family crest and her name, Countess Irina Petrovna Baronova. I wondered who had gathered the rags to make the paper.
After a moment I sat down at the desk and took up a pen. I was the one writing the letter, not Mama, so I crossed out her name. Three sheets were wasted before the letter was finished.
June 30, 1913
To Nikolai II, Tsar of all the Russias
Your very great Excellency:
With respect I would like to draw your attention to the place where they collect rags to make paper for the government. I was recently a vis
itor there and can tell you some things about it that I am sure you would wish to know.
First of all, the place was very hot and smelly. I, personally, could hardly breathe. The other thing is that the people who were sorting the rags, which were very dirty, were not people at all, but children. I am sure you would not want young children to work from morning to night in such a smelly place doing such dirty work when if it weren’t summer, they should have been going to school, which they don’t even do when there is school.
Also, there are some evil Cossacks who carry whips, which they use against helpless women.
Russia is a very big place, so you must have a great deal on your mind, and I know you can’t see everything that goes on. I hope you won’t mind my telling you about this, so that you can do something to make it better.
Your devoted and humble subject,
Ekaterina Ivanova Baronova
I was concentrating so hard on writing the letter, I didn’t hear Mama come into the room. It was only when the fragrance of perfume grew stronger that I looked up to see her.
“Katya, what are you up to?” she asked. “Surely you have no schoolwork in the middle of the summer?”
“I’m writing to the Tsar, Mama,” I said, pride in my voice, for not everyone writes to the Tsar.
“To thank him for his hospitality at the Winter Palace? You are a good girl, Katya, but such a note should go to the Empress.”
“No, something more important, Mama.” Without thinking, and proud of my efforts, I held out the letter.
Mama read it over twice. First she had a puzzled look on her face and then a frightened one. “Katya, you can’t send such a letter. It’s impossible!”
While I watched, stunned, she tore up the letter. I felt my lips tremble, and I burst into tears. Mama tried to gather me up and comfort me, but I pushed her away.
“Katya, darling, listen to me. The Tsar has millions of subjects. He cannot concern himself with such trifles. He must attend to the important things.”
Angel on the Square Page 3
