The Last Days of the Romanov Dancers

by Kerri Turner

  ‘Why? Where are you going? For how long?’

  Mathilde gestured to stop her, her eyes as black as the newspapers had always declared them. ‘Too many questions. I’ve had a telephone call, from a General Halle of the Russian army. He told me there have been threats against me and I should leave Russia. So I’m going tomorrow night.’

  ‘Tomorrow night!’ The words were barely more than an exhalation. ‘Can it really be that bad?’

  ‘These threats appear to be more than just idle. Should the crowds begin searching for new ways to escalate the trouble, the General thinks they’ll look to me, thanks to the way those newspapers have tarnished my name and reputation. He says if I leave it any longer than a day or two, I might not escape in one piece.’

  Valentina’s vision began to swim, but she forced herself to remain composed and not think of what had been done to Rasputin.

  ‘Valya, listen to me. I think you should leave too. If it’s not safe for me, it can’t be much safer for you. Or for anyone like us.’

  Maxim returned just as Mathilde finished speaking, and Valentina could have sworn at him. She needed more time to ask questions. But she accepted the glass of champagne he held out to her in silence.

  Mathilde took Maxim’s arm with a demand to be escorted inside the auditorium, and glanced at Valentina one more time. It was a look so loaded with meaning that Valentina found she was unable to swallow the champagne that was already in her mouth.

  The ride back home was mercifully uneventful. Nevertheless, Valentina clung to the leather seat with white-knuckled hands, terrified that at any moment they would again feel the crowd pushing at the sides of the carriage. Maxim kept his grim face determinedly forward, refusing to show any outward sign of nerves.

  It was with relief that Valentina entered her home, familiar and welcoming in the navy night. The door closed behind them with a solid, satisfying thud, but it wasn’t enough to block out the occasional gunfire.

  Maxim walked away from her towards the second-floor library, which was kept well stocked with liquor. His normally straight shoulders were hunched as though a heavy weight lay between them. The sight almost made Valentina sorry for him; he must feel some guilt for putting her through this trying evening. She wondered why Mathilde had waited to deliver her message when Maxim was out of earshot. Perhaps to give her the choice to escape alone if she desired. Or perhaps she recognised Maxim’s stubborn, authoritative streak and didn’t want him to have the opportunity to dissuade Valentina.

  ‘Mademoiselle Yershova?’ Madame Ivkina stood nearby with a tentative look on her face. ‘Please, I must tell you something.’ The housekeeper glanced at the ceiling above them.

  Valentina assured her they were alone for the moment.

  ‘Luka Vladimirovich is here,’ Madame Ivkina whispered. ‘He never left.’

  Relief so strong Valentina thought she might cry swept over her. ‘I see. Please, tell him to sleep in your room tonight. It’s … it’s too dangerous out there to leave. You can share with the maid.’

  Madame Ivkina nodded, showing no sign of annoyance at having to give up her bed. Valentina didn’t need to say that any noises Luka made would be more easily explained if they came from a room that was always inhabited.

  The housekeeper was about to leave, but Valentina grasped her arm, stopping her. For an instant she was reminded of the way she’d grabbed Xenia Nicholaievna’s arm, the sudden violence she hadn’t known she was capable of. Although her grip on Madame Ivkina was soft, she released it anyway.

  ‘I need you to go upstairs to my bedroom—before Maxim retires there. Reach underneath the bed. In its base you’ll find a candy box. Pack it in a suitcase with as many warm things as you can find. Get my thickest coat and some sturdy shoes, and put them all in the small room next to the bedroom. The one I don’t usually allow you in.’

  Madame Ivkina’s face paled as she listened to these odd instructions, but she nodded without comment. Valentina could see that she was scared, and it made her think of something else.

  ‘Tell me, do you have any family that don’t live in Petrograd?’

  ‘No, Mademoiselle.’

  ‘I see. Then tomorrow afternoon, go back into the small room and there’ll be money waiting on the table for you. Use it to leave Petrograd. Preferably to go somewhere outside Russia.’

  Madame Ivkina gasped, already shaking her head. But Valentina silenced her.

  ‘No arguments. Take the money, split it between yourself, the maid and the cook, then leave. All of you. I’ll find you when this is over, when it’s safe again.’

  Her voice faltered at the stricken look on her housekeeper’s face. The woman couldn’t believe what was happening.

  Well, join the rest of us, Valentina thought grimly as she followed Maxim upstairs to the library.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Luka woke to red light filtering through the small window of the housekeeper’s room. He wanted to lift the curtain to find the source of the otherworldly glow, but resisted the temptation. He couldn’t risk being seen. His sleep had been punctuated with the sound of gunfire, both real and in his dreams, but waking was no relief. He didn’t like being relegated here, while Maxim slept upstairs in the same bed as Valya. He understood, though, and told himself there were more important worries to fret over.

  He moved to the only chair in the room and sat twisting his fingers, unsure if it was safe for him to leave. Eventually, Madame Ivkina brought him breakfast; then, an impossibly long time later, lunch. Luka’s skin crawled with impatience, his nerves further jarred by the sporadic sound of the telephone. The room gradually darkened again, the yellow flicker of the single oil lamp doing little to interrupt the shadows.

  Just as he thought he might scream from having to wait any longer, the door opened. Valya stood there, in one piece. She hurried to him, and Luka had to swallow multiple times to work back the emotion caught in his throat.

  ‘He’s asleep,’ she whispered, glancing upward in the direction of her bedroom. ‘Luka …’

  Luka didn’t say a word. He embraced her, his lips finding hers; he would know his way to them even blindfolded. A moment later and she tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let her, not yet. She melted back into him, and he wanted to cry and yell at her at the same time. But all he did was silently thank God she was there with him, safe again.

  ‘Luka … things are getting worse,’ she said when they finally broke apart.

  He didn’t want to hear it; not when he’d only just recovered her. But ignoring the situation wouldn’t make it go away. If he’d learned anything from the Tsar’s continued absence, it was that.

  Valya explained in words that pierced Luka’s skin what Mathilde had told her. ‘She’s leaving tonight,’ she finished. ‘And she said … she said I should do the same.’

  Everything came to a standstill—the noises outside cut off, the dust motes in the air stilled, even Luka’s breathing stopped. It was almost impossible to believe. Unable to be a queen of Russia in name, Mathilde had spent a lifetime making herself one in every other way. It wasn’t a position she would give up lightly.

  Luka took three rapid steps to the door; there was no time to waste. ‘Preparations, Valya—we need to think practically about what—’

  But she was tugging at his hand, pulling him back. ‘Luka, wait. That’s not all. It’s bad—outside, I mean. It was terrible last night, but from what I’ve heard today … The crowds have gone from looting to burning buildings. Soldiers are arriving from the front; deserters riding around in lorries, waving red flags and shouting “Grab nagrablennoye”.’

  Take back the loot. Luka suddenly understood why the light outside had been red. Petrograd was burning, and it was the glow of the flames that had woken him.

  He pinched the skin between his eyes. What had it all been for? His brother’s sacrifice, so noble and patriotic, given for a country that was burning itself from the inside, because it was that or starve.

  ‘Wh
y doesn’t the Tsar come back and fix this?’ he asked, knowing Valya didn’t have the answer.

  Pyotr, and so many others, had died for the Tsar. Why wasn’t he returning their loyalty? Perhaps it no longer mattered. The uprising had taken on such a force that even the man they were crying out for might not be able to stop it. For a second Luka wished Grigori Rasputin were still alive and truly did have divine powers that he could use to stop this mess.

  But wishes would get them nowhere. He needed to start thinking which route out of his country, his home, would be least impeded by the heavy snow and ice of the harsh winter they were having. And which trains would be least likely to be mobbed by deserting soldiers looking for someone to blame for the years of starvation, fighting and death they’d suffered.

  ‘We’ll have to leave during the night,’ he said, drawing the words out. ‘It’s too dangerous in daylight—you could be recognised.’

  ‘We?’

  Luka saw that Valya’s chest was rising and falling rapidly.

  ‘Valya, you don’t think I’m about to let you leave Russia without me, do you? The Imperial Ballet isn’t going to carry on amid all this. And even if it does, I don’t care. We’re going together.’

  She took an unsteady breath, her eyes distant, and Luka felt something like fear tug at him.

  ‘Valya, did you hear me?’ His voice was insistent this time.

  When her eyes focused back on his they almost held a note of laughter. ‘They said it would last three months. Three months of war, then Russia would be victorious.’

  ‘I know.’ Luka swallowed, trying not to choke on the memory of the Russia they’d been part of; the Russia that was changing so dramatically.

  Pulling her hands away, Valya ran trembling fingers through her hair. One of her rings caught and she gently undid it. The movement was so delicate that it reminded Luka of how she’d danced the Dying Swan. He was glad when her hand returned to his, its warmth assuring him that she was right there next to him.

  ‘What about Maxim?’ she said.

  Luka closed his eyes for a second. He’d forgotten about Maxim. His mind raced to find a way to overcome this new roadblock, his thumbs tapping out impatient patterns on the backs of Valya’s hands. He looked at her—her bobbed hair framing her face, her eyes shadowed and scared—and knew what he wanted her to do.

  ‘Valya,’ he began cautiously, ‘I think perhaps now is the time for you to leave Maxim. You were planning to anyway. If you stay together, the danger—for both of you—is increased. You have strong ties to Mathilde; as does he to the imperial family and Rasputin. You’ll each be less of a target if you separate.’

  He paused, his heart drumming so loud he was sure it was drowning out the gunshots that echoed through the streets. The strange light had turned Valya’s dark eyes to garnets, making them hard to read.

  ‘You don’t understand the risks of leaving him,’ she said. ‘He’s hinted before that he would take action against you. He would use his connections to push the company into demanding your resignation. Or if they refused, he would arrange to have you hurt.’

  Luka decided against confirming her suspicions by telling her about the direct threats Maxim had made to him in the past. He needed to tread delicately lest he ruin everything.

  ‘I’ve said before, I no longer care what he does. The Imperial Russian Ballet is no longer my whole world.’ He gave her hands a gentle squeeze, smiling. ‘He can end my relationship with them, but he can’t end my career. There are other companies—in Moscow, or even around the world. No matter how many ties he cuts, I will still dance.’

  ‘But what will I tell him?’

  Luka’s relief that she wasn’t going to argue, that she’d meant it when she’d said she would leave Maxim to be with him, was intense. It was difficult for him not to smile, even though outside the world was still on fire and tearing itself apart.

  ‘You don’t have to tell him everything. Just that you need to leave, and it would be best if he didn’t go with you.’

  ‘Luka, I can’t. I owe him more than that.’

  ‘You don’t. All he has paid you for, you’ve done. You’ve met his every demand, and if you want to make your life your own, you don’t owe him any explanation.’

  ‘Not every demand,’ she murmured, one hand running up her arm as if she was soothing a pain there. Her expression was troubled. ‘Perhaps I won’t say anything at all. If I choose my time, I can slip out without him even realising … Yes, I believe that would be best for now. I can find him and explain later, when things aren’t quite so … intense. Where should we meet?’

  ‘Meet?’

  ‘Tonight. When we leave.’

  ‘We’re not meeting anywhere. I’m staying here until you’re ready to go, and we’ll leave together.’

  ‘Luka, as you said, we have to be practical. God only knows how long we’ll be gone—you need to get your things together just the same as I do. If you wait for me, we won’t have time to go to your apartment.’

  ‘It won’t take so long. Just gather the essentials, then we can leave for my apartment together.’

  She hesitated, her head turning away from him a little. ‘I want to sew some jewels into the hems and linings of my clothes. Don’t look at me like that—it’s not for greed or vanity’s sake. Wherever we’re going, we’ll need food and shelter. I’m giving the money I have on hand to my staff, but there are plenty of jewels we can take to barter with.’

  ‘Valya, we don’t need them. We can get jobs in another ballet company.’

  ‘We don’t even know where we’ll end up.’

  ‘We don’t need much. We’ll survive somehow.’

  She made an irritated noise. ‘Why gamble on such a matter when I have the means to give us certainty?’

  Luka opened his mouth to argue, but found himself short of words. What she was saying made sense, however little he liked it.

  ‘I’ll help then. I’m not much of a sewer, but if I can patch up ballet slippers I’m sure I can make a few pockets.’

  Valya’s face softened into a tender look, and she touched his cheek. ‘You’re a generous person, Luka Vladimirovich, but not a practical one. The point of sewing the jewels into my garments is so they’ll be concealed from searching eyes, and anything other than fine needlework will alert a curious gaze to the presence of something hidden.’

  Again she made sense, but Luka resisted. He didn’t want to leave her here alone. ‘Then I’ll go to my apartment, pack what I need, and come back here to meet you.’

  ‘And risk running into Maxim?’

  Luka exhaled roughly. He knew now was the time for decisive action not lovers’ sentimentality, yet still he loathed the idea of separating. He grappled with himself, common sense waging a war with fear.

  ‘Why don’t we meet at The Wandering Dog then?’ he said slowly. At her quizzical look, he explained, ‘It’s a club, far enough away from the city’s centre that we shouldn’t come up against any trouble.’

  Valya agreed, and Luka, still unsure if he was doing the right thing, wrote down the address for her. They arranged to meet just before midnight.

  The time had come for him to leave, but Luka hesitated. A sick feeling churned in the pit of his stomach.

  ‘Are you sure you’ll be able to get there?’ he asked her.

  ‘A covered woman heading out alone in the middle of the night is hardly going to seem like the Valentina Yershova the crowds know. No one will look at me twice.’

  ‘I can stay here until it’s time.’

  Valya took his face in her hands, then ran her fingers through the hair at his temples. ‘No, you can’t, my love. Go home, pack your warmest clothes for it’s freezing out there, and be waiting for me at The Wandering Dog with a kiss on your lips.’

  After a glance out of Madame Ivkina’s bedroom door to make sure no one was in view, she led him quickly to the front door.

  ‘Until tonight,’ she whispered, holding it open just enough so he could s
queeze out.

  Luka looked back at her and he couldn’t help it—he edged himself into the gap in the door and kissed her hard. All the passion he felt for her, all the frustrations of their past and his hopes for their future, went into the kiss, and when he finally pulled away her cheeks had turned pink.

  Before he could change his mind, he turned and walked into the angry streets, headed for home. He thought he heard her whisper, ‘I love you,’ but he didn’t look back for confirmation. If he did, he knew he’d never be able to leave her.

  He would tell her he loved her when they met again; God willing, he would spend the rest of his life saying it over and over.

  Midnight was only a few hours away, but he already knew they would be the longest hours of his life.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Valentina watched the red light darken Luka’s silhouette until he became nothing more than a shadow. Gunfire continued to crack open the freezing air, and she could almost feel the bullets burying themselves deep in her flesh, working their way to her heart where they could do the most damage. She hoped that wherever the gunshots came from, Luka would stay far away.

  As she closed the door, an unsettling sense of finality came over her. She slowly made her way back up the stairs and pushed open her bedroom door. Maxim was no longer there. She exhaled, relieved; it would be easier to pick out her best jewels without fear of waking him from his alcohol-induced slumber—a habit he’d acquired since Rasputin’s death.

  Moving to her dressing table, she rummaged through her belongings. Her hands felt thick and clumsy, her mind fogged by fear of what was to come. Soon she and Luka would be in the midst of that horror, with no carriage walls to separate them from the desperate hands and weapons of the revolting masses.

  She swore softly as she knocked over a perfume bottle, spilling its contents. The room filled with the thick scent of musk. Checking over her shoulder that Maxim hadn’t heard the crash—where was he?—she righted the bottle but didn’t bother to clear up the spill. There wasn’t time.