Anastasia and Her Sisters (15 page)

My sisters and I were going with Papa and Mama to St. Petersburg. Mama dressed in white and chose white outfits for all of us, and we wore big picture hats to protect our faces from the sun. Papa was wearing a plain khaki uniform and his colonel’s insignia. “Because of the solemnity of the occasion,” he said.

Alexei had to stay in Peterhof, because he could not walk and our parents didn’t want the tsarevich to be seen on this day, of all days, as an invalid. Nagorny and Derevenko promised him all sorts of amusements, but nothing cheered him.

“Be a brave soldier,” Papa told him. “We’ll be back soon,
and Grandmère Marie is coming in a few days to celebrate your birthday.”

Alexei, nodded, weeping, too upset to speak. I ran back and kissed him again. “I’ll tell you everything that happens,” I promised, and then hurried to board the launch for the trip to the capital.

CHAPTER 11

War Fever

ST. PETERSBURG, SUMMER 1914

E
veryone was bursting with pride to be Russian.

Huge crowds had gathered for hours along the Neva River. Our launch maneuvered through hordes of boats of every size filled with people cheering and waving flags. We stepped off the launch onto the quay and into our carriages and inched toward the Winter Palace while police guards struggled to hold back the throngs.

“Batiushka!”
they cried. “Little Father, lead us to victory!”

The feverish enthusiasm, more intense than at the tercentennial celebration, did not die down. I’d been to many celebrations, attended many ceremonies, and the attention paid to my father was to be expected. But this was different. The fervor of the people sent a shiver of excitement down my spine. I could tell by my sisters’ faces that they, too, felt it.

We worked our way slowly through the crowd inside the
palace. People fell to their knees, tears streaming down their faces, and reached out to kiss Papa’s hand, and Mama’s, too. An altar had been set up in the huge hall. Papa signed a paper declaring Russia’s war on Germany and Austria, and after a choir sang the
Te Deum
he recited an oath, swearing in a firm voice never to make peace so long as a single enemy remained on Russian soil.

Thousands of people in the great hall were weeping and smiling at the same time. Suddenly they began to sing “Save us, O Lord.” I carried a linen handkerchief in my left hand—we had been taught by our governesses to do this whenever we were out in public—and I was glad I had mine when the tears began.

“The people want another chance to see their
Batiushka
and
Matushka
,” Papa said, and led Mama out on the balcony to greet the enormous crowds that packed the square. We were told to stay behind, but we crept close to the doors to watch and listen. A sea of people roared when my parents stepped out, and the roaring didn’t stop even when Papa raised his hand and tried to speak. Then the whole enormous crowd began to sing the imperial anthem:

God save the tsar!

Mighty and powerful,

Let him reign for our glory. . . .

“You see?” said Olga, close beside me. “You see why I will never leave Russia?”

I nodded. I did see. I understood.

The Cossack guards pushed back the crowd to let our carriages through, but the people were in such a jubilant mood that they didn’t seem to mind. Not everyone was jubilant, though—we heard later that an angry mob had rushed to the German Embassy and attacked it, pulling down two huge bronze horses from the roof and rampaging through the inside. The Germans were now Enemy Number One.

“Everyone hates Cousin Willy,” I said.

Tatiana told me to hush, because Mama was worried about Uncle Ernie back in Germany. As if I didn’t remember.

Alexei was waiting in Peterhof to hear about everything that had happened. Dr. Botkin and Gleb and his sister had been with us, and Gleb was pleased to provide the details. His usually pale cheeks were flushed with excitement and his green eyes glowed. “The Germans don’t know how to fight!” Gleb assured my brother. “They only know how to make sausages! All we have to do to win is to throw our caps at them.”

Alexei laughed and applauded. But he was still upset that he had missed such a thrilling event. “Don’t worry,” I assured him. “There will certainly be more.”

I hoped Gleb was right, though, that victory would be easy—and quick, too.

•  •  •

We’d been waiting anxiously for Grandmère Marie to arrive at Peterhof from a visit to England, and when she finally did, she was exhausted and in a fury. Her train had been stopped in Berlin and a howling mob had attacked it, smashing the
windows, ripping down the blinds in her car, and screaming profanities at her.

“I have never been so terrified in my life,” she told us. “That cursing and shrieking pack of rabble tried to grab me! Thank God the police arrived in time to save me. And that barbarian, Willy, wouldn’t allow me to cross Germany! Can you imagine the effrontery? What a vulgar and detestable man! He ordered my train diverted to the Danish frontier. A horde of madmen threw stones as we left the station. The damage to the train is considerable—you can see it for yourself. Willy didn’t dare keep me, but he did detain Felix and Irina. Xenia is beside herself, as you can imagine, and I don’t know where they are now. Oh, this is just too, too horrid! I have hated Germany for fifty years, and now I hate it more than ever.”

Felix and Irina were still on their honeymoon when “that barbarian” refused to let them go, until Felix’s father arranged for them to return to Russia through Finland.

Alexei had been promised a tenth birthday celebration when Grandmère Marie came, and he was not disappointed. She had arranged for a Shetland pony and a pony cart to be sent by ship from England. Alexei was delighted and became totally absorbed in thinking of a name for the little pony. “He’ll be a friend for Vanka,” Alexei said, Vanka being the donkey Papa had gotten Alexei when he was five. There was also a cake and ice cream and a serenade by the balalaika orchestra, but a constant parade of generals coming out from St. Petersburg occupied Papa’s attention.

“Some are saying the war will be over by Christmas,” Papa told us.

“All we have to do is throw our caps at them,” I said.

Papa sighed. “If only that were true,” he said, and for just a moment I wondered if Gleb and the generals might be wrong.

A week later the whole family—including Alexei—traveled to Moscow, the old capital of Russia before Tsar Peter the Great built St. Petersburg. It was an ancient tradition for the tsars to go to the Kremlin in Moscow to ask God’s blessing on any war they were about to enter. Before we left Peterhof, we attended services in the white-and-gold chapel where all five of us children had been christened. Then we boarded the imperial train. It rolled quietly through the night and arrived in Moscow the next morning.

It seemed as though everyone in the entire city had come out to greet us, thousands and thousands of Russians hanging out of windows and over the edges of balconies, balancing on the limbs of trees—anywhere they could find—to cheer and wave banners. Church bells rang like mad, and at every church we passed, a priest came out to bless Papa.

We entered the walls of the Kremlin the way tsars always entered the fortified center of the city, through the Iberian gate, and our carriages delivered us to the Grand Palace, with its fireplaces carved out of alabaster, desks and tables inlaid with jade and topaz, porcelain clocks from France, and gold everywhere.

We were hardly settled in the imperial apartments when Alexei began to complain that his leg hurt so badly he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to walk to the cathedral the next day. “I must walk tomorrow!” he cried, gritting his teeth, his face twisted with pain. “I must!”

My parents were still determined that Alexei’s future subjects not be allowed to believe that he was an invalid, but when we awoke the next morning, it was obvious that walking was impossible. Mama was in despair, and Alexei was sobbing.

“Never mind,” Papa told Alexei. “You will be present at the ceremony. Our biggest, strongest, handsomest Cossack guard will carry you, and you’ll see everything.”

At eleven o’clock we left the imperial apartment and climbed the fifty-eight steps of the Red Staircase to St. George Hall. “Lucky you,” I told Alexei, in the arms of the Cossack. “You get to be carried.”

Mama’s sister Ella joined us, dressed in her pale gray nun’s habit. “She looks so elegant in that robe, and she doesn’t even have to wear a corset with it,” I whispered to Marie. “Or bother deciding which jewels to wear. It’s almost enough to make me consider becoming a nun myself.”

Marie giggled, and Tatiana hissed, “Hush!”

Standing in the center of the great hall, Papa read out a proclamation in a strong voice: “From this place, the very heart of Russia, I send my soul’s greeting to my valiant troops and my noble allies. God is with us!” It was a solemn occasion, the most solemn in the world, but somehow I couldn’t stop grinning—proud to be not only Russian but the daughter of the tsar.

A bridge connected the palace to the cathedral on the opposite side of the Palace Square, filled with more cheering crowds—the people would surely be hoarse by the end of the day—and after lots of prayers and hymns, incense and candles, we could finally go back to the palace for luncheon. A good thing, because I was starving.

The next day Alexei and Gilliard went out for a drive in a motorcar to a scenic spot above the city. On the way back through narrow streets jammed with peasants, someone recognized Alexei and began to shout, “The heir! The heir!” Suddenly the crowds surrounded them, blocking their way, pressing closer, all determined to see the tsarevich. The eager peasants climbed up on the steps of the car, scrambling to reach my brother. Alexei had never had anything like this happen to him, and it frightened him.

“Neither the driver nor I knew what to do,” Gilliard reported, still trembling. “The
moujiks
meant no harm, but we were trapped. Then two huge policemen ran up, shouting and waving, and the crowd fell back and slowly drifted away.”

“They wanted to touch me, as though I was a religious icon, something holy!” Alexei said. “It was embarrassing. I didn’t like it.”

•  •  •

We went home to Tsarskoe Selo. Everyone seemed excited about going to war. It was all people talked about now. The trips to St. Petersburg and Moscow had been thrilling, but my sisters and I felt anxious. It was terribly confusing.

In our schoolroom, Pyotr Petrov tapped on the map of the world with his pointer. “The Germans and the Austrians are our enemies,” he said, though we needed no reminding, “and so are the Turks. The French and the English are our closest allies—the Serbians, too, of course—and so far the other countries such as Romania are neutral.” The neutral countries included Switzerland, where Gilliard was from. “Monsieur Gilliard had thought to go home,” Petrov said, “but it is nearly impossible to get there, for all communications have been cut,
and if he did manage to get home, he would have no chance of getting back here before the end of the war.”

“But Pyotr Vasilyevich,” I reminded him, “everyone says the war will be over by Christmas! That would not be such a long time to be away.” I liked Gilliard very much, and would miss him if he left, but I would not miss a few months of French lessons.

Petrov hung his pointer on its hook. “I pray that those who are so optimistic are also correct,” he said quietly.

Papa appointed Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolaevich—Papa’s distant cousin, but we called him Uncle Nikolasha—to be commander-in-chief of the army. But this was just temporary. “Until I can get to Stavka and take command,” Papa said. Stavka was the army headquarters, near Bialowieza, site of our hunting lodge in Poland.

Marie and I lay on our beds, whispering in the dark. “What do you think will happen now?” Marie asked, and I could tell that she was close to tears. She was always very emotional.

“I don’t know,” I said.

I did not want to tell her what I had read in Olga’s notebook. I still glanced at it now and then, though not as often as I had when she was madly in love with Voronov, because her entries after he married someone else weren’t as interesting. But this was upsetting:

I’m so worried about this war. Mother and Father received a letter from Fr. G, who is in his village in Siberia and recovering from the awful attack by that crazy woman. The letter made Father so angry he wanted to tear it up, but Mother wouldn’t let him. She showed it to Tanya and me, and I’m writing here what I can remember:

“A terrible storm cloud lies over Russia. Disaster, grief, murky darkness and no light. A whole ocean of tears, there is no counting them, and so much bloodshed. I can find no words to describe the horror. Russia is drowning in blood. Disaster is great, the misery infinite.”

What if Fr. G is right? I can’t bear to think of it.

Marie was still asking questions in a worried whisper. “Papa’s going to be leaving soon for Poland,” she said. “How long do you think he’ll be gone?”

“I don’t know, Mashka,” I said, rolling away so that my back was to her. I was thinking about what I’d read in the notebook.
Russia is drowning in blood
.

“Mama says we must say our prayers and trust in God,” Marie said with a little catch in her voice. She was close to tears again. “Do you think God will help us?”

“Of course He will,” I said.
Disaster is great, the misery infinite
. “Now, let’s go to sleep. Aunt Olga is coming tomorrow.”

Soon Marie’s breathing deepened, but I lay staring into the darkness, my thoughts churning.
Maybe Father Grigory is wrong and it isn’t going to be a disaster. Russia will triumph. Father Grigory doesn’t know everything
.

•  •  •

Our aunt’s Saturday visit wasn’t like any of her earlier visits. She was flushed with excitement. Papa had changed the name
of St. Petersburg, which was a German name, to Petrograd. “Much more patriotic,” he’d said, and Aunt Olga agreed.