Angel on the Square (8 page)

I was asking the same question of myself. As each
day another bed was filled, as the newspapers told of one defeat after another, as the Tsar looked gloomier and gloomier, I wanted to ask the Tsar why he didn’t end the war. I knew I daren’t say that to Yuri. I only shook my head.

Yuri nodded, as if there were some questions that no one could answer.

We knew the soldiers wished to spare us and were careful not to tell us stories that would disturb us, but as the weeks and months of the war wore on, we could not escape the troubling news.

In the classroom Pierre showed us how all the rest of Europe, and America and China as well, could be tucked inside Russia’s boundaries. “Russia’s great size is a problem,” he explained. “Russian trains with military supplies have to stretch long distances, while the German trains have only short distances to travel to reach their soldiers.”

I saw how critical the newspapers were of the Tsar. There were reports that factories were not turning out
enough ammunition, and just as Misha had written, soldiers were having to fight with the guns of their fallen comrades. England and France, who had joined us in the war, could not help us, for they were fighting for their lives. It was rumored that the German army was at the gates of Paris.

The newspapers began to warn of food shortages, for farmers were taken from their farms to become soldiers. There were no more banquets at the palace. Footmen no longer carried out platters of pheasants roasted and decorated with their own tail feathers or mammoth sturgeons swimming in rich sauce. Though it broke Toma’s heart, even our daily meals became simple, for the Empress said, “We must eat what our people are eating.” We dined on cabbage soup, potatoes in sour cream, and pirozhki filled with bits of fish or hard-boiled egg.

When Olga turned up her nose at a dish of borsch, the Tsar said in a disapproving voice, “Shame on you, Olga. Think of what our brave soldiers are forced to
get by on.” I had never before heard him speak so harshly to one of the girls.

When winter came, we cut back on wood. Half the stoves in the palace remained cold. With all our sacrifices I could not help but think how comfortable we were. It was true some rooms were cold, but many were warm and cozy. Though pheasant and sturgeon were banished from the table, Toma saw to it that the cabbage soup had large chunks of tender meat.

The winter of 1914–15 was the coldest in years. The wounded soldiers who arrived at the Catherine Palace told stories of digging through the snow for a frozen carrot or turnip. Their fingers and toes were frostbitten. I asked myself why I should be warm and comfortable with a full belly when soldiers were suffering and dying. Even Stana no longer had easy answers.

“I wish Papa would find a way to end the war,” she said. It was the closest she had ever come to questioning her father. She sighed. “Mama says we must
pray harder, but I pray as hard as I can.”

I prayed for Misha each night and thought of him all day long.

“Mama,” I begged, “can’t you ask the Tsar to find out where Misha is?”

“Katya, there are ten million Russian soldiers. Besides, think how much the Tsar has on his mind.” Yet I saw that Mama was as worried about Misha as I was. She nursed the dying soldiers, afraid that at any moment she might see Misha on one of the stretchers.

When I read in the newspaper that nearly a million Russian soldiers had been taken prisoner, I kept awake at night trying to count to a million. I thought somehow that if I could count each prisoner, and Misha with them, the prisoners would be protected. Often I would stay awake into the early-morning hours, but I only got into the thousands—not enough.

The cold winter turned into a chilly spring and the spring into a rainy summer, the summer into a gloomy
fall, and the news of the war was no better. One October morning, while we were having our simple breakfast of bread and tea and
tvorog,
with no jam to go with it, the Tsar announced, “I leave next week for army headquarters, and Alexei goes with me.”

Alexei leaped up, shouting with pleasure.

The Empress uttered a sharp cry. Her eyes were blazing. She sprang from her chair. Grasping the dining table for support, she said, “You cannot think of taking Alexei to such a place. He is not well enough. Even if he were, we could not take such a step without consulting Father Grigory.”

In the past the Tsar had given in to the Empress, especially in matters concerning Alexei, but now the Tsar thrust out his chin. In a firm voice he said, “Alexei is the heir to the throne, my dear. One day he will be Tsar. If he is to defend our country from its enemies, he must know what it is like to be a soldier. I’m afraid he has been coddled too much, for which I take full responsibility. I promise you, I will do whatever is
necessary to see that he is well taken care of, but I have made up my mind.”

We all sat with open mouths. The Empress was so taken aback by the Tsar’s strong words that she could find no answer, but only sank down onto her chair and began to cry. Mama went to comfort her, but the Empress shook her off. She would not be comforted.

A week later the Tsar and Alexei left the palace for army headquarters.

Spring 1916–Winter 1917

The Empress fretted over Alexei all winter. She would not rest until she saw for herself that he was well. The Tsar wrote to discourage her, but nothing would change her mind. In the spring arrangements were made for a special train to take us to headquarters, a journey of twenty-six hours. Several cars of the train were hastily decorated. Rugs were laid down, and comfortable chairs were arranged around delicate tables. Besides the Grand Duchesses, Mama, and me, accompanying us were footmen, cooks, the Empress’s
personal maid carrying her jewels, Pierre, and the Empress’s personal physician. Although the stay would be a short one, we took trunks stuffed with clothes and baskets heaped with delicacies for the officers.

As we boarded the train, I saw hundreds of soldiers herded into empty railway cars with no furniture—just a layer of hay strewn over the floor. Like us, they were going to army headquarters, but unlike us, they would go on to the front. I was embarrassed at our show of luxury. I wondered what the soldiers thought of us as they watched us climb into our comfortable quarters, trailed by servants and piles of luggage.

I soon had my answer, for as news spread among the soldiers that the Empress would be traveling on their train, they looked toward us. When the Empress saw them and paused to raise her hand in greeting as she boarded, for once there was no return cheer. Though it was not talked of in the palace, only days before, I had read in one of the newspapers that there
were no shells for the soldiers’ rifles and no food for their stomachs. One Russian brigade had mutinied and killed their officer. I thought much had changed since the days when the crowds had cheered the imperial family in Palace Square. I wondered how we could win a war when our soldiers were so miserable.

At headquarters we lived in a world of men. Still, the men were sensible that the Empress and the Grand Duchesses were among them and that something must be done for them. Dinners were arranged. Trunks were opened and formal gowns, silk slippers, jewels, and furs were brought out. Slipping into dressy clothes in that busy military world made me feel like I was attending a masquerade.

I was fifteen now, and Stana was fourteen, so we were allowed to attend the dinners. The Tsar and his generals had brought silver serving pieces, fine china, and rare wines with them to headquarters. Soldiers had been sent out to hunt in the forest, and we dined well on grouse and venison. We might have been at a
palace dinner, except for one thing. Several times during our dinner, officers appeared at the doorway of the dining salon looking anxious and embarrassed. They caught the eye of one general or another, and the general excused himself to read an urgent dispatch or give an order. Misha was out there somewhere, I thought. I could hardly force myself to choke down the elegant dinner, knowing soldiers might be dying as we banqueted.

As often as I could during our stay, I mentioned Misha’s name in the hope that one of the officers might have heard of him. They smiled politely, but no one could tell me where he might be, or even recognized his name. Whenever I glimpsed an officer in the distance, I held my breath until he came close enough for me to see that it was not Misha. I tried to tell myself that Misha was safe, but nothing I heard at headquarters made me believe there was a safe place for a soldier. Even the Tsar appeared disheartened. When he was with his son, the Tsar beamed, but at
other moments his shoulders sagged. He ran his hand over his beard and looked about him like a man who cannot escape a bloodthirsty beast.

However worried his father was, Alexei was in his glory. He was clearly the favorite of all the officers. He tugged at the Empress and his sisters, wanting to show them around headquarters and introduce them to his new friends. The men put their caps on his head and pretended to ask him for orders for this battle or that one. “He is our little general,” they said, and patted him fondly. Each morning, while his father was having breakfast, Alexei stood guard outside the Tsar’s tent, a small rifle on his shoulder. Only when the Tsar was finished would Alexei give up his guard duty. Even the Empress had to admit that Alexei was doing well.

At our farewell dinner, the night before we were to board our train to return to the palace, we tried to forget the war. There was a whole roast suckling pig commandeered from one of the nearby farms, caviar that had come in the Empress’s hamper, and a towering
cake, so tasty the cook was called in from the kitchen to take a bow. Olga, Tatiana, Marie, Stana, and I were surrounded with handsome, attentive officers. Even Mama flirted. A military band played waltzes during dinner. At the dinner’s end there were gallant toasts to all the women present. In a strong voice one of the generals proposed a toast: “To the day when there will not be a single German soldier on Russian soil.”

I applauded the toast, but it reminded me with a cruel stab how close the Germans were, and of the danger to Misha. I was ashamed of our extravagance and our gaiety. All the pleasure went from the evening.

Returning to the Alexander Palace, we found Anya waiting for us. She ran across the room to greet us and pressed a letter into Mama’s hand. “It just came, Madame.” There were tears in her eyes, for everyone knew that such envelopes from the army reported only bad news. Mama’s hand trembled. She
handed the envelope to me. I had always turned to Mama for comfort and strength, but now for the first time in my life Mama was turning to me. I pulled her to the sofa and sat down beside her. Anya shifted from foot to foot like some small, fierce bird protecting its nestlings. I tore the envelope open. The sound of the tearing was like my heart being ripped apart. The news was very bad, but it left us hope. The army wished to inform us that Misha was a prisoner in Germany. We were assured that the Russian army would do all in its power to find him and return him to his family.

When I told Stana, she put her arms around me and kissed me and promised that her dear papa would save Russia and bring home every prisoner of war, and Misha would be the very first. I tried to find comfort in her words, but I had heard the officers at army headquarters say that the German soldiers were going without food. I knew they would do what the starving
Russian soldiers were doing. They would feed their own army first. There would be little food left for prisoners.

That evening the Empress knocked softly at our door. In her hands she held her icon of St. Vladimir. “Stana told me about Misha, Irina. You must have this icon. Pray to St. Vladimir for Misha’s safety. The saint will help you.”

It was the icon the Empress valued most. I saw that Mama wanted to put her arms about the Empress in gratefulness and love, but she was afraid to be so forward. I was very glad I was not an empress but someone who could be hugged and comforted.

With the Tsar at the front, the Empress was relying more and more upon Rasputin. All summer and fall he came to the palace, swaggering down the halls and striding into the Empress’s sitting room without so much as a by-your-leave. He acted as if he were in his own home, ordering the servants about and handling
the delicate ornaments set out on the tables. It was terrible to see him pick up an exquisite vase in his clumsy hands with their dirty fingernails.

One evening, when the girls and I were gathered in Olga and Tatiana’s room talking over the day, I asked, “How can your mama have such a person about?”

“You haven’t seen Alexei suffering as we have,” Tatiana said. “When he is ill, he cries all night long. His every move causes him terrible pain. Everything he suffers, Mama suffers twice as much. She has to listen to him plead, ‘Mama, help me,’ knowing there is nothing she can do. Rasputin makes him better. We don’t know how. Mama thinks it is from God.”

Under her breath Stana muttered darkly, “I think it is from the devil.”

With the Tsar away, many of the decisions about the government were left to the Empress, whom the Tsar trusted completely. Our parliament, the Duma, had little power. They grumbled and made motions of governing, but the power was all the Tsar’s, and he
was far away. The Empress wrote to the Tsar daily, sometimes more often, to tell him what was happening in St. Petersburg, which was now officially called Petrograd, because “Petersburg” was German. Still, no one remembered to call it Petrograd, which had an ugly sound.

The Empress hated the Duma. She said there was no need for any government besides the Tsar. “We must be firm with the people,” she said. “Russians love to feel the whip.” I cringed to hear such cruel words. Misha, who was always in my thoughts, would have been very angry indeed.

Rasputin was on the Empress’s side. They talked all day about ways to put an end to the Duma. Rasputin suggested appointing this minister and that one, men who were on his side, men so weak he could rule them. The Tsar, busy with the war and not wanting to anger the Empress, agreed with Rasputin’s choices.

Stana confided to me that her uncles and aunt had
come to the Tsar and begged him to get rid of Rasputin. “They know how much the country hates him. But Papa always gives in to Mama.”

The Empress and Rasputin were having their way, but the government was falling apart. Articles in the newspapers denounced Rasputin and the Empress as well. Suddenly everyone recalled that the Empress had once been a German princess, and they now accused her of being on the side of the Germans. Rasputin was said to be a German spy. The Duma was in an uproar. When we went out in public, people shook their fists at the Empress. She kept her chin high and looked straight ahead.

“Mama,” I asked, “why doesn’t the Empress let the people know that Alexei is ill and that Rasputin comes to the palace to help him?”

“The Empress and the Tsar don’t want the people to know that Alexei is ill, Katya. One day Alexei may be the Tsar, and the people he rules should not believe him to be weak. A weak ruler would soon be overturned.”

I could see what Mama meant, but the people continued to be so angry, I doubted that Alexei would ever have the chance to be Tsar.

It was in December, on one of Rasputin’s frequent visits to the palace, that Stana and I caught him. We were sneaking down a back stairway to the dairy, for we knew it was the day for making farmer’s cheese. One of the dairy maids, Nadya, would let us sample the cheese. With the Empress’s new austerity, we were always hungry. As we neared the dairy room where the cream was separated from the milk, we heard a loud scuffling and angry voices. We stopped and looked at each other. It was not unusual to hear quarreling among the servants, but this had a different sound.

We tiptoed to the dairy doorway and peeked in. There was Rasputin, his strong arms around Nadya’s waist, while she tried to squirm out of his grasp.

Rasputin was laughing at her struggles. “Now, my girl,” he said, “if you keep on fighting me, you will
soon be out of a job. The Empress has fired ministers of state for me; she will have no problem firing a maid.”

Stana and I looked at each other. A moment later Stana marched into the dairy. I was right behind her. She announced to Rasputin, “I believe the Empress is looking for you. Shall I tell her that you are busy and can’t come just now?”

Rasputin glared at Stana. There was so much hatred in his eyes, I was afraid he would strike her, but he only scuttled away. Nadya was sobbing. She threw her arms around Stana.

“That evil man will be back,” she sobbed.

Stana said, “Don’t worry, Nadya, we’ll find a way to make sure that he leaves you alone.”

We hurried away with the sound of Nadya’s sobs still in our ears. When we were safely in our rooms, Stana asked, “What can I do?”

“Write a letter to your mama,” I said. “I’ll help you. Tell her exactly what we saw and heard. She’ll
believe her own daughter even if she doesn’t believe anyone else. She knows you would never lie to her.”

Together we wrote the letter:

We were a little frightened, but proud of our letter. For once someone would get the better of Rasputin. We planned to give the letter to the Empress right after tea, but we never did. A telegram came from the Tsar. Alexei was suffering from a nosebleed that could not be stopped. The Tsar was on his way home with Alexei. The Empress was so crushed, the telegram might have been a heavy club rather than a piece of paper. When she could speak, the Empress said, “Thank God Father Grigory is here.”

That evening Alexei was carried into the palace on a stretcher. The nosebleed had not stopped. He was as white as a sheet of paper. His eyes had the beseeching look of a wounded animal. It was plain to see he was near death. The Empress pushed aside the Tsar and the stretcher bearers and threw her arms around Alexei. When at last she stood up, her silk gown was stained with his blood.

Rasputin strode into the room. “Let me see the boy, Mama,” he said to the Empress. He stood gazing
into Alexei’s eyes for what seemed like hours but was only a few minutes. At last he turned to the Tsar and the Empress and said, “Don’t be alarmed, Papa. Don’t be alarmed, Mama. Nothing will happen.” Moments later Alexei fell asleep. The bleeding had stopped.

Stana and I looked at each other. I saw her reach into her pocket and crumple the letter.

Everyone was hoping the Tsar would go to St. Petersburg and set the government to rights. The foolish and incompetent men chosen by Rasputin were destroying the country. Only that morning, when the people found there was no bread to buy, there had been riots in the streets. The soldiers ordered to stop the rioting refused to turn on the people. If there was no one to stop the riots, what would happen to the city?