The Lost Crown (37 page)

The next day Mama is enough improved that she comes to the dining room to eat with us, but by the end of dinner it sounds as if someone is battering the piano in the duty office with knives and forks.

Mama rubs her temples. “Tatiana, go ask the men to be quieter, please. I’m going back to bed.”

Men I do not recognize crowd Avdeev’s office, all sprawled about as if they own the place. Probably more of Moshkin’s vulgar “comrades.”

“Perhaps you would like to join us?” Moshkin asks before I open my mouth. “Do you know the words to ‘The Workers’ Marseillaise’?” He gestures to the man at the piano. “Come on, boys, let’s teach the tsar’s daughter our new anthem!”

Arise, arise, working people!
Arise against the enemies, hungry brother!
Sound the cry of the people’s vengeance!
Forward!

I turn on my heel and leave the filthy brutes behind. They will not see me even think about crying. Avdeev will hear about this tomorrow, even if he does nothing about it.

38.

MARIA NIKOLAEVNA

May 1918
Ekaterinburg

Pa
pa shuffles the bezique deck loudly as machine-gun fire. “This prison regime!” he complains. “It’s unbearable, being penned up on a fine evening.”

Out of nowhere, there’s a sound like an ax biting into wood—
thock!
—and before Mama can finish saying “Nicky?” Tatiana comes running from the bedrooms.

“Did you hear that? Our bedroom floor jolted under my feet. It must have been a shot from the cellar.”

A bullet! Without even thinking about it, my feet snap up from the floor and bury themselves between the sofa and my backside. Anastasia smirks at me, but I don’t care. Both of us know perfectly well I’m not as brave as she is. Olga’s already crying.

“Christ have mercy,” Mama gasps. “Is Baby all right?”

“He did not even wake up,
slava Bogu
,” Tatiana says. “
Dushka
,” she tells Olga, “no one is hurt.”

Just then Avdeev comes rushing in from the other direction and sees Olga hiccuping on Tatiana’s shoulder. “Is anyone injured?”

“No, and no thanks to you,” Mama snaps. “What’s happened now?”

Avdeev blanches. I’m not exactly sorry for him, but I know how it feels to stand in front of Mama when she’s like this. “Comrade Dobrynin accidentally fired a shot into the cellar ceiling while setting the bolt on his rifle. Did the bullet penetrate the floor?”

“See for yourself,” Tatiana tells him.

It’s silly of me, but when I finally coax myself into leaving the sofa, I rush to our bedroom on tiptoe, hugging the walls as if the floor is a fishpond full of sharks. If I wasn’t sure Anastasia would tease me for days, I’d snug my cot up to the wall, too.

“We would like to be permitted to open a window,” Papa reminds Avdeev at morning inspection as if everything is business as usual. It’s not even nine o’clock, and the house already smells of cologne, damp tea leaves, dog, and last night’s cutlets.

“Your request is denied, Citizen Romanov. My orders from the Ural Regional Soviet regarding windows have not changed. However, the Central Executive Committee is procuring supplies and workers to erect a second palisade around the entire property. When it is complete, the Committee for the Examination of the Question of Windows in the House of Special Purpose will reconsider its ruling on ventilation. Until such time, all windows will remain closed.”

My sisters and I mope together. “‘Committee for the Examination of the Question of Windows in the House of Special Purpose,’” Tatiana mocks. “I used to think Avdeev was joking when he spoke like that. How absurd. No one has the power to do anything without half of Russia approving it first.”

I lean my head against the whitewashed pane. “Do you think the potted plants back home ever felt like this?”

Anastasia gives me her cuckoo-face. “What?”

“I always thought it was funny, the way their leaves turned toward the windows every day. Now it makes me sad to think about them stretching toward the outside.”

Olga’s lips tuck themselves over her teeth. I don’t know why, but I wish I hadn’t said that. “I’m going to go read with Aleksei,” she says.

“That’s all Olga ever does anymore,” Anastasia complains. “Books, Aleksei, and Mama are her new best friends. She’s butting in on your territory, Tatiana.”

“Leave her be. If it makes Olga feel better to sit with Mama and Aleksei, I will find something different to do.”

I wait to hear the door to Aleksei’s bedroom close before I ask. “Tatya? You talk about her like she’s sick.”

Tatiana’s lip trembles, and she nods. “I know, Mashka. It reminds me of the lazaret. Olga may not be ill, but I am afraid she is far from well.”

“Whatever
that
means.”

Anastasia’s right. I don’t think Tatiana knows quite what she means either, but now that she’s said it, none of us can pretend we haven’t noticed anymore.

By the end of May Aleksei is well enough that Mama lets me carry him outside. Propped in Mama’s wheelchair, he can sit in the sun on the front steps with Mama, Tatiana, and Joy now that one side of the new palisade is finished.

The rest of us watch the last palings go up around the back garden, boxing in everything, even the fence that’s been standing since Papa and Mama and I arrived. One by one, the long planks lean up out of nowhere, like soldiers standing to attention. From down here we won’t be able to see a single thing when it’s done, not even the tops of the trees in the neighboring yards. At least the lilacs are inside the fence.

Up on the balcony, one of the guards leans over the garden with his forearms propped across the railing and a book in his hands. Even from across the yard, I can see the binding is leather, not cheap paper.

“What are you squinting at, Mashka?” Olga asks.

I point. “Isn’t that one of our books?”

She follows my finger. I can tell by her face that I’m right.

“Never mind,” Tatiana says from behind me. “Mama needs you. Aleksei’s squirming in the wheelchair.”

“Baby, do you want Maria to carry you back inside?” Mama’s asking. Joy nudges at my hand as if he doesn’t want me to wait for my brother to answer.

Aleksei shakes his head, biting his lip. Our eyes all turn toward his knee. “It hurts,” he admits, so I lift him up like a bundle of laundry and carry him straight to bed to wait for the doctor.

Dr. Derevenko frowns at his measuring tape. “The swelling has increased again. Probably from dressing and moving about. I’ll have to put on another splint.”

“I should have known better,” Mama moans in English.

“Alexandra Feodorovna,” Avdeev snaps. “Speaking German is not permitted in the presence of the guards. This is your second warning. If you persist in ignoring the regulations, the doctor will not be admitted at all.”

Mama goes white, and I know Tatiana wants to correct Avdeev for not knowing the difference between English and German, but not one of us says another word, not even in Russian. With Monsieur Gilliard, Mr. Gibbes, and his
dyadka
all gone, the thought of Aleksei losing Dr. Derevenko makes my mouth turn to paste.

Just as we feared, Dr. Derevenko doesn’t come the next day, or the day after that. Finally on Saturday Avdeev tells us Dr. Derevenko’s house is under quarantine for scarlet fever, so he can’t come until Thursday!

“I don’t see what difference it would make,” Anastasia complains. “We might as well have scarlet fever for all we thrash about in this heat.”

It’s true. Everyone gets so hot and antsy in between our walks outside, I’m afraid we’re going to spark against each other like kindling.

Avdeev has nothing to say about what’s going on, and he doesn’t give us any newspapers, either, not even when Papa’s hemorrhoids leave him stranded in bed for two days straight. Tatiana reads aloud to us from
The Crusaders
for hours at a time, and it’s all we can do to pay attention.

My eyes fly open in the dark, my body tensed for another blast, but my ears ring with silence. If the windowpanes weren’t rattling as hard as my heart, I could make believe I dreamed that sound. On the other side of the room, Tatiana and Olga’s voices whisper prayers. I don’t know if it’s Jemmy or Anastasia I hear panting. For the first time since our cots arrived, I wish my sisters and I were all piled together on the floor again. Outside, there’s a little bit of scuffling and some voices. Then nothing, except the sound of nobody sleeping.

First thing Sunday morning Dr. Botkin goes straight to Avdeev’s office to find out what happened. There isn’t much for the doctor to do anymore, except give Mama her heart drops and try to convince Avdeev to be decent to us. “Only a hand grenade, Your Majesty,” Dr. Botkin tells Papa. “A careless guard posted at the attic window dropped his grenade into the garden. No damages or injuries.”

“The garden’s such a wreck, we won’t even be able to tell where it fell,” Anastasia grumps.

“A careless guard at the attic post,” Papa repeats. “Isn’t that where one of the machine guns is stationed?”

Dr. Botkin nods.

Papa doesn’t have to say another word. We all know what he’s thinking. Suddenly I don’t want my breakfast anymore, and go ring for the lavatory instead.

My hand is on the doorknob to the vestibule when Dr. Derevenko’s voice comes up the main stairwell. I almost don’t recognize him, it’s been so long since we’ve heard him speak at all, much less about anything except splints and thermometers.

“There are rumors afloat in town that Aleksei Nikolaevich died of fright in the night and was buried at dawn,” he calls to the sentry at the top of the stairs.

“Rubbish,” Comrade Sidorov’s voice answers. “Get out of here—you’re under quarantine. You’ll see for yourself on Thursday.”

Thank goodness it wasn’t Olga waiting by the door instead of me. I’m not terribly clever the way she is, but even I know things can’t be good in town if our doctor is as nervous outside the fence as we are behind it.

Early the next morning, a whiff of fresh air wakes my nose so softly I’m sure I’m dreaming all over again. One by one, we creep from our cots and tip up our chins to follow the scent into Papa and Mama’s bedroom.

Papa points at the tiny rectangle set into the window facing the lane. “The wind was so strong last night, it blew straight in through the
fortochka
.” Barefoot in our white nightgowns, the four of us stretch our necks like swans to breathe it in.

“Happy birthday, Tatya!” I cry, and lift her to her toes in a massive hug.

“This is the best present of all,” she says.

I don’t know what there is about fresh air inside a house, but just that trickle of breeze is enough to make it smell so much better even than the outdoors. The scent winds itself like a ribbon all the way from Papa and Mama’s corner bedroom into the stuffy drawing room and study. Without even thinking about it, my sisters and I sing folk songs and hymns as we dress and strip the sheets for the wash.

On top of that, thirteen new guards arrive and start duty indoors. Mama would scold if she caught me with my nose pressed against the window to the corridor, but it’s like a present for me, having new faces to learn.

“Mr. Commandant, I would like to get something from the storage shed, please.”

“What?”

“I said—”

“I heard you. What item?”

Stupid. I’d like to turn myself inside out. This was all Anastasia’s idea. Somehow she thought I’d be the best one to do the asking. “Some photo albums and paints?” Avdeev looks at me as if I should have more to say. “If we can’t take new photographs, my sisters thought maybe we could try coloring the old ones. To pass the time?”

“Fine, fine. Wait here.” After a minute, he comes back with one of the new guards. “Comrade Skorokhodov will accompany you to the shed. Albums are permitted, but no camera equipment,” he reminds the young man.

Out in the shed, some of our crates and suitcases are already lying open. “I’m sorry, I don’t know which one it is. Things are mixed up since I was here last.” Skorokhodov shrugs, so I sort through the luggage as best I can. It’s hard to tell with everything in such a jumble, but it seems like little things are missing here and there. The albums and paints are easy, but the paintbrushes I can’t seem to find anywhere. Some of Papa’s uniforms have blank spots where fancy buttons and trim should be, and there’s a whole stack of linens with the monograms torn out. I hold up a handful of ribbons from one of Tatiana’s bags. “I didn’t ask for extra hair ribbons, but do you think it’s all right if I bring them to surprise my sister? It’s her birthday, and our hair is getting awfully long again.”

Skorokhodov looks over his shoulder, then back at me. “What happened to your hair?”

“Measles. This time last year, we were all bald as babies.”

“Put them in your pocket,” he says. I smile and fumble around my armload of albums. “May I hold some of those for you while you search?”

“Da, spasibo.”
The pile reaches nearly from Skorokhodov’s elbow to his chin. He stares down at the golden doubleheaded eagle stamped on the top cover. “You can look at the pictures if you like,” I tell him. “I don’t mind.” He blushes so hard, you’d think I told him he could peek under my skirt.