The Romanov Bride (13 page)

The woman at the top of the stairs looked down at big Mr. Minister and in a flat, even voice, she said, “Thank God, you are alive.”

“Yes, my dear, as are you,” he said to this woman, who was obviously his wife. “And the children? Do you have them?”

“I don’t know where the two little ones are.”

Not knowing what I did-that the young ones had been on the balcony above the front entrance-the two parents turned and went separate ways, disappearing toward the back of the house. I nearly called out to them, nearly shouted, “No, your children were on the front balcony, looking at all the excitement. They must be lying out this way, out front-look this way! The force of the blast must have hurled them out here, into the front garden!”

Instead, it was I who went searching for the children.

I stepped over a body, broken and bent in a very strange way, and made my way over a pile of shattered wood. The carriage that had brought our fake policemen was heaved on its side and mostly destroyed, and the horse that had pulled the carriage hung there in its harness, stabbed in the side with a board and bleeding like a river. If the poor creature wasn’t already dead, it would be in a second. Noticing that there was something odd about the horse, I looked closely and saw that stuck to its side, right there on the hide, was a person’s ear. Two steps beyond was a man, lying facedown and moaning. I stooped by his side, listening as he tried to speak. I couldn’t understand a thing, and simply watched as he took a deep breath and then expired, blood pouring from his mouth. A little gray cat came running out of nowhere, frightened and excited, and scampered over the dead man’s back.

Off to the side I saw some scraps of railing and clambered in that direction, and there, under the debris, I found the two youngest children of Mr. Minister Stolypin. Lifting up a large board, I first found the boy, who was perhaps three years old, certainly no more than four. He was lying quite still, his legs twisted in opposite directions-broken, I was sure-and he had a gash in his forehead. At first I thought he too was dead. When I brushed the grime and debris from the child’s face, however, he blinked twice and looked up at me sweetly.

And with a faint smile, the boy managed to utter, “You’re a nice uncle.”

Fighting back something-just what I didn’t know-I managed to say, “Don’t try to move.”

The boy thought for a moment, and replied, “I can’t.”

Trying to make sure he was comfortable, I pushed everything aside as best I could, leaving him lying there quite calmly. Just a few paces away lay the other child, the girl, who was perhaps a teenager. She lay beneath a large piece of wooden furniture, which I grabbed and hurled aside. There were rocks and some other things covering her too, and these things I quickly pulled from her body. Looking for injuries, I could see none until my eyes came to her feet, both of which seemed to have been all but blown off.

When I lifted part of a desk off her arm, her body quivered, and she opened her eyes and gasped, “What kind of dream is this?”

“It’s not a dream, my child,” I replied.

“Oh.” Coming quickly to her senses, she asked, “Can you tell me, please, does Papa live?”

As much as I wanted to deny it, I could not lie, and said, “Yes.”

“Thank God. And thank God it’s me who’s hurt and not him.”

Her devotion touched something long forgotten inside me, and I knelt by her side and took her hand and held it and said some kind of comforting words, something even religious. I had seen enough bad accidents in my village to know she might actually live, but I was likewise certain that if she survived she would definitely be maimed for life. Glancing down at her damaged feet, I was sure she would never walk again.

As I crouched by the girl, holding her hand and soothing her, I suddenly felt a firm hand on my shoulder. Turning and looking up, my heart leaped when I saw that it was none other than the bastard, Mr. Minister Stolypin, bearing over me in his ink-stained finery. My first thought was that I had been found out and he himself had come to do me in. But rather than punching me or ripping out my throat or stringing me up from a tree, he looked at me gratefully.

“Thank you, my good man, for finding my daughter,” he said, tears of relief filling his eyes.

I should have shot him right then and there and finished the job, but of course I had no gun. It occurred to me that I should have shoved him back and strangled him to death, but he was a bigger, stronger, mightier person than me. In fact and quite oddly, I realized that there was not a crumb of strength left in me. I felt completely drained, and it was all I could do to stand.

And so as I rose directly by his side I nodded toward his daughter’s mangled feet, and quietly offered but one thing, perhaps the only piece of village wisdom that I, a peasant, could give to such a highly placed Minister, saying, “The doctors will want to amputate-do not let them.”

This man, nothing more at that moment than the most devoted of fathers, gasped in horror and half fell against me, clutching my arm for support. Despite all that I had been taught by my comrades and the hatred that burned within my own heart, I steadied Stolypin, hanging on to him until he regained his composure.

Then finally dropping to his knees by his daughter, Stolypin gently said, “My beautiful Natasha… do not worry, my sweet one, everything’s going to be all right.”

“You’re here, Papa, and not hurt.”

“Not in the least, and I won’t leave your side.”

I disappeared then, traipsing off through the mayhem completely unnoticed, not a soul suspecting me of my role in this messy affair. I walked all the way back into the city and across the Troitsky Bridge, where I paused midway and stared across the vast waters of the Neva River. From there I proceeded through the Field of Mars, eventually finding my way into the much less glorious corners of the capital, where my comrades took me in. They tried to feed me tea, but I refused. I told them everything-excepting how I had come face-to-face with our number-one enemy, not to mention the human words we had exchanged, which became the darkest secret of my life.

Yes, and although we had failed to eliminate our target, I later heard that thirty people had been killed immediately by the blast, and that many more died in the following days. It was a pity that so many had to give their lives for the cause, but such was the price. And while we failed to eliminate our main target -the Minister himself-news of the attack spread through the Empire so that everyone learned of our determination to help the downtrodden and needy. In that way we succeeded greatly, and in that way we were more greatly feared than ever.

I heard, too, that when young Natasha was rushed to the best hospital the chief doctors were, just as I had guessed, determined to cut away both of the girl’s feet, certain that that was the only way to save her life. With tears streaming down his big cheeks, Stolypin, perhaps heeding my words, pleaded for the doctors to wait at least until the next morning, and to this, despite their fears of gangrene setting in, they agreed. The girl, I was told, survived the night without incident, and the doctors waited another day after that, and then another. Much to their astonishment and the joy of father and mother, the child began to improve almost miraculously, and her feet, though forever maimed, were saved. I heard, too, that a peasant from the Tobolsk District had a very strong desire to bless Stolypin’s injured daughter with an icon, and he was granted entry and came to her and prayed by her side. Perhaps this was why she recovered so well. This peasant-his name was Grigori Rasputin.

That was the first time I had ever heard the name.

As for the youngest child, the boy, in the following weeks I went to great lengths to learn his fate, and found out that both of his legs had been broken, as well as his hip. However, a medical sister told me that I mustn’t concern myself, that both he and yet another of the Minister’s children, a daughter whose kidney had been torn by the blast, were recovering just fine.

Soon after the bombing the Tsar moved Stolypin and his entire family into the Winter Palace, placing them behind the tall iron gates and thick doors of the imperial home. They hid them there, the best soldiers guarding them day and night, and each time the Minister left the Palace he snuck out a different door, and with great secrecy too. As for the exercise and fresh air that Mr. Minister Stolypin so greatly craved, he was forced to pace the paths laid up there on the roof of the Winter Palace, and I think I once saw him up top, going around and around among the decorations along the edges of the roof.

Because of our failure to kill him, the hangman Minister lived and pressed on, more determined than ever to string up as many members of our Organization as he could, and he nearly succeeded in this, nearly wiped us out completely. Unfortunately, we did not succeed in assassinating him for another five years, not until 1911, when one of ours, the Jew named Bogrov, shot Stolypin with a Browning revolver at the Kiev Opera House, there in the presence of the Emperor.

That finally brought the end to “Stolypin’s neckties” and to his reforms, and in this way we hoped to speed up the struggle of the Oppressed.

Honestly, I was quite taken aback when a family battle broke out to prevent me my plans, to frighten me about the difficulties -all with great love but with utter incomprehension of my character. More than once I had to assure Nicky dear that I had not fallen under the influence of a prelest duxha-a charmed spirit-and that I alone, without any outer influence, had decided this course. And poor Alicky. In the beginning she was quite disturbed, for she worried that my steps toward chastity and poverty would demean the Family. I knew she imagined I let people call me a saint-she told one of my countesses this-but good gracious, what was I, no better and probably worse than others. In any case, people never said such exaggerated things to my face, for all knew I hated flattery as a dangerous poison.

So I wrote to the two of them, Nicky and my sister:

My Dearest Ones,

Forgive me, both of you. I know and feel alas, I worry you and perhaps you don’t quite understand me, please forgive and be patient with me, forgive my mistakes, forgive my living differently than you would have wished, forgive that I can’t often come to see you because of my duties here. Simply with your good hearts forgive, and with your large Christian souls pray for me and my work.

Only my older sister, Victoria, in England, understood my need-it was only she who from the start thought it was right that I fill up my life with good work. As to those of proper society who said I could definitely do more good in my previous role, I could only answer that I didn’t know if they were right or wrong, only that life and time would show, but certainly God who was all love would forgive me my mistakes, as He certainly saw my wish of serving Him and His. In any case, for me the bitter bite of gossip had long lost its sting.

Suffice to say that during all this time I felt calm and at peace, really it was so, even with so many momentous decisions. I never had one moment of despair or loneliness, surely because the living and dead were near me and I didn’t realize entirely the earthly separation.

Within short years I had accomplished much. I arranged for Maria a marriage to the second son of the Crown Prince of Sweden, for by family law she was of course allowed only this, marriage to another royal, and this match seemed reasonable. Too, I built them a palace in Stockholm, and saw that Maria was set with a proper dowry. As for her younger brother, Dmitri, I took him to the capital, where he was enrolled in the cavalry school to prepare him for his life in the Horse Guards.

Content that my duties to the children had been discharged, I set about my project with even more energy. Day and night I devoted myself entirely to the study and establishment of my Marfo-Marinski Obitel Miloserdiya vo Vladenii Vlikoi Knyagini Elisavyeti Fyodorovni, otherwise to be known in English as the Martha and Mary Convent of Mercy Under the Direction of Grand Duchess Elisabeth Fyodorovna. It seemed quite a daunting name, but the idea was clear, for it was to be inspired by Christ’s own simple words: “I was hungry and you fed me, sick and you cared for me.” The territories that I had purchased for my community along the cobbled Bolshaya Ordinka were most satisfying, spacious and green and abundant with fresh air.

Little did I know, however, that my plans, all of which were intended for charity, would be taken nearly as heresy by the Holy Synod.

First upon my list of things to do was the complete closing of my court, whereupon I let go my dear ladies, who had been all service and kindness to me. Likewise, my servants were released, all with good pensions, and finally I shut up altogether my apartments in the Nikolaevski Palace, leaving behind my icons as gift. From there I moved into modest rooms none too far from my future community, which by 1908 was then in the midst of planning and soon under construction, too.

I still maintained and visited every day my hospital for soldiers-such dear men-and soon I also saw great need for a house of death for women. Such a place I opened in an old house that I had bought from a peasant on a side street, Denezhni Pereulok, and into this house we welcomed a never-ending string of consumptive women. These were the poorest of the poor, most of whom had worked as the lowliest charwomen, only to be turned away from their work when they could no longer hide their illness. When even the hospitals refused to take in these suffering ones and they had nowhere else to go, word got about and they came to my doorstep. I was especially devoted to them all and considered it my duty to offer them a bed of comfort as they prepared for their solemn change of lodging. I had written my sister of the sufferings of these women, for they were always coughing and spitting and had such little appetite and, too, such a nasty taste in their mouths. Responding in all kindness, both Alicky and my great friend, Princess Yusupova, regularly had grapes sent from their Crimea estates, making sure that we were never without.

Upon my orders I was always to be notified when one of the women was close to end, and one day word came round of one such case. With a basket in hand, I hurried to my house of death, and in one of the white rooms found a woman, Evdokia, unable to open her eyes and struggling desperately for each breath. It was clear she had but hours. Sitting by her side and clutching her hand was her husband, Ivan, who had a large beard and wore torn, dirty clothes. He worked in a smelter, operating the bellows. Upon my entry he looked up at me with tear-stained eyes and recognized me immediately, for it was all true, as much as I wished for incognito, everyone in these parts knew that I was a member of the Ruling House. But rather than greeting me with even a modicum of courtesy, he glared at me with something akin to hatred, and I perceived that this Ivan would rather have brought his wife anywhere but here… and yet there was nowhere else. It fazed me not, however, for all that mattered was the comfort of the dying woman and the proper care of her soul.

“May I join you, sir?” I asked.

Ivan said nothing, simply turned back to his wife, whom he clearly loved so very dearly. I sat down as well, and my first task was to take a damp cloth from a nearby enamel bowl and mop the poor woman’s feverish brow.

I had never and would never consider it my duty to mislead any of my patients with false hopes of recovery. No, none of the women who entered these doors were ever told otherwise. In other words, we placated them not with lies or glibness or false cheer but with the truth that their earthly end was soon to come. In this they all found not fright but peace, and in this way we were able to prepare them for their sacred voyage.

From my basket I took a handful of grapes, which had been chilled deep in the cellar, but as I reached to place them into the woman’s mouth her husband’s thick, gnarly hand suddenly came up. As fast as a pickpocket, he grabbed my wrist.

Not releasing me, Ivan demanded, “What are you trying to do, eh, Princess, kill her? What is that?”

With no great ease, I opened my hand and exposed the small fruits. He looked at them but still there was no trust in his eyes, only confusion at best. Had he never seen a grape before, or did he think my intentions purely evil?

“They are grapes, sir, pure and simple, and I only mean to put your wife more at ease,” I said. “She can no longer swallow, but these grapes are cool and wet, and if you’ll allow me I’ll pack them gently in her cheeks. Within a short time they will begin to crack and slowly release their juices, thereby moistening her tongue.”

“But… but…” he muttered, wanting, perhaps against his better judgment, to believe me.

“Do not worry, no medicament of any sort has been added to them.” And seeing that he still feared I meant her harm, I reached with my free hand into my other-the one he held so tightly-and took a grape and popped it into my own mouth. “They’re sweet and refreshing. Would you care for one, sir?”

He shook his head and, with a nod to his wife, softly said, “Go on.”

Yes, Ivan let me place grapes in each of his wife’s cheeks. And an hour later, when those were smashed of wetness, he let me remove them and place fresh ones into her mouth. I did so another hour after that, and yet an hour later, too, which is to say that this Evdokia lasted nearly another four hours before ascending to the Giver of all life. Finally, when she’d breathed her last, the poor man fell upon her body sobbing like a child. I crossed around to him then, placing one hand upon his shoulder as I said a prayer for this newly departed servant of God.

A short time later it was brought to my attention that this man had no financial means to see to his wife’s funeral, and I told him not to worry, that coffin and prayers and all would be taken care of.

I explained, “We will transfer your wife to the small church across the street, where Psalter will be said over her.”

“Yes, but at whose expense? Whose?” he asked. “Yours?” Of course it was, but I said, “That is of no importance.” And wondering if he was all alone, I queried, “Have you children, sir?”

With some degree of difficulty, he replied, “We had two young boys, but they both died from diphtheria. So now you see, it’s just… just me…”

“Both my mother and young sister died of such,” I confessed, taking both his hands in mine. “Just remember, you are never alone.”

“But… but for me there is no one else…”

“Yes, you have God, and you have us here. Please, just come back later today for prayers, and any other time for a meal as well.”

Without replying yea or nay, he turned to leave, then almost as quickly spun back, bowing deeply and firmly grasping both of my hands in his.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” he said, kissing my fingers.

“Thank you for caring for my wife and… and thank you for the fruits you fed her.”

“It was both my pleasure and my solemn duty. As for the grapes, though, please do not thank me. This batch is from my sister, sent to us here out of concern and mercy for these suffering women.”

“Your sister… the Empress… she sent the… the fruits?” he gasped, unable to hide his shock.

“Yes.”

His face quickly reddening with rage or embarrassment or shock-I couldn’t tell which-he quickly turned and made for the door. Just as quickly, he stopped.

Looking over his shoulder, he quietly confessed, “I would not have become a Communist if I had met your kind before.”

“Please, just don’t forget this afternoon’s Psalter,” I said.

Without replying, he fled out the door, whence I did not doubt he disappeared into the Khitrovka, the worst slums of any city quite round the globe.

As I suspected, the man did not return for prayers over his wife’s coffin. The reasons were of no importance, all that mattered was that ordinance be followed, so later that afternoon, dressed in a fresh white dress free of any contagion, I went to the church. And there I took it upon myself as duty to read the Psalms over the woman’s open casket, thereby aiding her soul as it passed through mitarstva, the toll gates.

Work on my community continued apace, and with great excitement too. I gathered every book relevant to my scheme, reading in English, German, and French about foundations where prayer and work were braided as one. In my native Germany I visited the fine Kaiserwerth Diakonissen training schools, where nurses and teachers were instructed in the care of young and old. Upon my visit to England, my sister Victoria led me to both the Convent of the Sisters of Bethany and, of course, the Little Sisters of the Poor. By studying these good institutions I was able to more finely perceive what was being asked of me and how I might improve its birth. In short, I understood that I was meant to reawaken a slightly modified order of deaconesses whose goal so closely matched mine, which was to aid the sick and the poor. To me the concept seemed simple and pure, but it came as quite a revolution within our Orthodoxy.

With the sale of my personal things and also an estate in Poltava, which had been left to my husband for the purposes of charity, I raised considerable sums. And with these moneys I was not only able to purchase a proper site but also to hire the artist Nesterov, whom Sergei so liked, and, upon Nesterov’s own suggestion, the architect Aleksei Shchusev. It soon became clear that we would be able to remake four of the original buildings on the property and plan for a church, tying all together with a beautiful whitewashed wall that would be covered with vines. At the center of my complex we planned a quiet, peaceful garden that would be planted with white lilies-my favorite-and sweet peas, lilacs, and fruit trees, too. To Nesterov I assigned the eventual task of painting the interior frescoes of the church, along with some icons, while Shchusev proposed a most beautiful white church that artfully blended the beauty of old Russia-complete with onion domes-with a hint of Style Moderne. Both my beloved Kostya and even Nicky dear, along with a host of others, certainly, came to the laying of the cornerstone of the Church of the Protection of the Most Holy Mother of God. Even the fearfully holy icon, The Iverian Virgin, was brought down from the Kremlin by old carriage for the ceremony. It was a very powerful day.

By midwinter of 1909, even though work on the church continued, enough was otherwise done that I was able to move into my house, one of the little buildings that had been remade and incorporated into the plan for my obitel. In all I had three rooms there, airy and cozy, so summerlike, and all who saw them were enchanted. In my sitting room I placed summer furniture of English willow covered with blue chintz, and a desk too. There was my prayer room, the walls of which I covered respectfully with many icons, and also my simple bedroom, in which was placed only a few things, chiefly a plain wooden bed with no mattress or pillow, only planks. In truth, I was sleeping less and less, usually only some three hours, for I was often called either to prayers or to the bedside of the sick.

And yet I had by this time not received the veil, and because of this we few who were there in the early days were required to begin our operation under the guidance of our spiritual father, Father Mitrofan, the kindest and most devoted of confessors, and a real presence with his long hair, big beard, and broad forehead.