Romanov(15)

I never should have winked at him.

I stumbled up a set of narrow stairs, across a landing that smelled strongly of body odor, and finally entered a sitting room filled with voices. I saw first more whitewashed windows and how they made the house feel full of steam. Then a mahogany piano, a writing desk, and landscape art hanging on the papered walls.

Finally, I saw Papa.

He stepped out of an embrace with Tatiana and stood taller at the sight of me. I stumbled to him, flinging myself into his strong arms. He held me so tight, so securely, I felt as though I would never despair again.

“My little shvibzik,” he muttered. I planted kisses all over his face—on his brow, his cheeks, his prickly mustache. My sweet, sweet papa.

Another set of arms embraced me and I moved to Mamma. I’d barely kissed her cheek when a squeal sent a burly bundle of delight crashing into me.

“Maria!” I exclaimed.

She felt thinner than three weeks ago, but her face glowed with joy. She grabbed both my hands and hopped up and down. “They told us only a couple hours ago that you were arriving! Oh, Nastya, what a time it has been.”

Her face transformed from joy to weeping in seconds. This must have been terrible for her. To be trapped in this painted house with high walls around it, not knowing we were coming. Why did the Bolsheviks not tell them sooner? Didn’t she receive my letter?

Alexei came in last, walking on his own with a disjointed, stumbling gait. He looked ready to fall at any moment. Papa strode across the room and swept his son into his arms. He embraced Alexei gently. Mamma hurried over, muttering, “Oh, my sweet boy.”

Neither mentioned how much smaller he’d gotten since they last saw him.

“I wanted to walk in by my own strength,” Alexei mumbled.

“Of course,” Papa said.

And here we were, together again. A family ready to face whatever the Bolsheviks deemed “exile.”

A middle-aged man with fair hair and a tiny mustache entered the room. He swayed a bit on his feet and wore a cavalry sword at his side. “I’m Commannnnant Avdeev.” Definitely tipsy.

So this was our new authority . . . and the new target of my mischief.

He showed us our quarters. There wasn’t much to see. Our group consisted only of my family, Dr. Botkin, Anna the maid, Trupp the manservant, and Kharitonov the cook. Our friends, committed to exile with us. Trupp brought Alexei’s spaniel and Tatiana’s two dogs. After his entrance, the house was closed up, but nothing could stop up our delight in reunion.

Our small crew of people and pups was confined to five interconnecting rooms with a bathroom on the landing and a small kitchen at the far end. The staircase was shut off by a locked doorway. We’d never been enclosed in quarters this small. Surely they didn’t mean for us to stay in these five rooms throughout the days.

Avdeev left us to settle in, but we soon heard that he sent away all the kind, loyal soldiers who had been left on the train. Back to Tobolsk? To prison? We didn’t know.

The Bolsheviks from Tobolsk stayed, joining those already at the Ipatiev House. They all seemed angry with us.

Commandant Avdeev and his aides had access to our rooms any time they desired. Had Avdeev entered at that moment, he would have found us all gathered in the sitting room, kneeling together beneath the electric Italian glass chandelier with Papa leading us in prayer. More tears came from our eyes than words from our mouths. Papa always said that tears were the most fervent prayers, so I let them flow.

“We must show kindness to the soldiers,” Papa entreated us. “Every day, show them forgiveness. We are a reflection of Iisus, and he was rejected by his own people just as we are. Love. Forgive.” He kissed each of us on the forehead.

I was determined to be as he asked. To be humble. To be forgiving. To always hold to hope. We bid each other good night.

Papa carried Alexei to the small room designated for him toward the back of the house. It was a luxury in this tight space, yet I suspected Alexei did not wish to sleep alone just as I didn’t. Through the open doorway, he looked over Papa’s shoulder back at me. I forced a brave smile.

“I will dress on my own,” Alexei announced to Papa.

Papa nodded and set him on his feet to change into sleeping clothes. Alexei was determined to prove he was healing and he was strong. But as he climbed into his bed, his socked foot slipped and he landed hard on his knee against the wood floor. He gasped at the impact and I was the first at his side. “Oh, Alexei.”

He’d surely bruised it, and his hemophilia would keep that blood in his joints, sending pain for weeks. It would swell and keep him from walking.

Papa and I lifted him into his bed. Alexei grimaced and Mamma was in the room within seconds, fluffing his pillow. She swept me aside and Alexei gripped her hand. I left them alone. I let her care for him.

My sisters and I were to share a room. Not much furniture filled the space—a simple table, some chairs, and a looking glass on a stand. I rather liked the light floral wallpaper decorating the space. One could imagine we were stepping into a garden.

An oriental rug covered most of the linoleum flooring, upon which Olga, Tatiana, and Maria had created a pile of coats and blankets since our portable camp beds had not yet arrived from Tobolsk. I tucked myself into the nest, craving the press of their bodies and the security of family.

All night, I heard Alexei’s moans of pain.