Romanov(18)

“The tsarevich is part of this conversation, too.” Alexei folded his arms. “And just because I’m stuck in bed doesn’t mean I’m a doughbrain. I like Nastya’s idea.”

Dr. Botkin heaved a sigh, but the crinkles at the corners of his eyes gave him away. “Do not strain yourself, Tsarevich.” He pulled the bedsheet over Alexei’s legs. “You must rest your knee even if you begin to feel better.”

“I have spent more time resting than a corpse in its coffin. I’ll be careful, Doctor, but I will do as I please.”

“As usual,” Dr. Botkin muttered, exiting the room, leaving Alexei and me with our thoughts.

“I wish there was some spell that could lead the White Army to us.” Alexei toyed with one of his small metal soldiers.

The White Army was made of loyalists—those who wanted Papa back on the Russian throne. Those who knew Mamma wasn’t brainwashed by Rasputin. Those who knew we loved our people. They wanted to save spell masters.

I didn’t know how strong in numbers the White Army was, but they gave us hope. They were strong enough to force the Bolsheviks to hide us in exile. I brushed my fingers over the lump in my corset. “Perhaps there is a spell like that.”

“I may not have sat in on all the conversations you and Rasputin had, but even I know such a spell is beyond you.”

I sniffed. “What a doubter you are today. Have you learned nothing from my exploits?”

“I’ve learned that you’re very good at sneaking eggs in soldiers’ boots.”

I flipped one of his toy soldiers in the air, then caught it right side up. “The White Army will find us, Alexei. Somehow . . . I’ll help them.” And somehow I’ll help you.

I crossed the room to stand by the painted window as though I’d be able to see the sky and gauge the weather. I scraped at the glass with a fingernail, but the whitewash was on the outside. I let my eyes drift to the fortochka at the top of the window—a tiny ventilator window used mainly in winter. I glanced back at Alexei and then the door. No soldiers in sight. As casually as possible, I reached up and undid the latch on the fortochka.

“Nastya . . .”

“Tishe.” I pushed the fortochka open. It crackled, breaking through the messy whitewash that had dried over the outer edges. “You need fresh air.”

A tiny puff of air made its way to my face, sending my heart wings aflutter. I breathed deep and cracked it a bit more so I could see the view below. My eyes took in the scene like an inhale of sweet spring. I caught the glimpse of the golden-domed skyline, glistening like jewels of promise beneath the sun. But the grandeur was interrupted by gunshots in the heart of the city. Controlled shots. Executions.

I could see over the palisade. Voznesensky Prospekt stretched out before me—wide and cobbled. No one walked along the main road through Ekaterinburg, but I could imagine life and freedom and bustle along that cold, packed street.

I imagined the White Army marching up the hill, climbing the palisade, and busting the door open. Taking us away to safety. To a new life.

I allowed myself only a few seconds, then slid away from the window. Best not to linger. I was in that dreamy middle ground where opening the fortochka was not yet forbidden so I could claim ignorance. But once it was forbidden, I’d be hard-pressed to open it again without getting punished.

Or shot.





6



May 31



“Death to the tyrant!”

“Hang them!”

“Drown him in the lake!”

I couldn’t see through the whitewashed windows, but the shouts of the Russian people peeled away my resolve like the skinning of a potato. Our belongings had arrived from Tobolsk on the train yesterday. We were not allowed to see them until they were thoroughly inspected, pilfered, sold off, inspected again, stored in the outhouse, then inspected again.

“Those poor people.” Tatiana stood at the window, listening to the cries. “They ought to have whatever they wish from our valuables.”

“Whatever they wish?” Mamma lowered one of her hands from stopping up her ears. “Your cots and linens are in those trunks. And what of the tableware from the Alexander Palace or your papa’s bath salts?”

“You truly think the commandant will allow us to use those things?” Olga asked. “He already moved the piano into his office. He took our gramophone. He isn’t going to let you keep your English eau de cologne, Mamma.”

“It is not his to take!”

“Everything we have is his to take,” I muttered.

Tatiana smoothed the wrinkles from her simple worn frock. “The people should have it.”

“And what would they do with it?” Mamma huffed. “Pawn it off! They’re not going to use it. Besides, they’ve elected their Soviet government that is supposed to make those decisions for them. They’ve sold their freedom.”

Papa entered the sitting room from the yellow-wallpapered bedroom he and Mamma shared. His very presence carried an air of humility. “The Soviet government was not elected by the people. You’ve heard the gunshots every few days. Each one signifies the death of a Russian citizen who didn’t comply with Bolshevik demands.”

I’d heard gunshots. Was that really what instigated them?

“They are in need,” Papa said. “Though we are no longer their tsar or royal family, their needs must always be our concern.” He carried his daily Ekaterinburg newspaper to what had quickly become “Papa’s chair” near the biggest whitewashed window and sat down to read.