Romanov(20)

But he didn’t understand my life, needs, or upbringing.

And I didn’t understand his.

But I intended to.

“Papa, how can you bow to Avdeev? You are above this man in so many ways—honor, kindness, bloodline . . .”

“Ah, but not stature. I am quite shorter than he is, you know.” Papa kissed my forehead and went to open his trunk. “I remind myself that he is doing his duty. He is showing loyalty to the country and people I love. And that is something I can bow to.”

Zash and Ivan returned with another trunk. The moment they disappeared down the stairs for a third, I knelt by Papa over his trunk. “Papa,” I whispered. “When will the doll open for me? When do I use it?”

He thumbed through the spines of the journals but did not remove them. “Use it at the last possible moment.”

“When is—?” I bit off my question as Zash returned with another trunk. Mamma entered the sitting room and directed them to the small kitchen. It took the remainder of the day for us to receive our belongings—or at least what was left of them. The Bolsheviks delivered barely half of what we’d originally packed. The rest, they kept for themselves.



June 1



The next day Papa carried Alexei into the garden for the first time. Maria and I danced around him tossing little handfuls of yellow acacia flowers down upon him—bringing the garden to his lap. Joy tumbled among the lilacs, releasing what little pollen they held. Alexei sneezed. Winced. Then laughed.

I’d missed his laugh.

Mamma sat in her wheelchair, a broad-rimmed hat keeping the sun from beating upon her. It was stylish to be pale, but my sisters and I threw our faces to the sky and welcomed the tan. It painted our skin with freckles of freedom. Mamma lasted barely ten minutes before she had to retire due to her headaches. Olga went with her to read to her.

Better her than me. If I had a spell to heal Mamma’s headaches, I would use it immediately. But since there was nothing to be done, I’d rather be outside while someone else tended to Mamma’s discomfort. If I spent one second longer than necessary in that house, I feared suffocation.

Zash was one of the three soldiers on garden guard. Why did I always notice him? He muttered out of the side of his mouth with the guard Maria had her eye set on—Ivan. Since finding his friend, he seemed to look upon us with less loathing.

I allowed my stroll to take me past them so I could catch part of their conversation.

“. . . surprised at these living conditions,” Zash muttered.

Ivan nodded. “Wait until you’ve been here a month. It’s terrible to watch.”

I rounded the garden, unsure if Zash and Ivan were remarking on our living conditions or the soldiers’ quarters. Maybe both. Maria chased Joy and ended up catching her right near the feet of Ivan. She stood slowly as Alexei called the spaniel back to him, leaving Maria with her Bolshevik.

Ivan brightened. Zash stiffened. I kept walking, observing. I liked that she’d found someone else who could bring her joy, but a twinge of warning pinched the back of my mind.

Commandant Avdeev entered the garden at a slight sway. He leaned against the outer wall, watching us with bloodshot eyes, but he did not order us inside. He didn’t tell Maria and Ivan to stop talking. In fact, Papa struck up a conversation with Avdeev.

It was time I did the same with the Bolshevik soldiers. With Zash.

When I was just halfway across the garden, Maria spotted me and held out her hand. “Nastya, come here!”

I grinned and skipped to her side.

“This is Ivan.” She laid a delicate hand on the sleeve of his Soviet uniform.

Ivan bowed cordially. “A pleasure to officially meet you.” His eyes sparkled in sync with his bright smile.

Now this was a Bolshevik I could befriend. I could see why Maria gravitated toward him. “The pleasure is mine.” Then, to bring Zash into the conversation before he escaped, I gestured toward him. “This is Zash. He was at Tobolsk with us.”

“Ah, you’ve met this rascal?” Ivan chuckled.

“Only as was necessary,” Zash was quick to add, as though not wanting Ivan to think of us beyond the roles of captor and captive.

Ivan gave Zash a side glance. He looked seconds away from commenting on Zash’s brusque manner but then seemed to reconsider.

“How do you two know each other?” I pointed between the men.

But Ivan had tamed his playful manner, respecting his friend’s obvious desire for distance.

A wooden groan split the air. The palisade gates opened and a Russo-Balt automobile drove in, shining black beneath its open cloth roof. Commandant Avdeev paled and then pushed Papa away from him.

A man in a Soviet uniform climbed out of the car. He squinted up at the house, the sun revealing a friendly face not quite thirty years of age. Then he spotted us, and whatever friendliness I’d caught on his round-cheeked visage melted into a cool indifference—one that appeared far more natural to him than friendliness.

Avdeev shook his hand, then pointed to each of us in turn, speaking low. He made no introductions but kept one side of his body pressed against the wall as though for support. Even in his mildly intoxicated state he seemed to know to put on a front. This round-cheeked man was important.

The stranger surveyed our family, glossing over each of us as though taking note of numbers and not humans. “How long have they been outside today?”