Romanov(21)

Avdeev muttered something in response, then gestured to the house. The new man nodded and they went inside. Mere seconds after they disappeared, Ivan spoke to Maria in quiet, gentle tones.

Zash had put a few more feet of distance between us. I closed the gap. “Do you know who that new man is?”

Zash stared resolutely forward, his chin high and spine straight. I made it a little more personal and gently used his name. “Zash?”

His gaze darted to me.

“Is he a new . . . guard?” I didn’t like playing dumb, but I’d do what was necessary to get answers.

Zash pulled his pistol from his belt and held it between us as a barricade. As though I were posing a threat. “Return to your garden activities, Citizen.”

I stumbled back, instinctively putting up my hands. “I’m . . . I’m sorry.”

He looked fierce. Formidable. Like the other guards who had granted us not a single moment of softness.

“Oy, Zash!” Ivan hissed, bodily moving Maria to a safer spot away from the weapon.

Someone took my arm from behind and I spun. Papa led me toward the tiny group of birch trees against the palisade. “The new man is Alexander Beloborodov, the chair of the Ural Regional Soviet. He is likely here for a surprise inspection. He did the same thing a few days after your mamma, Maria, and I arrived.”

So Beloborodov was the big shot. And with him on the premises we were endangering any Bolshevik soldier we dared to speak to with any familiarity. Zash was likely trying to protect himself. I darted my gaze to Maria and Ivan. She knelt and pruned wildflowers from the tiny garden corner while Ivan watched. Entranced.

Beloborodov did not stay long. But the moment he zoomed away in his automobile, Avdeev commanded us back inside. We didn’t visit the garden again that day. I suspected his bloodshot eyes had bought him no favors with his superior. Alcohol was not forbidden to soldiers, but it certainly wasn’t encouraged in large amounts. Particularly when you were guarding the Imperial family that one army wanted to rescue and another army wanted to murder.

*

Morning came with a summons from Avdeev.

We rose, changed from our sleeping clothes, and congregated in the sitting room. My sisters and I squished together on the sofa while Mamma, Papa, and Alexei took the freestanding chairs.

Avdeev stood inside the doorway with two soldiers on each side. He clasped his hands behind his back. “From now on, you will rise at eight. You will be washed and dressed for breakfast at nine, at which time I shall be present to take roll. Your clothing will no longer be sent out for laundering—you can do that on your own. Lunch will be at one in the afternoon and dinner delivered at eight.”

“And what of fresh air and exercise?” Papa asked with firm cordiality.

“One half hour of recreation in the garden will be permitted twice daily—once in the late morning and once in the afternoon.”

“A single hour?” Papa asked, aghast. “May I ask the reason behind this sudden change in routine?”

“It is so that your life at the Ipatiev House more closely resemble a prison regime.” Avdeev punctuated this with a hard stare. “You are no longer permitted to live like tsars.”

I rose before eight the following morning and took a peek through my secret fortochka window. I sucked in a rebellious breath of free air and then released the breath toward Avdeev’s office, as though taunting him.

In the main room I pulled the small cord beside the landing door and a bell rang on the other side of the wall. A soldier opened the door and escorted me to the bathroom. “Dobroye utra,” I greeted in Russian, trying to show friendliness. He didn’t respond. I didn’t try again.

Inside, I washed and ignored the rude political comments scraped on the wall by the nastier soldiers. An hour later, my family and I sat around the dining table for a breakfast of tea and black bread. “No longer permitted to live like tsars,” Avdeev had said. As though coffee and eggs were living like tsars! Beloborodov must have been displeased with his inspection.

Papa prayed over our food and we helped ourselves to the bread. At least the tea was hot. Cold tea, even on a hot day, always left me chilled.

In a ridiculous contrast, our bread and tea were served on our fine china, bringing a semblance of our old life to this new dirty one. It felt pretend—like one of the plays I used to put on for the family. A fancy princess eating on fancy china . . . in a rotting prison cell void of direct light.

The mental image made me giggle. It wasn’t a funny scenario, being too close to the truth. But I’d learned that when I felt like despairing, a well-timed giggle could infuse a measure of strength. It could also lead straight to tears if I wasn’t careful.

This morning, I was careful. And I soaked in the smile that passed from me to Alexei to Maria to Tatiana to Papa. It skipped Mamma and Olga.

The click of Avdeev’s boots mixed with the clink of small spoons on china cups, stirring the tea though there was no sugar or lemon to mix in. He stopped in the doorway and watched us for a moment. My giggling stopped, but Papa turned his smile to Avdeev. We all followed suit. We would show him that his new regime could not dampen the bond of our family.

Avdeev held the folded Ekaterinburg paper under his arm. His blond hair was mussed, as though he had slept poorly and then bypassed a mirror. Red eyes again. Avdeev was en route to poisoning himself into a grave.

“Ah, thank you, Commandant.” Papa rose from the table to receive his paper.