Romanov(22)

Avdeev shook his head, which caused him to stumble briefly, but he caught himself on the doorframe. “No, Citizen Nikolai. You will no longer receive newspapers.”

Avdeev’s bloodshot gaze slid to meet mine. He held it. And somehow I knew this had to do with the fact Papa and I had carried on a secret conversation behind the paper two days ago. Avdeev must have seen the guilt on my face, because he straightened. His message had been sent.

“I will, however, allow you to hear this morning’s local announcement.” He flicked the paper open. “‘All those under arrest will be held as hostages.’” He looked up. Those under arrest meant us. The Romanovs. “‘The slightest attempt at counterrevolutionary action in the town will result in the summary execution of the hostages.’” He snapped the paper closed. Then he entered his office and turned on the gramophone that used to be ours.

Not a breath. Not a word. Not a clink of silverware on china. Just that crackling record spinning in betrayal, sending out music that used to send us dancing. Mocking us.

Then the pop of a cork being yanked out of a cheap bottle of vodka.

We would be executed if anyone tried to rescue us. If there had been any members of the White Army hidden in Ekaterinburg, this surely would have silenced them.

I was the first to turn back to my dense black bread. I whispered, “I’m sorry, Papa.”



June 5



“What is our purpose in living, Nastya?” Alexei lay in his bed while the rest of the family went outside for the first excursion into the garden. I opted to stay inside and keep Alexei company—not because I didn’t care for the fresh air, but because I cared for my brother even more.

I lifted Joy carefully onto his lap. She licked the toy soldiers that lay facedown on his sheet. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged and tugged a toy soldier from Joy’s mouth, then wiped it clean with the corner of his sheet. “What am I now? Even if they release us and we live in a village somewhere, forgotten to Russia . . . what am I? I won’t be tsar. I can’t be a soldier because of all this.” He gestured to his body. “Why is it important to survive?”

I tried to detect the deeper question, instead of simply despairing at the hopelessness in it. He asked it logically. Calmly. The least I could do was respond in kind. “I see why it’s hard for you.” He’d lost his throne. Everything he grew up learning and training for no longer applied to his life. “But what do your people—the Russian people—live for? They don’t have thrones. Not all of them are soldiers. So what would you tell them their purpose is?”

He cocked his head to one side. “Very perceptive, Sister. I suppose they live to care for their families. To follow dreams.” He rubbed Joy behind the ears and she curled herself into the blankets by his side. “I still have my family. And though I am ill—always ill—I can think of new dreams. If Papa can, I can.”

“Papa’s goal is to care for the Russian people . . . as a fellow citizen. Through love, forgiveness, and humility. Perhaps that is the sign of a true tsar. One that doesn’t change whether he has a throne or not.”

“This is why you’re my favorite sister.” Alexei winked and I laughed. He’d said that to all four of us sisters, but I liked to think he truly meant it with me. “Oh, and happy birthday.”

I startled. “Birthday?”

“Well . . . according to the old style.” He withdrew a small scroll of paper bound with a linen ribbon. “I suppose, under the new Gregorian, calendar you don’t turn seventeen for another thirteen days.”

I’d wholly forgotten about my birthday. When Lenin changed the calendar from Julian to Gregorian, I’d abandoned keeping track of most dates. But today, on June fifth, I was now seventeen.

I took so long in accepting the scroll, Alexei finally tossed it into my lap. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without a smart remark.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Thank you, dear Brother, but I shall celebrate your birthday according to the Gregorian calendar, which now makes me thirteen extra days older than you.” I slid the ribbon from around the thick paper, already detecting the nature of the gift as it unfurled. “A play?”

“One you’ve not yet performed because I snitched it on our first day in Tobolsk so as to save it for your birthday.”

He’d brought it all the way here, to Ekaterinburg, even when so ill. I took in the gift—a one-act playlet farce. Alexei knew how I loved to make people laugh. “It’s truly the best gift I’ve ever received.”

“Khorosho. Good.” He tapped the parchment. “You’ll notice there are three roles. I demand that you include me in one of them.”

“As if I would consider anyone else worthy.”

*

Lunch was a simple serving of soup broth with small bits of meat, delivered to the gates from the Ekaterinburg Soviet. I didn’t feel full once the entire day. And poor Mamma—a vegetarian—barely got any nutrition as she picked at the soup.

When Avdeev announced our garden time, everyone but Mamma and Olga rushed into the fresh air. I took up the rear. As the rest of my family descended the stairs at the lead of a Bolshevik, I took a detour . . .

. . . into Avdeev’s office.

The space smelled strongly of cigarette smoke and alcohol. Boxes, papers, trunks, trinkets, and rubbish filled the room the way a rat might build its nest. I wrinkled my nose but scanned with my eyes. Where would a drunken commandant hide spell items?