Romanov(24)

“For what?” he grumbled.

I didn’t answer. For talking with me. And . . . for hopefully keeping my secret.

Three days later, Avdeev had still said nothing to me. I could only guess that Zash decided not to share my trespassing. That meant I wouldn’t have to blackmail him. And maybe it meant we were becoming . . . friendly?

The grumble of my stomach had stopped hurting, having accepted the new rations. But as I scraped the last of the broth from my lunch bowl, I still felt filled with little more than air.

“This is unacceptable,” Dr. Botkin fumed. “Even under exile you should not be starved. The tsarina and tsarevich will never heal under these conditions.”

Mamma no longer left her bed—not even to go out into the garden. This left her wooden wheelchair for Alexei to use. And as much as he enjoyed being pushed around the garden, Alexei grew more and more frail with each passing day. I needed spell ink. But I couldn’t steal it from Zash, even if I wanted to, because of the mass of Bolsheviks everywhere. And Avdeev didn’t have any.

The Matryoshka doll remained resolutely sealed. I felt so helpless.

Mornings grew particularly dull as we counted down the minutes until eleven when we would be permitted outside. Papa read and reread the small stack of books that had arrived in his and my trunks. Sometimes he would read aloud, and I soaked in his voice the way I wished I could be soaking in the sun.

Maria, Tatiana, and I played the French card game bezique until I was ready to tear the cards to pieces and scream. Olga soothed Mamma by her bedside, and Alexei played with his tin soldiers on a small model ship that had been returned to his possession. Oftentimes I would join him simply because the tin soldiers were such a relief from the endless cards.

One morning we woke to the noise of sawing, hammering, and clunking. When we had our garden time we saw why. The Bolsheviks were building a second palisade of timber. Taller, longer, more secure around the small palisade. Zash helped haul logs and balance them in place while others bound them. I didn’t know why they thought we needed a second barrier—we’d done nothing to warrant extra security other than grow thinner from our pathetic rations.

I continued to peek out the small fortochka window over the next few days, though more of my view was blocked by the new palisade. With no newspaper and no view, we could not know the state of the country or if the White Army had continued to resist the Bolsheviks.

But a couple days later, the gates cranked open and twenty new soldiers marched into the entryway. They carried their packs and settled into the already-cramped Ipatiev House, bringing their sweat and cigarette smoke into our space.

Extra guards? A second palisade? We posed no threat from the inside. That left only one logical reason the Bolsheviks would bring more security: there must be a threat from the outside.

The White Army was coming to rescue us.





7


“The guard rotation has changed.” Maria waggled her eyebrows, sitting crosslegged with me on the oriental rug in our room. “With all the extra guards, they had to switch some things around, and guess who is now on duty on our landing every other day?”

“Hm . . . that’s a tough one.” I shuffled two decks of cards, not quite in the mood for bezique. “Ivan?”

Maria stuck out her tongue. The way she talked of Ivan went a touch beyond flirtation. She was entering dangerous territory, but I didn’t know what to do about it. It could happen to any of us. The more starved we were of kindness, the more we clung to any crumb of it.

We needed to look out for each other. I needed to look out for her. “You be careful with that Bolshevik.” I dealt out eight cards each and flipped the trump card.

“That’s just it. I don’t think he is one,” she said in a hushed voice, picking up her cards. “He comes from the local factory same as this influx of new soldiers—they’re all from the factory. None of them are actually soldiers. I think Avdeev is getting whoever he can.”

I had noticed a decrease in hostility from the new soldiers, which encouraged more cordiality from the original Bolsheviks. That meant these new men probably took the position of soldier for the pay rather than because of loyalty. “How do you know they come from the factory?”

“I asked Ivan.”

“Just don’t get too friendly.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” She flicked a card into the center of our spot on the carpet, then dropped her tone. “If the White Army is truly on its way to free us, wouldn’t it be best to have some of these soldiers sympathetic to our cause?”

My silence conveyed my acknowledgment. “All I’m saying is that we don’t need a string of broken—or jealous—hearts in the chests of soldiers with guns.” I outranked her trump card and picked up the trick.

Maria played her next card more forcefully. “Then we convince them not to use their guns.” She stood with a huff and marched toward the landing. She rang the bell and Ivan opened the door. Maria left the room to visit the lavatory. Supposedly.

The next day brought rain and kept us out of the garden. I couldn’t bear the idea of returning to our white foggy portion of rooms. My mind scrambled to latch onto some source of upcoming hope or joy. Back in Tobolsk and the Alexander Palace, this would have been a prank. Pranks here flirted too closely with noncompliance, especially with the increase of soldiers. But I could put on a play.