Romanov(25)

Like we used to in Tobolsk.

I now had a new playlet and tomorrow was Sunday. Plays were always better with more than one actor, so I hurried into Alexei’s room with a grin. “Alexei, the time has come . . .”

*

“Mrs. Chugwater, I ought to stuff you in your trunk and give you to the luggage man!” I stomped across the floor wearing a dressing gown and putting on my best grumpy-husband face for the ending of our one-act play. Alexei played the role of the luggage man, dutifully following me around in his wheelchair with his lap full of parcels.

Maria—Mrs. Chugwater—folded her arms, wearing her beaded gown at last. “You’re such a blockhead, I almost confused you with the luggage.”

The audience snickered. I caught their amused smiles out of the corner of my eye—Papa, Mamma, Tatiana, and Olga. Even Avdeev and some of the guards had come to observe. I tried not to focus too much on Zash and Ivan, watching from the corner.

“And that, my dear Mrs. Chugwater, is why you can carry your own bags!” I threw the two empty suitcases at her feet and nearly toppled over from the momentum. My dressing gown flew up, exposing Papa’s Jaeger long johns bunched up on my legs. I yanked the dressing gown down in mock horror and that was too much for the audience.

They howled and I soaked it in. Even Mamma laughed more than I’d seen her do in the past year. At last, I felt useful. Like I was helping heal my family, even if it was just their spirits.

We finished up our final lines, and the applause was the happiest sound that had struck my ears since Alexei’s last healthy laugh. I bowed with an exaggerated flourish. Even Avdeev clapped.

As I straightened I caught Zash watching me. Since our conversation about Alexei, his posture and presence no longer screamed “enemy.” Not like some of the others.

I thought of my warnings to Maria—not to get too attached to Ivan. But maybe she was right. Maybe being friendlier with some of the guards might make them sympathetic. It could help us survive this exile.

I smiled at Zash.

He smiled back.

And my stomach flipped.

Oh dear. That had been a terrible idea.





8


As we filed down the stairs out toward the garden once the storms had passed, I heard Dr. Botkin’s voice coming from Avdeev’s office. I couldn’t make out the words, but he sounded adamant. Forceful, even. Was he in trouble with the commandant?

I broke from the line to press my ear to the door, but Papa—who brought up the rear—took my arm and steered me down the stairs. “Let it be, Nastya.”

My imagination spun with all the possibilities—perhaps the Bolsheviks were going to get rid of us one by one. Starting with Dr. Botkin. Then Anna. And so on through the servants until they finally started on the Romanov family.

We entered the garden and I gulped in the sunshine, my heart already pattering in anxiety at the anticipated shout from Avdeev sending us back inside.

Just a while longer.

A minute longer.

Please, please, please.

I didn’t care that the sun would burn my skin. I didn’t care that the wind would tangle my hair. I didn’t care that the people on the other side of the palisades might shout profanities at us. I just wanted the air. The breath. The freedom.

A gunshot echoed from the lower city. I heard at least one every time we visited the garden. An execution . . . of someone. For something. By a Bolshevik. The gunshots rang more frequently than the church bells.

Papa strolled, as though soaking in the freedom, despite the morbid sounds, whereas Maria wanted to exhaust herself in it and use up every tiny ounce. Papa had petitioned for more time outside. Avdeev said no. Then Papa asked Avdeev to allow him to help with the garden, with the wood, with the chores.

Again, Commandant Avdeev said no, in between his gulps of vodka.

It didn’t make sense, except to torment us.

Another distant gunshot broke through the air from the city. I flinched. At first it had been hard to believe that each shot represented the death of someone not adhering to the Bolshevik demands. But the more it happened, the more I believed it. For all we knew, that could have been a member of the White Army on his way to rescue us.

“Papa, what is going to happen to us?” I suspected he also heard my unspoken question, Will we be rescued? We were quickly on our way to starvation. Even with the occasional morning cocoa, our bodies barely obeyed our commands when running on the diet of broth, cutlets, and bread.

We were fading—both from Russia’s hearts and from our own mirrors. Mamma hadn’t come outside for several days. She could barely gather herself from her bed due to her headaches and poor nutrition.

“Our only hopes are rescue or to soften hearts.”

He believed the Bolsheviks—if they had their way—would keep us here until we rotted. Or would kill us before things got that far. Up until this moment, I had clung to the hope that maybe they would still send us to a deserted little village, stripped of riches and titles, but alive to end our days as peasants.

Even that shadowed dream was now fading. “Can their hearts be softened?”

“It’s not up to you to soften theirs. It’s up to you to keep yours soft. These soldiers are serving their country as they would have served me if I were still tsar.”

I didn’t believe that. Had they been loyal to Papa, they would not be partaking in his exile and looming death right now. I let my gaze drift to Zash. He and Ivan were on rotation between garden duty and upstairs landing duty. Zash watched us like a kestrel.