Romanov(27)

When Zash spoke next, it was with a gentle tone, as if hoping I’d not get offended. “Perhaps, Nastya, you were too close to see what the rest of the country could.”

I swallowed hard once. Twice. I would not let him taint Mamma’s character. But arguing at this point would get us no further. So I took a deep breath and channeled all the humility I could muster. “I want to understand. I want to hear your side, Zash. Thank you for hearing mine.”

By the time I finished, I actually believed my own words. Maria calmed and sank back to the grass, and Ivan’s half grin turned into a full one. Zash gave me a nod and it was as though the stoniness had never happened. Another step forward. Another seed of understanding.

“How is Alexei?” Zash asked, attempting to soften the strained aftermath of our argument.

I shook my head. “Not healing. He barely sleeps because of the pain. Dr. Botkin’s medicines are not enough.” I let the insinuation hang between us like the weak birch branches swaying in the breeze. I need spell ink.

When Zash said nothing more, I joined Maria on the grass. Our garden time had expired long ago, but Avdeev hadn’t called to us yet so I soaked in what more I could. I stared upward into the secret world of leaves and wind and slivers of blue. Maria linked her arms behind her head.

I wanted to say something light, to prove to Ivan and Zash that we could move on and not hold bitterness. The leaves spun above us. “This tree would make for a lovely swing,” I said wistfully, wishing I could be as tossed and beset by the wind as the leaves were.

“I hardly remember what it is like to swing.” Maria’s tone held despair. She was still sensitive.

So I rolled onto my side and did what I knew would perk her up. “Ivan, what were your favorite summer activities as a boy?”

Ivan startled. I smiled and sent a flash of it toward Zash, who angled toward the conversation. That was better than nothing.

“I was a bit of a rascal,” Ivan said. Maria brightened at that. Nothing made a soldier handsomer than hearing of his dangerous escapades. “When I was good, I would climb trees. Search for berries in the woods.”

“We did that, too!” I sat up fully now, flooded with memories of our childhood at Alexander Palace.

“Ah, but Ivan wasn’t surrounded by golden gates,” Zash groused, draining my pool of swirling excitement.

I forced away a scowl and instead thought of where Zash might be coming from. “We were surrounded by gates, but Papa valued the wild and the adventure.” My voice grew more excited as I recalled those days. “We camped and he taught us to build fires. We helped him chop wood for winter. We learned to cook and work and mend wounds.”

I wanted Zash to know we never saw ourselves as above our people. “He raised us as best he could in our situation, as I’m sure your parents did.”

“I had no parents. Do not assume to know my upbringing.”

I clamped my mouth shut. Maria looked between Zash and me, took a deep breath, and continued the conversation with Ivan. “What about when you weren’t good, Ivan?”

“I do not speak of such things in front of grand duchesses.”

We giggled. Maria brushed her lovely brown hair away from her face, and the wind caught it in a way that would have sent her straight onto the cover of a magazine.

Zash relaxed his stance—almost as a physical apology for his irritation.

“Zash? Did you have any favorite summer activities?” I put forth my kindest and most interested tones in an attempt to convey that our reminiscence could transcend differences.

He took the bait, or rather he humored me and gave in. “Swimming. Fishing. Sharing a meal of stroganina. Spending the day on the beach of the river, cooking shashlik over the fire.” As he talked, his speech grew more relaxed. Nostalgic. A pathway toward a childhood that sounded free and wild. How did he end up a Bolshevik? “That is summer for me.”

“I’ve never made my own shashlik over a fire.” My mouth watered at the idea of the thick mutton soaked in spices and then grilled on a stripped branch or skewer.

Zash smiled at some memory beyond my reach. “Then you’ve not yet lived.”

“Back inside!” Avdeev hollered from the door of the Ipatiev House.

I darted my gaze to Papa. As expected, he rose obediently, scooping up Tatiana’s two dogs. Tatiana pushed Alexei toward the house in Mamma’s chair.

Ivan helped Maria to her feet. I scrambled up before Zash felt as though he would need to do the same. And we all retreated back into the house like shackled, obedient slaves. But instead of imaginary chains on my shoulders, this time I carried the spoils of victory.

Conversation hadn’t been easy, but every time I interacted with Zash I understood a bit more why he was so angry with us. And once I could dispel those misunderstandings, I was certain we could form some allies to help us escape.



June 11



“Dr. Botkin, you are a savior!” Mamma’s frail voice bespoke all our hearts. Our beloved doctor had brought his professional concerns to Avdeev regarding our health, and Avdeev allowed Dr. Botkin to commission the sisters at the local convent for help with food.

Baskets of eggs, milk, cream, meat, sausage, vegetables, and Russian pies arrived at the gate of the Ipatiev House, carried by the sweet sisters. Commandant Avdeev took most of it for himself and his guards, but every morsel we received was more precious to us than the jewels in our undergarments.