Romanov(41)

Instead, I stepped back. Because to lock my fingers with his would make it impossible to use them to descend a rope toward rescue. I had to be able to leave him behind. The very thought burned my throat and stole whatever magic had bloomed between us.

He saw the change and asked quietly, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

My voice came out thick. “I can’t . . .” I shook my head. “Ask me tomorrow, Zash.” I turned away, chills sweeping down my arms despite the day’s heat.

There would be no tomorrow for the two of us.





15


“We can’t do this.” Papa paced in our bedroom as the tied sheets hung limp across Maria’s and my laps. We were about to untie all the knots. Again.

Another sleepless night of pacing, wondering, sitting with muscles tense, ready to spring into action and pile furniture against the door. No signal. No rescue.

The more and more we thought about this plan, the more foolhardy it seemed. Even if we did all safely descend the rope with our belongings and kept the dogs quiet, how could we get out the thick palisade gate? How would the White Army officer get in?

“People will die,” Papa concluded. “Likely some of the soldiers here.”

Maria released a shaky gasp. My own heart shrank. Zash. Ivan. Even Avdeev. I didn’t want them injured or killed. We’d spent months befriending these soldiers, even though they were dutifully keeping us in exile.

“Their lives are more important than escape,” Papa said. And that was the conclusion. We all knew it was true. I felt it in my heart—I would rather remain in exile than be the cause of these soldiers’ deaths.

So that morning Mamma scribbled out a reply to the officer with a crayon since we were out of ink. She gave it to me to insert into the cream bottle to send with the sisters. Her words were brusque and no-nonsense.

We do not want to, nor can we, escape. We can only be carried off by force, just as it was force that was used to carry us from Tobolsk. We have no wish for the commandant or the guards—who have been so kind to us—to suffer in any way as a result of our escape. We are too closely watched. If you still plan to perform a rescue, then, in the name of Iisus, avoid bloodshed above all.



We all signed it.

Our trek into the garden was a somber one. No one maintained enough energy to paste on a smile or summon joviality. Ivan hurried to meet Maria and they retreated to the small tree grove at the back corner. I knew by his intense muttered questions that he was inquiring about the rescue.

Maria burst into tears and he embraced her. As I passed them I caught him cupping her face in his hands and saying in low intensity, “I will not let you die here, Maria. I will get you out.”

She sniffled and nodded.

I hurried on, my eyes searching for Zash. The urge to run to him as Maria had run to Ivan quickened my feet until I finally saw him. He strode toward me and, as though planned, we retreated to the shadows against the house wall for privacy. His stiff Bolshevik persona had been done away with days ago.

This was us. Zash and Nastya, learning what friendship looked like. I breathed his scent of earth and smoke—a mixture of his patrols outside and in.

“It’s tomorrow,” he said softly. “I can see that something is wrong.”

I closed my eyes, closed out the sky. “Surely you know I can’t tell you.”

“I wish you would.”

“Don’t you already know?” He spent so much time with Ivan, no doubt he learned the information about our attempted rescue.

“I have my suspicions, but I’d rather hear truth from you.”

I opened my eyes and cranked my head to face him. He sat with one knee up and his arm rested across it. Staring at me. Inviting me.

I gave in. “We’ve realized that we’re going to die here.” Once I said it, I knew that was why my heart hung so burdened. “We care about you. I care about you . . . and the other soldiers,” I hurried on. “And that is more important to us than . . . well, than survival, I suppose.”

“That’s absurd.” His soft tone turned sharp. “How can you possibly care for captors more than your own family?”

“That’s not what I said.” I pushed myself up, angry. “It’s not about more or less. We care about every soldier. I am a Romanov, and I will value life—every person’s life—above all else. There is nothing to gain from hatred of our fellow man.”

Zash opened and closed his mouth several times until he finally shook his head with a small, stunned smile. “Don’t you realize these soldiers would likely let you escape if you really gave forth an effort? They love you.”

They. Not we.

He reached up and gently tugged the scarf from my head. He seemed closer. I wanted him closer. “They love you,” he said again.

Somewhere, in the thin space between us, our hands found each other through the grass. A small touch—but enough to communicate that we both wanted more than captor and captive. Craved it.

His statement rested between us until the creak of the palisade gate caught our attention. An automobile trundled through the opening and pulled up in front of the house. I’d seen it before.

Zash jumped to his feet and resumed his post by the wall. My, how quickly he could adopt that stiff, obedient Bolshevik stance.

But now I could see through it. Now I knew the dark-haired man beneath. And my heart felt safe with him.