Romanov(47)

Could I trust Papa’s advice? He’d shown humility to the commandants for so long, perhaps he was growing to accept our fate and imprisonment and death. He never asked for the Matryoshka doll back from me. He let me keep it, because he knew I could use it as the family’s salvation.

When was I supposed to take it into my own hands? Surely it would be better to use it than to allow Yurovsky to take it from us. I imagined retrieving the doll from his office. I imagined opening it and seeing the spell. Saving us.

A fist pounded on the door. I jumped and finished my business. It had been nice to have a solitary space for a minute. My time was up, but my mind had been sparked with something new to dwell on. A new plan, perhaps.

I splashed water on my face and opened the door.

Zash stood before me.

My hands flew to my mouth to stifle a gasp. “Zash!” I almost jumped into his arms. But then I took in his appearance.

He wasn’t smiling. His smooth brown eyes did not sparkle. He stood as rigid as when I’d first met him. And he wore a crisp new Bolshevik uniform.

“Zash?” It came out as a whisper this time.

“Return to your quarters, Citizen.” His face betrayed no softness. I stared into it, searching for my friend. For the man who was the only one who could send my heart pounding in something other than fear.

No twitch. No blink. No kindness. The gears in my head whirred, connecting the pieces. He must be under watch. I must not cause a scene. I did not want him to get shot in the head like Ivan.

I nodded. “Of course, sir.” He took my arm and led me through the door and back into our five-room cell.

Zash—my Zash—was here. At the Ipatiev House. He had not abandoned me. He might look like a Bolshevik, but he’d given me his spell ink. He’d caught me off the swing. He’d winked at me. He’d shown kindness. He cared about me and my family.

He played the role of Bolshevik well, but light could not be so swiftly overcome by darkness. Not when that light rested in a person’s soul. So as the door closed, I sent him the smallest of smiles.

*

That day we were allowed into the garden for a mere ten minutes. It was enough for a swing, a turn about the small space, and about seventy deep inhales. That was all we were allotted for the entire day. No second outing.

The next day we were let out again. This time Zash was on garden duty, but instead of standing with a friend, he stood with a rifle. He did not watch me. I did not go to him. It felt like a secret—our friendship. Even though he’d yet to reveal the Zash I knew, I faithfully held on to the knowledge he was in there. He was my new hope. And hope never abandoned us—only we could abandon it. Perhaps rescue would never come for us, but for now, I had friendship.

I would not die alone.

Joy trotted beside me as I walked the garden. She shook her head and her long ears flopped across her face like furry paddles. I took in the new guards and their machine guns set up on the edges of the palisade. They watched us like vultures. Waiting for us to die. Or waiting for the order to shoot. As we were ushered back inside, a truck arrived with enormous grates of metal. We were locked back in our quarters, but not before we saw them reinforcing the wooden gate with a metal one.

The next day Zash was on duty on the landing again. I spotted him when Olga took her morning bathroom visit. I sat at the breakfast table wavering back and forth on whether I should try talking to him again. But he was too close to the commandant’s office.

Then I saw something through our window: Yurovsky leaving through the reinforced gate on horseback with two other soldiers. I watched the rhythmic trot of the horse’s hindquarters take them along the path toward the wooded distance. Yurovsky faded from sight and there was only one guard on the landing.

I hopped up and rang the bell.

Zash answered the summons. I stepped out and closed the door behind me, then breathed his name. “Zash.” I couldn’t restrain myself. I embraced him, pulling his form—a form of safety—to me, never wanting to let go.

It was the most we’d ever touched beyond the brush of his fingers against mine and the embrace of grief after Ivan’s death. But it didn’t hold the same assurance as that previous touch. Because he did not return the embrace.

Instead, Zash placed two strong hands—the same hands that caught me from the swing—on my shoulders and pushed me back, not unkindly. “Do your duty, Citizen.”

Confused, I glanced around—again—to ensure we were alone. Maybe he didn’t understand. “Yurovsky is not here. He’s left on horseback. We can converse safely!”

Something changed behind his eyes and my relief was swift. “Oh, you are there,” I said like a silly girl. “I thought . . . I thought perhaps you’d . . .” My voice broke.

War entered his features. A war of ice and heat. Of morals. Of duty. I could see it play out and knew that if I let him stand there warring within himself long enough, he would choose the ice. It was safer for him to be a loyal Bolshevik.

I couldn’t risk that. I couldn’t lose him. I took his hand in mine. He startled, but I held fast. It was warm. It was comfort. “Zash, please. Don’t leave me. I don’t . . . I don’t want to die alone.”

I could see he understood. Alone didn’t mean without someone by my side. It meant void of friendships. Completely at the mercy of the enemy.

His fingers tightened around my hand and I held on to the gesture as I would a lifeline. He swayed forward for a moment, then seemed to catch himself. He pulled his hand from mine and the ice won over. “I’m here. But you saw what they did to Ivan. I cannot abandon my duty and my future for”—he gestured at me—“this. There is nothing you can offer me that I should risk my life for.”