Romanov(48)

My hand turned cold at my side. Words like friendship and trust and maybe even love sounded so foolish in my head. What could I say? That I’d been imprisoned for so long that I’d grasped on to his acceptance like a drowning girl to a straw of grass?

“You would risk your life for them? For the Bolsheviks who shot your friend in the head? Who attack cities and steal people’s livelihoods? What do you live for, Zash, if not others?”

He gripped the barrel of his rifle and suddenly I was staring at a stranger. “Do your duty, Citizen.”

I gaped like a beached fish. Gasping for air. Assurance. Neither came. So I closed my eyes and forced the breathing to even out. Zash . . . my Zash.

When I opened my eyes, I let my sorrow show. I let him know I was resigned to his coldness. “The only reason I came out here was to see you.”

The statement chipped his ice, but not enough.

I channeled my heartache into a fresh rhythm of boldness. “But, if you insist . . .” I turned and pushed my way into Yurovsky’s office. Let Zash try to stop me. Let’s see how far his Bolshevik loyalty went.

“Nastya,” he hissed, completely abandoning the use of the term citizen.

I didn’t stop. The room was much tidier than when Yurovsky had interrogated me. No more empty bottles or boxes. He’d disposed of most of the loose papers and even dusted. I dropped to my knees by the cabinet. At first I saw only shadow. But then . . . the doll.

I snatched it and shoved it into my corset. Zash stepped into the office and watched me. Had he seen the doll? He stood rigid—I almost mistook it for anger, but the darting of his eyes betrayed his concern.

I pushed past him back onto the landing. “Report me if you must, but you instructed me to do my duty. And my duty is to protect my family.” I waited a moment, on the off chance he would return to the Zash I knew.

He did not bend. Did not move. Did not soften. With a sigh I reentered our quarters.

So we had finally reached the end. There was no White Army coming for us. There was no Zash. My hand slipped up to the Matryoshka doll. Hope and life were up to me now.





19


I hid the doll in the corner of the main room, right up against the wall of Yurovsky’s office and inside my spare pair of shoes. It wasn’t safe—but nothing was safe these days. I had to hope that Yurovsky’s pocket watch would point toward his office. I had to hope it would buy me some time.

None of the soldiers would talk to us. They were loyal to Yurovsky through and through. Even Papa stopped trying. I could tell each time he approached a new soldier his heart wasn’t in it. He was giving up. We were all giving up. He barely got three words out before the soldiers leveled their guns at him.

There would be no alliances. It was rescue or death.

Three days in a row, Yurovsky rode out on a horse and did not return until late. On those days, we received our full time in the garden, but the laughs were subdued. Mamma never came out. Olga stayed inside to read to her. Maria was a glassy-eyed shell, and Alexei could only bear to be moved from his bed every other day.

My family was fading.

Anytime I saw Zash, he stood stiff as a statue. Chin raised. Rifle gripped. Encased in ice.

Gunshots echoed from the city, seeming more frequent than they ever were before. Louder now that we were outdoors instead of trapped in our five-room prison. Something was happening out there.

So on the third day, I left the garden early and returned to our rooms. Zash would be on landing duty once my family returned. For now I muttered to the current Bolshevik that it was too hot outside for me.

He didn’t respond. I pushed myself into the main room. Mamma was asleep on her bed. Perfect. I retrieved the doll from my shoe, closed myself in my bedroom, and dropped to my knees at my bedside. I knew what I had to do, and the only safe way to vent my concerns was through prayer. Help me, Iisus.

That was all I could manage. My family wasn’t alone in their despair. I was fading, too. And perhaps soon I wouldn’t have the strength to try to save my family. I needed to know what spell the Matryoshka doll held. I needed to know what weapons we had for survival.

The White Army wasn’t coming. I had to do something while I could.

I held the doll in front of me. The seam was complete. A thick black line ringed the center of the doll, shining light no longer. My heart thundered in my chest and I managed to dig a thumbnail into the crack.

“Don’t use it until the White Army arrives,” Papa had said. “Or at the last possible moment.”

I rubbed a thumb over the doll’s face. The time spent against my sweaty skin and my rough corset had scraped away some of the paint. I gripped it in my fist as the pounding footsteps of my family ascended the stairs. They returned and took up whatever games or entertainment they’d been indulging in prior to the garden time.

I finished my prayer, waited a few extra moments, and then rang the bell on the landing.

Zash answered. I looked up at him, but he didn’t meet my eyes. No one was in Yurovsky’s office and, though I knew Zash would not receive it well, I still brushed a hand on his shoulder. “Privyet, Zash.” It was a simple hello, spoken with all my heart. Trying to understand his turmoil.

After all, why should he maintain friendship with me? Simply because we didn’t deserve to die yet? Or because we were friends? Those things could get him shot. It was best he separated himself from us. Yes. That was best.