Romanov(50)

The White Army must be here.

Yurovsky’s clockwork regiment was chiming off-time. His pendulum broke its rhythm. Olga—frail as she was—jumped into action, hemming and mending and stitching our jewel-encrusted camisoles and corsets to ensure their durability should we be rescued. She didn’t join us in the garden that day, telling Yurovsky she was going to read to Mamma and “check the medicines.”

That was code for sewing more jewels.

Alexei stayed inside, too, because he had woken with a cold. I took Joy out into the sunshine with me, per his request. “Maybe she will carry some back inside for me.”

Once outside, I tried to listen for city sounds. Sounds of unrest and rescue. Sounds of war or panic. All I heard were engines. Automobile engines. Back and forth and back and forth along the road beside our house. Even the gunshots had stopped.

I paused by Zash during my walk. He didn’t acknowledge me, but I spoke anyway.

“What is happening?” The words came stilted. In between each one, the Matryoshka spell tried to wiggle free. I swallowed, though it brought no change to the discomfort of the spell. I shouldn’t have spoken. Each word out of my mouth became harder and harder to control.

I had opened the doll too early. I should have waited for the White Army like Papa commanded. I must not let it loose before it was time, especially now that rescue could be right on the other side of the gates.

“The city is evacuating.” Zash’s stiff Bolshevik obedience cracked. He seemed nervous, like he didn’t know what was going on or what would happen to all of us—soldiers included—at the Ipatiev House. My breath hitched at the idea of him being attacked by the White Army. Killed, even.

I pressed my hand to his arm. I wanted to speak, but the spell chanted in my mind, thrummed against my tongue. Ajnin. Ajnin. Ajnin. It craved being released, but I forced other words out instead. The last words I’d likely speak to Zash until I used the spell. “Please.” Ajnin. “Be careful.” Ajnin.

He looked at me. Torn. “You, too.”

When we returned to the house, Olga placed each of our jewel-encrusted camisoles—perfectly mended and reinforced with thread—beside our beds. We didn’t put them on yet. That would alert Yurovsky to our preparation for a rescue.

He drove in and out of the palisade gates all day, leaving for a longer length in the evening and not returning until dinnertime. After dinner, the Ekaterinburg curfew sounded. Eight o’clock. A gunshot interrupted the curfew bells. I stepped to the window, but Papa pulled me back. “Best not stand by the window tonight, Nastya.”

I nodded, still not speaking. The spell sat like a coal in my mouth. Where was the White Army? I couldn’t hold this back much longer. I doubted I would even sleep! I wanted to tell Papa of the spell, but I couldn’t risk releasing another word. Perhaps I should write him a letter?

“Come play bezique,” Maria urged, and I indulged her. I imagined she was thinking of Ivan. If we were rescued, she and he likely would have spent life together. It would be a bittersweet escape for her. At least she’d woken somewhat from her dazed existence.

The guards changed at ten—our signal to retire for the evening. As we climbed into bed I still heard scuffles on the floors below. Whispered voices. Each show of Bolshevik nervousness emboldened me. Rescue was coming. This was it. I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth, letting the spell burn.

At 1:30 a.m. I startled awake. I’d heard something. What? What had I heard? It came again—the cling of the bell at the double doors that connected the landing to the sitting room. They weren’t locked, so whoever was ringing it could come in if he wanted. No.

The bell was ringing to wake us up.

I launched out of bed, but Dr. Botkin beat me and Papa to the door. Probably for the best—how would I have kept the spell in if I’d answered?

Dr. Botkin opened the door. Yurovsky stood before him, fully dressed and looking more haggard than ever. “The situation in Ekaterinburg is now very unstable. The Whites might, at any moment, launch an artillery attack on the city.”

Would they truly? Even if they knew we were here? An artillery attack could kill us! Did they know we were being kept here? I gripped Papa’s arm and he reassured me with a squeeze of his hand.

“It is too dangerous for the family to remain on the upper floors.” Yurovsky spotted Papa and me at the edge of the room. Olga joined us, a frail ghost in her nightgown. “Please wake the others. We must take you to the basement for your own safety.”

Dr. Botkin nodded, bowed, and closed the door. Then faced us. Pale. But smiling. “It is time.”

The mixture of terror and excitement was almost too much. Ajnin. Ajnin. Ajnin. My knees buckled, but I caught the doorframe. Tonight. It would end tonight. Surely.

The first person to come to mind was Zash. What would happen to him? Would he be captured by the Whites? Would he escape and return to the life of a simple worker? Would he think of me at all?

I dressed in my jeweled camisole first, the Matryoshka doll out of my shoe and back in its place. All covered by my typical long black skirt and white blouse. Everyone else took their time. Didn’t they know we were probably going to be rescued? That or blown up. Or simply moved to a new place of exile by the Bolsheviks. Frankly, any of those options would be more desirable than another two months—or even two days—in this terrible place. Especially with Yurovsky in charge and Zash an obedient soldier.