Romanov(8)

“Thank you for delivering the message.” I gave him a bright smile.

He glowered. “You can drop the feigned kindness.”

My eyebrows shot up. “It’s not feigned. It’s not easy either, but what is there to gain from animosity?”

He closed our bedroom door and strode down the hall. I jogged to catch up. “Do you enjoy your hatred of us?”

“You are no longer a grand duchess. I have no obligation to converse or bow to you.”

My face warmed. “I am still a person. I do not expect conversation or bows. Just some cordial humanity!”

“You and your family destroyed our country!” he burst out, stopping in the middle of the hall. “Your father’s one job was to care for the people. Instead, he hardly knew them. And because of your golden halls and fancy palaces, you have no idea what you’ve done to the citizens of Russia.”

My jaw hung open. I had no argument. I had been raised differently. We weren’t among the common folk much, but I knew Papa. I knew his heart. I knew how Olga and Tatiana had served soldiers. I knew our love for the people. Did they not know that we loved them? Had they never known?

Suddenly I wanted to know Zash’s story. He wasn’t an enemy. He was a confused Bolshevik who didn’t understand me . . . and I didn’t understand him. I reached for his arm and my folded corset tumbled to the ground. “Then tell me. I want to know.”

He jerked away, seemingly taken aback by my response. “It’s too late. Just . . . just obey our orders and stop . . . stop talking to me.”

I picked up the corset and followed him the rest of the way to the sitting room. I wanted to understand him. But he was wrong about us, too. We’d slept on cots, made our own beds, worn simple Russian clothing, and adored the Alexander Palace filled with wood furniture and rustic necessities rather than the gold walls of the Catherine Palace. Papa and Mamma had raised us to love family, not luxury.

Papa didn’t want his throne back. All we craved was to be released to build a cottage somewhere. But I gathered that Zash wouldn’t believe that any more than he believed my kindness was genuine.

*

Maria’s first letter struck our household like the blade of an ax to a fallen log.

We are not in Moscow.

Papa had no trial.

They have given us to the Bolsheviks.

I stared at it, jaw slack, voice clogged as though I’d swallowed a pelmeni whole. They didn’t give Papa a trial? They didn’t send us to a new quiet home. Instead . . .

“What does it say?” Dread hung thick in Alexei’s question. He could see on my face that something was wrong. I didn’t try to hide it. Not from Alexei. He’d remained frail—losing even more weight and unable to walk on his own. I tried not to be angry at his illness. It wasn’t his fault, and yet it kept us trapped in this Tobolsk house. Trapped waiting. Wondering.

Abandoned.

“Bolsheviks.” My mouth moved but my voice resisted, as though to say it aloud would speak it into existence. “There was no trial. They . . . they handed them—us—over to the Bolsheviks. For exile.” The enemy. Those who wished us dead. I passed him the letter with a trembling hand.

Where I read only as much as I could swallow, Alexei scanned the entire letter, his eyes widening with each line. But he didn’t stop. He charged through the fire of information, despite the burns on our hearts. And he filled in the blanks I hadn’t been bold enough to read. Each sentence sliced like the swing of a pendulum.

Tick. “They are in Ekaterinburg.” Tock. “They were sent by train.” Tick. “They were searched upon their arrival.” Tock. “We are to follow . . .”

His voice trailed off and his gaze dropped to his legs. His electrotherapy machines. As though summoned by his fear, a cough broke through his chest. Dry. Wheezing. Bending his body with a gnarled hand.

I didn’t know how to comfort him. I couldn’t heal him. The Bolsheviks were no longer just our guards. Now we belonged to them.

Alexei wasn’t ready to travel.

Exile would kill him.

*

My corset poked and pinched, but I knew—as with any pair of new boots or rough collar—I would build up a tolerance to the discomfort. I would have to, for I’d rarely be taking off these jewel-lined underclothes.

Our trunks were packed with belongings and our hearts packed with memories. We would be leaving for Ekaterinburg once Commandant Yurovsky returned to gather us.

I prayed he would come swiftly so I could be with my family.

I prayed he would be delayed so Alexei could rest and heal as much as possible.

I replied to Maria’s letter, telling her of our surprise at her news and our plans to join them as soon as possible. I wrote how Alexei was weak and thin, yet he seemed to be growing stronger through sheer willpower. All that remained was for me to pack the Matryoshka doll. I hadn’t touched it—the more dust it gathered and the more it blended in, the less the Bolsheviks would suspect it meant anything.

Commandant Yurovsky arrived one week later. I followed Olga and Tatiana to the entryway so we could welcome him. “Behave,” Olga said before we descended the stairs.

“Of course I’ll behave.” I would behave exactly as I always did.

“You will leave in the morning,” Yurovsky announced the moment we three sisters entered. No greeting. No formalities. “All belongings will undergo inspection.”