Romanov(9)

His Bolsheviks stood behind him, tall and stiff in freshly brushed uniforms. Zash stared at the back of Yurovsky’s head as though it bore a shining crown.

The Tobolsk soldiers—our friendly soldiers—formed a separate clump, looking uncomfortable and out of place.

“Inspection?” I asked Yurovsky. “What are you hoping to find? Perhaps we can help you.” I smiled sweetly, enjoying the press of diamonds against my ribs. Olga pinched my arm. Tatiana sighed.

“I am expecting to find compliance.” Yurovsky pulled a pocket watch from his coat lining, glanced at the face, then snapped it shut.

Olga, Tatiana, and I waited. He stared us down as though waiting for us to squirm. But I was no worm, and despite Olga’s tender heart, she could brandish a tongue of fire hotter than a crackling hearth.

“You may begin,” Yurovsky said to his stone-faced soldiers. They broke from their lines and panic blossomed in my chest. The doll. My gaze found Zash’s. He appeared as moody as every other time we had interacted. It could have been my imagination, but it seemed as though he made a beeline for the hallway toward our bedroom.

“I will go pack,” I said softly, but loud enough for Yurovsky to hear. I needed to make it sound like resignation, not desperation.

Two Bolsheviks entered Mamma and Papa’s room. Another one entered Alexei’s. Joy, the spaniel, stood guard between Alexei and the soldier. Olga broke from our threesome to accompany Alexei during the search.

I quickened my steps to catch Zash. I suspected he chose my bedroom because he mistrusted me. From the moment he stepped into the library he knew I was hiding something.

I entered only a few steps behind him and the Matryoshka doll seemed to glow from the shelf over to my left. So I gestured to the left—because to gesture away from my valuables would raise more suspicion. “My trunks are there.” I pointed to the back right. “And those are Tatiana’s and Olga’s.”

Zash surveyed the room for a moment. I waited for him to move toward one set of trunks or the other . . . or the doll. “You may go.”

I was not accustomed to being sent out of my own space. I wanted to argue, but I imagined Papa’s voice in my mind—urging me to be kind to the Bolsheviks. To show them who we really were and to reflect what we hoped Russia would become.

Humility. Ugh.

“Of course, sir.” I bowed my head—and only my head, because my pride was a steel rod in my spine. I left, although walking up the hallway felt as if I strained against a current of resistance in my mind.

I could only pray that Zash did not find the doll. There was no reason for him to suspect it. There wasn’t even a way to open it to find the spell Papa claimed it contained.

What did Yurovsky command the soldiers to search for? Jewels? Hidden spells? Diaries? I headed to the kitchens to see if the cook, Kharitonov, needed help baking the day’s bread. I needed a distraction and was thankful he allowed us girls to help him. The heat from the baking oven warmed us beyond what the hearths upstairs could do.

But the kitchen was empty. No bits of food to snatch. Only a basket of eggs sat on the windowsill, likely never to be eaten by us since we were leaving in the morning. Who would eat them? The Bolsheviks?

Finally Kharitonov returned and we set to work. Olga joined us, too, her hair a nervous frizz. Tatiana was likely upstairs ensuring that Yurovsky had all the compliance he wanted. She was better at hiding her emotions than Olga or I.

We expelled our anxiety through stirring, chopping, and kneading. “Bread dough has seen many an anxious person through difficult times,” Kharitonov remarked. “It is very receptive to abuse.”

I punched my fist into the yeasty mass of dark rye.

“Precisely, Nastya.”

Commandant Yurovsky settled at his new post—a desk in the entryway. Throughout the day, he stared at his pocket watch as though counting down the minutes until he could send us to exile.

We gathered with our servants for a farewell meal of borscht and hazel hen with rice. We also shared two bottles of wine that Kharitonov had kept hidden from the Bolsheviks and guards. Merriness bolstered our hearts, knowing we’d soon be on our way to our parents.

After hours, the soldiers finally finished their inspections. I tried not to run back to my room. My valise already held most of the necessities—a change of clothing, writing utensils, and three books: Pushkin for my sanity, the Bibliya for my soul, and the German book on spell mastery for my education. Likely they were ruffled from Zash’s inspection.

When I entered the room, my gaze went straight to the shelf on the left wall. The dusty, glittering objects seemed untouched. But a gap of air sat between the music box and the jeweled figure of a ballerina as though it were an artifact in itself.

Papa’s Matryoshka doll was gone.





3


He’d found it. Zash had found the doll. How?

I forced myself to fiddle with the valise buckle as though I was still packing, just in case Yurovsky or Zash were somehow watching for my reaction. But how could they? How could they have known?

Yurovsky had been here for barely a day. If he’d discovered that we were harboring old spells, he would have said something when he was here weeks ago. We’d have been confronted and punished.

It had to have been Zash. Somehow he’d known I took it from the library. Or maybe he saw it added to my room. I didn’t know how—but it was him.