Anastasia and Her Sisters (10 page)

Aunt Olga smiled—sadly, I thought. “Probably, for a while. But he gave her a beautiful house in St. Petersburg as a gift. Now, shall we talk of other things? Have you some lovely drawings for me to admire?”

I wasn’t ready to let go of this subject. There was so much more I wanted to know. “What if one of us wants to marry a man who isn’t of noble birth? Could we?”

Aunt Olga studied me thoughtfully. “I’m sure your mama and your papa want all of you girls to marry young men you love, and they wouldn’t force you to marry someone you don’t. But they would not allow you to marry someone below your rank. It would not be appropriate,” she added, “for one of you to fall in love with one of those magnificent bearded Cossacks.”

Then she did change the subject and asked me if I had taken any new photographs. I showed her some I’d taken of Olga and Pavel Voronov on the
Standart
—when my sister saw the pictures, she asked me to give her two: one for her, and one for “my friend,” as she called him.

Aunt Olga looked at them and smiled, and said nothing. But I guessed what she was thinking:
Not appropriate. Too bad.

•  •  •

At Easter we were still in St. Petersburg, still at the cold and dreary Winter Palace. Spring refused to come. Tatiana had fallen ill with typhoid from drinking contaminated water. She was so sick that her hair began to fall out and had to be cut. There had been no visit to Livadia. The days crept by slowly with only our sessions with our tutors.

I hadn’t read Olga’s secret notebook for weeks. What could there be for Olga to write about? But one day when she had gone to visit our cousin Irina and I had nothing else to do, I searched for the notebook.

I’m worried and frightened. We keep telling ourselves that the Russian people love us, yet everywhere we go there are so many guards, so many soldiers, all because they’re afraid of revolutionaries determined to kill any Romanov—especially the tsar. I’m not sure why. Hasn’t Father given them what they said they want?

I have begun to realize that many people dislike Mother. They call her
Nemka
, “German woman.” That is so stupid! Hardly any of the past tsaritsas have been Russian. Catherine the Great was German! Everyone adores Grandmère Marie, yet she was born in Denmark. I see the way Mother looks, always frowning, her mouth set in a tight line, wishing she was anywhere but where she is. With a few exceptions—Countess Benckendorff and Countess Hendrikova—the so-called ladies of the court wait for her to say or do something they decide has offended them. Anya is her closest friend, but I find Anya awfully tiresome. Mother is devoted to Father Grigory, because he’s the only one who helps Lyosha, but Irina says he is deeply distrusted. Many believe he has too much influence on Mother, and on Father, too. All of this dislike and distrust makes me feel that something terrible is going to happen. Maybe not right away, but someday soon. I pray that I’m wrong.

I was shocked by what I read. Could Olga be right about this? Did people really dislike Mama so much? Was something bad going to happen? I didn’t understand it, and there was no one I could ask—not even Aunt Olga.

•  •  •

Late in the spring we made a journey to places in the countryside important in the early life of Mikhail Romanov, the first Romanov tsar. We traveled by imperial train from Tsarskoe Selo eastward to Nizhny Novgorod. There we boarded the steamer
Mezhen
and journeyed up the Volga River to visit Kostroma, the village where Mikhail Romanov was born. Aunt Olga and a crowd of other Romanov relatives traveled with us. We stood on the deck in the chilly wind and waved to the cheering peasants crowded along the riverbanks. “God save the tsar!” they shouted, and “May he live forever!” Some even waded into the freezing water to get a glimpse of their tsar and the tsarevich.

Olga must have been wrong. This was so different from St. Petersburg! Here was proof that the common people truly loved Papa, and Mama, too, and maybe it was just some of those wicked noblemen and their snobbish wives in St. Petersburg who delighted in criticizing. Or maybe the rainy, cold weather had put them in a sour mood.

We boarded our train for the final leg of the journey to the outskirts of Moscow. Our destination was the cathedral
where the first tsar had been crowned. Papa rode into the city on horseback, alone and in advance of his Cossack escort, the rest of us following in open carriages: Mama and Grandmère Marie in one carriage, Alexei with Nagorny in the next, followed by OTMA, and then all the other Romanov relatives in the procession behind us. People cheered and the bells of dozens of churches began to peal when we reached the Kremlin. I hoped that Olga would see how thrilling it was, that our parents were indeed loved.

But Olga didn’t see.

I’m not the only one afraid something terrible will happen. I sat next to Father in the dining salon of the train on the way to Moscow. General Spiridovich, who’s in charge of his security, sat across from us, drinking vodka and eating
zakuski
. The general pleaded with Father not to go through with his foolish idea of riding ahead of the Cossacks into the city. Hundreds of thousands of workers are on strike, he said, and the mood is ugly and growing worse. At any moment a revolutionary could throw a bomb or fire a gun at the tsar, and there would be no one to protect him. Two years ago during a visit to Kiev, Papa took Tanya and me to the opera and a revolutionary walked up to Prime Minister Stolypin and shot him. We were watching from the royal box and witnessed the whole thing. Tanya cried the whole night after it happened.

But Father told General Spiridovich that the Tsar of All the Russias must show himself to his people and he would ride unprotected into Moscow. Thank God nothing happened.

I saw Fr. G standing near the entrance to the Kremlin. I’m sure it was the
starets
, but when I tried to point him out to Tanya, he had melted into the crowd. It seemed to me a bad omen, though Mother would think just the opposite.

Olga seemed determined to see the dark side of everything. Marie, on the other hand, always saw the bright side. I felt stuck in the middle. How could we be so different?

•  •  •

Two thousand people attended a grand ball at the Hall of the Nobles in Moscow the night after our arrival. Aunt Olga said the hall was the finest ballroom in all of Europe. Marie and I were not invited, but Olga and Tatiana were. Mama wouldn’t let them wear ball gowns, just the usual white dresses and pearls. Tatiana’s hair was growing back after her illness. She tied it with a velvet ribbon.

“We look like schoolgirls,” Olga complained, studying her image in a tall mirror. “Mama still wants to dress us like children.”

Marie and I were waiting for them when they came back. “Tell! Tell! Tell!” we begged.

“Mother and Father opened the ball with a polonaise,” Tatiana reported, stripping off her long gloves.

“They weren’t actually dancing,” Olga said. “They just walked in a stately kind of way through the ballroom. It was quite splendidly decorated—lots of ferns and huge urns filled with flowers.”

“Ferns in urns,” I said, enjoying the sound of the words, “and urns of ferns. Who were your partners?”

Tatiana wrinkled her nose and flung herself down on her bed. “Army officers. My captain waltzed rather well, but he smelled of cigars.”

Olga laughed. “Mine, too. And his hands were clammy. So, you see, you two didn’t miss anything.”

•  •  •

At the end of May we went home—at last!—to Tsarskoe Selo. Tatiana’s sixteenth birthday came two days later, but there was no celebration like Olga’s. Mama had decided that another formal ball was not necessary.

Tatiana agreed. “I’ve had enough balls. I’d rather have a party on the
Standart
,” she said. “Or a picnic on our special island.”

Olga would be happy no matter which Tatiana chose. Pavel Voronov would be there.

I’m counting the days until I see Pasha again. It has been nine months since we were together and that magical night when we kissed THREE TIMES.

I would have to keep a close watch, or I would miss everything.

CHAPTER 7

Olga in Love

BALTIC SEA, SUMMER 1913

T
he
Standart
cruised along the coast of Finland. Papa and Mama were both tired from all the balls and receptions and dinners and ceremonies and happy not to have any official duties.

Tatiana celebrated her sixteenth birthday on the
Standart
, just the way she wanted. Mama decreed white dresses, pearls, and colored sashes—Olga was right, we did look like little girls instead of
young ladies
. Tatiana received her pearl and diamond necklace. It was a tradition in our family that each of us was given a diamond on our birthday and a large pearl on our name day, so that when we turned sixteen, we would each have a complete necklace of thirty-two beautiful gems. Chef Kharitonov produced a delicious meal, the balalaika orchestra played, and we danced on the deck with the officers, including Lieutenant Voronov.

I turned twelve on the fifth of June (twelve each, diamonds and pearls, kept in a velvet case), and nine days later Marie was fourteen, with more treats and dancing (and one more diamond). I was the only sister who did not yet have a bosom, but Marie promised that I would very soon. “Madame Becker is likely to make her appearance, Nastya,” she said. “Madame Becker” was their name for their monthly cycles.

Everyone was in a happy mood. Mama kept remarking on how successful the three hundredth celebration had been, how people had cheered and applauded wherever we went, especially the peasants in the countryside. “The
real
Russians,” she said, “not like those overstuffed, overdressed counts and countesses who look down their noses at everyone, at us, and at each other. How I despise them!”

Every day there were chances for Olga to see her Pasha. So often during the long winter and spring Olga had seemed sad and distracted, as though she wished she were somewhere else, or maybe even
someone
else. But that summer she was lighthearted and gay, laughing and joking, and not just when Voronov was around, but with all of us.

We went ashore for picnics and hikes, we swam, and I tried to improve my tennis. In the evenings we danced mazurkas and polonaises on the deck with the officers. Tatiana was good at flirting. So was Marie. You could see it was just a game with them, a merry way of passing the time, and the young officers played along. But Olga was a serious girl, and you had only to look at her face. It was as though somebody turned on a light switch the minute Lieutenant Voronov appeared.

I was sure Mama and Papa knew very well what was
happening. Olga tried to pretend that nothing was going on with Pavel Voronov, but too often I heard her slip and call him “Pasha.” Voronov was much better at acting reserved and formal when others were around.

I felt sure her notebook would reveal what was happening out of my sight.

After so many months apart, we are at last together for a few precious weeks—except that we’re not! My darling P. fills my heart and my dreams but it’s so hard to find a place where we can be alone, to kiss and speak privately. I yearn to be with him, but he is cautious, and I must be, too—especially around Tanya. My sister and I share every secret except this one, but she is the perfect daughter, closer to Mama than I could ever be. If she notices anything at all, she’ll feel she must report it to Mama. And so I say nothing.

I also said nothing. I remembered what Aunt Olga had told me about “inappropriate” marriages and crossed my fingers for Olga.

•  •  •

Alexei injured himself again. The poor boy had to wear a brace to try to straighten the leg he’d hurt the year before at Spala. He got around by hopping on one foot, and they let him take off the brace only when it was just too awfully hot. Then, after a month of cruising, we left the
Standart
in the port of Kronstadt and were taken to Peterhof on the
Alexandria
, a smaller yacht that could maneuver in shallow water. We had barely settled in at our summer dacha before Alexei somehow
hurt his elbow and was in the most horrible pain. His pitiful moans were more than anyone could bear.

Mama sent a telegram to Father Grigory, begging him to come to Peterhof. He arrived the next day and went immediately to Alexei’s room with Mama. Our room was near my brother’s, and Marie and I could hear the
starets
’s low, quiet voice. Alexei’s moans quickly subsided.

“Is it better now?” we heard Father Grigory ask. Alexei answered calmly, “Yes, yes, much better.”

Mama and Father Grigory came out of the room, closing the door softly behind them. Right there in the corridor Mama fell on her knees, weeping, and kissed Father Grigory’s hands. Assured that the tsarevich was sleeping and in no pain, Papa left with them to talk and drink tea.

Father Grigory stayed for a few days in Peterhof before we traveled back to Tsarskoe Selo for a short time and then continued to the hunting lodges in Poland. Mama really didn’t want to go back to Spala; she had such terrible memories of Alexei’s injuries the previous year. Father Grigory did not travel with us. He never did, and I didn’t understand why. Aunt Olga tried to explain it.

“Your father and your mother, especially, are very fond of the
starets
. She truly believes he’s a holy man and the only one who can help Alexei. But there are many others who dislike him and mistrust him. Some even think he is a devil—Grandmère Marie, for instance, believes he is somehow playing tricks. And so your parents have decided it’s better not to make too much of him in public.”

“What do you think of him, Aunt Olga?” I asked.

“It’s not for me to say,” she replied, but she was not looking at me as she spoke.

“You think he’s a devil, don’t you?”