Anastasia and Her Sisters (6 page)

•  •  •

Life was much more exciting at Livadia than it ever was at Tsarskoe Selo. People on the estates near ours gave parties and went out sailing and organized elaborate picnics, and they often invited OTMA. Mama allowed us to go, with Anya or Aunt Olga or one of our tutors as chaperone. Also, we had lots of guests at Livadia. Army regiments were stationed nearby, and the officers sometimes were invited to lunch with us.

My favorite guest was the emir of Bukhara, a small, mountainous region in Central Asia that was a Russian protectorate. He arrived with his entourage of ministers and his personal doctor, driven from his palace to ours in a line of black carriages drawn by white horses. And this was just for luncheon! The emir was very tall and very fat, with a hearty laugh, and he dressed in brilliantly colored robes embroidered with gold and a white turban glittering with diamonds and rubies. He presented us all with extravagant gifts. Aunt Olga received an enormous gold necklace with tassels of rubies that quite astonished her.

The only man in the entourage who did not have a beard dyed bright red and was not wearing embroidered robes was the emir’s translator. The emir had been educated in St. Petersburg and spoke Russian as well as anyone, but a Bukharan rule forbade him to speak to another sovereign in any but the Bukharan language, a Persian dialect. He would say something in Persian, his translator would repeat it to Papa in Russian, Papa would reply in Russian, and the translator would repeat the reply to the emir in Persian. Back and forth it went. The emir liked to
tell jokes, and it took a long time to get to the laughter.

Alexei didn’t want to miss the luncheon with the fascinating emir who handed out such wonderful presents. But when the conversation in two languages went on too long, Alexei got bored, and when Alexei was bored, he was a spoiled brat. Alexei could be charming, but he could also behave badly, and he was allowed to get away with it because he was the youngest, he was a boy, he would be the next Tsar of All the Russias, after Papa, and—this was most important—he suffered from a terrible, incurable illness that caused him great pain and placed a huge burden on Mama, and on Papa as well.

The only one he obeyed without question was Papa, and often Papa was too engrossed in a conversation to notice his misbehavior.

Alexei was sitting by Olga, but slouching in his chair, toying with the food on his plate, eating with his fingers, and finally—this was the last straw—picking up his plate and licking it. Papa turned away deliberately, saying nothing, concentrating on the emir’s translator. Olga murmured, “Lyosha, please behave like a gentleman.”

“I’m not a gentleman, I’m the tsarevich, and I can do whatever I please!” he shouted.

Mama, sitting across the table, scowled—not at Alexei, but at
Olga.
“Olga, why are you not paying attention to your brother? It’s your duty as his eldest sister to speak to him, to make sure that he doesn’t embarrass himself, or his father or me.”

My sister stared at Mama. “
My
duty, Mother?” she said, too loudly. “And what about the embarrassment he causes the rest of us, his sisters?”

Now it was Mama’s turn to stare, open-mouthed, as Olga jumped up from her chair. “I beg to be excused,” she muttered, and hurried out of the pavilion.

I felt terrible for Olga, I was sure she felt guilty, and I could guess what would happen next. Mama would write another of those dreaded letters.

Later I found the expected letter tucked in Olga’s notebook:

You must be an example of what a good, obedient girlie ought to be. You are the eldest, and you must always do your best to show the others how to behave. I count on you to think of every word you say and everything you do. I expect you to be responsible for Baby’s behavior. That is your duty. Above all, learn to love God with all the force of your soul. Remember He sees and hears everything.

I refolded the letter and put it back where I’d found it. Poor Olga! I was glad that nobody expected me to be perfect, or anything other than what I was. I was the
shvibzik
!

•  •  •

This was the first Easter we would celebrate at Livadia. On Saturday my sisters and I had watched women from Yalta at work decorating eggs. They first poked a small hole in each end of the egg and blew the contents into a bowl, and then, their pots of paint and fine brushes lined up in front of them, they painstakingly painted a traditional pattern on the fragile shell. One old woman dyed eggs with onion skins and glued bits of straw to the shell in delicate patterns. Another offered to teach us how to paint eggs with a simple design, but even very
simple designs were hard to do well. We made them for Papa and Mama, and I honestly believed mine were the best, because I was the most artistic one in the family.

As midnight approached on Saturday, our entire household filled the chapel, holding lighted candles. It was so quiet I could hear my heart beating. At twelve o’clock, the doors swung open and we followed the priest out into the clear night air, a solemn procession in search of the Christ. We circled the palace and returned to the chapel, and when we reached the doors again, the priest turned to us and shouted, “Christ is risen!” We shouted back joyfully, “He is risen indeed!” Bells rang out, and we entered the chapel amid clouds of incense ascending toward heaven and the sound of the men’s choir singing the ancient Easter liturgy.

This scene was being reenacted all across Russia, in every great cathedral and humble country church, exactly the same way as every year before. Mama always wept at this moment, overcome with emotion. Papa, too, had tears in his eyes.

After the long service finally ended—it was the custom to stand through it all—Mama and Papa led us across the courtyard to the palace. Tables were laden with all the delicious dishes we’d been denied for the past seven weeks. At the center was an enormous
paskha,
made of farmer’s cheese, raisins, and almonds and molded into a kind of topless pyramid decorated with the letters
XB
, which stand for “Christ is risen.” Bowls of red-dyed eggs and tall cylinders of
kulich,
a sweet bread, surrounded the
paskha
. Everyone in the household came to receive the traditional three kisses from their tsar and tsaritsa and to share in the feast.

Every year Papa ordered Fabergé, the court jeweler, to create special “eggs” for Mama and Grandmère Marie. The tradition had begun with my grandfather, who’d ordered a jeweled egg for my grandmother every year until he died. Papa continued the tradition, making a little ceremony of presenting Mama with hers. Each exquisite egg opened to reveal a surprise inside. Papa never knew what the newest eggs would look like, or what was hidden inside. He left it up to Monsieur Fabergé.

One year, before I was born, the jeweler created the Great Siberian Railway Easter Egg. The route of the railway across Russia from Moscow to Vladivostok was outlined in silver on the surface of the enameled egg. Inside was a scale model of the train, only a foot long. The locomotive, made of gold and platinum with a ruby for a headlight, pulled five cars, accurate to the tiniest detail. We loved all the fabulous Easter eggs, but that was a favorite.

The egg Papa gave Mama this year was enameled in blue, overlaid with the Romanov crest, the double-headed eagle, in gold. When you pressed a little button, the egg opened to reveal a miniature portrait of Alexei in a frame studded with diamonds and a tiny crown, orb, and scepter. Monsieur Fabergé called it the “Tsarevich Egg.” It wasn’t as exciting as the Great Siberian Railway, but it was beautiful and Mama loved it.

On the Monday after Easter, children from the village of Yalta and surrounding farms came to Livadia, and my sisters and I handed out miniature
kulichi
made by our bakers. The little boys bowed and the little girls curtsied, and they kissed our hands. Marie, who always adored children, was in heaven.

•  •  •

One fine sunny day, Olga and Tatiana made plans for a motorcar excursion through the mountains to a waterfall, with a stop by the road for a picnic. Chef Kharitonov and his assistants packed wicker baskets of food and drink along with linens, silver, and crystal goblets. Several officers of the
Standart,
including Commodore von Dehn and Lieutenant Voronov, were invited. Lili, Aunt Olga, and Monsieur Gilliard were eager to go. Mama declined, but Papa was agreeable, as always. A caravan of motorcars would drive to an designated stop. Servants would prepare the picnic while we climbed to the falls.

Olga was almost giddy with excitement when we set out mid-morning in a light fog. By the time we reached the stopping point, the fog had lifted. Papa and Aunt Olga found a suitable clearing in a grove of trees not far from the motorcars for the picnic. We started up the dirt path through the pines, Papa leading the way. He always walked much faster than the rest of us. The sound of the falls became louder as we climbed. Olga, usually as agile as a cat, seemed to need help getting over rocky parts of the path and lagged behind. Fortunately, Lieutenant Voronov was there to offer his hand. Marie and I gathered pink and white wildflowers just coming into bloom, and I took advantage of these pauses to glance back at the laggards. Olga frowned when she saw me looking.

By the time we caught up to Papa and whoever had managed to keep up with him, we were out of breath and ready for a rest, but they had finished smoking their cigarettes and were ready to start off again. Gilliard had his camera ready when we reached the roaring falls, the spray capturing rainbows in the sunlight, and he snapped pictures of us balanced on the rocks
with the falls in the background. Olga required even more assistance from the lieutenant when we started down again.

The servants had prepared a fire, threaded cubes of lamb on green sticks, and roasted the
shashliki
over the hot coals. Count Smolsky, Lili Dehn’s father, who had an estate near Yalta, was waiting with a hamper full of wine from his vineyard. Out of the wicker baskets came vegetable salads, dumplings stuffed with mushrooms, and black bread to spread with fresh cheese. I was ravenous, as usual; Marie, too. Olga didn’t sit with Voronov—that would have been too obvious—but she could hardly take her eyes off him, and she barely noticed what she was eating.

The men’s conversation turned to politics, as it often did. I watched Olga watching Pavel Voronov, who was listening to the talk when he wasn’t gazing back at Olga. Commodore von Dehn asked if anyone had had any news of the strikes that were spreading across Russia, workers walking off their jobs.

“And who knows just whom some crazed anarchist will target next!” Count Smolsky grumbled. “I do hope, Nikolai Alexandrovich, that you are doing everything possible to protect yourself and your family.”

“I have an excellent security guard,” Papa said mildly. “The best in the world.”

I thought of the stone-faced Cossacks who even now were lurking nearby.

“Nevertheless, one must take every precaution. These are dangerous times.”

Aunt Olga, who had been listening silently, joined the conversation. “It isn’t just the workers and anarchists we must be
afraid of,” she told them. “I’m acquainted with a cavalry officer who says he’s observed rising unrest among the peasants as well.”

“I don’t fear the peasants,” Count Smolsky said. “I treat mine well. They’re devoted to me.”

“You’ll see that everything will be fine,” Papa said. “We’re planning to celebrate three hundred years of Romanov rule next year. I expect a demonstration of loyalty to the crown as it’s never been seen before.”

Aunt Olga sighed. “I hope you’re right, Nicky.”

Late in the afternoon, as we boarded the motorcars for the drive back to Livadia, Papa called out, “Next time, we’ll ride horses to the falls!” Everyone but me seemed to think that was a fine idea. I was not an especially talented equestrienne, and I often believed that horses had taken a dislike to me.

I was sure Olga would try to arrange it so that she rode in the same motorcar as Pavel. When it didn’t work out—that was really too much to hope for—I knew she was disappointed, but she was happy that he would stop at Livadia for tea.

Admiral Chagin of the
Standart
was waiting with Mama when the motorcars arrived. He bowed and kissed Papa’s hand.

“Your Imperial Majesty, I regret to bring very sad news,” the admiral said. “The British luxury liner
Titanic
, four days out of Southampton on her maiden voyage to New York, struck an iceberg in the North Sea just before midnight Sunday. She sank in less than three hours.”

“But she was believed to be unsinkable!” Papa exclaimed.

“Alas, she was not. The loss of life is thought to be great. Of the more than two thousand aboard, well over half have been lost.”

Papa sat down suddenly, his head in his hands. “It’s difficult to grasp what has happened,” he muttered. Then he said that we must all pray for the souls of those who had lost their lives.

The tea was brought, and the conversation continued about the tragedy—how it could have happened, which ship had answered the SOS and picked up the survivors in lifeboats, what was known of the captain.

“How terrifying that must have been!” said Anya, helping herself to more buttered bread. “Like the time several summers ago when the
Standart
struck a rock while we were at tea!”

Though I was only six when it happened, I remembered very well how frightened I was. It had felt as though we’d smashed into something. There was an awful noise, teacups and teapot and plates flew through the air, and alarm bells sounded, a horrible racket that made us even more frightened. The crew immediately lowered the lifeboats and helped us into them, Derevenko carrying Alexei, other sailors looking after Mama and us girls, Papa staying as calm as could be. Mama was terribly upset, and although Papa pretended he was not, he did seem short-tempered, and that was unusual for him.

We were taken to another ship and waited to find out what had happened. “I really thought it might be an assassination attempt,” Papa said now. “Of course it turned out to be nothing of the kind. A submerged rock tore a hole in the hull.”