The Lost Crown (38 page)

Somehow I manage not to giggle, and turn back to my search without embarrassing him any more. Not even when I hear the album’s leather binding creak.

Out in the square, people shout and march in front of the house, but we can’t hear what they’re saying. All I’m sure of is they’re angry. Every time I turn to the windows, I feel like a goldfish bumping up against the walls of its bowl. I know I can’t see out, but I can’t help it. When Dr. Derevenko comes at last, it makes my throat ache with frustration to know he’s walked right past all that commotion to get here and can’t say a word about it. The way his kind old teddy-bear face sags, I think he feels the same way.

“What’s going on out there?” I ask one of the guards in the yard, but he straightens his chin and stares past me. Oh, this awful fence! If we try to peek between the planks or tiptoe near a knothole, the guards bark at us—
Nelzya!
—even though there’s another whole fence beyond the one we can see from the inside.

“Forbidden, forbidden.
Every
thing is forbidden now,” Anastasia grumps.

“Something’s changed,” I tell Tatiana inside. “When I talk to the guards, they shuffle and look everywhere at once, as if they expect someone to sneak up on us.”

“Mama has told you over and over, Maria. You should not be speaking to them in the first place.”

“I don’t know why you won’t. I think you’d like Anatoly Yakimovich. He’s a third-year seminary student. He even refused to join the Bolshevik Party.”

“A third-year seminary student should know better than to earn his daily bread holding a family captive.”

“Tatya,” I beg, “some of them are friendly.”

“That may be, but there is a long way between friendly and friendship. They are stealing from us.
Slava Bogu
, the crates of Mama and Papa’s old letters and diaries have not been disturbed, but Mama’s panoramic camera is missing from the shed.”

“But we don’t know which of them took it.”

“
Konechno.
That is exactly my point.”

“All right, already,” Anastasia says. “So you’re right. But listen, Governess. If the guards won’t even talk to Mashka, there’s got to be something fishy going on.”

Tatiana looks up at the windowpane as if she can see through the whitewash. “Mama said the sentry outside has fidgeted terribly the last few nights. She has hardly slept for all his noise.”

Now I’m right, and I don’t like the way it feels one bit.

“Do you think God really cares how our icons are arranged?” Anastasia whispers so Mama and the Big Pair can’t hear. “It’s been nearly an hour.”

“What else can we do? Avdeev said there’d be a priest for the Feast of the Ascension.
Otets
Storozhev should be here any minute.”

“They might as well do a jigsaw puzzle instead, the way they keep moving things around.”

“We’ve done all our jigsaw puzzles,” I remind her. “Twice.”

“Maybe we should mix them all together and see if we can’t make one big picture.”

Avdeev’s voice breaks up our little huddle. “No priest could come,” he announces. “It’s such a big holiday.” His upper lip wriggles as if his bristly little mustache tickles him.

“What priest is too busy to minister to oppressed captives on the Feast of the Ascension?” Mama demands. “Didn’t you tell them who we are?”

Anastasia nudges me. “I’ll bet you our dear commandant drank too much last night and forgot to make the request.”

Sadly we take our icons down and fold up the embroidered throw we use for an altar cloth. I tell myself I don’t mind, but Mama and the Big Pair are so disappointed, it makes my nose tingle and my eyes smart just to look at them.

“You take the first walk,” I tell the Big Pair. “I’ll sit with Mama.”

Avdeev interrupts. “You will not be allowed out today.”

“Why?” Papa wants to know, but Avdeev won’t say.

In the evening he comes back again. “There has been an anarchist attempt to take over one of the ironworks. We have reason to believe they may attack the town as well. It may be necessary to evacuate. Please pack quietly, so as not to arouse suspicion in the guards.”

Papa twists his cigarette across his thumb. “And what of our people, Nagorny and Sednev?”

Is it my imagination, or does Avdeev roll his eyes? “Arrangements will be made for them to join you later if evacuation becomes necessary.”

“Very well,” Papa says. “But two of our crates, ‘NA Thirteen’ and ‘AF Nine,’ cannot be left behind with the men pilfering from the shed.”

“I can make no promises about luggage in this situation,” Avdeev replies. “The Ural Regional Soviet is not concerned with the safety of your belongings.”

“That much is abundantly clear,” Mama says behind his back.

“Papa, where will they take us?”

He takes a long drag on his cigarette before answering me. “Moscow, perhaps? And then to England, if God wills it.”

That night and all the next day we live like a camp, dipping in and out of our valises every time we change clothes and pretending as if everything’s normal when we go out in the yard.

I wait until we’re past the guards to ask Olga, “Do you think they’ll take us away?”

“If they can’t get the anarchists under control, they’ll have to.”

“I mean like Nagorny and Sednev. Take us away and never tell Papa and Mama what’s become of us?”

She takes so long to answer, I have time to notice one of the new guards smiling as we pass by the balcony. I think his name is Ivan, but there have been so many Ivans already! Anyway, I can’t tell for sure if he’s smiling at me, or just cracking a sunflower seed between his teeth.

When Olga finally says, “I don’t know, Mashka,” it blots that smile right out of my head.

“But you always know. You’re the smartest.”

“No, I’m not. Sometimes I see things coming, but not until it’s too late to turn back. I wonder and worry until I wear holes in my thoughts. I don’t think I’ve had a good, fresh thought in ages. Anastasia is the clever one.”

“I don’t see how. She’s awful at lessons.”

“And lazy, too,” Olga agrees. “But when she wants to be, she’s sharp and bright as a tack. I can put the pieces together when they’re laid before me, but Anastasia is the one who could invent the puzzle itself—if she ever bothered to try.”

“Which one am I?”

“The dearest one.” She takes my hand. Her fingers are so cold, even in the sunshine. “Sometimes I think you’re the only one who might come through all of this without it really touching you.”

I stop and stare at her. “But it does touch me! It presses on me all day long.”

Olga stops too and gives me a tender look, fingering the curls on my forehead. “Only bruises, Mashka. You’ll be the same darling girl, without bearing a grudge or a scar. It’s too late for me, but you’re the one with the golden heart. You are the one I never worry about, and I don’t know how we’d get along without you ever again.”

My heart reaches right up into my throat until I can only blink. I want to ask her what makes her so awfully sad and worried, but I’m too shy, or maybe only too scared. “I’m glad you need me now,” I say instead, and reach my arm around Olga’s waist to cuddle against her as we walk. “I remember when I was a little girl, before Anastasia was even old enough to play with. You and Tatiana built a playhouse out of chairs and blankets and wouldn’t let me in. You said you already had a mama and a baby inside, and you didn’t need anyone but a footman. I sobbed like anything.”

Olga nods. “I remember. And then you dried your eyes and came knocking at our door. ‘I’m the auntie,’ you said, ‘and I’ve bought presents for everyone.’ Tatya and I could have cried, we were so ashamed. Even then, you were the sweetest blossom of the whole family.”

I can’t say anything after that, but I hold Olga’s hand until it’s every bit as warm as mine.

39.

ANASTASIA NIKOLAEVNA

June 1918
Ekaterinburg

A
fter we’ve been living like gypsies all day and all night, Avdeev calls the whole thing off. “The anarchists have been captured. You will remain in Ekaterinburg for at least a few more days,” he announces, his words running together a little. “Sednev and the sailor Nagorny will likely rejoin you on Sunday. Also, Dr. Derevenko has made arrangements with the Notovikh”—he shakes his head and tries again—“the Novotikhvinsky convent for milk and eggs to be delivered.”

“Promises,” Olga says. “That’s all we get anymore.”

I don’t believe Avdeev any more than Olga does, especially when he’s tipsy, but the way she says it makes me want to stick a hatpin in her. Anything to yank her out of her never-ending slump. I used to wonder what I’d do when we got out of here. Watching her, I keep catching myself wondering
if
we’ll get out of here.

But the next morning we have milk and eggs just as Avdeev said. Papa downs his first glass without a breath and comes up for air with little beads of white dripping from his mustache. There’s enough provisions for Kharitonov to fix everybody’s meals in the kitchen instead of just boiling Mama’s macaroni while the rest of us wait for our dinner from the canteen. Mama hides behind her handkerchief and complains about the alcohol stove making it hotter, and how it smells of kitchen everywhere.

She’s right about the smells and the heat, but Maria and I don’t mind. The nuns never come late, so we wait in the dining room for them to smile at us as they carry the stuff through to the kitchen. After breakfast on Sunday, Maria and I nose through the boxes of food as if we expect to find Nagorny and Sednev tucked in between the beets and cutlets.

The day before my birthday, four men come strutting in with their hands behind their backs as if they’ve been taking lessons from Avdeev. They look into each room like they’re thinking about buying it.

“So this is the new Russian government?” Mama jeers. “Four men sent to decide whether or not one window may be opened. Preposterous.”

“They were up to something,” Tatiana says. “Did you see the way they pretended not to look at anything at all? It felt like we were the ones being inventoried.”

I don’t care. It’s horridly hot—hot as teacups—and thinking makes it hotter. Even through those frosted windows, the sun bakes us like soggy pastries all day long. When we go outside, sometimes I can’t believe how cool the summer air can feel.

Tatiana snaps the newspaper shut. “Where do they come up with this rubbish?”

According to the latest rumor, Papa’s been killed by a soldier in the Red Army. It’s ridiculous, but none of us laughs. No wonder Avdeev’s been holding the papers back.

“Is that why those men were here two days ago?” Maria asks. We look at her like one of the dogs has sat up and quoted Pushkin.

Olga nods slowly. “I think you’re right, Mashka.” The look on her face as she thinks it over makes something between my stomach and my throat clamp up. “It’s no good for us if a newspaper story can make Moscow nervous enough to send four men to make sure we’re still here.”

My voice squeaks a little. “Do you think it could really happen?”

“I don’t know. But Moscow must have reason to worry.”

Maria sputters like a windup toy. “The Reds are supposed to be guarding us, aren’t they? Why would one of them want to kill Papa? They already have us.”

“If Olga is right, then we may not be able to trust our own guards, Mashka. You have to be careful who you speak to, and what you tell them.” Tatiana may be bossy, but I’d rather hear bad news from her than Olga. She has a knack for telling it without scaring us. It’s like she bites the fuse off the words before she lets them out of her mouth.

“Why does Olga always say ‘Moscow’ when she talks about the government?” Maria asks.

“I don’t know. What’s the difference?”

“She makes it sound like there’s a machine cranking out decisions in an office somewhere. Like it isn’t people deciding what happens to us. Do you think everyone talked about Papa like that when he was tsar? ‘Petrograd says this and that’? It wasn’t Petrograd, it was Papa, just like it isn’t Moscow, it’s Lenin. He’s a man too, maybe even with a family. How do you like being called ‘the prisoners’?”

I don’t like it one bit, but that’s what we are.

On Tatiana’s birthday we feasted on a scrap of a breeze from Papa and Mama’s bedroom window. For
my
birthday, we learn how to bake bread. The idea of having something new to do is so delicious, I don’t even care how stinging hot the kitchen gets. Chef Kharitonov shows us how to measure warm water, oil, and yeast, and we all crowd around the bowl to watch it bubble up. “Look at it.” I poke at the foamy goo. “It’s just like a nasty hanky in there.”

“Anastasia Nikolaevna, you will never change!” Tatiana’s eyes roll like a pair of marbles, but today her voice feels like a tickle instead of the usual scratch.

I fold my arms, stand up straight as an imperial soldier at a review, and give her my best grin. “Oh, won’t I?”

All three of my sisters cock their heads at me. Tatiana steps back to take in the full picture. How far inside me can she see? A moment, and her smile curls like a streamer.

“You may become a passable grown-up yet,” she admits, then bats a smudge of flour from my nose. “But promise me you will always be our
shvybzik
.”