Alexander Palace, Tsarskoe Selo, Russia
March 9
When my father finally returns home, none of us go out to greet him. We’ve been trained to wait for the trumpets, for the choreographed footfalls of a hundred officers in full regalia. That’s the point at which we’re allowed to throw wide the front doors and line up in our finery. When our father makes an entrance, we are to be accessories—ornamental figures meant to enhance his glory. But no one has ever bothered to tell us what role to play should he come home disgraced and despondent. So when Nikolai Alexandrovich Romanov the Second, tsar of all Russia, is brought back to the Alexander Palace unshaven, in a common carriage, under armed guard, we are nowhere to be seen.
He finds us in the parlor, staring at the fire, our spirits waning. I look up and there he is, standing in the door, the toe of one muddy boot resting on the Persian rug. For just a moment he looks like a god, tall and strong and surrounded by light. This is my father and he has come home and I could burst with joy at the sight of him. I am too stunned, too relieved to speak. But then he steps forward and I realize that he is not at all the man I have known. Or perhaps he is simply a man and not the emperor I remember him to be. I was tricked by the light and by my own hope, for he is weary and haggard, looking every bit the mortal. It’s all there in the lines around his eyes and the stubble along his cheekbones. The impressive mustache that he always takes such pains to wax and curl hangs limp at the corners of his mouth.
“Nicky!” Mother sees him next but she does not rise from her chair or throw herself into his arms. It’s as though she’s a puppet and whatever strings keep her up are snipped by invisible scissors. Mother collapses in upon herself and goes quietly to pieces right there on the couch.
Father can barely get her name out without choking on a sob of his own. “Alix,” he says, eyes full of a rare softness and longing.
Alexey flies at him, all elbows and knees. Large eyes. Pale skin. Bright freckles. He is twelve, but he looks like he’s two, the way he wraps himself around Father and buries his face in his chest.
My sisters rush him, and Father can’t scoop them up quickly enough. I am the last to approach, and he does not see me for several long moments because his eyes are squeezed tight. But when he does, he utters a single sentence and some shattered thing inside me is pieced back together.
“Schwibsik,” he whispers, “come here.”
I throw myself into his arms, unable to stop a sudden, frightful wave of tears.
The caterwauling and celebrating is extraordinary, and the remaining servants come running from all directions in panic. I can’t blame them. It does sound as though someone is being slaughtered right there on the floor. But then Father slowly extricates himself from the pile of children and they see him. I’ve never realized before how clearly men need leaders. How adrift we are without them and how the mere sight of one can breathe courage into a room.
The servants’ cheers are different, elated and filled with expectation. Whooping and hollering and whistling. All will be well now that their sovereign has returned. They believe this. I can hear it in every jubilant shout, and for one perfect moment I forget that we are under siege.
But then a sharp, official rap sounds on the parlor door and we lift tearstained faces to find a soldier standing in the doorway. Behind him are three more, all of them uncomfortable and stoic. One of them looks to be about my age.
“Alexander Kerensky is waiting for you in the formal reception room downstairs,” the soldier says.
Father straightens his collar. He gives us a reassuring smile. “I’ll be back shortly. I want to hear everything that’s happened while I was gone.”
“Kerensky has requested that your family come as well. He wishes to speak with all of you at once.”
Father studies us for a moment. We are wilted and exhausted, wrung out from fear and waiting. Olga and Tatiana, though recovered from their bout with measles, are blanched and painfully thin. Alexey has a gray tint to his skin and his hair hasn’t been brushed in days. Maria, though pretty as always, is disheveled, and Mother’s hair has slipped from her pins, giving her a harried, schoolmarmish appearance. God only knows how frightful I look. Father, clearly, is not impressed by what he sees.
“Kerensky can wait a few moments,” he says. “We’ll be down shortly.” Father closes the parlor door and says to us, “Come along and freshen up. We have an appearance to make.”
This, at least, is familiar. We are handed off to Dova to make ourselves as presentable as possible while Father slips away to shave. Mother situates herself in front of a gilded mirror and wrestles her wayward hair under control. It doesn’t take long, in the end, to have our hair combed and our faces scrubbed. Dova yanks dresses from the wardrobe at random and pulls them over our heads while we shove our feet into tight pointy-toed shoes. Alexey is given the sailor suit he wore last year. But he’s lost so much weight from his illness that it fits him again.
We assemble again fifteen minutes later, and while not entirely dignified, at least we no longer look ragged. Father pulls open the parlor door, glares at the soldiers standing guard, and walks toward the grand staircase with all the dignity he can muster. Mother rises graciously from her seat and follows him down the great, wide steps. We go after them. First Olga, tall and beautiful. I can feel the soldiers watching her. I can almost feel them smile. Tatiana goes next, the air stirred by her perfume and the muttered words of appreciation from Kerensky’s men. Maria is only a step behind, statuesque and aloof, her chin held high, certain of her place as the prettiest of us, certain they will look at her the longest. I bring up the rear with Alexey at my side, just as we’ve been taught. He the little heir and me the guardian. I wrap an arm around his thin shoulders and slow my steps to match his. I do not glance at the soldiers, and I’m certain that none of them bothers to take much note of my presence other than to complete a head count.
Seven Romanovs.
Seven captives.
The formal reception room is the sunniest in the entire palace and therefore my favorite. It is where we have our art lessons and, in the absence of visitors, where we sprawl about reading in the summertime. The room sits in the bottom right corner of the palace, near our parents’ suite, and has seven enormous ornate windows that overlook the park. The walls are covered, floor to ceiling, in white artificial marble and topped by ornate entablature that Father once told me cost a king’s ransom to install. I dared not ask then, much less now, what it cost to ransom a king.
The rear wall of the reception room showcases two of the most valuable paintings on the entire grounds: Detaille’s Cossacks, an enormous canvas spanning almost ten feet that details the famed march during Napoleon’s Russian campaign, and Vigée Le Brun’s infamous Marie Antoinette and Her Children—my family always has bordered on being Francophiles, I’m afraid. We’ve spent so many hours with our tutor, Pierre Gilliard, discussing the differences between neoclassical and academic painting styles that I can recite the differences on command and in French no less. Impressive, I suppose, unless you consider that I am fifteen years old and cannot lace my own boots without assistance from Dova.
The paintings have been hung so they will be seen immediately upon entering the room. Most visitors are speechless at the sight of them, but the man who sits at a small round table beneath the chandelier seems impervious to their spell. He does not rise or bow as we approach, but rather waits, one arm draped over the back of his chair. He wears a high-collared suit instead of the military uniform I expect. Kerensky is a lean, pale man with short dark hair that forms a widow’s peak in the middle of his forehead. His dark eyes are nearly obscured by thick brows, and the combination gives him a distinctly hostile appearance.
Alexey squeezes my hand and I can feel the bird-like pulse at his wrist—that tiny, strumming thread of fear. He looks paler than usual and is trembling because he has just noticed the bayonets. Mother passes two armed guards, chin held high in disdain, then my sisters in their gowns and ridiculous shoes follow behind her. Alexey and I bring up the rear, eyes wide. Both guards hold a rifle, their bayonets affixed and polished to a malicious shine. Now that I’ve seen them I cannot look away. I stare at them as we pass, noting the unholy sheen at each pointed end.
“You are scaring my family,” Father growls the moment he comes to a stop before the seated man.
It is his angered voice that grounds me.
“Perhaps they could do with some fear,” Kerensky says, his voice rich and confident. There is no hint of triumph or pride there, simply a calm assurance that we will do as we are told. “Your family has long since forgotten their place.”
I can hear the snap of Father’s jaw from fifteen feet away, the way he forces his teeth together to stop an imperious retort. Instead he introduces this stranger. “This is Alexander Kerensky, minister of justice. There’s no need to stand before him, children. Please take a seat.”
Father moves to the window and looks over the snow-covered gardens while Mother takes her place in a chair beside him. The rest of us find our usual seats around the room—my sisters, each on their favorite chaise, and Alexey and I in the red and gold brocade armchair beside the fireplace. My feet do not touch the floor and I hate that this cruel man notes it immediately, his gaze going straight to the toes of my beaded slippers as they dangle three inches from the rug. I hate him from that moment on. I hate him for making me feel small and vulnerable and so different from my elegant sisters.
“Nicholas,” he says, finally, with a curt nod toward my father.
Not Tsar.
Not Your Majesty.
Not even Nikolai. But Nicholas, the barbaric English version of his name. Nicholas the citizen. Nicholas the prisoner.
Father makes a show of sitting now and folding his hands theatrically in his lap. “I see you’ve made yourself comfortable.”
Kerensky’s face betrays no emotion. “Let us be frank. Alexander Palace is no longer under your control, and I do not need your permission to enter, much less sit.”
“I see that mutiny has added nothing to your manners,” Father says.
“You find yourself in a revolution and complain there are no manners?”
“I find myself in my home with company I did not invite and do not welcome.”
“You are in a palace that belongs to the Russian people. As of today you and your family are prisoners. You may not leave and you may not speak to anyone from the outside.”
From the corner of my eye I see Mother reach for Father’s sleeve with a trembling hand. This should not come as a surprise—we’ve had no contact with the outside world for nine days—but still, to hear the truth from Kerensky is unnerving. Yet I am not afraid. Perhaps I should be—my siblings certainly are—but the only thing I feel at this pronouncement is anger. I am like my father in that way, I fear. Anger first, reason second.
Kerensky gives us a moment to let this sink in, then continues. “The stubborn loyalty of your household is regrettable, but those who desire to leave have forty-eight hours. Any who stay longer will be under house arrest with you and your family. They will share whatever fate awaits you.”
“No.” Father shakes his head. “Our servants have nothing to do with this. They should be left alone.”
“You have been arrested. You have no say and nothing with which to negotiate. You have abdicated the throne, not only for yourself, but for your son as well. You are no longer emperor. Anything granted to you is by my good grace alone.”
Father maintains his composure at this disclosure, but Mother draws in a sharp breath and digs her fingernails into the fine wool of Father’s sleeve.
“Oh. I see. You haven’t told them yet. Let me make it clear then.” Kerensky turns a cruel, thin-lipped smile to each of us in turn. He pauses to make sure we’re paying attention. I want to glance at my sisters, to read their expressions, but force myself to remain still. When Kerensky looks at me, I sit up defiantly, my spine stretched to its full length, trying to be braver than I really am, trying to radiate defiance. “As of three days ago, you are no longer the royal family of Russia. Your only title is that of prisoner.”
If Mother looked pale and weak before, she is stricken now, stunned into silence.
“You are citizens now,” Kerensky says. “Each and every one of you. And it is only out of respect for the past that you will not be sent to a citizens’ prison. Instead you will stay here in the Alexander Palace under house arrest until other arrangements can be made. Your rooms will be limited, as will your activities. Your servants will be few, and you will be supervised at all times. I will personally oversee your schedule, and you will adhere to it without question or complaint. The sooner you accept this, the easier it will be for all of you.”
“How long”—Mother’s voice is thin and reedy, so she clears her throat and tries again—“how long will this last?”
Kerensky studies her. She has grown thinner since Father left, but not in a healthy way. Her cheeks look like paste. Her hair is dull. The skin at the back of her hands lies wrinkled and loose against her bones. If I knew Kerensky better, I would say that the look on his face is one of pity, but I do not yet know what sort of man he is, so I cannot place the expression.
He takes a step forward and bends over Mother’s chair, speaking as though she is an imbecile child and not Alexandra Feodorovna, granddaughter of Queen Victoria and empress consort of Russia. “Have you not realized it yet? This is never going to end.”
“Three days ago my train was stopped at Malaya Vishera,” Father says. Now that Kerensky has returned to his soldiers, Father gathers us around the fire to explain his abdication. “Revolutionaries crowded the line and forced the train to stop. The routes to Petrograd and Tsarskoe Selo were closed and we were diverted to Pskov. I was met there by Alexander Kerensky and a delegation from the Duma. They brought a declaration of abdication with them. There was little conversation about me signing. It was expected that I do so without argument.”
“You fought them. Please. Tell me you fought them at least,” Mother says, her voice strangled.
“For what? My honor? The country? The military? Would you have me face a firing squad right there on the tracks to preserve those things?”
“I would have you do it for Alexey!” Mother snaps, her composure thin and brittle.
He looks at my brother with lips pressed firmly together. Whatever he might say to Mother in private will not be uttered out loud in front of their son. This is their ongoing argument, the fissure that hisses and spits between them. Mother believes, without qualification, the word of Grigory Rasputin, that Alexey has been healed, and she will not be convinced otherwise. She has repeated this assurance to my brother; therefore it is a fact and will not be denied in her hearing. The price Mother paid for this promise is too great; it is unspeakable. It has cost her reputation, and, many whisper, her honor as well. We are forbidden to speak of Alexey’s condition—neither in his hearing nor at any other time. The only time my mother ever struck me was when I dared to question Rasputin’s claims while Alexey suffered from a three-day nosebleed. She split my lip with the emerald ring on the back of her hand. And while Mother never apologized for the blow, she did stop wearing the large princess-cut emerald. I like to think that means she’s sorry.
Father, however, is a man of logic and he believes the physicians; his son might live for many years, but the hemophilia will never be cured and Alexey will never father children of his own. In the end he answers Mother but does not look at her.
“Fighting was a risk I could not take. Alexey’s life is too important.”
“So is his birthright!”
“Had I fought them, we would all be dead right now! None of you would have lived through that night. Can you understand this? I did the best I could.”
My mother was born to the name Alix Victoria Helena Louise Beatrice of Hesse and by Rhine. Only upon her reception into the Russian Orthodox Church and subsequent marriage to my father was she given the name Alexandra Feodorovna. She is a dual German and British duchess, and she is more proud of her beautiful children than any other thing in her life, including her own title. Beauty is power and power is all she knows. To have four fair daughters gives her an advantage over every other royal family in Europe. The fact that she has rounded out her brood with Alexey, a male heir for the Romanov dynasty, gives her a satisfaction and sense of superiority unrivaled among her peers. To have all of this stripped from her in an afternoon is unthinkable. Mother, finally, is at a loss for words.
The consequences of Father’s abdication are finally occurring to my brother, however. He springs from the chair beside me. “Don’t I have a say?” he demands.
“No.”
“But I’m the tsarevich!”
“You are a child.”
“I am not. I’m a man. All the officers say so.” He stamps his foot in rage. “You should have asked me.”
Father sighs. “The officers coddle you. And besides, the decision was not yours to make. It was mine and it is done.”
“But what about my soldiers? And my regiments?” Alexey demands. “Won’t I see them again?” He stands in the middle of the large room, bewildered, his voice echoing off the polished floor and high ceilings. He is worked up now, frantic. “And the Shtandart? What about all my friends on board? Will we go yachting anymore?”
“No,” Father says. There is a finality in his tone that silences my brother. “We will never see the Shtandart again. It doesn’t belong to us now.”
Alexey slumps back into the chair, crestfallen. “But who is going to be tsar now?”
“No one.”
“But if there isn’t a tsar, who will govern Russia?”
Father grimaces. “You just met him.”