14/27 April 1917

The snow is nearly gone, and we’re sometimes permitted to walk in the park. Mama is always in her wheelchair, and we take turns pushing her. It’s awful (I know, I said it again), because everyone stares at us, and sometimes they jeer. Alexei gets upset, because he’s used to everybody bowing to Papa. But Papa says we must be polite and friendly, even to those who are impolite and unfriendly to us, that it will pay in the long run. I’m just not sure I can stand the short run.