Cow, as the Empress referred to her whenever she was out of favor, which happened from time to time. But a loyal friend this Anya was. Persecuted too, for the entire country thought she not only worked hand in hand with Rasputin, but that the Empress, the mad monk, and Anya herself formed a poisonous camarilla bent on the destruction of Holy Mother Russia. For this Vyrubova was dragged from the Aleksander Palace and thrown into one prison after another, from the pits of the Fortress of Peter and Paul to Krondstadt itself. It was a miracle she survived at all – the starvation, the beatings, the filth, and the scourge. But she did survive; somehow she escaped an appointment with her own execution, went into hiding for several years, and then eventually fled across the ice floes to Finland, where she became a nun and lived all the way until 1964. And it is to Anna Vyrubova’s credit that she was one of the few who worked secretly and continuously to save the Imperial Family, sending hundreds of thousands of rubles to secret agents in Siberia who, in the end, did little but pocket the fortune.
I leaned closer to the Tsar and quickly whispered, “Sister Antonina also said this, she said: ‘tell them to be ready as soon as tonight.’ ”
How do I describe Nikolai Aleksandrovich’s response? Was he stunned? Surprised? Excited? His eyes opened wider, remaining fixed on me as it sunk in, as he realized that their rescue could come as early as the day’s end.
All he said was a deep, single word. “
I turned, retreating from the drawing room and my duties, and headed back into the kitchen, where I assisted cook Kharitonov in the preparation of our simple meals. Lunch was soon served, servants and royals sharing the same table.
And the third note, the one that I found like its predecessors, in the cork of the bottle? It reads:
Do not worry about the fifty or so men who are in a little house across from your windows – they will not be dangerous when it comes time to act. Say something more precise about your komendant to make the beginning easier for us. It is impossible to tell you now if we can take all your people; we hope so, but in any case they will not be with you after your departure from the house, except the doctor. Are taking steps for Doctor D. Hoping before Sunday to indicate the detailed plan of the operation. As of now it is like this: once the signal comes, you close and barricade with furniture the door that separates you from the guards, who will be blocked and terror- stricken inside the house. With a rope especially made for that purpose, you climb out through the window – we will be waiting for you at the bottom. The rest is not difficult; there are many means of transportation and the hiding place is as good as ever. The big question is getting The Little One down: is it possible? Answer after thinking carefully. In any case, the father, the mother, and the son come down first; the girls, and then the doctor, follow them. Answer if this is possible in your opinion, and whether you can make the appropriate rope, because to have the rope brought to you is very difficult at this time.
An Officer
This “Doctor D” to whom they refer – that was Dr. Vladimir Nikolaevich Derevenko who had been treating the Heir.
The Tsar often joked that their prison life was really more like one long trip across the ocean, each new day being identical to the previous. But not that one. A great stir in our routine had taken place and after the midday meal I heard many low voices and whispered discussions. Sure, they were trying to decide what to do, how to handle this, and what exactly it meant, this possibility of an imminent escape. At about two the entire household went down the twenty-three steps to take the fresh air; that is, we all went out with the exception of Dr. Botkin, Aleksandra Fyodorovna, and her eldest daughter, Olga, who remained with her mother to “arrange medicines.” And there in the little garden, that scruffy yard, we were allowed to walk for two entire hours on account of the stifling heat. Paced in circles, that was what we did, particularly the Tsar, who never stopped moving. Sometimes he appeared animated and excited, while sometimes he looked worried and anxious. I think he was pondering, trying to foresee the events of the next few hours and days, though who could have guessed what the
And the envelope that Novice Marina slipped from her palm to mine?
Truth be told, I never saw its contents, and unfortunately the letter no longer remains, or at least it has not surfaced from the bowels of the Soviet archives. I imagine Aleksandra ripped it up and flushed it, something along those lines, but it was most definitely from this Anna Vyrubova, the much assoiled friend. She was accused of many terrible things, but in the end of ends she was merely a simple, exuberant soul devoted to her friends, the sovereigns, and their well-being. True, she must have been a natural schemer, and an excellent one at that, otherwise how did she do it, how did she get all those letters to the imperial ones and all that money to the secret agents? Actually, it has never been clarified, for writing from the safety of Finland in 1923 all that Mademoiselle Vyrubova confessed was:
Even now, and at this distance from Russia, I cannot divulge the names of those brave and devoted ones who smuggled the letters and parcels to and from the house… and got them to me and to the small group of faithful men and women in St. Petersburg. The two chiefly concerned, a man and a woman, of course lived in constant peril of discovery and death.
Though I was never to read the smuggled letter, I did see its effects, and exuberant effects they were. Gathered around the tea table that afternoon, the Romanovs ate their slices of bread and drank their black tea and surreptitiously passed the note from father to mother to daughter to sister… and so on… each of them not glancing at the words, but quickly holding the envelope to his or her nose and drinking in its scent. A marvel it was to them, something like a drug, something like a beacon that led back to the brightness of the dear past. I, who had driven the Heir in his chaise into the room, saw it all, saw their faces light up with shock and pleasure.
“Here, Leonka,” Aleksei Nikolaevich whispered to me, handing me the envelope at the very end of the line, “smell this.”
I held the paper to my nose, deeply inhaled, and… and my head bloomed like a flower, so rich, so sweet that… that I couldn’t help but sneeze like a horse. They all burst into laughter, every member of the Imperial Family and those few of us who were left of their fifteen thousand servants.
One by one the others mumbled a similar blessing, while I wiped my nose and quickly handed back the note to Aleksei, who tucked it hidden by his side there in the wheeling chair.
Day passed into evening, and supper was served at eight. After the meal, the Tsar read aloud to Botkin, while Aleksandra wrote furiously on a pad, and Tatyana, Olga, and Nyuta pretended to darn some undergarments, but really “arranged.” Eventually too Nikolai laid aside his book and took pen to paper writing not his diary, but a note, or more specifically a reply.
To his friend Anya, the Tsar wrote:
Thank you so much for your kind wishes, which we received only today. Our thoughts and prayers are always with you, poor suffering creature. Her Majesty read to us all your lines. Horrid to think all you had to go through. We are all right here. It is quite quiet. Pity we have not seen you in so very long. Kisses and blessings without end from your loving friend, N. Give my best love to your parents.
The Tsar’s reply, of course, took him some time to compose. Yes, he was the careful one. Everything in its place, including words on a page. The Empress, however, was all heart, all emotion, and her reply, written in English, came out in one long gush:
My Darling, My Dear Little Owl, I kiss you tenderly. You are in all our hearts. We pray for you and often talk of you. In God’s hands lie all things.
