and which was proving so very difficult for me-was none other than him, my husband, from whom I so craved kind word and soft touch.
Chapter 12 PAVEL
My secret group had been tracking the Grand Duke for weeks, and it was true, we were so confused by the way he darted from the Neskuchnoye Palace on the banks of the Moscow River to the Governor-General’s Palace on the Tsverskaya, next to the small Nikolaevski Palace within the Kremlin. We had no idea why he was moving around like a scared mouse, darting here and there. Some of us proudly convinced ourselves that he was dashing around because he was afraid of us and thus trying to lay no regular path, others had heard rumors that there was to be a shake-up in the government, still others claimed that all the stories were true, that the Grand Duke was no lover of women and was simply darting from boy to boy. And while I had no reason to doubt these tales-I had heard tell that there were a handful of other grand dukes inclined to stable and ballet boys alike-I really didn’t care where or with whom His Imperial Highness dabbled after dark. All I was certain of was that he was not so high and mighty, or so pure and noble, as he pretended. On account of his irregular movement, however, it was nearly impossible for us to pinpoint a time and place for our attack. It was so frustrating for us who were so ready to kill for the sake of our toiling workers and Mother Russia’s hungry peasants.
When, however, we saw in the Moskovskaya Vyedomosti, that major newspaper, that the royal couple would be attending the opera at the Imperial Bolshoi Theater on the night of February 2, well, we developed our plan almost instantly and quite easily, too. It was not far at all from the Kremlin to the Bolshoi, and there really was only one route for them to follow from that ancient, massive fortress-through the Nikolsky Gate, to the left across the end of Red Square, past the Aleksandrovski Gardens, and then onto Voskressenski Square and from there to the Bolshoi. So we decided that we would be waiting along the way, hiding in the shadows.
Of course, we all wanted to do the deed, none perhaps more than me. I had been admitted to this select group of revolutionaries because I had recently passed a test-I had slit the throat of a pathetic government fellow in Novgorod and stolen a big sum of money too. And because of this success I was allowed the honor of helping to kill the Grand Duke Sergei.
Heading our group was Ivan Kalyayev-“Our Poet,” we called him because he wrote beautiful words and always carried around worn books of poetry. He was an educated fellow, most definitely, and everyone knew he was eager to kill for the Revolution, and eager to hang for it too. But you’d never know his dark intentions by looking at him, for he had a girlish kind of face, so soft and tender, with a big forehead and dark hair and intense blue eyes that would sometimes fall with great sadness. He was the comrade chiefly in charge of our group, and because of his seniority, even though he was young, maybe twenty-five or -six, he was given the honor of throwing the bomb. This made sense, naturally. My only hope was that I would be caught along with Kalyayev and be allowed to hang with him too. Da, da, da, that was my secret wish, to avenge my wife’s death and then dangle, spinning in the wind, from the gallows.
Also in our group was Dora Brilliant, a smart Jewess, and a pretty one at that, who had abandoned her good home and easy life and become very dedicated to the Revolution. She was a trained chemist and she made good bombs, very effective, the kind packed in a tin container with kieselguhr. This Dora made the bomb, and my first duty was to pick it up.
It was promising to snow the day we planned to kill the Grand Duke, the sky a dark flinty gray, the wind strong and determined. Finally, the snow started sometime after six, just as I wound my way across Red Square and past the Upper Trading Row, a vast building of shops constructed in the old Russian Style with big arches and heavy windows. Heading into the small lanes of Kitai Gorod, I passed row after row of shops, each one given over to a specialty, this one selling lace, the next canvas, then honey, lanterns, furs, and dyes. Turning onto the Ilynka, I watched the snow blow this way and that up the street, and I thought how good it was. In fact, knowing what we were about to do, I was happy for the first time since my dear Shura had been gunned down by the Tsar’s command.
By this hour the many banks and trading and lending houses lining the Ilynka had long since closed, so there really weren’t that many people about, just a few lowly clerks and such scurrying through the cold, their heads bent. At the appointed time-seven o’clock-I reached the designated corner and glanced around as gently as I could, seeing no one. I was, it seemed, in front of some kind of money house, and I drew back into the deep, arched doorway, my collar pulled up, more to hide my face than to block the cold. Not two minutes later, I heard the dull clatter of hooves on the snowy street and peered out. A small sleigh was making my way, its driver huddled against the snow. As if I were greeting an old friend, I stepped out, smiling and waving to him. This was our Savinkov, who, I think, was born in Warsaw and who had long been dedicated to ridding his homeland of the tsars. He had a keen, intelligent face, and when he saw me he smiled, his teeth so white in the night. Really, no one ever took him for a terrorist. He looked much more like a minor aristocrat from Poland, with that medium- brown hair, that sharp face, his tall forehead.
The bomb that Dora Brilliant had so carefully made for us was wrapped in a handkerchief, and I accepted it from Savinkov as if it were nothing more than a pot of warm pelmeni. We exchanged a few stupid words, and then I trundled off toward the Kremlin. Glancing back only once, I not only saw Savinkov and his sleigh disappear into the dark-he had one more bomb to deliver to another of our conspirators-but could detect no one following me.
Yes, this was going to be easy, very easy. All we had to do was lob this bomb through the carriage window, and that, without a doubt, would be the end of a Romanov or two.
Chapter 13 ELLA
Half to myself, half to my maids, I said, “I’m just not sure about the color of this dress. Perhaps that’s what’s bothering me. It may be too bright. Perhaps something more muted would be more appropriate for tonight. After all, we are at war and there is great suffering.” I turned to my maid. “Varya, fetch me my green velvet dress, you know, the one Madame Auguste finished recently. I know this is a gala event to benefit my Charity Fund, but I think that one might be more suitable for the times.”
Varya bowed her head and replied, “I’m sorry, Your Highness, but that one has yet to be brought over from the Governor-General ’s Palace.”
“Oh, I see…”
What a pity, I thought, my thin lips coming together in a distinct frown. Ever since the workers in Peterburg had stirred things up and organized the march upon the Winter Palace, there had been nothing but confusion, confusion, confusion. Yes, it seemed that over the past month nearly every worker had gone on strike, and prices were soaring. Why, even as protected as I was, I knew that Moscow itself had nearly shut down, and in my dealings at the workrooms I’d even heard talk from the street of assassination and revolution. Turmoil everywhere, that much was painfully obvious. And that was how scared we were, that we had to hide behind the thick walls of the Kremlin fortress, that we couldn’t travel about without worry. What had the world come to?
“Well, then,” I said, smoothing the fabric around my waist, “I suppose this dress will have to do. But, honestly, Varya, will you see to it that all of my personal belongings are gathered here at the Nikolaevski as soon as possible?”
“Of course, Your Highness.”
Sergei’s work here in Moscow would soon draw to a close; after so many years of service there remained only a few more weeks. Because of this and the fact that we were constantly moving from one residence to the next, none of the people of my Personal Household-not my mistress of the wardrobe, parlor maids, linen maids, stewards, footmen, dressmaker, and so on, let alone either of these two lady’s maids or any of my official ladies, for that matter-was sure what was to be sent where, whether here to the Nikolaevski, to our Palace in Peterburg, or to Ilyinskoye, our country residence. And it was no wonder such confusion reigned, for when we officially moved from one residence to another-even just for the summer-it was as if we were moving an entire village, for no
