dress, I summoned our General Laiming.
To my husband’s aide-de-camp I said, “Sir, I am entrusting the children to you while I am away. If there are any disturbances of a profoundly serious nature, I ask you to hide them away or flee if need be.”
“But, Your Highness, where in the name of God are you-?”
“Please do not worry, for I have an important task at hand, and God will watch over me.”
I waved him away and made my way down, careful to keep my plans secret from the children. Exiting the Palace I made toward the Nikolsky Gate, passing the very spot where Sergei had met his end and where, according to my wishes, a large cross had been placed with the inscription, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” I stopped, crossed myself, and continued, leaving the vast complex of the Kremlin via a small portal.
Emerging on the other side of the thick Kremlin walls, I entered a world of chaos such as I had never seen and which in truth broke my heart. The great square before me, always such a source of beauty and national pride, had forever been known as Krasnaya Ploshchad, which in old Russia had meant “the Beautiful Square.” In more modern times, krasnaya also meant a particular color, and I could see that our country had indeed crossed a distinct line and sensed that this place would now forever be perceived by that very color: red.
Yes, I could see the blood of workers and peasants and students splashed across the cobbles.
A gust of wind blew a sheet of paper against my dress. Grabbing at the paper, I saw that it was a printed leaflet, of which, I was sure, thousands had been distributed, and which read: “Brothers! Sisters! Take up arms! Long live the uprising of the exhausted people!”
Tears welled in my eyes as I pressed the leaflet to my heart, and I glanced across the vast space toward the beautiful onion domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral and saw so much more: ripped and torn clothing, a dead horse here and there, rubbish lying about in great quantity, and a number of smoldering carriages. It was through this very square that Nicky and Alix had entered the Kremlin for their coronation, and at that time this place had been a sea of exuberant exultation, thousands upon thousands of joyous subjects casting flowers and hurrahs at their new Emperor and Empress. Today, however, I had heard cries of quite a different nature, those of rage and desperation, and with my own eyes I could see that what had been cast were not flowers but pitchforks and, too, cobblestones dug up from the pavements.
God save and protect Russia…
I was one of but two or three souls about, and I wiped at my eyes and crossed the square. Making haste, I passed by one end of the Upper Trading Row and descended into the narrow, twisting streets of Kitai Gorod. All seemed relatively quiet, in fact eerily peaceful, but this calm was soon shattered by a sudden breaking of glass and any number of shouts and coarse words. Of course I should have just continued on my way to my hospital, but I couldn’t, for so much more than my curiosity had been aroused, specifically my need to understand. Turning a corner, I headed toward the sound of rage and destruction, which grew more pronounced each and every second. I heard a scream, and yet another-good Lord, was someone being beaten to death?
And then from behind me came the clamorous noise of charging horses, their hooves thundering on the cobbles. I froze, glanced back, saw dragoons, their swords and whips drawn, coming round a corner and charging down the street right toward me. Making haste, I ducked into a small side alley, and within moments these men, some fifteen or so Cossacks on horseback, stormed past. No sooner had they disappeared around the next corner than a roar of panic and desperation emerged. A shot was fired, then another and another. I heard the clear sound of sword clanking upon metal, and of whips cracking here and there with rapidity. Above everything came the sudden wailing of a man or woman, just which I couldn’t tell, so shrill was the pitch.
I was only several blocks from my hospital, and for a moment I wondered if I should abandon my venture altogether and return with haste to the safety of the Kremlin and the beauty of my Palace. In truth, however, this was not a real consideration. Perhaps I had simply been taught well by my mother, for I did feel an intense need to go out amongst the people to better understand their plight, and so gathering up my dress, I stepped out of the alleyway and hurried directly toward the mayhem. A half block down I turned and came upon a small opening, a square of sorts, and I froze in place, horrified by what I saw. A war was taking place here, with shop windows shattered, and barrels of sauerkraut and herrings and salted gherkins smashed all about the ground, and any number of bodies lying about bleeding too. The Cossacks had been called in to suppress whatever had been happening here, and they were going about their task with aggressive devotion. Across the way I saw two mounted soldiers whipping a man, who tumbled to the ground, and, there, not fifty paces from me another Cossack was beating a boy with the flat of his sword.
I covered my mouth in horror and stepped forward, standing as still as a statue.
It was then that a Cossack spotted me and started charging toward me, his whip raised high, for of course he was completely unaware that I was part of the Imperial Family, not the rose thereof but her sister nonetheless. Yet I would not be intimidated, not because of my lofty rank but because my soul commanded me strength. As this bearded man with high hat raced at me, I raised my right hand. Still he came, with greater and greater speed, but I stood calmly, not so much as flinching. With three fingers I slowly pecked at my forehead, my lower stomach, my right shoulder, my left. Still he did not stop, and as the horse charged right at me, it seemed if nothing else that I would be run down by the beast. At the last moment, though, the Cossack, nimble horseman as were they all, veered to the side, and man and horse swooped past only a few hands from my left side, leaving me standing and my garment flapping wildly about in the vacuum.
And then with a whoop the Cossacks were gone, hurrying off in pursuit of a handful of young men who were fleeing down a side street.
All fell quickly and disturbingly quiet, the silence broken here and there only by desperate sobs, for there were a handful of people lying about in pain. The time-honored and hallowed manner of dealing with dissent or disturbance in Russia had always been the iron fist and, of course, the whip. Like all the Grand Dukes, my husband had been a great proponent of such, for amongst society it was widely believed that our uneducated masses understood nothing but force and could be controlled by nothing but a master’s power from above.
And yet… these were not animals…
Neither were they peasants or workers. No, it all came into my mind quite quickly, for judging by the clothing of those who had fled and of those who were left lying about-clothing that was neither fine nor ragged-these people, all seemingly young, were quite different. What were they, then, who were they?
Overwhelmed by the conflict, I rushed forward. First I came to a young man with the soft face of a boy, the silken blond hair of a child, and a bloody whip mark across his cheek. Reaching out, I helped him to his feet.
“What happened here?” I begged.
“There was a demonstration not far from here… we… we tried to force our way into the city council.”
“We? Who is this ‘we’?”
“A group of us from the University.”
“And this, the shops? Did you do all of this, break these windows and ravage these places?”
“The city is on strike!” said this boyish man in a surprisingly deep voice. “And these shopkeepers defied us. They stayed open during the strike, and so they got their punishment!”
“But-”
We both heard it then, another whoop, more clattering of hooves. Were the Cossacks coming back, or were they merely charging down a nearby street?
“Madame, you must get out of here before they return!” the young man said, turning and hobbling off. “Go, get out of here! Run! They show no mercy!”
He scurried off, as did a few others, terrified of what might come next. But I couldn’t move, so overwhelmed was I by the destruction. Were the people really so desperate? Was this really their only recourse?
Off to the side I saw a woman struggling to rise, and I hurried to her. She was a pretty, young thing, reddish hair, long blue skirt, her fair face now smeared with grime and a curl of blood.
“Please,” I said, reaching toward her with outstretched hands.
She accepted my aid and I pulled her to her feet. For a moment it seemed she might faint, and I clutched her.
“Oi, bozhe moi!” Oh, dear God, she cried, holding her side. “One of… one of them came alongside me and kicked me with his stirrup. But Misha…” she moaned, tears welling in her eyes as she searched the small square. “Where’s my Misha?”
“This Misha, he’s your-”
