Russians, cared so deeply for the men of my new homeland. To make absolutely sure there was no preferential treatment, however, I stopped my visits to the prisoners altogether and had a ladies’ committee, with my Grande Maitresse Countess Olsuvieva at the head, look into this matter.
But what should have been a great warning of the darkness to come was the incident that took place upon my return from Petrograd-yes, not long after the outbreak of war even our capital had been renamed, for to the Russian ear “Sankt Peterburg ” sounded harshly German and hence unpleasant, and so it, too, was dashed. I had been there in the capital for the state funeral in 1915 of Grand Duke Konstantin Konstantinovich-soon after the battlefield death of one of his beloved sons, my dear Kostya had suffered a fatal infarkt-and upon my arrival home in Moscow everything at first seemed normal. At the Nikolaevski Station I descended my private railcar without incident and moved freely along the platform, perceiving no problem whatsoever. Unlike my previous days, I was traveling without a suite of any sort-neither court ladies nor guards of any sort-and while there were certainly many eyes upon me and I was, despite my robes, widely recognized, this was not unusual and by no means threatening either. Really, hitherto-fore in all my travels and ventures into the bleakest, poorest corners of our vast Empire, I had not once felt the least indication of malevolence directed upon my person. However, no sooner had I passed through the Imperial Waiting Rooms and exited onto the broad, bustling street than things began to disintegrate. A limousine was waiting for me, and as the uniformed driver helped me settle into the rear seat, a most violent disruption broke about, initiated no doubt by a handful of unpatriotic agitators.
“Look, it’s the German bitch!” shouted one man.
“It’s a filthy Romanov traitor!” hollered another.
“Get her! Down with her!”
It was shocking, really, how quickly they swarmed around the motorcar, rather more like a pack of wild dogs or mad beasts than human beings. Wasting not a moment, my chauffeur scurried quickly around and into the vehicle, but no sooner had he shut the door than fists began pounding the windows. In one moment there were ten men, the next twenty, and then thirty.
“German bitch!” they cried one after another.
I clutched automatically at the cypress cross that I always wore around my neck, and I could hear my heart pounding, feel my thoughts dashing here and there. Good Lord, what was happening?
“I think it best if we move quickly on,” I recommended to the chauffeur.
“Yes, but… but…” he said, motioning to the men now clambering over the hood of the vehicle.
“Just proceed,” I said as calmly as I could. “Do not worry, we are in God’s hands.”
White with fear, he managed to start up the motor and engage the vehicle in gear. We had rolled not even a half pace when a man jumped right in front of the vehicle, his arms outstretched, his face red with rage. Immediately, my driver stomped on the brakes and the vehicle jerked to a standstill. The man blocking our way screamed something, foul words that I had never heard in Russian, and an even greater cry of anger flew through the crowd. All around, from every side, people charged closer, flaming me with fiery insults. Someone pounded on my window, and I saw a furious red-faced woman with a scarf tied around her head. My inclination was to smile gently upon her, but this woman sucked in her cheeks and with great force expelled a good quantity of saliva upon the glass. And then another man did likewise, spitting his hatred upon us. Another followed suit, and then another and another, until the windows and the windscreen were covered. The next instant, several large men took hold of the wheels and the entire limousine began to rock most violently up and down and side to side.
“Please… drive on… quickly now!” I requested, clutching the seat. “Quickly!”
“But, Your Highness, what if I hit someone?”
“God willing, they’ll step aside!”
Despite all my good thoughts and all my good prayers, the fear came flooding into my heart like an evil river, rampaging and scouring my mind with doubt. How could this be? These were my children to whom I had given my entire soul and for whom I felt nothing but divine love. Where did such hatred come from? What sin had I committed to engender this rage?
I held tightly the cross upon my breast, firmly shut my eyes, and chanted, “Gospodi pomilui…” Lord have mercy…
No sooner had my driver pushed again on the accelerator and we began moving again, albeit ever so slowly, than something crashed against the side of the car with the most frightening sound. It sounded as if a bomb, and I screamed as I had not since childhood. All my fears whooshed back to that day when my Sergei was blown apart, and I was sure my end had now come as well. I struggled for my control, but found myself lost in that frightening memory when the center of Moscow rocked with my husband’s death. But it was not a bomb hurled against my motorcar but a rock, a cobblestone, actually, pulled right from the street. There came another, and then one after that, all raining down upon my vehicle, simply pure thunder and storm. Suddenly a stone sailed directly through one of the side windows, glass exploded everywhere, and I screamed yet again, as did the driver, his voice high and terrified. Almost the next instant a huge stone came hurtling directly from the front, smashing the windscreen into a thousand shards, glass like needles tearing at my driver. From behind I heard someone pounding on the window behind my head, and I tensed and steeled myself as if I were to be shot. All around voices and the worst insults came at me like cannon fodder, wounding me not physically but heart and soul, which I felt far more deeply. To my side I saw a massive hairy hand reach for the door, and from the coarse rage I understood that the intention was to rip me from my vehicle so that the crowd could pull me apart upon the street.
And then came the soldiers on horseback with whips and sabers, and it was only in this manner that the incident was concluded as promptly as it had begun.
Yes, the soldiers beat away our attackers posthaste, and the hooligans fled, for even though the days of serfdom were fifty years past, the memory of the master’s whip and knout was long and bitter throughout Russia. My driver sped hastily on, driving clumsily as he blotted the cuts on his forehead and cheeks. With tears in my eyes, I glanced back through the soiled rear window and saw a poor few continuing to fight, only to be beaten down and even trampled upon. I wanted to go back, to reach out to all of those poor souls and offer them solace, but my driver, wiping sweat and blood from his brow, sailed us through the heart of the city.
Lord…
By the time the motorcar reached my obitel and passed through the carriage gates, I had wiped away my tears. Word of the incident spread quickly, however, and some fifty sisters came scurrying out, the dear ones so concerned for my safety and shocked at the outbreak, and I did my best to calm them.
“Praise be to God for your safe return!” exclaimed my confessor, Father Mitrofan, the fear drawn all across his big face as he hurried out in his long black robes.
I did my best to hide away my shock and fear as I said, “Everything is perfectly fine.”
“But… but look at the motorcar-the windscreen is smashed! And you, Matushka, you are so pale and… and…!”
“Let me repeat, I am fine,” I said too sternly.
Father Mitrofan knew me far better, however, and he gently guided me along to my reception room.
“Please,” he called to one of my novices, “bring us tea at once.”
In the following days there was little I could do to control the story, and though the censors would not let it be printed in our papers, it flew all across Moscow -the Romanov nun attacked!-spreading like heathen fire. When word of concern came from the head constable of the city, I assured him that it had been only a scant few agitators and nothing serious. Indeed, many about the city were so shocked by the incident that they flooded my community with breads and vegetables, eggs and milk, as if to atone for some great sin. Wishing to quiet the worry, I forbade any and all of my sisters to speak of the matter-the sick and the wounded needed their attention, not stories of the doubters and faithless. Least of all did I want to worry Nicky and Alicky-the two were consumed by their war efforts-yet despite my best efforts an official report was made to the Emperor and his horror knew no end.
The only truly grievous result of the whole sad affair was that under Nicky’s command the highest authorities and even the Metropolitan came to me and all but forbade my travels beyond my white walls, particularly and especially to such dangerous places as the Khitrovka. Deep into the night, I prayed on my knees for guidance, and though in the end I acquiesced and agreed to stay close to home-if my presence stirred up such unrest, perhaps it was indeed best I not go about and be seen-my soul ached with concern. Yes, lying at night on my plank bed, I couldn’t help worrying. What of all the Ludmillas and the young Arkashas-if I were to remain essentially locked away, just who was going to reach out to them body and soul?
