And though I essentially retired to my community, busying myself with prayers and care for the needy and war wounded, the world around me continued to deteriorate at an alarming pace. Under the strain of transporting all the troops, I heard of the railway system breaking down, with one muddle followed by another, and soon sugar was rationed. I was told, too, that the shelves grew emptier and emptier, not just of sugar but all foodstuffs, and one day another story came round that while the workers could barely get black bread, we at my obitel feasted on chicken cutlets and meat pies, not to mention fruit jams. It would have been an amusing story had I not clearly understood the danger in such lies, and all this while my diet consisted purely of vegetables, such as onions and turnips with an egg here or there and an occasional spot of milk. Sadly, too, out of the blue sky I received an anonymous letter telling me that my sister and I should return to Germany immediately because, after all, we were not Russian and our loyalties were nested firmly with the enemy. I paid it no attention, merely wished that my letter writer would come pray by my side.
With some degree of secrecy I did manage another trip to the capital and there to see my sister at Tsarskoye. There were many who had begged me to influence Alicky, who, with Nicky off at the front, ruled as essentially regent of the Empire. Her authority was understood by everyone of every class, and abhorred, too, particularly with the black name of Rasputin mentioned round every tea table and in every queue. Instead, I navigated away from any controversial subject with Alicky, and but for a few days we two sisters managed a good visit, cozy, calm, and homey. Her children, those four beautiful girls and the Heir Tsarevich, were such a delight to me, and for brief moments the horrors of war seemed distant. Despite the malicious tales otherwise, Alicky and I had always been and still were close.
Yes, I averted any difficult conversation with my sister, but upon my return to Moscow came another incident, more egregious than any other. It was said that our brother, Ernie, the Grand Duke of Hesse und bei Rhein, had been secretly sent to Russia by the Kaiser. Ernie was to negotiate some kind of shameful peace with Germany, and supposedly he’d been in hiding at the Palace in Tsarskoye. Simply preposterous. So said the tongues, however, claiming that such was the supposed reason for my recent visit to my sister. It was claimed that I, not any servant, cooked for him lest he be seen and recognized. Further, somehow disguised he was supposed to have got his way to Moscow, hiding in my railway carriage, and could now be found taking secret shelter in the depths of my obitel. At first I assumed this was the work of German spies, but it turned out the story was birthed quite effectively by our Russian revolutionaries. Clearly, their clever ploy was to use a deceitful story to knock away the God-given pedestal from which Nicky ruled.
It came as no surprise, then, that one morning I heard shouting and yelling from beyond the walls. I was in our hospital, attending to a serious wound on the groin of one of our soldiers, when my long-faithful Nun Varvara came running in.
“People are marching upon us, Matushka!” she gasped, unable to hide her fear. “There are men with sticks and rakes coming down the street-they’re shouting the worst things!”
“My dear, I’m busy at the moment. And please keep your voice down-as you can see this man needs his rest.”
“But, Matushka, I’m fearful for your safety!”
“Well, I am not. And besides, I am busy caring for this poor man. The bandages on his wound must be carefully changed.”
“But what-”
“Just lock the gates, my child, and I’ll be there as soon as I’ve finished. At the moment this man’s health is more important than anything else.”
Nun Varvara hurried off, and I returned to my duties of caring for the man before me. Wounded in battle, he had been brought back to Moscow and operated on in our theater just yesterday, the doctors having removed four small pieces of shrapnel. In great pain, the soldier had been slipping in and out of consciousness all morning.
As I removed the bandages and cleaned his groin with warm water, the man moaned and opened his eyes. I looked at him and smiled gently. His wound was serious, but if we kept it cleansed and covered I felt we could keep gangrene at bay.
“Who… who are you?” he asked, speaking for the first time.
I humbly replied, “I am your servant.”
“Someone said you are a princess… but you are not Russian… I can tell by your accent. Are you a German princess? Am I in Berlin? Am I a prisoner?”
“No, my good man, you are in your Motherland. You are in Moscow. And as I’ve already told you, I am your servant.”
From outside came shouting and yelling and some kind of racket. Dear Lord in Heaven, were our gates being broken down?
“What’s that?” said the soldier, struggling to sit up. “Are we under attack?”
I reached for some ointment and lint, and advised, “Please, just lie back down. There is nothing to be concerned about. We must attend to your wound, it must not be overlooked. Just relax.”
Unfortunately, the mayhem outside seemed to grow by the moment, and quite clearly I heard someone shout, “Nemka, doloi!”-Away with the German woman!-but I turned my mind to all things spiritual. There was no reason to doubt, no reason to mistrust, I thought as I finished bandaging the poor man, for all was in God’s hands. After all, not even a hair could fall from one’s head without God’s knowledge. And to calm my soldier I softly began to sing, “Svyeta Tixhi”-“Hail, Gentle Light.” No more than ten or fifteen seconds passed, however, when I heard the disturbing sound of glass breaking.
“Will you excuse me?” I said to the soldier.
But the man had already drifted away, his eyes closed. Moving now with haste, I rinsed my hands and hurried to a small window. Peering out, I saw a mob of easily forty or fifty people, mostly men. They had breached our main gate and were flooding into the garden, rakes and thick sticks raised in their hands. Worse, they were charging after two of my youngest sisters, who were fleeing toward a side door. Right before my eyes I saw a cobblestone fly through the air, hitting one of the sisters on the back. She stumbled, the other girl took hold of her and dragged her on, and the pair frantically disappeared inside a doorway. Just as they pulled shut the door, another stone sailed after them, smashing against the wood. Then came another, and another, flying this way and that, and window after window was shattered to pieces.
“Radi boga,” For the sake of the Lord, I muttered, quickly crossing myself.
Above the rabble, I heard a loud voice shout, “Shpionka, suda!” Bring out the spy!
“Nemka! Nemka!” The German woman, the German woman, the mob yelled nearly as one.
Without a moment’s waste, I hurried off, lifting the front of my robes as I made my way from my patient’s room and through a series of small corridors. I turned corner after corner, for our buildings were all linked by walkways, and when I reached the main doors of my own house I found not only a half dozen sisters frantically pushing against the door to hold it shut but Father Mitrofan throwing his weight against it as well. They had bolted the doors, of course, but the crowd outside was determined to batter their way in. Upon seeing me, Father Mitrofan and all my girls shouted their fear.
“Matushka, you must run away!” called Sister Mariya.
“They want to hurt you!” exclaimed the novice Makrina.
Even Father Mitrofan, usually so rational, frantically urged, “You must flee through the kitchens and out the back door!”
I slowed, gathering my thoughts and prayers. In all things there was wisdom, in all things there was His plan.
“Please, step aside and allow me to handle this,” I said to my sisters. “One must be ready at any time to wear the martyr’s crown of thorns.”
At first they hesitated, but my young ones meekly obeyed, retreating as one into the next room. As the beating on the doors grew steadily rougher and harsher and the screaming beyond louder and coarser, I knew absolutely what I must do. I reached for the iron bolts and drew them open, and then I threw wide the double doors. A great cry went up from the mob, which seemed poised to run right over me, but then the advancing horde stopped, stunned by the sight of me standing there in my gray working robes.
“Welcome to my community,” I said with a gentle bow of my head. “I am the Matushka of this obitel-is it to me you wish to speak?”
At first none knew what to say, how to act. There was some grumbling, some brandishing of the sticks.
