immovable. I hope I have made myself clear.”
“Yes,” I said, coming to my feet. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you. Perhaps it would have been best had I not come.”
“Perhaps,” she said, kissing me on both cheeks. “But I always relish your visits. Can you not stay for lunch? I know the children would love to see you.”
So discouraged was I that I begged, “I’m sorry, but I have so many matters awaiting me in Moscow.”
“Then at least the girls and I will see you back to the train station.”
Some twenty minutes later, Alicky and the older girls, Olga and Tatyana, and I stepped out into the bitter cold, quickly climbing into a limousine. As we set off for the station, I sat right next to my sister, holding her hand the entire way, which was our little custom, and yet this time, rather than chatting as usual, we rode the short distance in silence. We were both exhausted, both fearful, perhaps, of the months ahead. If only our soldiers could hang on until the spring, then victory would be ours. Just a few more months…
I loved my sister so, as she did me, and though I protested that it was too cold, Alicky and the girls saw me through the station’s Imperial Rooms and onto the gusty, cold platform. As the winter winds swept around us, I tenderly kissed my nieces.
“Such beauties,” I said, touching each of them gently on the chin. “Now promise me you’ll take good care of your mother.”
“Always,” replied the oldest, Olga, with a sweet smile.
“Of course, but you have to come back soon!” beckoned Tatyana. “And write us often!”
“I will,” said I, feeling older than I ever had.
Though I had failed in my mission, I embraced my sister more tightly than I had perhaps since we were children. From whence came this sense of desperation? What was it that I so feared? We lingered longer, too, in each other’s arms, and I for one couldn’t help being silently grateful that at least that awful man had not separated me from my beloved ones.
I kissed my baby sister, Empress of all the Russias, and we parted without another word. With the assistance of a footman, I climbed into the private carriage at the rear of the train and took my seat, whereupon I stared out at my dear sweets. Pressing the palms of both of my hands against the glass, I bid them a silent, bittersweet farewell. As the train started off with a forceful heave, it took a great deal of thought to hold back my tears.
And worried though I was over the course of the Empire, I could not even imagine the horrors that were soon to overwhelm the Empire. It all began with a trickle of blood-the murder of none other than Rasputin himself, which, strangely, took place just a few short weeks after my visit to Alicky. I know how much this pained my sister, but even I realized what hope his end gave to so many, for the murder of Rasputin was all anyone talked about. There was rejoicing in the streets, talk that the government could now move forward, that the war would now come to a victorious end, even rumors that Alicky was to be sent off to a distant cloister whilst things calmed down.
Yes, with the black stain of Rasputin removed from the Ruling House there was so much hope. And yet… within barely three months the trickle of that man’s blood turned into a rushing, crimson river as revolution washed away not only all of us but Great Russia as it had forever been known.
Dear Lord, how it pains me to say I have not seen my Alicky since that moment on the train platform, and even today I doubt we two sisters shall ever meet again in this earthly world.
Chapter 36 PAVEL
The spark that made the country blow up like a big, bad bomb was a lie, a lie we told everywhere and to everyone. And the lie we told all over that February of 1917? It was simple: no baked bread! And this made people get real mad and go real crazy! And it worked! Just to make sure, though, I even liked adding something more, because peasant that I was, I knew what would make the people really panic: no flour!
Ha!
There was plenty of flour, but it was stuck way out there in some railway cars, way out of the city, so much flour that I even heard it was rotting. But the narod-the masses-didn’t know this. All they knew was that the bread lines were getting longer and longer, and their lives more and more miserable as the war dragged on and on and on. They could live with sugar being rationed, they could live with just a few scraps of meat in their soups. But bread? Radi boga-for the sake of God-how could a Russian live without bread, be it white, black, or even that gray crap, eh?
“We’re fighting for the Romanovs and they won’t even give us a few pieces of stale crust!” I grumbled in one breadline after another throughout Moscow. “What do they think we are, animals? To hell with the burzhui!” I added, using the nasty word for the bourgeoisie. “I hear our masters have not only all the bread they can eat but even sugar and salt.”
“Well, one thing’s for sure-our German whore Empress has plenty of bread!” complained another of my comrades, who was always planted near me. “But maybe she’s not giving us any because she’s angry she no longer has Rasputin’s sausage!”
The crowd roared with laughter.
Rasputin, that damned dog, had been killed a few months earlier, which in truth made our job harder. We couldn’t let the political scene get easier or softer for the Tsar, which meant we had to stretch the shadow of that Rasputin as far as we could and agitate, agitate, agitate.
Just like a worm, I started whispering, “I’ve been to two other stores this morning and they both ran out of bread. Now I hear there’s not enough at this one, either. Look, the store’s about to close! They’re running out of bread everywhere!”
Even I was surprised at what happened next. Even I was shocked at how quickly things blew up, just like a match thrown into a barrel of kerosene. No sooner had the words passed my lips than some guy pitched a rock at the window of the bread store. And poof! The glass exploded into shards! And the crowd didn’t cower away but cried out and surged forward!
“Xleb!” Bread, screamed nearly every soul!
“Give us xleb!”
“We are hungry!”
I’d never seen anything like it-it was like a call to charge the enemy. One moment there were a hundred souls standing in line, long-suffering folk who had never complained, just poor people in felt boots and foul coats, always submissive to master and Tsar. The next moment every last one of them, right down to the old babushkas with their scarves tied round their heads, were fiery rebels! It was magic! Like one giant flame! The crowd burst to life, surging forward, breaking every window of the bread store and piling in, frantically grabbing all the loaves from the shelves, then pushing and shouting and shoving their way into the back and emerging with sacks of flour.
There was only one voice of protest, the shop owner, a short man with a waxed mustache, who shouted, “Stop! Stop, you fools!”
But the only thing that was stopped was him, this owner-two ruffians grabbed him and pitched him right through the broken window, right outside, where he landed with a thud on the cobbles. Blood streaming down his face, he struggled to get up, making it only onto one knee.
“You’ve been hiding bread from us poor people! They say you’ve been hoarding bread and waiting for the price increases -shame on you!” shouted one staruxha-old woman-as she kicked the groaning man. “Shame!”
That was all it took, one kick from an old woman’s worn shoe. It was like a signal. And then everyone was upon him, kicking and beating him, ripping at clothing and limb. He lived one more minute, no more. Their fury surprised even me. Like a lid finally blown off a boiling pot, the deep Russian instinct for revenge suddenly blew wide and could not be contained. People beat on the poor man as meanly as if they were finally beating on their serf-master who had beat on them! Yes, this was revolution, great revolution! Hurrah!
Turning away from the pulp of that man’s body, I saw a nearby restaurant that was famous for its wine cellar. Well, that would make people break in there-free drink!-but I, devil that I was, thought of something worse, something that would make them real crazy. Officially, there had been no vodka for sale since the beginning of the war.
