to change, quickly so. Many from the outside world stopped coming to see us, fearful, I was sure, of being associated with me, a Romanov. Then the city’s wooden sewer pipes broke and the water of Moscow became entirely contaminated, typhoid broke out, and everything from drinking water to lettuces had to be boiled. Worse, it became impossible to obtain any medicaments except the simplest, quinine and iodine. Still we made do, stretching our soups as far as we could. I spent many an afternoon tearing bedsheets into bandages.
To be sure, my great Russia was gone forever, and yet I took comfort in knowing that Holy Russia existed as never before. As I wrote to one of my countesses, “If one realizes the sublime sacrifice of God the Father, Who sent His Son to die and be Resurrected for us, then we sense the presence of the Holy Spirit, Who illumines our way; and then happiness becomes eternal, even when our poor human hearts and limited earthly minds have to go through moments that seem terrible.”
Yes, it was true, God’s ways were a mystery and perhaps it was a great blessing not to know where we were going and what the future had in store for us. All our country was being snipped into little bits, all that was gained in centuries was being demolished and by our own people, those I loved from all my heart, truly they were morally ill and blinded not to see where we were going. One’s heart ached so, but I had no bitterness-could I criticize or condemn a man in delirium as a lunatic? I could only pity and long for good guardians to be found who could help him from smashing all and murdering all whom he could get at.
I tried to keep this in mind, but like so many others I fell ill and became so thin and exhausted. There were weeks when all that I could manage was to sit on my willow chaise and knit some bandages or, if my eyes felt strong enough, sew some padded dressings. Then in March came the heartbreaking news that Willy had stooped so low as to sign a separate peace with Lenin and his bloody cohorts. Simply unbelievable. I felt so ashamed for all.
And finally came that day that I will forever look back upon as the very darkest. It was the Feastday of the Iverskii Icon, and on that third day of Pascha, spring 1918, things at first seemed calm and we were able to forget awhile the sufferings around us.
Divine Liturgy had been served by His Holiness Patriarch Tikhon, who came to us and comforted us, and I tried to fill myself with the wonderment of our most important holiday. However, toward late afternoon, not long after the Patriarch had left and just when all seemed calmest, there came the ringing of the bells at our gates-yes, sadly we had started keeping the gates locked, particularly as night fell. There were marauders everywhere, people thieving everything from bread and potatoes and sugar and salt to such valuables as silver and jewels, which were oddly becoming less valuable simply because they provided no nourishment.
At first I wondered could it be a person without home or food who’d come to us for sustenance? Or could it be a mother with a sick child desperate for help? Such types often came to us these days, but when the ringing of the bells went on and on, and so loudly, too, I understood this was no weak soul. I understood that the worst had come directly to our gates.
At my insistence, it was I alone who went out, crossing my cherished courtyard in the dusky light. Out in the street I heard the rumble of a motorcar and saw a glimpse of it, too, as it sat there.
“Coming!” I called in answer to the bells, which rang and rang. “I’m coming!”
Moments later I reached the small side gate, unlocked the bolt, and swung it open. Standing there was the kind of man all Moscow had come to fear most, a brooding man wearing a long black leather coat and a tight cap. He looked every inch the komissar that he was, big mustache and all, while behind him stood four soldiers in the drab green uniforms of the Red Army and with rifles slung this way and that, definitely not from the right shoulders as in olden days when our soldiers were properly disciplined. Smiling humbly, I quickly glanced around and appraised the situation. There was in fact not one motorcar but two, and these men who had come to us stood there calmly and quietly with a distinct and obvious task at hand. Undoubtedly Lenin had sent them at the end of services and at the end of the day when the streets were emptiest and quietest. I surmised, and correctly so, that this hour had been chosen as the least likely to cause disruption and protest. They were to do this as quietly and secretly as possible.
“How is it that I may help you?” I kindly asked the one in the leather coat.
“I have orders for the removal of the abbess,” he replied, his voice deep and flat.
“I am the Matushka of this obitel.”
“Then you are to come with us.”
“I see.”
Yes, I did see, and I did understand, quite thoroughly so: I was being arrested. Glancing briefly at the komissar and the four soldiers, I knew there was nothing to be done. These were not unruly peasants, not a mob gone wild on vodka, there was no way to convince these men otherwise. These were members of the Red Guard on an official mission, and that mission was to take me away, presumably out of Moscow and quite possibly into the depths of Siberia, where so many others of the Family had been sent.
“Can you tell me, please, will I be returning here tonight?”
“For your own protection, you are being transferred.”
“Yes, but-”
“For your own protection, you are being transferred.”
So the answer was no, I would not be returning here tonight and would most likely never see this dear place again. Lowering my eyes to the dark ground, I choked back a sob that welled deep in my being and threatened to explode. How was this possible? What of my wounded soldiers, my tubercular women, the orphan girls and my beggar boys? Looking up, I wanted to tell them how much work I had left to do, how sorely I was needed here. Too, I wanted to beg where I was being taken, how far, what then… I wanted to turn away and flee, to cry, to seek safe shelter.
However, I knew that my path, the one God had chosen for me to carry my cross, lay not in desperate flight but in submission to His will, His plan.
“I see,” I said. “May I kindly request several hours’ time to bid farewell to my sisters, appoint a successor, and visit one last time my ailing patients?”
“We will take you in thirty minutes.”
I gasped silently, mournfully, and with a simple bow of my head, replied, “As you command.”
I turned and in a daze made my way back. Needless to say, word of my impending removal spread madly through my community, and my sisters came dashing from the hospital, the orphanage, and the kitchens, up one set of stairs, down another. The sobbing and the wails could be heard rising in the air like a painful song, yet all knew what to do: gather in the church. Wasting not a moment, I returned to my chambers, where I collected but several changes of underlinens and another set of robes. My hands shaking uncontrollably, I looked around here, there-my desk where I had reviewed so many petitions, the willow furniture where I had sat with so many visitors and taken tea, the photos on the wall. Picking up the hem of my robes, I hurried into my private chapel, where I had sought and found so much peace and come to love and appreciate every moment and every soul. My eyes flying over the myriad of icons, I spotted one, The Mother of God, and quickly pulled it from the wall. I could not abandon it, and She could not abandon me.
With my small leather valise in hand, I made my way from my rooms, out the doors, and into the courtyard. All about me was chaos, my sisters running this way and that, Father Mitrofan yelling and even cursing, but somehow I had already begun to detach, to realize how futile was any path but that of acceptance. I had to submit or break down, and I chose the former. It was the only way. And so in a manner I was oblivious to my dear ones. I did as was needed for those in need. I entered my church, weaving amongst my weeping sisters, and stopped at the front, whereupon I looked over all as they knelt on the floor and bowed their heads over and over, pressing their worried brows to the stones. I led them in prayer, and concluded by making a large sign of the cross over all.
And I ended by saying, “Please, my dear ones, do not cry. I have confidence we shall see one another in a higher world.”
There was not time for individual farewells, not a moment to bless this sister or that or kiss this novice or that orphan goodbye. It took all my strength to dam my tears, to remain as I wished all of these dear ones to remember me: strong and con fident in the love of the Lord.
As I passed back through the candlelight of the church and through the doors, the sisters swarmed frantically after me, bowing and clutching at my robes and pressing the cloth of my garb tightly to their lips. I stepped through the gardens, and the sisters, all ninety-seven of them, gathered around, their wails shrieking to the
