Entering the chapel, I was embraced by something, a soothing darkness that felt like the warm hands of the Lord upon my aching soul. Breathing in, I inhaled the sweet perfume of incense and familiar mustiness of centuries past and, too, I felt lifted upward as if into a cloud. In the flickering candlelight I watched as the soldiers gently, carefully placed the remains of my husband upon the ambo, that raised area directly before the iconostasis. I dropped to my knees and fell into prayer, unaware of the low murmurs and shuffling feet of the panicked priests circling about. Hearing the steady drip of something, I opened my eyes and glanced at the stretcher. That single boot with the foot was poking out, cockeyed, from beneath the greatcoat, and from it fell one drop of blood after another, splattering with strange regularity upon the stone floor. My eyes traveled farther down the stretcher and caught a glimpse of that scrap of uniform, the very one the merchant woman had tucked into the litter.
Dear Lord, I realized with a violent start when I recognized it! Sergei had been wearing a coat of the Kiev Regiment! Now what was I to do? I knew all too well-I could remember the exact time and place when he’d told me-that my husband desired nothing more than to be buried in the uniform of his favorite regiment, the Preobrajensky! But how in the world could I dress him as he wished when there was no body left to clothe?
Washing away my senseless earthly thoughts came a rich, melodic voice, which flowed over my soul like a great wave. Briefly glancing up, I saw a bearded, golden-robed priest, who with but trembling voice intoned the service for the newly departed servant of God, my Sergei. Chanting, the priest called out to God the Almighty, and the crowd, swelling by the moment, surged forward and in turn sang their reply, their mournful voices as raw and discordant as my pain. Another priest in golden robe stepped out and swung an incense burner over the remains of my husband, and the next moment I was engulfed by a cloud of sweet-smoky frankincense. I crossed myself and bowed my head to the floor, begging God for forgiveness and praying for mercy upon my dead husband’s soul.
I had no idea how long I knelt prostrate, my soul and body inextricably bound in grief and prayer. Only once the service had been completed did I sense someone by my side. Looking up, I saw the highborn Count Shuvalov, which came as no surprise since he was in fact the military governor for the city of Moscow and had worked so hard for my husband.
“May I assist you, Your Highness?” said the uniformed count gently, offering his arm.
Without a word I reached for him and rose to my feet, my bloodied dress glistening in the candlelight. Only then, turning, did I see that the chapel was thronged with loyal subjects, virtually all of whom were kneeling upon the stones, many crying, many clutching candles. Looking farther, I saw General Laiming, my husband’s aide-de-camp, standing by a column and weeping. And there, toward the rear, by the small corridor that led from our Palace, was Mademoiselle Elena. Her face contorted and blue, she was holding the hands of the dears, our adopted children, Maria and Dmitri.
I muttered, “Please, I must see them…”
With the service concluded and the congregation now rising, Count Shuvalov led me directly to the young ones. I could see the fright clearly pocked on their innocent faces-what had happened, who killed, what next? Their eyes darted all about me, for I certainly looked a horror, my blue dress stained red, my face twisted in pain, my skin pale and so very cold. Although still not a tear came to my eye, I was flooded with emotion and nearly rushed the last steps, and when I held out my hands to the children they ran to me and I took them into my arms, embracing them as I never had before.
Pressing their beautiful heads into me, I murmured over and over, “He loved you so, he loved you.”
And I would never have moved again had the dear young sweets not gently and by slow degrees led me away from the curious eyes there in the church and to my rooms deep within the Palace.
Chapter 20 PAVEL
Back in the small apartment with one window, we poured cheap vodka from a bottle with a red label and drank toast after toast, the brew burning my throat each time I tossed down a shot. Da, da, the Grand Duke was dead!
After her fourth or fifth glass, Dora Brilliant, her eyes glistening with joyful tears and her speech slurred, turned to me, clasped my hand, and said, “Pavel, history has told us that the luxurious tree of freedom needs blood to quicken its roots!”
I looked into her dark eyes, and replied, “What beautiful words.”
“Yes, but it also needs money.”
And that was how, right then and there in the middle of our celebration, we started planning our next murder, that of Fat Yuri the Sugar Baron, whose factories produced most of the sugar in the Empire. He was known, too, for hoarding his gold rubles in his huge mansion in the Arbat District. So that day we made a drunken plan and I, my poor head spinning from the vodka, took another shot of brew and a chomp on a freshly salted gherkin, and swore I could accomplish this one on my own. That was how eager I was to prove my loyalty to the Revolution. And accomplish it I did, within days as a matter of fact. Deep in the night, I climbed over the iron railing of Yuri Mikhailovich’s mansion, broke through a window, and traipsed right through the huge front room with its rotunda ceiling. Then I crept up to the bedroom and shot both Yuri and his fat wife in the head, but not before getting him to hand over a sack full of nearly 10,000 gold rubles!
Inspired by our glorious success, we worked harder than ever in the weeks and months ahead, spreading strikes like wildfire, cutting phone lines and looting stores. And we did it again and again: Murder! Assassination! Governors! Factory bosses! Landowners! Sure, we killed as many as we could, for as our poet Kalyayev himself decreed from prison:
“You have declared war on the people, and we have accepted the challenge!”
Chapter 21 ELLA
Without a doubt, all went from bad to worse in the months ahead, the mess was all around. Our post and electricity were stopped over and over, and one could not make oneself any illusions of better times for months to come. We were in the Revolution. What turn all would take, nobody knew, as the government was so weak, or sooner to say-did not seem to exist. Nonetheless, I felt physically very well and had good nerves. Of course if the nightmare came about, I knew I could always have the children safely sent off, but nothing would have made me leave that place, as I was determined to live or die there. Somehow I seemed to have grown into Russia, and did not fear whatever might come my way. And in the months soon after Sergei’s passing I became quite calm and happy-yes, happy to know that my darling was at peace near God, and, too, that he was spared that awful time. In the depths of my suffering it became all so beautifully clear to me: we must at any time be ready-as far as our weak souls can be-to go to our real home.
So there I was, stunned by the path that that violent explosion had opened before me…
Upon my return to my boudoir, I sank into a chair, from which I did not move for a great length of time. I cannot recall what was in my head or what lay before my eyes, but I sat there so cold, my hands white except for one thing, the blackish red blood dried now beneath my fine nails. My servants and my ladies of my court nervously shuffled in and out of my room and all about the Palace, none of them knowing what must be done, nor, for that matter, to whom to turn for direction, for it was from Sergei that we had all received command. Suddenly it occurred to me that I was quite alone now, and alone actually for the first time in my entire life, and it was up to me and me alone to act, for with the flash of a bomb I had become complete mistress of both my own life and this house and all the people therein. Yes, it became perfectly clear that I had gone from beneath the protective roof of my father directly to the heavy, sheltering wing of my husband-my husband who for more than twenty years had not only issued every household order but also directed nearly my every movement and thought. And now he was quite gone from this world. As if awakening from all those years and from the day’s tragedy, I rose to my feet, flooded with a frenzy of energy such as I had never before experienced.