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.
Finally, one of them shouted, “We want your German brother, the Grand Duke of Hesse!”
“Give him to us!” yelled a handful of others.
“I, too, have heard such stories,” I began, my voice strong and clear, “but I can assure you that my brother is nowhere to be found within this community. In fact, he is nowhere to be found in Russia.”
“But he’s hiding in the cellar, I know it!” called one.
“I’m afraid you are mistaken, for I would never permit such a thing,” I replied. “It would be tantamount to treason.”
“Nemka, doloi!”
“German bitch!”
“Shpionka, suda!”
“Listen to her speak-she’s pure German!”
For half an instant it seemed they would rush forward and seize upon me, then ransack the entire community. I felt as if I were overlooking a kettle about to boil over, so evident was their anger and exhaustion.
“Once again,” I began, my words measured, “I can assure you that my brother is not here, nor has he ever been. However, a handful of you are welcome to enter our buildings and look throughout every room. I only ask that it be no more than six of you who come in because behind these walls and under these roofs are many sick and wounded, not to mention our orphans. Please, I entreat you, do not disturb my patients and do not frighten the children, for they have already been through so much.”
A voice from the back, certainly an agitator, shouted, “But I saw that German spy with my own eyes! I know he’s in here!”
“He’s hiding in the cellar!”
“There must be a secret room!”
“Please come in,” I quickly replied, “and look for yourselves. If only you would be so kind as to put down your sticks and rakes, you may spend all afternoon with us, you may search everywhere. Only again I ask you, please do so quietly.”