As for Lenin, I knew his thoughts were anything but of my safety. Simply, I understood that he wanted to be rid of me. It was said that he was afraid to arrest me because of my good work and the warmth most Muscovites felt toward me and my sisters. It was said, too, that I was the last of all the Romanovs living of free accord. Apparently the rest of us-nearly seventy members of the former House of Romanov-had been taken by the Reds. Could that possibly be? Dear Lord in Heaven, one only had to recall the fate of Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI, not to mention the barbarism of the French Revolution, to fear what thorny path lay ahead. I had had secret word, however, that for the time being the Widow Empress, Ksenia and her brood, Olga and her new husband and baby, and others were still living in relative safety in the Crimea. I prayed this was true, I prayed for them morning, noon, and night.
But, no, I would have nothing to do with this offer of fleeing abroad, for the idea of dealing with such hatefuls as Willy and Lenin was simply impossible. In any case, how could I possibly abandon my aching Russia at the hour when she needed me most?
“Thank you for your kind thoughts, Mr. Minister,” I said, rising and thereby signifying the conclusion of my audience. “But my place is here within the walls of my community and in my beloved country. I have many sisters and countless patients to watch over, you know.”
“I feared such a reply,” he said with a respectful bow.
“But tell me, have you heard any word of… of…” No, I could not bring myself to refer to them as the ex-Tsar and ex-Tsaritsa. “… of my sister and her husband?”
“Only that they have been transferred to Siberia, nothing more.”
“So I have been told. I have written to them numerous times, but I doubt that my letters have reached them.”
Ominously, he said, “I fear for your country, Madame.”
“Please, I beg you, pray for us.”
The gentleman then quietly left, and as the door closed behind him I felt at peace, for my ultimate wish was now forever established: my fate was Russia ’s fate. True, much later Willy again tried to get me to quit Russia -he sent his Count Mirbach twice to see me, but each time I refused him an audience, so despicable was the thought that I might be rescued by our German enemies.
For a while longer things continued as before, patients were brought to us, we were allotted enough ration cards, even the good people of Moscow brought us foodstuffs whenever they could. Soon, however, things began 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.