Hopeful that my husband might know more, I wiped my eyes and rose from my desk. Stopping in front of a mirror, I checked myself, for Sergei expected nothing less than perfection from me. I primped at my fair hair, pinched at my cheeks, and made sure that the pale-pink satin dress I wore-which was decorated with a delicate pattern of acacia and was of my own design-was flattering. Although I had a weakness for jewels, Sergei was even more fond of them, and he was forever showering me with precious gifts. He often informed me which jewels he wanted to see on a specific day, and today he had told me to wear the large freshwater pearl earrings and long pearl necklace, all so perfectly matched in color and size. Yes, they were beautiful, I thought, straightening them. Then, as confidently as I could, I headed out, making my way toward the large front staircase and down to Sergei’s office on the ground level.
My husband was loath to be interrupted during his workday, but nevertheless the large, uniformed guard opened the double door for me. Entering Sergei’s cabinet, I found him in undress uniform at his large walnut desk, which was covered with photographs in Fabergé frames, jeweled mementos, and other bric-a -brac. After a moment or two of my standing there, he raised his head.
“What is it, my child?” he said in his slow Sankt Peterburg drawl.
Sergei was tall and thin, with both his light beard and hair cropped short, and while he was pleasing in appearance, he was forever hesitant to smile. Though he had received much criticism for his stern rule of Moscow, I could honestly say none worked harder, which was why he was clearly annoyed by my presence during his working hours.
“I’ve just received a letter from Alix,” I said. “Apparently there’s a group that plans to march upon the Winter Palace.”
“Yes, I’m aware of this. I’ve been receiving steady reports for the last week.”
“Oh…” I replied, surprised, though I shouldn’t have been that Sergei had not mentioned it. “Well… is there danger? Is there anything to worry about?”
Sergei reached for a pen and bottle of ink. “I’ve been informed this morning that this band of dissolutes means the Emperor harm.”
“Dear Lord…”
It had been over 20 years since Sergei’s father-and Nicky’s grandfather-was assassinated by revolutionaries, who’d thrown a bomb at the royal carriage and blown off the Emperor ’s legs. Ever since the entire Ruling House had been living in the shadow of that nightmare, forever fearful that it would happen again. For this reason, Sergei had practically dedicated his life to ridding the Empire of ungratefuls, which was why, sadly, his tenure as Governor-General had begun with the expulsion of the Jews from Moscow. Though I hadn’t been privy to great information at the time, I’d since heard that altogether some 20,000 souls had been herded out of Moscow, some to Siberia, most off to the Pale, women and children alike, and all in the freezing cold of winter, no less. While Sergei had always felt this had been wisely done for security, I had seen in it nothing but shame, and could not believe that for this we would not be judged in some way in the future.
Had that time now come? Were the dark days now falling upon the Empire merely a kind of retribution for the sad events of fourteen years past?
“Does this mean Nicky won’t be there, that he won’t meet them at the Palace?” I asked, tightly clasping my hands.
“The Director of Security has insisted that Nicky refrain from greeting these marchers. In fact, for the Emperor’s own safety they are requesting that he and Alicky not travel to the city for the next week but remain at their residence in Tsarskoye. ”
With that, Sergei picked up a document, which he began to read, and I retreated from his office, overcome with worry. So my sister and her husband would be safe… for now. But the shame of it all, Russia ’s Emperor all but imprisoned behind the gilded fence of his own Palace.
Oh, and what a tragedy that march turned out to be… how sinful, how painful. I still weep at the lost opportunity.
Chapter 8 PAVEL
For weeks it had been dark and snowy in Peterburg, of course. And cold, so incredibly cold. But that morning of the march the sun came out in all its glory. True, it was still awfully chilly and there was snow on the ground-after all, it was January-but rarely do you see so bright a day in the middle of a Russian winter, the sun so low but so sharp, cutting across the roofs and into our faces. Just gorgeous.
And because of this beauty you could see it everywhere, hope on everyone’s faces, for we all took the sunshine as a golden omen. Some even claimed that the Tsar himself had ordered such a fine day. After all, we were not asking for a new government. We were not asking for the Tsar to abandon his mighty, God-given throne. Why, no, we just wanted our beloved Tsar-Batushka to come to our aid, to reach over the conniving courtiers and bureaucrats who divided us, his devoted children, from Him, our fatherly Tsar. He would stretch out his illustrious hand and help us up-yes, we were confident he would. The massive march to our Sovereign, we were told, was to be like one great krestnii xhod-religious procession-leading right to the home of our Sovereign so that we could sob our griefs on the chest of our Little Father. And so we wore our Sunday best clothes, that was how we were instructed. All of us were told, “Put on your nicest clothes, take your wives and your children, carry no weapons, not even a pocket knife!” Likewise we were instructed not to carry anything red, not even a red shawl or scarf, for the color red was of course the sign of the revolutionaries, which we absolutely were not. After all, just as it was impossible to go before the Almighty God bearing arms, so was it unclean to go before the Tsar with devious thoughts.
Because of the huge numbers wanting to see the Tsar, because the procession was to be so enormous-well over a hundred thousand were expected-we gathered in different parts of the city. I think there was one group that met on Vasilevski Island, another along Kameniiostrovski Prospekt, somewhere else, too, and we were all to march to the Palace and congregate there on Palace Square. Shura and I joined the crowd at the square in front of Father Gapon’s Assembly Hall in the Narva District, and naturally ours was the largest group.
A great “Hurrah!” went up when Father Gapon himself appeared on the steps of the hall.
“Look, Pavel!” said my Shura, clutching my arm. “Look at Father Gapon and how handsome he is!”
I turned and in the cold saw a handsome man, his hair long and dark, his beard thick. But honestly he seemed pale. Nervous, too. Did he know, did he fear, what lay ahead? Perhaps… but just then no one gave a thought or a worry, for the air was too crisp, the golden domes of the nearby church too bright, our hopes too high. And, as Father Gapon moved toward the head of the crowd, we parted. Wearing not simply his long black robes but a chasuble-a sleeveless outer garment that I had never seen a priest wear anytime but at Mass-he passed right before us, and I watched several old women reach out and kiss the hem of his cloth.
“Bless you, Father!” one of them called.
“Thank you for helping!” sobbed another.
Suddenly Shura was grabbing my hand and pulling me along, urgently saying in a hushed voice, “Come on, Pavel, let’s go to the front of the crowd! Hurry! I want to be right in the lead so as to better see the Tsar!”
And, laughing, I let her pull me along after Father Gapon. The mass of people closed behind us, and soon we were up there near the head of the vast crowd, which numbered, they were saying, somewhere near 20,000 folk. And yet everyone was peaceful, not a word of dissent was heard anywhere, so united were we. Just to make certain that our good and religious intentions were perfectly clear, a great call went out for icons and other items of the church. Within minutes we were surrounded not just by men and women workers of every age, from young to old, but by large crosses held high, tall banners from a nearby church, huge icons, and glorious portraits of our Tsar Nikolai II, too.