One beautiful afternoon toward the end of October we heard a particularly violent ruckus beyond the fortress walls. Street fighting, I could tell from the din, had broken out all over, for one could discern from every direction shouting and cries, any number of horses’ hooves, and the crack after crack of the Cossack whip. Gunfire as well. But I could not and would not be stuck here in the Kremlin, for I had duty, I had made promise.
Glancing out my window, I said, “I am needed at my hospital-there is to be an operation, an amputation, and I must be there to assist.”
“But, Your Highness, it’s far too dangerous,” gasped Countess Olsuvieva, my Grande Maîtresse, “Your carriage would be attacked the moment you were out the gate!”
“Then I’ll go on foot.”
“You mustn’t, Your Highness. Please, I beg you! There’s chaos everywhere. Even if you were to take a guard, your safety could not be guaranteed.”
“No, I won’t take a single person-that also would attract too much attention. I’ll change into something simple and go alone.”
“But it will be night soon!”
I had to admit that since the death of my dear one my reasoning had not been entirely logical, and yet here I knew a different kind of truth, certainly a more important one, and I said, “The soldier who needs my help doesn’t care in the least whether it’s day or night, dangerous or not, and neither do I. All that matters is that his leg is removed soonest so that the gangrene doesn’t spread further.”
My countess could not hide her disapproval, and she obeyed me only with the greatest hesitation, reluctantly helping me rid myself of all my jewelry, right down to and including my rings. Once I had put on an insignificant dress, I summoned our General Laiming.
To my husband’s aide-de-camp I said, “Sir, I am entrusting the children to you while I am away. If there are any disturbances of a profoundly serious nature, I ask you to hide them away or flee if need be.”
“But, Your Highness, where in the name of God are you-?”
“Please do not worry, for I have an important task at hand, and God will watch over me.”
I waved him away and made my way down, careful to keep my plans secret from the children. Exiting the Palace I made toward the Nikolsky Gate, passing the very spot where Sergei had met his end and where, according to my wishes, a large cross had been placed with the inscription, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” I stopped, crossed myself, and continued, leaving the vast complex of the Kremlin via a small portal.
Emerging on the other side of the thick Kremlin walls, I entered a world of chaos such as I had never seen and which in truth broke my heart. The great square before me, always such a source of beauty and national pride, had forever been known as Krasnaya Ploshchad, which in old Russia had meant “the Beautiful Square.” In more modern times, krasnaya also meant a particular color, and I could see that our country had indeed crossed a distinct line and sensed that this place would now forever be perceived by that very color: red.
Yes, I could see the blood of workers and peasants and students splashed across the cobbles.
A gust of wind blew a sheet of paper against my dress. Grabbing at the paper, I saw that it was a printed leaflet, of which, I was sure, thousands had been distributed, and which read: “Brothers! Sisters! Take up arms! Long live the uprising of the exhausted people!”
Tears welled in my eyes as I pressed the leaflet to my heart, and I glanced across the vast space toward the beautiful onion domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral and saw so much more: ripped and torn clothing, a dead horse here and there, rubbish lying about in great quantity, and a number of smoldering carriages. It was through this very square that Nicky and Alix had entered the Kremlin for their coronation, and at that time this place had been a sea of exuberant exultation, thousands upon thousands of joyous subjects casting flowers and hurrahs at their new Emperor and Empress. Today, however, I had heard cries of quite a different nature, those of rage and desperation, and with my own eyes I could see that what had been cast were not flowers but pitchforks and, too, cobblestones dug up from the pavements.
God save and protect Russia…
I was one of but two or three souls about, and I wiped at my eyes and crossed the square. Making haste, I passed by one end of the Upper Trading Row and descended into the narrow, twisting streets of Kitai Gorod. All seemed relatively quiet, in fact eerily peaceful, but this calm was soon shattered by a sudden breaking of glass and any number of shouts and coarse words. Of course I should have just continued on my way to my hospital, but I couldn’t, for so much more than my curiosity had been aroused, specifically my need to understand. Turning a corner, I headed toward the sound of rage and destruction, which grew more pronounced each and every second. I heard a scream, and yet another-good Lord, was someone being beaten to death?
And then from behind me came the clamorous noise of charging horses, their hooves thundering on the cobbles. I froze, glanced back, saw dragoons, their swords and whips drawn, coming round a corner and charging down the street right toward me. Making haste, I ducked into a small side alley, and within moments these men, some fifteen or so Cossacks on horseback, stormed past. No sooner had they disappeared around the next corner than a roar of panic and desperation emerged. A shot was fired, then another and another. I heard the clear sound of sword clanking upon metal, and of whips cracking here and there with rapidity. Above everything came the sudden wailing of a man or woman, just which I couldn’t tell, so shrill was the pitch.
I was only several blocks from my hospital, and for a moment I wondered if I should abandon my venture altogether and return with haste to the safety of the Kremlin and the beauty of my Palace. In truth, however, this was not a real consideration. Perhaps I had simply been taught well by my mother, for I did feel an intense need to go out amongst the people to better understand their plight, and so gathering up my dress, I stepped out of the alleyway and hurried directly toward the mayhem. A half block down I turned and came upon a small opening, a square of sorts, and I froze in place, horrified by what I saw. A war was taking place here, with shop windows shattered, and barrels of sauerkraut and herrings and salted gherkins smashed all about the ground, and any number of bodies lying about bleeding too. The Cossacks had been called in to suppress whatever had been happening here, and they were going about their task with aggressive devotion. Across the way I saw two mounted soldiers whipping a man, who tumbled to the ground, and, there, not fifty paces from me another Cossack was beating a boy with the flat of his sword.