‘But this news will cheer him greatly,’ added Stana.
‘Tell him he was right, he was right after all,’ Alix said, smiling.
‘Where is he?’ asked Militza. ‘Where is Alexei? May we see him?’
Alix pulled back the covers slightly and there, lying tightly swaddled and fast asleep, was Alexei. The Tsarevich, the naslednik, the future they had all been waiting for. Here he was. Militza half expected the heavens to sing, the voices of angels to burst suddenly into song at the very sight of him. The sisters leaned in, holding their breath, almost as if by breathing on him they might cause him to disappear. This child was so precious, a child of prayers. The hopes and fears of millions of souls rested on his not-yet-day-old shoulders. Alix put her finger to her lips as she pulled back the sheets a little more.
‘Isn’t he perfect?’
‘He’s beautiful,’ replied Militza, for he was. He was plump and pink and he had wisps of blond hair that were already beginning to curl. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Me?’ Alix smiled. ‘I think I now know what it is like to die and ascend to heaven. I am floating.’ She laughed. ‘And that is nothing that Dr Ott gave me. In fact, the birth was so easy.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I had none of the problems that I had with the girlies, none at all. I had barely finished my luncheon before he arrived. A little early,’ she said and shrugged, ‘although we all know not early enough! But I am blessed. I feel blessed. I am so happy.’
‘May I touch his face?’ asked Militza. She too laughed a little, for it was truly a miracle. ‘I just want to make sure that he is really there and is not some form of sorcery or witchcraft!’
Militza stretched out her hand. It was shaking a little as she curled her index finger and touched his fresh, soft cheek. It felt like warm, smooth silk. She let out an involuntary sigh.
‘I know,’ agreed Alix. ‘Look as his lips! His ears! And his beautiful neck.’ She began to undress him, removing the tightly swaddled cloth that wrapped him.
‘Oh, don’t. Really!’ said Militza. ‘There is no need. Don’t disturb him. He’s asleep.’
‘Oh no, I want you to see him, see quite how perfect he is!’ insisted Alix. Now her hands were shaking as she tried to undo the bandages. ‘He is so beautiful, you have to see him. You simply must.’ She pulled at the cloth and the baby began to moan. ‘Shh, my angel. Shh, my beautiful boy,’ Alix hushed as she continued to unwrap him. Round and round the bandage went. ‘Oh my goodness! What has Gunst done!’ she said, laughing a little. ‘So much cloth!’ The more she unwrapped the baby, the more agitated he became. ‘Hush, hush!’
‘Honestly, there is no need!’ said Militza, her heart beginning to race.
‘Don’t carry on,’ agreed Stana, the two sisters exchanging anxious glances.
‘I insist!’ replied Alix, her eyes shining. ‘You simply must see how beautiful he is!’
And as the final bandage came off, the tiny newborn baby screamed in pain. His cry was so shockingly loud, so agonizingly visceral, that both Militza and Stana recoiled in horror. And there, in amongst the mewling, screaming, kicking baby and the swaddling and the bandages were clots and blots of blood.
‘Oh my God!’ exclaimed Stana leaping off the bed.
The baby’s legs went rigid as he inhaled to scream once more. He opened his toothless mouth and cried out in pain. His whole body shook and his tiny face crumpled and went bright pink with agony.
‘He’s bleeding,’ said Stana.
‘It’s Gunst,’ said Alix, swiftly trying to gather up all the bandages. ‘She’s bound him too tightly. Far too tightly. What a stupid woman! Stupid, stupid woman. Hush, little one. Hush.’ But Alix’s fingers fumbled;, she was shaking too much to pick the bloody cloth scattered all over the bed.
‘Shh,’ said Militza, taking hold of Alix’s hand. ‘Calm down. If you panic, the baby will too. Let me help you.’
‘What’s going on?’ A heavyset nurse, smelling of soap, ran into the bedroom, her head covered in a tightly wrapped scarf. ‘Why is he crying? Why he is undressed?’ She looked from one sister to the other, her small accusatory eyes darting back and forth. ‘Who undressed him? He must be bound. It is the only way to stem the flow. Who did this?’
She gently gathered up the screaming, naked baby and snuggled him into her large bosom and, without saying another word, she took him straight out of the room, leaving Alix sitting helpless in bed. Militza looked at the bloodied bandages lying on the top of the bed. Some of the stains were crimson fresh, others a dried dark brown. Despite the airless warmth of the room, she suddenly felt cold. She had seen this before. She turned to look at Alix. Her eyes were wide and terrified and yet her jaw was rigid and strangely defiant.
‘Gunst must have swaddled him too tightly,’ stated Militza, picking up the cloth.
Alix stared at her and her gaze did not flicker. ‘I am sure she will not make the same mistake again.’
18
31 October 1905, Znamenka, Peterhof
‘That’s it!’ declared Militza to her sister as she entered the Red Salon in Znamenka.
Stana looked up from her sewing. She was embroidering handkerchiefs for injured soldiers returned from the front. It was not something she enjoyed doing, in fact it bored her tremendously, but after the terrible traumas of the last year one had to be seen to be doing one’s bit.
And what traumas they were. There was the mistake of Bloody Sunday when lines of Cossacks and Hussars opened fire on a peaceful demonstration of workers, led by Father Gapon, all marching towards the Winter Palace in the hope of meeting the Tsar.
Poor Nicky, it broke his heart. Not least because no one told him about the worker’ rally and the terrible overreaction of his troops. The stories of death and blood on the streets of St Petersburg were appalling, the tales of the bullet holes that riddled the workers’ icons and their portraits of the Tsar made worse by their cries: ‘The Tsar has abandoned us,’ ‘The Tsar will not help us,’ and worst of all, ‘We have no Tsar any more.’ These traumatized and haunted Nicky as he sat drinking his tea and reading the reports in his study at Tsarskoye Selo.
Father Gapon wrote Nicky a letter.
‘The innocent blood of workers, their wives and children lies forever between you and the Russian people… May all the blood which much must be spilled fall upon you, you Hangman!’
And it wasn’t long before the first blood was spilt.
Three weeks later the Tsar’s uncle, Grand Duke Sergei was assassinated in Moscow. He had just said goodbye to his wife, Alix’s sister, Grand Duchess Elizabeth Fyodorovna, at the Kremlin and, as he travelled through the gate in his horse-drawn carriage, a bomb was thrown directly into his lap, killing him instantly. Ella heard the explosion from the apartment and came running. After first comforting the dying coachman, she then proceeded to crawl around in the snow, trying to find as many pieces of her husband as she could, so as much of him as possible could be buried together. She collected small fragments of his skull, his arm, his torso, but his fingers, still wearing his rings, weren’t found until a week later on a rooftop nearby.
Alix was distraught for her sister and Ella never really recovered. She wasn’t allowed to go to the funeral because it was perceived as too dangerous and, announcing fairly quickly after the assassination that she wanted to take Holy Orders, she proceeded to sell all her jewellery.
It was all so very traumatic. But as Militza pointed out to Stana, Spirit himself had predicted the assassination that night at Countess Ignatiev’s salon. ‘Why else had he repeated the name Sergei, over and over again?’ she said.