PART VI After The Tragedy

XXIX DUGOUT

Suddenly I felt a hand on my forehead. I stiffened with terror, unable to cry or even feel nausea. Was it the hand of death? Now I was cold all over, except my head—the hand warmed my forehead. The hand lifted. I waited for the weapon to plunge. I could not look. I kept my eye closed. I waited. The suspense would hold no longer.

I opened my eye a little. I could see a candle light. My eye opened wider. I saw a woman coming toward me. I screamed and shut my eye. Again I felt the warm hand on my forehead. I was hardly breathing. I waited another eternity. The hand went away. As I lay there in fear, I wondered if it was a real woman or a vision. She was no one I had seen before. She came closer again and lifted a container of water to my lips, but I could not lift my head to drink it.

“Where does it hurt you?” she said in Russian, but with a foreign accent. I wanted to answer, but no words came. I pointed to my stomach and gagged a little. It was too much effort. I began to feel ill, writhing in nausea. I felt a thin slice of preserved lemon thrust through my lips. My lips smarted. I clutched them with my hand. There was something wrong with my lips, my left arm, my head, my ankle and nose. She had bandaged my abdomen. I was too miserable to care. The lemon preserve soothed the nausea. I sucked it eagerly but hardly tasted it, it was so washed with tears. I lay there stupefied as my eye fastened on the lighted candle. It was so frightening, so bewildering: the tomb, the candle, the woman. The flame flickered and almost went out as she moved.

Again startled, my eye moved around to find that once more the woman was creeping down the wall; a few steps and she was at my side. She lifted the candle nearer, placed it on the little table beside my bed, set down a basin of water, threw back my covers, and began to undo the bandage about my stomach. Without a glance at my face she washed my wound and deftly rebandaged it. Still without looking at my face, she unbandaged my leg, bathed and bandaged it again. She dressed my head wounds, washed my face and hands, picked up her basin and disappeared up the wall and through the ceiling.

Fascinated and yet horrified, I stared at the spot where she disappeared. Suddenly two feet appeared again, a skirt, a woman coming down. She was at my side and placed another thin slice of this rare lemon preserve to my lips. She looked at me for a minute. Then she climbed up the wall and was gone.

I did not know where I was, but now I could see a trap door and a ladder of not too many rungs leading up to it. I have a clear picture of the woman’s face as she nursed me. She had nice features, black eyes; the hair, perhaps dark brown once was now partly gray and pulled back tight into a knot at the back of her head. She seemed no older than my Mother. Her hands were long and slender; she was tall and thin. She did not look like a peasant, but her general appearance told me she was no stranger to hardship. She was confident and efficient but did not seem to be a professional nurse.

For a moment I forgot my aches and pains. I wanted to know who this person was. How did an utter stranger happen to be with me? How did I get here? How long ago had things happened? Perhaps several days, since I felt crusted dry blood on the left side of my eyebrow, nose and cheek. My hair was matted and stiff with blood, crumbs of dried blood covered my pillow. My left leg was so sore I could hardly move it. My finger nails were packed with stained matter. But where was my family? I was afraid to think. My head hammered, my jaws ached, my ears rang. Every little emotion—every motion—was an agonizing experience. I must have cried myself to sleep, for I awoke sobbing. Perhaps it was a nightmare. It could not be that I, the little one, always protected and spared could be alone. Now the woman was moving about near me. Were they, too, being cared for by strangers? I sobbed until sleep overtook me. There was no way of measuring time. I wept until I slept to wake up sobbing until I wept myself to sleep again.

After the sobbing a violent nausea seized me and the woman rushed up the ladder to bring me a drink of water. She sponged my lips and fed me with a spoon. All too soon I discovered why my lip was sore. My two upper front teeth were broken and driven almost through the upper lip. One of these front teeth had been filled in Tobolsk by Dr. Kostritsky who took care of Mother’s false tooth and Father’s teeth. Several of my teeth, in the lower left jaw, were also loose; they merely were in place. There was a small hole in my right cheek and a piece of flesh was missing.

Sleep was the only respite. Wakefulness brought nothing but horror and haunting thoughts. I welcomed sharp pain as it distracted my thinking. How long this orgy of weeping and sleeping kept up I have no idea. Occasional moments of composure wedged themselves in as I realized I felt better. Immediately desperation drove me into fresh weeping. I wanted to die. I was afraid to think.

All the time the woman worked tirelessly to make me comfortable. I could not help but feel sorry to see her climb up and down the ladder to bring me something when her efforts seemed to do me so little good. She was thorough but gentle. She changed my dressings often. While she busied herself with me, I kept my eyes closed—the sight of her accentuated my loneliness. She seemed cruelly impersonal as she worked over me. She wanted to do a good and thorough job. If she would only speak to me, give me some sign of sympathy, that I might know she felt friendly! She always avoided meeting my eyes, eyes that now squinted through smarting slits, so sore were they from constant crying.

Her care was faithful but she seemed oblivious to the hungry soul inside me. She washed my scalp wound but made no attempt to comb my matted hair. Each passing day there were fewer and fewer bits of dried blood on the pillow. Finally she cut my hair on the two spots of my scalp in order to keep the wound clean. The deep round hole in front of my ankle and the wounds in my back were still painful.

The torments of my mind partially overcome, I wanted to ask questions, yet I did not. As long as I did not know definitely, I could hope. At such moments I was almost glad of the woman’s lack of sympathy. Her most expressive kindness was when she placed her hand on my head when I felt nauseated, but that hand was too much of a reality and always a fresh spur to loneliness. The nausea attacks became routine under the incessant crying. The woman did everything in her power to relieve them, everything except to extend a sympathetic word.

Uncertainty was tearing my heart. One minute I longed desperately for the woman to talk. The next minute I watched her with horror for fear she would. Perhaps she was waiting for me to grow strong enough to hear the truth—the last thing I wanted to hear. If I could only be told that the others were being cared for, I would not murmur at this temporary separation, and the pain would not be so great.

The moment came when my torture boiled to the surface. The woman was dressing my wounds when the desire to know the answers became overwhelming.

“Where am I?” I whispered.

She hesitated, then in a low voice I could hardly catch, she said, “In a little room underneath a house.” Then she added, after a pause, “It is very dangerous; never talk aloud lest someone might hear.”

“The others?” I gasped. It was out—the question. If I could only retrieve it. Suspense. I thought she never would answer. She turned her face away and said, “All gone. Please ask me no more, that is all I know.” She rushed to the ladder and went away.

All gone. I had known it all the time but would not admit it. Yet everything had happened so quickly, I could not be sure. The excitement, the running up and down the stairs, the confusion, the room filled with rough-looking men. The woman with dishevelled hair; who was she? Was all this a vision or a reality? To this day I’ll never know. Yurovsky, the most vicious man in the world swaggered after Father, whispering things I could not hear. Father’s shocked face, Mother’s trembling, her slumping back in her chair: all this horror together kept reappearing in my consciousness. The words, “All gone,” whirled around my head flying out at me from all directions at once. Those soft blue clouds which I imagined carried them rapidly through the clear skies. I still could not believe it. Perhaps only Father and Mother are gone, and brother and sisters are somewhere in a prison.

Another period of oblivion ended. Consciousness returned to find the woman bending over me. The sight of her brought back a realization of the horrible truth; the family was no more, only I was left. No, it could not be. Now I wanted her to tell me more, but she shook her head. I understood.

Frantic with the hopelessness of it all, I shivered down into my covers. My foot struck something solid but warm. It was a bed warmer, a hot stone wrapped in a cloth. Using my uninjured foot I manoeuvred it so that I got my hands on it. To me it was more than stone, more than warmth. I now felt the woman was sympathetic and underneath her still exterior I discovered a new companionship.

In spite of longing to die, I awoke from each sleep more alive. Each awakening brought a little less suffering and pain. I could now turn my head with less pain and without dizziness. The nausea attacks were almost gone—I was getting better. Sleep was the great healer: the vitality of youth swayed the balance.

With real resentment I allowed the woman to tend to my wounds. Since they were not serious enough to let me die, I had no desire to examine them to ascertain their nature. So far I had received very little nourishment from taking food, partly because I was afraid the nausea might return.

She brought me some delicious soup with a strong flavor and containing some barley. It was nourishing; I could almost feel an increased strength as I took it. Yet I did not want to get well. The woman gave me good care, but it seemed to be mistaken kindness. Now that I knew the worst, she seemed more distant than ever. It was as if she feared for her own life. She did what was necessary and departed quickly. But why was she nursing me? I could not understand it. I only knew I was alone and could not die. Hauntingly the prayer we sisters had written together kept coming to my mind. I tried to say it but the words had lost their meaning.

Over and over haunting thoughts catapulted into my mind. How did I escape the death intended for the whole family? Why did they want to do away with us? We could have gone abroad, never to return, if we could only have kept together. I remembered Mother’s frequent words, that the throne had brought nothing but unhappiness to our family. We all loved our Motherland and would have been content to live as ordinary citizens in some obscure part of it.

Had Father suspected this ending? When he carried his head erect, was he looking forward with hope or was he facing death squarely to show how bravely a Tsar could die? At the price of disloyalty to Russia, he could have saved his life. Not he, not Mother, nor any of us could be tempted to save ourselves at Russia’s expense. Except when his epaulettes were removed, I had never seen Father bitter, but only infinitely sad that he could not spare his people the tragedy of a revolution. The ruthless propaganda would not let the nation know him for what he was—one who wanted to do right and do it well. Father was the victim of the Kaiser’s intrigue. Mother was misunderstood. She had done only what she thought was best for Russia. Now I could see it all. From the very first, there had been no chance....

We had been moved to Tobolsk, further inland, making our escape less possible. Siberia was far from Finland, the mecca of fugitives. Father had believed Kerensky who assured him we would be safer in the hinterland—far safer as targets!

I hoped and prayed that Mother’s heart had failed her before the assassins’ bullets reached her. I hoped that she had cheated Yurovsky and his fellow-murderers. This would have given me great satisfaction. He at no time fooled Mother. She knew, suspected, and understood it all. She and Olga had uncanny discernment.

We believed God would always take care of us. The little intuitive prayers that arose within us, when suddenly confronted with a fresh persecution; the strength that we received in adjusting ourselves to new humiliating requirements; the exaltation we felt in the sense of God’s guidance. All these underlined the idea, “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me.” Perhaps if we had not trusted so exaltingly, we might have done more to help ourselves.

These were my thoughts of despair when suddenly I heard voices in my cell, faint voices, but I could understand this much: the man said, “Organized parties are searching everywhere, in the woods, in the houses. They have found nothing. No one suspects us, but you can see we are in danger.” He said much more than that, but this is all I could understand.

“Which one of your sisters was very tall?” the woman asked.

“Tatiana,” I replied excitedly.

Turning to the man she said, “It is too bad. Just think, she too, could be alive if ...”, her voice faded away, as if she was trying to keep me from hearing.

“If what?” I burst out with a cry and tried to get out of bed only to fall back in pain. When I gained my composure, I looked for the man, but he was gone. The woman was still there.

“Tell me, ‘if what?’” I pleaded, as I stretched out my hand to her.

“Please do not ask any questions. I cannot answer,” she said, as she rushed to climb the ladder.

Was there no end to my tortures? I was so near to a little truth, then to lose it forever. Tatiana. What could have happened that she did not come through ... as I had. Together we might have found something to live for. That man ... who could he be? He had the same kind of accent as the woman. From what I had heard him say, it did not seem as if he had been one of the actual rescuers. He spoke as if he had heard through someone else; as if he were connected with the rescuers in some manner. He, too, was frightened, all because of me. Had they saved me for a humane reason or had they stolen my body to rob it and finding me alive thought it safer to nurse me back to health than to dispose of me?

For the first time I began to observe my surroundings. The place was tiny with a ceiling so low a good-sized person standing could easily touch the ceiling with his head. The width and length seemed about nine by ten feet. All four walls were of dirt with little roots protruding. The floor was also plain earth, covered by a braided oval straw mat extending from my bed almost to the ladder. Now I could see plainly about what I had first taken to be my unsealed grave. Close to the ceiling was a small window, a dirt-stained pane of glass about five by eight inches which let almost no light through. I was lying on an army cot. On the opposite wall was a wooden ladder leading to the trap door. To the right of the ladder was a wooden bench covered with blankets, which looked as if it had been used as a bed. Beside me was a small marble-topped table with a drawer. A small candle on the table lighted the room. A chair was the only other object in my dugout.

The question came to my mind, what had become of my clothes—my white blouse, gray plaid skirt? Now I was clad in a white cotton nightdress, much too large for my frail body. It probably belonged to this woman. And where were my shoes? Had the man discovered the precious stones in the heels? Had they found the other stones which were sewn in my clothes, especially inside the buttons? We sisters had some money in the belts of our skirts. What had become of all that?

They could have everything if only they would tell me about Tatiana. The man knew why she had not come through, and so did the woman, yet they would not talk to me. The man thought I could be moved, but he soon discovered I could not stand on my feet. The woman’s hand was on my covers; then I felt sudden warmth in my shivering body. The stone was back, good and hot, nicely wrapped. I curled around it.

Gradually my body marched on toward recovery; my head had ceased to throb. I could turn it easily. Immediately the woman sensed this progress and removed the bandages. My wounds were less painful. Again with her uncanny insight into my condition, she placed the pillow behind me and sat me up in bed.

One day when I was sitting up in bed, I noticed on the table next to me a brown lump. It looked like a section of a dried apple. I picked it up; it gave me a feeling of horror, and I quickly dropped it on the army blanket covering my bed. As I looked at it closely, I saw a familiar design. I unfolded a small portion of it, and recognized the edge as the handkerchief that was given me by Grandmother, who also gave one to each of my sisters. I could not imagine where this handkerchief had come from. I remembered that when our rooms had last been searched, I had picked it up from the floor and had placed it on a small table in Mother’s room. I do not remember taking it when we rushed to get dressed that final night, nor did I intend to use this fine lace handmade keepsake. I must have picked it up absent-mindedly. According to the woman, when I was brought into the dugout that fateful morning, the handkerchief was clutched tightly in my hand. I had brought it with me when we left Tsarskoe Selo to Tobolsk and then to Ekaterinburg. I intend to place it in the museum which I plan to establish. Mother had beautiful laces and had brought a few small pieces with her to Tobolsk. Fearing they might be mishandled, these valuable laces were to be divided among us children.

The woman cared for me quite frequently, although I had no clock to mark the passing hours, nor was there any sunshine by which to conjecture the time of day. During my convalescence she let me wear a white cotton jacket which had starched pleating around the neck and down the front. This bed jacket was far too large for me, but it was her best. The sheets on my bed were of a coarse cotton; so was the pillow case. The latter was edged with a peasant lace and was buttoned together. Over the sheet, she had placed a warm army blanket.

The room was dark, day hardly distinguishable from night. The little window high up near the ceiling was covered on the outside with hay, as I later discovered. A little light did penetrate into this dugout, but at night she hung a dark cloth over this pane. My eyes were sore from the lighted candle and I put it out except when she cared for me. I had no book or magazine or newspaper. No calendar to mark the time of year or the day of the month. I had no idea whether it was summer or fall. My room was always cool and damp and the days long.

As I lay in this dark mustiness, I had time to think about everything that took place during my seventeen years with my dear family. There were so many sudden changes in the political hysteria, that I wondered if in my thoughts I was confused! It was unbelievable that actually such developments really had taken place. One day I asked the woman, whether all the turmoil was a reality or just a nightmare!

“No!” she replied, “it is true.”

Propped up in bed, from this vantage point, I was able to see and hear the man, should he ever come back. I would judge whether he was friend or foe. Whatever the man might be, I was sure the woman had nothing to do with my rescue beyond the determination to make me well. But I remember the words, “You see how careful we must be.” That sounded as if they were working together. Perhaps others were involved, others saved? When the man should come back I was determined to find out all the events from him, from my last recollection to the present time. The questions they had asked me gave me hope that Tatiana had been saved.

Absorbed in these thoughts, I was unaware that someone had come down the ladder until I suddenly realized the man stood beside me. Behind him was the woman holding a lighted candle. Waves of fresh, sweet air wafted out from his clothes.

“Good evening,” he said, “it is cool outside.” “How do you feel?” he asked.

My lips said, “Better, thank you,” but all the time I was thinking, he sounds friendly. I will ask him.

Before I could open my mouth to form the words, his manner became serious, almost severe. “Never speak out loud,” he warned. “Only in a whisper. It is very dangerous.”

He wheeled around and was gone up the ladder without another word. The woman followed.

I looked hard at that man and felt satisfied he was not one of the Ekaterinburg guards, nor was he anyone I had ever seen before. In his shabby English clothes I could not be sure what he was. He carried himself erect like a soldier, his hair was well-groomed and he had an easy manner. He looked at me squarely without self-consciousness and delivered his orders without hesitation.

The woman usually carried my food on a rough, wooden tray. Gradually, she brought me more solid food. Occasionally I had some potato; fresh fish was on my regular diet. When eating solid food I had to be very careful as I was afraid that I might swallow some of the teeth that were broken at the roots.

I found one disfigurement after another. I could chew only on the right side of my mouth. Feeling around my head, I realized I was covered with welts, one more painful than the other. I also discovered two long grooves, one on the right side of my head, back of the ear, about an inch long, which still remained very painful. I wondered if this pain was the result of the accident or was inherited from my Mother who had a sensitive spot on her head. Her hairdresser had to be very careful when arranging her hair. Mine might have been caused by the bullet that had grazed my head. The pain indicated that my nose, too, was broken.

A deformed, partly toothless girl at seventeen, alone in a world that did not care. My only consolation was that in spite of everything the Lord continued to be beside me.

Beneath the bandage of my stomach, no part was shot away. I could not find a bullet hole; instead, my skin was covered with traceries as though cut by myriads of flying glass. The woman seemed pleased that I was well enough to take an interest in my wounds. She actually volunteered the information that she had pulled out small pieces of blue glass from my flesh. She spread honey over my abdomen and finally the honey drew the glass slivers out.

She asked, “Do you remember carrying any glass container with you?”

Mother often carried a small blue bottle of smelling salts. It was possible she had this in her hand at the time.

The woman showed me the wounds on my left leg, an oval gash, very deep; and a small one in the back; a round, corresponding hole in the front. She said nothing more as though to give no loophole, but worked rapidly and then hurried up the ladder.

The man became a more frequent visitor in my dugout. He was always friendly, more so than the woman. He always had something pleasant to say about the weather, perhaps a cheerful “Good evening.” After a while he brought along another man who seemed to be of an entirely different type—dressed in peasant clothes, and obviously a peasant. Both were impatient for me to get well. They were inquiring about my progress, asking the woman how soon I might be up and around. From their nervousness I could see they were in constant terror of discovery. During one of the visits, I saw a newspaper folded in the pocket of the first man. When he turned around I recognized only the Latin characters. I could not tell what the language was.

Whenever the men came I was frightened and excited, hoping that one of them would drop a hint that another member of my family was saved. It was hard for me to believe that all were gone. With these thoughts and uncertainties surrounding me, I was terrified. I knew nothing of an outside world—my home in Tsarskoe Selo was the only world I knew. Perhaps all this was a retribution, because I had often envied girls who were free to go where they wished. As a young girl I had never taken anything seriously. I had always been shielded, often looked on with amusement, until the war broke out when suddenly I discovered how serious life was to be. Now no one was left to stand between me and reality. These dirt walls were reality. Yet even here someone protected me. Beyond these walls there seemed to be some sinister power, yet I could not comprehend it all. Days and days passed, perhaps weeks and months.

Sitting up in bed was a short preliminary, a to-be milestone. Standing on my feet, first touching the ground, I felt the braided straw rug on the earthen ground as my head reeled in dizziness. I could not get back to my bed fast enough. That proved one thing; I was not as well as my nurse had thought.

Next morning she put me on my feet once more. My legs were stronger and there was no return of my dizzy spell. I stood a very short time, then thankfully I found myself in bed. This was repeated. I protested against these exercises, because my thoughts and my whole being were disturbed by them.

All too soon she had me walking the length of the rug several times. I wept defiantly as she led me along. I staggered frightfully, but in the end I forced myself to walk as long as I could endure it. Finally I had it mastered and the woman was satisfied.

Then came the time when the woman began to bring things from above. She brought clothes to dress me in. First she drew on long, heavy underwear. Then she put on me a pair of old black cotton stockings, a slip, and an old gingham dress, so faded the original blue-gray color was almost undiscernible. Finally she fastened on peasant shoes two or three sizes too large. My original shoe size was about four-and-a-half at the time. She stood me up, tied a babushka on my head, threw a coat around my shoulders and walked me toward the ladder. “We are going upstairs,” she said. “The outdoors.”

My heart started to beat. Perhaps they were going to kill me. The thought of possible death did not generate fear now.

If I were going to my death, my mind was ready, but my body lagged. My hands held tight to the rung of the ladder when I realized the left side of my lower back was injured. I could not raise my feet without help. The woman lifted them one at a time—to the first rung, then to the second. She unclutched my hands and placed them on the next higher step. She swung herself behind me, her hands on the rung beside mine, her body framed me like a strong armchair. She began to climb, lifting me ahead of her, up and up, and through the trap door.

I climbed out on my hands and knees as she instructed me to do. She guided me along a dark hall about two yards wide through a door to the opposite side and into a room. Sitting at a table in front of me were the two men who had previously visited my dugout. A candle on the table was the only light in the room. The windows were tightly covered with heavy cloth. These things my eyes took in as the woman led me to a chair facing the men. My mind was calm but my body shook uncontrollably.

The man, my first visitor, was the spokesman. “Don’t be afraid,” he began. “You know we are trying to help you.”

His voice was reassuring and my body calmed a little.

“We are in great danger,” he continued. “Spies have been everywhere, searching for missing bodies. If anyone comes near you, and tries to speak to you, pretend to be deaf and dumb. Make signs with your hands but never speak to anyone, not even to us, unless we first speak to you. We cannot be careful enough.” In a softer tone he added, “I grieve to inform you—the others are no more. I can tell you nothing more.”

He paused deferentially. I understood. That subject was closed between us.

In a moment he went on, “It is becoming too dangerous to remain here. We must go away, but first you must accustom yourself to the outdoors. Ahead of us is a long, strenuous journey. We dare not risk the daylight, so the trip must be made after dark. Tonight will be a starter. Tomorrow we will see you again.”

XXX RECOVERY

I was dismissed. It was over. I was not to be killed. My body throbbed with gladness.

The woman was standing beside me. She led me to the door and out into the open night. The air was sweet and fresh, so noticeable after being accustomed for so long to musty air. I breathed deeply to refresh my whole being. It was so long since the last time I had seen the night all lighted up with golden stars so near and yet so far. This was the most beautiful night and the saddest one I could remember. The horizon seemed to be far away, sad and quiet as if the world were in a deep slumber. But probably this very minute some one was facing a death sentence.

A heavy stone lay on my soul. I could find no consolation. Never will I see them again. My sisters fresh as rosebuds, in the very morning of their lives, and now withered away before they even blossomed, their youthful faces now covered with the cold earth, vanished completely and forever before my very eyes. My heart was aflame with a grief that was tearing my soul.

Were these the same stars which looked down on us at Tsarskoe Selo? At Livadia? The same as on our cruises, when Father’s stories about the heavens seemed so real? Father could see them no more; nor Mother, nor sisters, nor my brother Alexei. Knowing that their eyes were closed forever, filled me with a loneliness I could not bear.

How could the stars go on shining as if nothing had happened? How could the air be so sweet and fresh when such foulness had taken place? If my family could not breathe this fresh air, how could I? And how could I gaze on this heavenly grandeur?

All about me reminded me of my family. I had no more tears but I cried inwardly. I lost my balance. I collapsed on the ground. The man and the woman were watching me. They rushed to help me to my feet, and back into the house and down the ladder.

Again I sank into the damp earthiness of my tiny room, thankful for its darkness. Here I felt closer to my family. Outside the stars could sparkle, the air could be fresh, but inside the contrast could not flaunt itself before me. I need not look at a world untouched by our tragedy.

In the middle of the night I awoke to find myself walking about my dugout. I was completely confused, with no idea of where I was. My bare feet sank into the soft dirt. At last my foot touched the straw rug which led me to my bed, and in bed was still the welcoming warmth of the stone wrapped in a cloth.

Walking around with bare feet had given me a slight cold. The woman was upset; she attributed the setback to the night air, to my first trip outdoors. The men called early in the morning. They were annoyed that I had a cold but agreed with the woman it was best to defer another trip upstairs until I felt better. I heard them say, “Speed up her recovery.”

I lay still another night wrapped in my thoughts. Though the men had said that my family was no more, still I would not believe it How could they be so sure? I would never cease to hope, since I had learned how difficult it was to die. To me their nobility, their trust in God, their character were more impressive than the grandeur of the night. God would not fail them.

But we were separated. That was certainty. Somewhere I would be deposited to face an indifferent world, a world that would not bend its knee to me. I must suppress my identity and make a new life, all alone. God knows how I missed them all. I lay there, one minute hoping, then despairing. I felt close to them in a world which was not theirs nor mine. The woman continued her care of me; I was suspended between two worlds belonging neither to this one nor the one to come. The idea crossed my mind several times that suicide was an easy escape from my misery, but my strong faith based on years of prayer would not permit this lack of will power.

Soon my cold faded away and once more the woman had me climbing the ladder. This time she stood on a chair, put both hands under my arms and lifted me up the few rungs through the trap door. In a few moments I was again in the presence of the same two men.

As before, the only light came from the candle on the table. The windows had the same heavy coverings. I almost said, “Good evening,” but remembered not to, just in time. With no preliminaries the spokesman started immediately.

“We are very much interested in straightening out a few things,” he said. “We want to ask you some questions.”

I was all fear. At Tobolsk, at Ekaterinburg, questions meant traps. Surging through me, I remembered my Mother’s advice: “Answer courteously but give no information.”

“Were they unkind to you in Tobolsk?”

I wanted to tell the truth. In spite of my impaired speech, they wanted me to answer their questions.

“Very unkind, the last days,” I answered.

“What sort of things did they do to you?”

I hesitated. There had been so much torture and suffering, it was difficult to begin with any specific detail. In contrast to the final outcome, the treatment we endured at Tobolsk suddenly seemed trivial. I could not mention anything specific, not yet. The tragedy towered over all events, making all others seem unimportant.

“Everything to contribute to our unhappiness and humiliation,” I said.

“Who were with you in Tobolsk?” he began.

Something I could answer easily. I told him, “Our friends, and household help.” Their faithfulness excited my memories.

“Did they all go with you to Ekaterinburg?”

While in thought, I raised my eyes and saw a door on my right side which apparently led into another room. Through a crack I saw a bright light and a shadow flitting across the crack in a sort of rhythmical motion, as if someone were swinging back and forth. My thoughts were distracted for a moment. My training came to my aid. I could see without betraying what I saw. I hid my surprise at discovering that there were other people in the house besides the two men and the woman. I dismissed my curiosity since I was beginning to have confidence in these men. Their questions must be answered.

I began, “Some went first with Father, Mother, and Marie, Dr. Botkin, Prince Dolgorukov, a maid and Father’s valet. When our parents left Tobolsk the others stayed to take care of us children who were left behind to go later when Alexei should be better.”

What kind of quarters did we have in Ekaterinburg? Did we have enough to eat? Did we ever go outdoors? Did we see our friends? How did we pass the time? These questions were meant to pave the way for more questions that were to come later and to encourage me to answer them. In a way I was glad to confide my sorrow.

When they were through, one of the men signalled the woman, who led me outdoors. My second walk in the air. I had decided to take the outing without once lifting my eyes to the sky. I took short breaths and leaned heavily on the woman’s arm. We walked around the house. Guarding us, I sensed rather than saw, was one of the two men, walking a few feet behind us. At last we were back at the entrance. The house was dark as we entered the first room and passed through the open trap door and down the ladder. The trap door was lowered and I noticed a cloth was nailed on the inside. No sounds must penetrate through that floor. The exertion and gratification at my own courage put me into a sound sleep that night.

I awoke stronger and aware of a new milestone in my march to recovery. Each day the terrifying world I knew nothing of drew closer. I had almost ceased to struggle to keep from entering this world of reality. I was being carried like a leaf floating on the surface of a fast-flowing stream. I could not stop or sink. The prospect of living my life in good health would have been frightening enough, but now I must face ill health and loneliness as well. If only crying could oust these seething tortures.

The woman was busy folding a blanket. When she finished she piled it on her arm, tossed the pillow on top and lowered her chin on it for a firm grip on her burden. Now she was climbing the ladder, load and all. There was something final in the way she climbed. It suddenly dawned on me that she had spent the many nights close by my side. Satisfied that I was out of danger, she was henceforth going to sleep upstairs. I had not been conscious of her presence; misery had made me deaf and blind. Now that her watchful custody was removed, I became frightened and longed for the nearness I had not been aware of.

Without a clock, I had no idea at what time our day started. When the woman appeared, it was morning. The smoky window became a panel of gray after she removed its covering. I always listened for a “Good morning.” But that was all. She never did tell me what I should call her. If I needed her attention, I whispered, “Lady, please.” I did overhear the man call her Iliana or Irina. When she combed my hair, she did it gently. All her services were performed tenderly. I thought I detected a resemblance between her and the man who was the first spokesman. I wished I knew something about these men and the woman.

After an early supper she helped me to get dressed again in the same grotesque clothes and took me to the room above. The same men awaited me; the same rhythmical shadow flitted through the crack. Previously the questions had been of a general nature. Now they began to ask me more personal ones. They asked about Madame Vyrubova. Did she influence the Tsarina? Was she intimate with Rasputin? Did she live in the palace? I did not want to answer any of these questions, yet I did not dare to refuse.

All the time the shadow continued to pass over the lighted crack of the door. Who could it be? Was there someone writing down my answers? I was terrified. Suddenly I became so exhausted that I thought I would fall from the chair. My interrogator saw the situation and excused me. The woman accompanied me outdoors, and we walked around the house several times. Then I returned to my little hole. Once more I sank into my congenial darkness. The woman climbed the ladder, her touch was as soft as a feather. The trap door opened, then lowered back into place, quietly but firmly.

One day she brought me a piece of meat and vegetables. I refused to eat meat. The woman had no longer to bandage my wounds; they had healed sufficiently. Now I felt an itching sensation on my head and the woman was pleased with my progress. “Your hair will cover it nicely,” she said. There in the darkness my hair was growing fast. I was able to braid it.

Ahead of me lay the nightly inquisition. Yet each trip into the outdoors made me more independent physically. Once more and many times later I sat in the question room trying to control myself in the face of the curiosity of these two men and the woman. Now my Mother was the subject of their questioning.

“Did your uncle come from Germany to see the Tsarina?” The shadow in the next room seemed poised for my answer. Suddenly I was glad of the recording. Here was the opportunity to show Mother as the eager helpmate that she really was, trying to report to Father the facts as she saw them in his absence. “Did the Tsarina listen to Rasputin, because she believed in his honesty, foreseeing, and experience?”

I answered, “Whatever Mother did, she did it only for the good of Russia. When Father did not agree with Mother, she accepted his decision as final, knowing she could have no further influence.” I expressed these thoughts as carefully as I could, hoping whoever it was would take them down accurately.

Every evening for some two weeks I was questioned. Each period of questioning lasted about an hour. When each bout was ended I was burning as with a fever. The questions were personal and plentiful. The subjects were continually changed, covering the entire Imperial family and the palace staff, as well as the household employees. Many of these questions seemed so impertinent to me that one night I burst out, “Why are you asking me all this?” They replied, “We only want to know.”

Gradually I began to take in my outdoor surroundings. Not far away I saw a haystack. Beyond it, a dark vastness, perhaps a forest or low hills. During my walks around the house, I noticed that it was square and squat like most peasant houses. I gathered it was made of wood. The roof was shingled. I tried to find my tiny window and finally located it behind the camouflage of hay. I could hardly see it. Now I understood why my room was so dark.

The house stood some distance from the road and a long dirt driveway extended from the road to the rear of the house. To one side was a large shed, perhaps a barn, which apparently did not house any animals since I heard no sounds from it Occasionally I did hear lowing herds in the distance. Perhaps one of these cows was responsible for the milk I received each day. There were no signs of horses or chickens. But several times I heard a faint train-whistle in the distance. I never saw any arrivals or departures. Did these men come from the neighboring houses and walk across the fields? What went on in this house was a complete mystery to me. Did these two men and the woman live in this house? There was another young woman. Was she behind the ill-fitting door? I had only seen the hall and the question room, but I felt sure there was another room in the house. The furnishings I saw were meagre. Perhaps this was an abandoned farmhouse or discarded servants’ quarters attached to someone’s estate. The outside, too, had a deserted appearance. I noticed some hay scattered near the house. My observations were all based on what little I could see in the darkness. I felt sure these people were in someone’s service, or they were using the place as a temporary hideout.

The men became quite friendly. The woman continued her silent care of me. The men talked freely, even joked about my recovery. Without warning, the question I had always suppressed, suddenly broke out. “Why did you rescue me?” I inquired.

The faces of both men turned red. The man I first met was shocked. The second man’s eyes blazed with fury. “What is it that you want to know?” he said.

My feelings were deeply hurt at this coarse reply. My fears returned in full force. The worst must lie ahead.

It was obvious that I must soon go away, otherwise these people would pay the penalty. Now I wanted to stay in my dugout forever. It was mine and I was part of it. I would inscribe my name here, but where exactly? I had nothing with which to write, no crayon, pen or pencil. There was a hairpin on the table. Quickly I was out of bed and standing on the rug. I pulled out the small drawer and set it upside down on my bed and began scratching my name with the hairpin. I bore down with all my strength on the bottom of the drawer and formed the letters and numbers: “A.N.R. 1918.” It could not have been a legible signature but, such as it was, there it would stay, a witness to my habitation, these hairpin hieroglyphics.

A few days after this incident the woman seemed to take unusual pains with my grooming. She braided my hair smoothly. She gave me a fresh pillow which had a lace edging, sat me up and dressed me in one of her jackets. She arranged my covers neatly. By the time she had finished the men were already descending the ladder.

The first man took a small kodak from his pocket and after lighting several candles snapped my picture. A few days later they returned with several prints. I had one of these until it disappeared with my manuscript. The clearest object in the picture was the lace on the pillow case. How different I looked! My nose was still swollen, my jaw caved in, my eyes had many light dots.

“Isn’t it a splendid likeness?” the spokesman was saying.

As they turned to climb the ladder, they reminded me of the danger of their position. “Things are terrible,” they said in unison. “People are lined up and shot at the slightest excuse.”

I gathered that they were more and more frightened at having me around. The questioning continued, followed by a walk each time. How could they think of so many things to ask?

My family would have been surprised at my diplomatic skill. The mystery continued. I learned no more about the house. After each outing I was returned to my dugout. Then I began to feel an undercurrent of excitement which told me that the time of my departure was near.

One day when I was again in the question room, one of the men said, “We can not stay here any longer. We are taking you to another little place. It is very risky. Never forget to be deaf and dumb. Speak only with your hands. We start early in the morning. You will take a short walk now, then sleep until we awaken you.”

Our outing was brief. Once more I was hustled down the ladder. The woman helped me into bed and went away. Some time after midnight, the woman returned. This hour reminded me of the night at Ekaterinburg. I began to cry. Her worn, white face told me only too well that she had worked many hours preparing for our departure. She brought me a cup of milk. Her hand was shaking. I felt a warm feeling of appreciation. I too was trembling. I spilled the milk. She dried the splash on my dress and turned away but our souls were knit together.

She rushed me to dress in the same clothes I had worn before, except that the old dress now had a wide hem. It almost reached to my ankles. My black stockings were well hidden by my high laced shoes and the long dress. She tied a babushka around my head.

Silently she handed me a label which had apparently been removed from someone’s coat or dress. Stamped on brown taffeta in gold were a double-headed eagle and the words, “Mikhailov Moskva.” Mikhailov was the name of a well-known Moscow firm. I could not recall having ever seen such a label and could only guess at her motive in giving it to me. Possibly she thought I would recognize it and surmise something as to what had happened to its owner. I still have it.

I asked once more what had become of my old clothes that I had had on that fatal night. Puzzlingly she replied, “They were so badly bloodsoaked that I had them burned.” I wished to ask her again what became of the items I had had hidden in my clothes. I was afraid. I was at their mercy. I had no choice. There were some fifty large diamonds and pearls and about twenty-five rubies, emeralds and sapphires.

I took a final glance at the room and thought of the uncertain future ahead. Now that I was leaving this tiny spot, I knew that I owed it a great deal. The only thing I had to give it I had already given—my initials.

In front of the ladder I knelt down to pray for a moment for my dear ones. I dreaded to leave the dugout for fear that I might never again visit this part of the world where the remains of my beloved ones no doubt were buried—somewhere nearby.

My mind went back to a question I was once asked: Why did I always stand at some distance from my sisters? I now realized that I must have unconsciously had the premonition that we would some day be separated.

I blew out the candle and groped my way through the room to climb the ladder, and out through the trap door. A clam was being tom from its shell.

In the hall I was greeted with a rush of fresh air. Our departure was to be immediate, with no light of any kind. In a few seconds the woman led me outdoors.

XXXI WESTWARD TREK

I was conscious of figures mysteriously scurrying back and forth to the house. My eyes began to focus better and I could see standing a man who led me to the back of a hay wagon, as if to introduce me to the scheme devised for my escape. He took my hand that I might feel him unlatch a little door, then he pushed my arm through the opening, indicating to me the empty space inside. He guided my hand to the bottom, to the bedding of hay and the blanket, then the arched roof to feel the hoops laid closely above. He directed my fingers to the cloth between the hoops, trying to let me know a covering had been thrown over to keep the hay from falling through. He made me touch the sides of the wagon and the arched top covered with hay. My hiding place was to be this coop, camouflaged as a load of hay. The ingenious plan revealed once more the risk these people were taking. I stood hesitating between fear and appreciation, when suddenly I found myself being lifted feet first through the tiny door. He handed me a bottle of water and without a word hooked the little door. Locked up in my little cage, I listened. Footsteps. It seemed there were many. I was anxious to catch every sound. I could hear nothing. The wagon bent forward as under a heavy weight. A stronger lurch and we were in motion.

Now I felt like a little calf being taken to the market. Yet I had reason to trust these people. Their careful preparation, their discreet silence could be only for my safety. I could not understand them, but I could not mistake their kindness. Perhaps someone would meet me at our destination. The serious, elaborate precautions indicated we were in great danger. This first part of the journey was no doubt the most critical. Through the rear of the wagon I could see a light. It was the sun coming up.

I presume we traveled for hours, the horse moving at a steady and brisk pace. I could tell when we were going up or down. The road was rough and I was badly shaken. These country roads were in poor shape and full of ruts. The dust sifted through the partitioned door and filled my eyes and nostrils. I felt I was suffocating. I could hardly breathe. My dry throat stiffened. I reached for the bottle, found and removed the cork, swallowed some water to wash the dust down, and sponged my face. My cramped coop was long enough to permit me to lie full length, and high enough so I could easily turn over. I could even draw up my knees, though I could not sit up. I rolled on my stomach and pressed my face against the little door to catch any current of air. I hoped they would soon stop, but dared not call out for fear that my voice would betray us. The driver seemed to know the road well, as the cart did not hesitate in making any of the turns. It had no springs and it jolted brutally and ceaselessly. My head was splitting. Would my wounds break open? My face was stiff and plastered with a mixture of dust and sweat. I was miserable. We travelled for a long time. Then light began to penetrate through the door and the wagon took a sudden turn. A plunge down and up again, then slowly along a level road with many bends. It stopped. I listened. Had we been halted for searching? Did someone jump down from the driver’s seat? Some one was coming around the wagon. It was one of the men, pushing the hay from the little door.

Suddenly the door flew open. In came a rush of fresh air. Feeling unsteady I tottered into the arms of the woman. I was glad she had come with us. She smiled, reflecting my pleasure at seeing her. She held me for a moment before I could walk around to loosen my tensed body.

It was most exciting to find myself free in the woods in the daylight. I learned there was no trouble here. We had stopped for a rest and to care for the horse. My eyes squinted and watered painfully, and I could distinguish very little. I bathed my eyes and the woman tied a cloth over them and left me sitting on a log. I lifted the cloth a tiny bit to accustom my eyes to the light. First I saw some green, then the forest, then a winding stream and myriads of bushes screening us from the road—a perfectly secluded spot. Later in the evening we resumed our journey, stopping several times for a rest. At daybreak the light started again to seep into my coop. The way the horse turned indicated we were not here by accident, but had actually stopped according to plan.

It was a beautiful morning; the dew still on the grass made the air superb. I could see some deep orange-colored flowers and some wild asters. I plucked some of those dry seeds from the plants and tossed them into the air, hoping they would fly through the woods in the direction where my family was resting. I knew so little of the cruel facts surrounding my dear ones. If I could only kneel beside their graves for a silent prayer. But even this was denied me. Water rushed down a little stream and humming insects flitted about No prison walls here.

Presently the woman spread the army blanket on the ground, motioning me to sit on it, and opened a lunch basket. She had some hard boiled eggs, one for each of us, fried fish, bread. It was a sumptuous feast, and a glorious feeling there under the shaggy trees, the profusion of pines and birches, under the deep blue sky—a typical Siberian scene. The horse stood still munching. The leaves hung motionless, the birds were quiet; all nature seemed to breath in suspended and sympathetic silence as we ate our lunch hungrily.

The great sacrifice these people were making impressed me once more and I felt appreciative. In no time all three were asleep. In order to make it easy for everybody I had an urge to run away, but because of the effort these people were making, my conscience would not permit it. Also probably at the “little place” they knew of, someone might be waiting for me.

The little brook rumbled on in the quiet of the countryside. It alone defied silence. The trees stood in a colored hush of yellow, red and green. The white birch and the trembling aspen beat their wings. All this indicated it was early fall and nature was ready for its long sleep. After taking these details of the setting, I realized I, too, was exhausted.

The men were harnessing the horse and the woman was packing when I awoke. She was waiting to fold my blanket. I was chagrined to have been such a poor sentinel, but no harm had resulted. Now the men were ready. The woman started for the wagon, so I followed, though I could have enjoyed nature in that spot indefinitely. In a few minutes I was back in my coop; the men and the woman were in their places. The wagon bent forward several times and we were on our way again.

We moved steadily and confidently. The way must have been perfectly familiar to our driver. I did not hear any other passing wagons, nor was I conscious of passing through any village. I kept thinking about the beautiful spot in which we had lunched. That day God and nature were fused together. There in that beautiful resting place the family had been with me in spirit guiding me in the very air I breathed, caressing and encouraging me. I imagined I could hear Father’s quieting words. Even now I thought those words might be directing us. The driver seemed so sure of the way I became less alone, less suffocated, less desperate. I could lie quietly. Transcended, I simmered in wishful dreams. This was the second night on the road. The wagon rumbled. Another abrupt turn awakened me. I listened. The horse halted. One of the men was opening the door of the coop. He pulled me out and set me on my feet. We were in the midst of a thicket. The third stop on our journey. It was twilight, the sky still holding its sunset colors. The colors faded into the gathering darkness.

The men worked hurriedly, nervously and anxiously to get through feeding and watering the horse. It was a short stretching period, only long enough to eat from our basket and let the horse finish his feed. Not one word broke the evening silence, not one moment was wasted. Once more I lay in the coop and the horse started out again.

Even in the dark I could feel a certainty of direction. The horse’s feet met the ground as if the way was not strange to him. We went on about the same pace as during daylight. Each moment I was prepared for any difficulty which might arise. So far there had been no trouble. Would we travel all night? I could not sleep in the chilling darkness and I did not suppose any of the others did. Suddenly a lurch to the left, a short run and a halt. No sounds, only poignant stillness. One of the men helped me out of the cage. I found myself standing beside a house. The woman opened the door and walked in. They all seemed to know this house. Though it was dark, they made their way around, and lighted a candle. The woman led me to a bed. After she finished with me, she went out of the room.

It seemed but a moment before the woman was awakening me from my sleep. I was getting used to the inevitable. It was still dark when she came in with a candle in her hand. She guided me to a table where milk and bread was laid out for me. Then she led me outdoors to the wagon which stood ready. I could see clearly by the light of the stars.

To my surprise, we did not stop at the rear of the wagon. We passed to the front where one of the men already sat in the driver’s seat. The second man turned as if to help me up. I looked at the woman, seeking an explanation. She put her lips to my forehead, pressed my hand, then gently pushed me toward the man who helped me to the seat beside the driver. The other man climbed after me. The wagon started, it had two horses this time. We had left the woman behind! I suddenly realized the woman had said good-bye. I was never to see her again. We turned out of the yard, onto the country road. A man on each side of me and the woman gone. I had misgivings. The men sat rigid, gazing at the pre-dawn blackness. They were on the alert. To them, leaving the woman behind was a planned milestone in their hazardous task. Her part was finished, now it was up to them to carry on.

The woman was protection to me, the last remnant of a feminine world. We were still in danger, judging by their alertness. I wondered why I had not returned to the coop. These men were stoical and brave to attempt this journey at all. Their continual watchfulness inspired confidence. One of these men had annoyed me with his questions several days ago. Now he sat beside me.

Each moment took me farther away from the woman. I had taken her protection for granted. My feeling for her had been a mixture of wonder and resentment. I always hoped that some day she would talk to me and tell me what I wanted to know. Now that day was gone forever. But she had done her part faithfully and I must be grateful. That last night at the dugout, when we looked eye to eye, she understood what I wanted most. I would have liked to put it in words. That night I had felt close to her. Now she was far from me, free to return to her accustomed way of life. What was her life? On our way, had we dropped her at her home? This dugout, where I had been so long, was it far from Ekaterinburg?

The men spoke of Uktus and Mramorskaya. Was one of these the location of my dugout? It was an irritating mystery. No part of the mystery was solved and now the woman was gone without telling me a thing.

The men kept peering through the darkness, taking advantage of its unlimited screen to make all possible progress. My inner darkness exceeded the darkness of the night. At length the outer darkness lifted to herald the coming dawn. Soon the majestic sun appeared unchallenged. I was cold and numb until a quick turn of the wagon made me forget my numbness.

The horses halted and the men stood up to stretch. They jumped down and helped me to alight. Then handing me the basket and the army blanket, they began to unharness the horses. This was the beginning of our fourth day on the road. I attended to the food while the men cared for the horses. The basket contained a fresh supply of food—black bread, eggs and a bottle of water. The woman must have baked the bread for us, while we were asleep. I found a sunny spot on which to spread the blanket while we ate.

When we finished they jumped to their feet, folded the blanket and we were off again. I climbed to the driver’s seat, where we sat three abreast. We were a family of peasants driving between work fields. My faded clothes fitted perfectly into the scheme. That day the horses seemed to know the route as well as the driver. They knew all the byways. They must have driven these roads frequently. From a hill I could see a village in the distance. I did not ask their names and the men did not volunteer the information. We did see some people walking on these roads. We also passed a few wagons.

When I noticed that the men were less tense, I assumed we were beyond the danger zone. We were all in a more relaxed mood. We stopped in another spot and laid out the food, but there was very little left. They were so tired, they hardly could eat The meager meal was soon finished and they harnessed the horses. One of them took the blanket and climbed on top of the hay and spread it out. The other man helped me up; here I was to spend my night. How imperturbable these men were, so reassuring when I was most afraid. Their thoughtfulness touched me. Now that the men could not see me, I could shed the tears I had turned back yesterday. I fell asleep until the wagon halted again. I sat up in fright. It was a dark night. The stars were quivering. I heard the straps fall. The whiffle-tree hit the ground. The horses were stepping out of their traces. We were to spend the night here. The men stretched outside beside the wagon.

We had been sleeping for a while when I thought I heard a scream of some kind. I heard it again. Now it was a shriek, the horses neighed with a shrill sound and jerked the wagon to which they were tied. The men sprang to their feet and began to pull some hay off the wagon. They threw it to the ground and lighted a match to make a fire. Soon the horses quieted down. I overheard the men saying there were two wolves.

After this scare it was easy to keep awake. I felt sorry for the men who were up and down several times during the night. At last dawn appeared and I heard them stirring in preparation for a new departure. I combed my hair, using my fingers for a comb and my palm for a brush, trying to make myself as presentable as possible. I knew I did not look well groomed but I did not much care. One of the men helped me down from the wagon, the other brought some water and poured it into my hands. I washed my face without soap. We had spent the night not far from a farmhouse known to my companions.

We emerged from the forests into open fields, then another forest. Judging by the sun I figured we were moving in a southwesterly direction. These inscrutable men stopped at another byway for rest and food. We ate bread and washed it down with water. Not a word was spoken during lunch. Soon we rattled again along the roads and country lanes without any special incident. We met a number of frail men and women, and barefoot children wearing tattered clothes. We got out of one rut only to get into another. The jerks and vibrations were making me ill.

Now the farms were great distances apart. A shortage of seeds in their shacks indicated a harsh struggle to raise food and keep the family warm. The condition of the country was such that it permitted only a bare existence. What went on in the big cities could hardly interest these peasants. Perhaps these people had not even heard of the massacre of the thousands of people, of their Emperor and his family. Surely the chances of meeting with anyone acquainted with the Imperial family must be remote. Who could associate this pathetic, toothless, faded creature between these two men with anything royal? I heard later that all the grain was taken away from the peasants and many died during the winter of 1917-18. Now the men talked freely about their journey. They even joked about their fright. But they exchanged only a few words with me. They did not address me nor use my real name or title.

Late in the evening the wagon halted again. It seemed like an eternity since the woman had left us. The horses were unharnessed and tied to a tree. We rested until dawn broke. Now we had no food.

They seemed eager to reach the destination. All of a sudden, in the mid-afternoon, the horses made a sharp turn and we entered an open stretch with fields and a few trees on a nearby hill. Below, in the distance, we could see a village. The horses were unharnessed, hitched to long ropes so they could graze at will. The men stretched out by the wagon and soon were sound asleep. I had no idea where we were.

In the early evening, the men awakened. They jumped up and shook themselves, saying, “Let us get going.” We were leaving the horses and wagon behind and taking off on foot. They looked back several times to make sure the horses were safe. I had become fond of those horses and hated the thought of leaving them. Soon we were three abreast. We began descending the hill, then went up and down several times until we could see the village more clearly. One of the men gave the other directions and then returned to his horses. The second man and I started down the small hill to the village. As I looked back I saw in the dusk only the figure of our departed companion going up the hill. Now my hostility toward him was lost in the widening distance between us.

How long could I walk in my huge and uncomfortable boots? Would my wounded left leg hold up? In spite of all the care I had received, it continued to pain. The ground we walked on was rough. It was hard to keep my feet from sliding around in my boots. It was dark when we reached the village. Several dogs barked and ran out in the street, and then turned back to their houses. Here and there in the windows flickered an occasional candle or a kerosene lamp. All was quiet in the streets as if the villagers had turned in for the night. We kept walking until we reached a small dimly-lighted house. My companion gave two short knocks on the window and a tall lean man with a cane came to the door. He held the door open for us and said, “I have been expecting you for the last two nights.” I extended my hand to him. He held it in both of his hands, kissed it, and looked into my eyes, without a word. A tear rolled down his cheek. He stood in silence ... overcome with emotion, then said; “My dear, you must be tired and hungry after such a trying trip.” His voice and words were touching and more friendly and warm than I had heard in several months. He drew me to a chair at a table and when I was seated the two men sat on either side of me.

XXXII ALEXANDER

“Did you have any trouble getting here?” my host asked.

“Very little,” answered my companion. “We used a few matches—only three are left—to set fire to some hay in order to drive away two wolves. Matches are scarce these days.”

“Do you want some?” asked my host, handing him some loose ones.

“Thanks,” said my companion, “It is very pleasant here, but I must not stay long.”

“Marushka,” called our host, “tea, please.”

Immediately thinly sliced ham with cheese and bread were placed on the table, also a small samovar. My host was surprised when I refused the meat (a great luxury it was) but since Ekaterinburg I had not been able to stand the sight of it, remembering the shortage. I felt guilty taking sugar in my tea, but my host insisted and I took a lump but did not stir the tea in anticipation of a second glass. It was refreshing to us all.

As we finished, my companion said to me, “You are indebted to this gentleman, not to me. He saved your life.”

As if to end such embarrassing conversation, my host stood up and handed my companion an old, thick envelope, brown from age. The envelope was so thick that I thought it must have contained paper money and perhaps some jewelry. My companion lifted the flap and glanced inside it as our host said, “Take some bread and cheese to your friend. He must be hungry.”

“Are you really leaving?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, “my part is done.”

I did not know what he meant, but I did feel confidence in my host. Meantime I thanked the man for everything he and the others had done to help me. I began, “There is nothing I can offer you, but my deep, deep gratitude and appreciation. In the name of my family and myself, I thank you for what you have risked for me.”

He bowed and was gone. Each good-bye was less of Russia. That part of my rescue in the little room beneath the house was over.

The man had said that I owed my life to my host. What part had the latter played? I did have a sense of security with him. He seemed like one of my own people. I felt I could talk to him freely and find out who he was.

“Is this your house?” I ventured.

“Yes and no,” he said. “The cottage belongs to a former estate. Marushka’s husband worked on this farm but now he is missing in the war. The woods and fields you crossed were also part of the estate. One section used to belong to a family who were relatives of the Giers of the Ukraine.”

“Was there not a governor by that name?” I asked. “I remembered meeting him and his daughter.”

“The very same,” my host agreed, and I felt a common bond with him.

Just then Marushka came in and announced everything was ready for me. I thanked my host and followed her.

The house contained two rooms besides the kitchen. The host slept in the room in which we had tea. Marushka and I occupied the other room. I slept on a cot, Marushka on a narrow wooden bed next to the wall. On a stand stood a basin, a pitcher with water, soap and towel, and a lantern. I discovered this house, like many others, did not have inside conveniences.

Next morning outside the window I saw a vegetable garden. A small dog completed the friendliness of the house. He would sniff around every time I bathed the wound on my leg. When I shed a tear, as I washed, he would look at me soulfully as if to sympathize. He licked my hands. I was drawn to him right away and could not entertain the thought that I might have to leave him some day. He followed me everywhere in the day time and slept by my cot at night, as if to protect me from danger. You might have thought he had always belonged to me.

In the morning my host said, “We will not hurry. You need the rest and time for your wound to heal better. We will remain here a week or so.”

I was glad to hear this for he had already made me feel so comfortable in mind and body that I was glad to wait. He seemed to want to talk. After weeks of silence it was a treat to converse.

He said his name was Alexander, that he was an officer during the war. He had received the St. George’s Cross for his distinguished service in the Russian Army. He had also been decorated with the medal of St. Vladimir, 3rd class, usually given to commandants of large units. He knew my Father’s mother, and on one occasion had met us children at G.H.Q. when he had come to see Father.

During the war he was wounded in the abdomen and was nursed at the hospital in Kiev or Rovno where he had met my Aunt Olga. One evening he talked of my Father, saying His Majesty was kind, really too kind. He was so patient and understanding through his banishment. Only Christ could understand his suffering. Their Majesties suffered a long time. He bent his head and tears rolled down his cheeks. “It is all finished for all of us and for Russia.”

I remembered my Father’s tears on that final night of July 16th-17th after his talk with Yurovsky.

My host and I wept together. I breathed a prayer of gratitude to God for such a sympathetic and good friend. We had many talks together, but we did not touch on the subject so delicate to both of us. For the present neither of us felt equal to it. I wanted to hear of my rescue, yet again I did not, because of my family. He avoided the subject, fearing the effect the truth might have on me. We did talk of my life beneath the house. I told him of the excellent care the woman had given me, and said I was frightened by the various questions the men asked me.

“They questioned you?”, he said. “What about?”

“About my family, the imprisonment,” I answered. He was surprised at this news.

“Do you think they knew who you were?”

“Yes.” I said, “They never came out with it, but, judging from their questions, I suspected they had guessed.”

“Then we must leave immediately,” he said. “There will be trouble.”

He seemed agitated and called Marushka to get things ready. It was the third evening I had been with my host. Now we must cut short the week of delay we had both looked forward to.

On the fourth day, long before dawn, my host and I took to the road. It was early September, by the Russian calendar. I became aware of the date from a calendar hung in Marushka’s room. She used the previous year’s calendar, having changed the dates on it. Marushka, weeping as she did so often because of the loss of her husband, saw us to the door. We said a quick good-bye, and the little dog stood puzzled. It was hard to shut the door in the face of my little friend.

We were off. I carried nothing. My host carried a small canvas bag containing some food and a salve for his wound. We walked without event, and by late morning we were near a small town. My companion was quiet. At times he did not seem sure which road we should take. We rested about an hour; then suddenly he said, “I know now where we are. I see the church steeple over there.” He began to tell me that he was familiar with this part of the country. After walking several more hours, we came upon the ruin of a factory. We sat on the fallen bricks and ate our lunch. We had bread, hard-boiled eggs and a bottle of sour milk, and we purchased some apples.

For the first time, I knew approximately where we were. Passing the ancient city of Ufa, high up on the banks at the junction of the Ufa and Belaya Rivers, we had a beautiful view. We could see the vast stone quarries and stone cutting mills spread before our eyes. There were many chimneys, a witness to the size of Russian industries. But no smoke came out of them.

Part of Ufa was inhabited by Bashkirs, but now there were very many foreigners who were purchasing grain from the government, exchanging precious stones and platinum for the food sold or given them by the Bolshevik leaders, while the Russian people were not able to purchase their own products.

Here we stayed well into the afternoon, when my host surprised me by saying, “We are lucky that the train is leaving on this day. We will take the train from Ufa.”

We remembered that the depot was on the other side of the town, but when we reached it, we found no train there. We were told that the train had stopped farther down the track. We followed the track for a distance until we found the train standing. There were many peasants but the foreigners with their loot were boarding it first; some of the peasants even got up on the roofs of the cars. We finally managed to get into the doorway, but had to stand up all night. There were facilities on the train, but the rest rooms were packed with people.

We were afraid to get off the train for fear of not being able to get back on again. Our next stop was a small town named Bugulma. Here we changed to another train to go on to Simbirsk (since renamed Ulianov, after that heinous Tsederbaum-Ulianov-Lenin). We saw the Volga River at one of its most beautiful spots, the picturesque city of Simbirsk lying high on the bank, its many church steeples spread out before us. Suddenly I remembered what Miss Rita Khitrovo, former lady in waiting, had said of her ancestors, who had founded Simbirsk, and how we had hoped to make a trip to this historic city when the war was over. Palisades had been constructed here by the Boyar Khitrovo in the seventeenth century to defend the city from the Tartars.

Every Russian knew the song “Stenka Razin” about the famous Volga River robber, and that the many legends about him originated here. We saw the monument dedicated to the Russian historian, Karamzin. At Nicholas Garden, Alexander pointed out to me the Club of the Noblesse.

Seeing all this I felt a great pain in my chest. We passed the Convent of the Redeemer. I begged Alexander to let me enter it, since no one would know my identity. Alexander refused to listen to me, saying that many priests and nuns had already been driven out of convents, and many had been killed. It was no time to remain in Russia. It was dangerous; it might betray our whereabouts. So I had to be content with a prayer every time we passed a church. The sight of those holy sanctuaries lifted my spirits and calmed my nerves.

Alexander seemed to know this city, for without hesitation we walked some distance from the station to a wooden gate leading to a small house. He knocked on the door and an attractive lady of some forty years opened the door. Her name was Alexandra. They were happy to see each other.

“You look tired,” were her words of greetings.

“I am,” he said, “my side is troubling me.”

“You need a rest, I will have tea ready in a minute.” She invited us to sit down.

“Nikolai will be back any minute; he will bring some bread,” she said. “Usually the bread line is quite long and one must start very early in the morning.”

I was not prepared to find such a lovely lady in this house. I wondered who she was and what her relationship to my host could be. She was very aristocratic looking. Soon Nikolai, dressed shabbily in civilian clothes, like Alexander, arrived with a loaf of bread tucked under his arm. I could see he was a warm friend of Alexander. He was delighted to see us and said he had rather expected us. He and Alexander chatted at length while we drank our tea.

As we finished, he turned suddenly to Alexander and asked, “How did you ever happen to go to E.K. (that is, Ekaterinburg)?”

Alexander answering at length: “I wanted to join Admiral Kolchak’s army but was arrested and put in prison for a time. While there, I had a fresh attack and they let me out of prison. Instead of going to a hospital, I went to Ekaterinburg. There I met a priest by the name of Father Storozhev whom I visited several times. He informed me of the desperate condition at the Ipatiev House. It seemed he had been summoned to conduct a service there and was alarmed about the consequences. He suggested I contact a man by the name of Voykov, who was in charge of hiring the guards and other workers. I applied as a worker, but did not get the job.

“One day I went to the guard house next to the Ipatiev House where I became friendly with the guards through a guard whom I had met previously and with whom I later played chess. I returned to the guard house several times. Some of the guards were jolly but rough; most of the outside guards were Russians, former convicts. They did not object to my presence. They remained guarding the house to the last. The inside guards, I was told, were replaced by foreigners two weeks before the tragedy.”

Alexander was right; they were foreigners, mostly ex-prisoners of war.

It was as if Alexander were taking the opportunity to tell Nikolai, in front of me, what had happened. He felt that I ought to know.

“I saw Father Storozhev a few days before the night of July 16-17th,” he continued. “I went to the guard house again, after dark, because the priest had given me a feeling of danger. I did not tell him where I was going nor did I see him again. When I came upon the guards with whom I played chess, I saw most of them had been drinking heavily.

“They asked me to drink a toast to Comrade Yurovsky; he sent the liquor in appreciation for their services. I refused to take anything pointing to my wound. ‘Never mind, tovarishch,’ one of the guards said. ‘More will be left for us. You are sick and only good for the dogs.’ They seemed to be drowning something in drink. I am sure they were not aware of the forthcoming murder. I began to feel uneasy and feared there was real danger. I was afraid to leave the place. I wished I had four or five armed men with me. After dinner it was announced that no one would be allowed to leave or enter the place. They looked at me and said jokingly, ‘We have a new prisoner.’

“Some of the guards left drunk for their various posts. With several other guards I entered the courtyard. I heard a truck drive up to the house about eleven P.M. I offered the truck driver to help him back up the truck. He accepted my offer. It flashed through my mind that this truck might be for the purpose of secretly taking the family away. After a while the driver fell asleep, giving me the opportunity to get into the back of the truck. I lay down flat in the back of the truck. Imagine the shock when I felt warm, twitching objects thrown next to me. I knew then what had actually happened.”

At this point Alexander burst into tears. I ran out of the room. I had been hoping he would say that some of my family were still alive, but he denied it with his tears.

Only twice was the subject again brought up, once by Alexander and later by Nikolai who told me the rest of Alexander’s heroic rescue. From fear, Alexander remained in the truck, horror stricken and unable to move, realizing his dangerous position. He had no choice but to lie there quietly next to still warm and twitching bodies. If discovered, he too would have been shot. That night most of the guards were drunk. The truck moved rapidly out of the courtyard through the streets and then slowly over the bumpy country roads, the wheels sliding out of one deep rut into another. Suddenly Alexander heard a moan among the bodies. As the truck turned at the bend of the road, he picked up two bodies and tossed them into the bushes. The guards on horseback being far behind, Alexander jumped into a ditch and lay among the bushes until he knew they had passed. Returning to the bodies, he quickly examined them. One appeared to be lifeless. He wrapped the live one with his coat and carried it a long way to the first house he could find. It was the house with the dugout underneath. Alexander took notice of the location, which was in the vicinity of Uktus and Mramorskaya. The long walk with the heavy burden caused his wound to rupture, and infection set in on the side of his abdomen. He was ill and soaked in blood, not knowing what to do. He took a chance in asking unknown strangers to care for me, offering them a generous reward. If these people had known from the beginning who I was, they would probably have refused to care for me for fear of being discovered. One of these men kept Alexander informed of my condition. This explained why our journey from our little hiding place to Alexander’s cottage was so dangerous. I told Alexander and Nikolai about having some valuables sewn in my clothes. They said that that was perhaps another reason why my clothes had been burned and why they cared for me the way they did. They were well paid. Alexander also paid them through the brown envelope. How much was in it, I did not ask. He did say that I was fully clothed when he delivered me to the house and that my clothes were soaked in blood, probably from that of the others as well as my own.

When I left the dugout, I carried with me only the blood-stained handkerchief, the piece of blue glass, and my soul. If any one is still alive from among those who were with us in Tobolsk, he would recognize the handkerchief as the one seen in Tobolsk.

Alexander said nothing about leaving Simbirsk. I took it for granted that we would be moving on, but was grateful for the respite in which to get hold of myself. All I had heard had unnerved me. I suspected Alexander needed a rest for our strenuous trip ahead. On the evening of our third day a truck drove up. Alexander and I said good-bye to Mlle. Alexandra and were on our way again.

Alexander sat on the front seat with Nikolai, and I sat in the back on the straw-covered floor of the truck. We drove through the night with only the customary stops in wooded spots for rest and to change drivers, Alexander seemed unusually thoughtful; he was continually trying to spare Nikolai and me all he could. He made attempts at light conversation.

“We missed the hottest month of the year; it is usually in July, and January is the coldest,” he said.

I learned the truck belonged to a factory in Kursk, where Nikolai was employed by the new government in some industrial capacity, and the truck was to be delivered there. We continued our journey in the truck until late in the afternoon, when we stopped in a wooded spot with tall poplars, birches, walnut and elm trees which grew profusely in this area near Penza. We rested a while and then proceeded toward the city, an old historical site. We made some purchases of food here, although the prices were prohibitive. Alexander noticed a woman selling shawls. He approached her and asked for the price. It was so high that he glanced at me disappointedly—he knew I was cold as I had no coat. The woman came close to me and stared into my eyes. I was frightened. She said she would take only one-fourth of the price she had first asked. She selected the best one and placed it on my shoulders. When we left, I turned back for a glance at her; she was making a cross in our direction. Alexander hurried away, as I limped along next to him. At the time the cruel murder of the Imperial family was already known in Russia. Here we met people of many races, Tartars, Buriats, Kirghiz and others.