The Romanov Bride

Dear Lord, I realized with a violent start when I recognized it! Sergei had been wearing a coat of the Kiev Regiment! Now what was I to do? I knew all too well-I could remember the exact time and place when he’d told me-that my husband desired nothing more than to be buried in the uniform of his favorite regiment, the Preobrajensky! But how in the world could I dress him as he wished when there was no body left to clothe?

Washing away my senseless earthly thoughts came a rich, melodic voice, which flowed over my soul like a great wave. Briefly glancing up, I saw a bearded, golden-robed priest, who with but trembling voice intoned the service for the newly departed servant of God, my Sergei. Chanting, the priest called out to God the Almighty, and the crowd, swelling by the moment, surged forward and in turn sang their reply, their mournful voices as raw and discordant as my pain. Another priest in golden robe stepped out and swung an incense burner over the remains of my husband, and the next moment I was engulfed by a cloud of sweet-smoky frankincense. I crossed myself and bowed my head to the floor, begging God for forgiveness and praying for mercy upon my dead husband’s soul.

I had no idea how long I knelt prostrate, my soul and body inextricably bound in grief and prayer. Only once the service had been completed did I sense someone by my side. Looking up, I saw the highborn Count Shuvalov, which came as no surprise since he was in fact the military governor for the city of Moscow and had worked so hard for my husband.

“May I assist you, Your Highness?” said the uniformed count gently, offering his arm.

Without a word I reached for him and rose to my feet, my bloodied dress glistening in the candlelight. Only then, turning, did I see that the chapel was thronged with loyal subjects, virtually all of whom were kneeling upon the stones, many crying, many clutching candles. Looking farther, I saw General Laiming, my husband’s aide-de-camp, standing by a column and weeping. And there, toward the rear, by the small corridor that led from our Palace, was Mademoiselle Elena. Her face contorted and blue, she was holding the hands of the dears, our adopted children, Maria and Dmitri.

I muttered, “Please, I must see them…”

With the service concluded and the congregation now rising, Count Shuvalov led me directly to the young ones. I could see the fright clearly pocked on their i

Pressing their beautiful heads into me, I murmured over and over, “He loved you so, he loved you.”

And I would never have moved again had the dear young sweets not gently and by slow degrees led me away from the curious eyes there in the church and to my rooms deep within the Palace.

Chapter 20 PAVEL

Back in the small apartment with one window, we poured cheap vodka from a bottle with a red label and drank toast after toast, the brew burning my throat each time I tossed down a shot. Da, da, the Grand Duke was dead!

After her fourth or fifth glass, Dora Brilliant, her eyes glistening with joyful tears and her speech slurred, turned to me, clasped my hand, and said, “Pavel, history has told us that the luxurious tree of freedom needs blood to quicken its roots!”

I looked into her dark eyes, and replied, “What beautiful words.”

“Yes, but it also needs money.”

And that was how, right then and there in the middle of our celebration, we started pla

Inspired by our glorious success, we worked harder than ever in the weeks and months ahead, spreading strikes like wildfire, cutting phone lines and looting stores. And we did it again and again: Murder! Assassination! Governors! Factory bosses! Landowners! Sure, we killed as many as we could, for as our poet Kalyayev himself decreed from prison:

“You have declared war on the people, and we have accepted the challenge!”

Chapter 21 ELLA

Without a doubt, all went from bad to worse in the months ahead, the mess was all around. Our post and electricity were stopped over and over, and one could not make oneself any illusions of better times for months to come. We were in the Revolution. What turn all would take, nobody knew, as the government was so weak, or sooner to say-did not seem to exist. Nonetheless, I felt physically very well and had good nerves. Of course if the nightmare came about, I knew I could always have the children safely sent off, but nothing would have made me leave that place, as I was determined to live or die there. Somehow I seemed to have grown into Russia, and did not fear whatever might come my way. And in the months soon after Sergei’s passing I became quite calm and happy-yes, happy to know that my darling was at peace near God, and, too, that he was spared that awful time. In the depths of my suffering it became all so beautifully clear to me: we must at any time be ready-as far as our weak souls can be-to go to our real home.

So there I was, stu

Upon my return to my boudoir, I sank into a chair, from which I did not move for a great length of time. I ca

Calling to Varya, my young lady’s maid, I ordered in a loud voice that no one had ever heard of me, “Fetch me my black mourning frock! And someone tell me, does our Coachman Rudinkin still live? Someone go find this out-at once!”