‘How are the grand duchesses, Your Imperial Highness?’ he ventured to ask.
She shook her head. ‘Not yet recovered. The Chairman of the Duma has advised that we evacuate the palace but the girls simply cannot be moved.’
‘You can count on us to remain at our posts,’ Dmitri promised. ‘No matter what.’
She pursed her lips and nodded her thanks, anxiety etched on her brow.
Dmitri couldn’t believe it when rumours began to spread on the 2nd of March that the Tsar had abdicated. It didn’t ring true. Nicholas was too arrogant, too wedded to the idea of his divine right. At first it was said that he had stepped down in favour of Alexei, which seemed ridiculous given the boy’s frailty and lack of experience. Next came word that Nicholas wanted his brother Michael to take the throne, but Michael had refused. Gradually Dmitri realised the gossips must be right. Who would lead the nation now?
Orders came that the Guards Equipage were to vacate the palace, leaving officers of the royal escort as the only force guarding the perimeter. They rearranged their rotas and cut down on sleep so there would always appear to be enough guards on view to deter the mob from breaking in. It was a game of brinksmanship. As Dmitri marched by the railings, someone with a harmonica began to play the ‘Marseillaise’, the anthem written after the French Revolution of 1789. Dmitri’s fingers tightened on his rifle: he felt like shooting that man on the spot. Everyone was jumpy, but none could have as much at stake as him, with his wife desperately ill inside the besieged palace.
Still there was no word from Nicholas. He had promised to return to Tsarskoe Selo on the 1st of March but the days dragged by without any sign. On the 5th of March the telephone and electricity lines to the palace were cut and food supplies were beginning to dwindle. When Dmitri rushed to the kitchen after an overnight shift to thaw his fingers and toes in front of the great ovens, the only food he could find was a tough loaf and some chicken bones from the day before.
As he walked through the courtyard, charred scraps floated from the chimneys and drifted on the breeze like oversized black snowflakes. A colleague told him Alexandra was burning her correspondence and diaries. Why would she do that if she had nothing to hide? Dmitri could not help wondering what injudicious disclosures might have graced the pages of her letters to Rasputin. Better if they did not reach the hands of the new rulers, whoever they might prove to be. One scrap still had some legible words on the edges and he ground it to dust beneath his heel.
During the morning of the 8th of March a delegation arrived from the provisional government. Dmitri recognised the politician Alexander Kerensky among them and was faintly reassured; he had seemed a moderate influence in the Duma. They marched briskly into the palace and were occupied inside for several hours. Dmitri watched the entrance, scarcely daring to breathe. Was Kerensky telling the family what their fate was to be? Was Tatiana well enough to attend the meeting? He glanced up at her bedroom but the curtains were drawn.
At noon their captain called them for orders. ‘We must leave the palace this afternoon,’ he said, eyes downcast and the words sticking in his throat. There was a chorus of disbelief as he continued: ‘The 1st Rifles will replace us. They are in town this very moment and due here imminently.’
Dmitri felt sick to the pit of his stomach. The 1st Rifles had vowed allegiance to the revolutionary government.
‘The Tsarina asks that we go peacefully and refrain from any action that might delay the Tsar’s arrival and affect the fate of her children.’
He passed round some small jewelled icons of the Holy Mother that Alexandra had given him for all the men of the escort who had served so faithfully.
Dmitri fingered his icon, fluttery panic in his chest. What should he do? He couldn’t bear to leave the palace. It was insufferable to be so powerless. He considered hiding somewhere in the building so as to remain close to Tatiana, but knew he would be arrested if he were discovered. Instead he sought Trina, the ladies’ maid, to ask for news of Tatiana’s health. He hoped it might be possible to see her, to explain that he must leave but would remain nearby.
‘She still cannot receive visitors,’ Trina told him. ‘But I have been given a pass to get in and out of the palace. If you like I can meet you and convey letters between you.’
Dmitri arranged that he would meet her at a side entrance every morning then, with feet dragging, he went to his quarters, took off his imperial guard’s uniform and changed into civilian clothes, packed his knapsack and wandered out into the grounds.
He gazed up at Tatiana’s window, willing her to look out. He yearned to see her, both to reassure her and to reassure himself. Who knew how long before they would be reunited, or under what circumstances? Walking out the palace gates and away from her felt wrong, as if he was wrenching off a limb.
Chapter Eighteen
Tsarskoe Selo, Russia, March 1917
The vitriol directed against the Romanovs in Tsarskoe Selo was staggering. Everywhere Dmitri went, townsfolk gossiped about Alexandra’s supposed promiscuity, speculated that Alexei was not the Tsar’s son, and even cast aspersions that the grand duchesses took lovers amongst the palace staff. It was hard not to lose his temper and lash out, but he restrained himself and occupied his time writing to old friends from the imperial guard, men such as Malevich, whom he knew would be loyal to the Romanovs. Surely together they could find a way to help them? In public, he was careful not to identify himself as a scion of the family, because the mood was so ugly he could have been attacked by a mob. He saw one aristocrat fleeing on foot after his carriage was overturned.
Every day, Dmitri scanned the newspapers, trying to work out, like other Russians, who would be their new leader. Prince George Lvov seemed the current face of the provisional government but a council in St Petersburg, the Petrograd Soviet of Workers’ and Soldiers’ Deputies, was increasingly influential, and more soviets were springing up around the nation. The stridency of their pronouncements alarmed Dmitri: what Russia needed more than anything was a wise leader who could get food to the people and quell the urge to blame all the country’s ills on one absurdly wealthy family.
Tatiana was slowly recovering from her illness and, judging by her letters, seemed to have no idea of the danger the family faced.
My dearest love, I wish we could meet but at the same time I am far too vain to allow you to see me like this. You will be shocked to learn that my remaining hair has been falling out in clumps and I must wear a headscarf to cover the bald patches. I know how you loved my hair and promise I will grow it again as soon as I can! I am also much thinner but can eat solid food once more and aim to gain weight very soon … We are all in reasonable spirits. I think we are going to sail to England for a holiday with our relatives, George V and his family, until the revolution is suppressed. We are waiting to be told when a ship will arrive to collect us. I miss my work in the hospital but am occupying my time with reading and trying to stop the younger ones from arguing (a mammoth task). I miss you and wish I could be with you even for just one moment to lean my forehead against yours and see if I can read your thoughts.