A Letter from Yekaterinburg
"Yekaterinburg?" Tatiana puzzled aloud as she reached for the letter opener, mystified by the queer postage marks on the envelope of the first correspondence they'd received since their parents and Maria left. "What in heaven's name..."
"Open it already!" Anastasia cried, gripping the arm of a nearby chair so hard her knuckles turned white. "Don't just stare at it!"
"Perhaps we should take it up to Alexei's room first," Olga suggested. "The poor darling will feel so badly about missing out."
"But it cannot be helped," Tatiana protested. "We don't know anything about this letter yet – who sent it, even. There's no sense in waking him up until we've discovered whether the news is good or bad. Best to let Baby have his nap and keep up his strength."
Anastasia snorted at this, pushing a lock of red hair away from her face. "We know who it's from – that's Mashka's handwriting."
"She may have simply sealed the envelope and written the address," Tatiana pointed out.
Olga winced as Anastasia's face fell. She understood how badly poor Anastasie wanted it to be news from Maria inside – how much the little pair must be aching for one another. Tatiana didn't mean to be harsh, she never truly did, but still.
Besides which, Tatiana was bias in this matter. As badly as Anastasia wanted a letter from Maria, emotionally frazzled and confused Tatya yearned for one from their Mama.
As for her own wants, Olga willed herself not to wish for a consoling, sturdy letter from Papa, miss him though she did. For the sake of the younger two, she hoped the words inside the battered envelope were from Maria or Mama, knowing either way at least one of her sisters would be comforted. Her own happiness was better – and gladly – put aside for theirs.
"Open it," Anastasia said again, her tone more of an outright whine now.
It was revealed to be a letter from Maria after all. Olga put her hand to her heart and silently thanked God for his wonderful gift to her littlest sister as Tatiana cleared her throat, preparing to read it aloud.
Dearest OTA,
I pray each night that you will join us very soon. It is too quiet without you, A – how I miss your funny faces at the table! And Mama misses you desperately, T – only you can say nighttime prayers to her satisfaction. Naturally, you are missed as well, darling O.
We are in good health, save for Mama's melancholy and Papa's hemorrhoids. If any of the three of you think it would be all right – appropriate, I mean – please ask Dr. Botkin for his advice to ease Papa's discomfort regarding this matter and send his response in your reply.
A, Pooka remains well, but it's you he wants to see each morning when he wakes and begins nosing around. He whines and sniffs about for you constantly. Once, the poor darling ducked under the dresser as if he expected to find you hiding there. A handkerchief of yours that was mistakenly packed with my things had fallen beneath it without my noticing.
It just about broke my heart, hearing his disappointed howls when he discovered it was only a scrap of embroidered cloth dabbed with your scent and not truly you in the flesh. I wish I could make the poor little dog understand that you are simply not here. Only, how can I, when I can hardly make myself accept your absence half the time?
Still, I doubt even you – our darling clown – could make Mama laugh, dear A. She is so sad, and the guards don't understand it at all; they're as bad as any of our old court people when it comes to reading her. They must think she is grouchy and uppity. Though, in fairness, that they help themselves to our meals before they let Papa and I serve her anything is enough to make anyone grouchy. They're like naughty little children rummaging for sweets, the sillies!
I do have one scrap of hope to share. As I've said previously, most of the guards here are rather surly and don't wish to make friends, but one – I won't put his name here, as these letters are read over many times prior to, hopefully, reaching the three of you, and I wouldn't get him into trouble for the world – often has a kind word or smile for me.
This smiling guard has assured me in the gentlest of terms that it is almost certain the very moment Alyosha is feeling better – when he can sit up and take air outside again – the four of you will be sent here to be with us. Even though we are nowhere near Moscow and seem unlikely to go there at all now.
You see, he has spoken to his superior, who is keeping in touch with Commissar over there. So it is bound to be the truth. It seems a silly thing to lie about.
Love and kisses by the thousands,
Your Mashka
Postscript: Mama reminds you to keep the medicines close at all times, and to have a care to your modesty and avoid removing your corsets in a house full of men.
Olga wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "The darling! How can she be so cheerful? It sounds absolutely dismissal over there."
"She has her smiling guard," Anastasia teased, wiggling her eyebrows. "That must make her happy – she loves grinning men in uniforms."
Rolling her eyes, Tatiana smacked Anastasia on the arm with the empty envelope. "You're one to talk!"
Looking at the letter again, Olga frowned. "Mashka's a smart girl – she numbered her letters."
"Yes, so?" Tatiana asked, a mite impatiently.
"So, this one says four," was her pensive, faintly worried reply.
"Three of her letters never reached us," Anastasia murmured.
Tatiana pressed her index, middle finger, and thumb together and lifted them to her forehead to cross herself.
"No matter, though." Anastasia resumed her happy demeanor, perhaps with a little too much zeal. "This is good! We're going to see them as soon as Alexei recovers! I've got to tell him! He'll be so relieved." Snatching the letter from her sisters as if it were her own personal property, she cried, "Alyosha! Alyosha!"
"Anastasia!" Tatiana shouted after her.
Olga gripped her shoulder and held her back. "No, Tatya, don't stop her."
"She's behaving like a mad child – there's so much we still don't..."
"I know, but let her have this," Olga urged, squeezing the shoulder she still grasped. "Baby, too. Let her wake him if this news will give him the strength to recover faster."
"How can you be so sacrificing?" Tatiana sighed in near-wonderment. "To carry all the worry on yourself and let the younger ones just play at being happy..." Her voice trailed off.
"Oh, Tatya, my dear." She smiled tightly. "Don't you know I'm used to it by now?"
Anastasia burst through the half-closed door and into Alexei's room. She was out of breath, from racing up the stairs, and much of her hair had fallen loose from a ribbon she'd tied it back with earlier. Sweat from her palm as she ran had left the letter in her hand with a small series of gray smudges, plainly visible as she held it out in front of herself like it was the holy grail.
Dimitri had been sitting by Alexei's bedside, springing to his feet when he saw Anastasia's wild state.
"We've gotten word, finally!" she exclaimed. "From Maria. She and my parents are safe."
Dimitri sighed with relief. "Thank God."
"There's more," she pressed on, eyes shining. "They are sending us after them as soon as Alexei is better!"
Dimitri grinned and, as if he was scarcely thinking about what he was doing, threw his arms around Anastasia's waist, lifted her off the floor, and spun her around.
She let out a whoop of surprised delight as he set her down, still looking elated.
"Phew, you're a bit heavier than I thought," he laughed. (That would be the corset loaded with jewels, though he didn't know it.) Then, "We'll all be safer in Moscow."
For a moment, Anastasia was confused. Moscow? Then she remembered Dimitri hadn't seen the envelope, the postmarks. "No, not Moscow. They never reached there."
Dimitri's smile faded, his face darkening. "Then where are they?"
"Yekaterinburg."
His eyes widened. "You're certain?"
"Fairly," she managed shakily, not liking the intense – almost outraged – look still forming on his face. "What is it?" Wasn't he glad?
"Ana, Yekaterinburg is swarming with Reds."
"Yes, so is most of Russia right now – including this house," she said offhandedly, her gaze darting to Alexei's heavily slumbering form. All their excitement hadn't stirred him. "We should wake him and tell him."
"Stop. You're not getting it." Dimitri reached over and grasped her shoulders. "Yekaterinburg is the worst place in the entire damn country they could have sent a former imperial family."
Her brow furrowed, Anastasia blinked at him. "I'm sure there's a reason."
"Oh, so am I," he scoffed, "just not a very good one – at least, not for us."
"If it will make you feel better, maybe I could ask Gleb about it."
Dimitri gave her a withering, emotionally exhausted stare. "Sure," he quipped sarcastically. "That will allay all my fears."
"Well, you don't know Yekaterinburg's bad," she argued, growing defensive. "Not for certain. You've heard a rumor, or..."
"Whatever, Ana." With a weary sigh, he turned away from her and started picking up things – mainly linens and stray clothing of Alexei's – off the floor and out of the corners.
Anastasia clenched her jaw, willing herself not to cry. This should be a happy occasion! Why couldn't Dimitri see that? Wherever they were headed, it couldn't be worse than being here, uncertain what the Bolsheviks meant to do with them, wholly isolated from the rest of their family.
Twice, she reached down to shake Alexei awake. Twice, she stayed her hand. Stupid, infuriating Dimitri, putting doubts into her head at a time like this!
Groaning, she finally settled down grimly – still sulking – into the chair Dimitri had vacated in favor of neurotically doing his chores like an anxious housewife.
She would wait for Alexei to wake, yes, but then she'd tell him – in as happy a tone as originally intended – the wonderful news.
After a few more minutes in silence, Anastasia gradually became aware Dimitri was singing to himself – perhaps for some small comfort – under his breath. It was a patriotic tune, one she knew well from the old days at the Catherine Palace, but it was literally about Russia itself, nothing to do with the upper class or peasants, or anyone's position in life.
Yet he sang as low and carefully as if it was God Save The Tsar and he might get into trouble if overheard.
Suddenly overcome with a desire to get him to raise his voice – sing like he actually meant it – she reached for Alexei's balalaika and began to pick out the tune.
Out of her peripheral vision, she noticed the corners of his mouth turn up as he realized what she was doing. His singing readily improved, keeping up with the pace of her playing, and she harmonized with him on the chorus.
As a kind of joke, she sped up a part that was meant to be slower, just to see if he'd manage to keep in tune. He did, though he gave her a raised eyebrow while doing so – as if to assure her he knew exactly what trick she was up to.
Shrugging, she returned to the natural pace of the song and let him sing normally again.
Alexei's eyelids crinkled, and a smile played on his lips. The music was reaching him in that sacred place between sleeping and waking, welcoming him back into the world with a sweetness his constant pain never did.
When his eyes opened, Dimitri's voice petered off and Anastasia's fingers left off playing.
"Alyosha, I have wonderful news," she said, reaching over the bridge of the balalaika to touch his slightly damp brow.
"Whatever it is," came a deep, gruff voice from the doorway, "can wait. We want to hear more music. Don't we, Comrades?"
Several guards had crowded against the door, lulled there by the singing and balalaika playing, and were less than thrilled she and Dimitri had stopped so abruptly.
Whether because of the news that he would soon be reunited with his parents, or else because it was simply time, Alexei did begin quickly improving.
Doctor Botkin as well – the aching in his kidneys faded and he soon returned to himself, as competent and alert as ever.
Still, Botkin was clever and – despite Alexei's eagerness – urged the boy to milk his illness a while longer.
"It will allow your sisters more time to pack, and more time for your body to recover properly," he explained in a low whisper as he leaned over in the guise of feeling for Alexei's pulse. "If you are weak and dizzy, as you're very likely to be, the men here won't care a wit about that – they're restless, and want us gone from Tobolsk as quickly as possible.
"The very moment your bottom touches your wheelchair, they'll be buzzing about here, shouting into my ears as if I'm deaf, demanding to know if you're fully recovered." He made a face of pure disgust at the thought of the guards' crude stupidity. "Give it another day," he urged, gently patting the boy's head. "It won't hurt anything."
In the dining room, Anastasia had been packing some sparse china plates from a set that belonged to Alexandra when she realized she was out of paper to stuff the sides of the crate with. Returning to the bedroom for more, she found herself blocked from exiting the way she'd come in, her sisters standing in front of her, faces lined with concerned, arms crossed.
"What is it?" she asked, her tone a little perturbed.
"Anastasie, we need to ask you something very important," Olga told her, swallowing hard. "It's about your diary."
"My...diary...?" she faltered.
"Did you write anything about hiding the jewels?" was Olga's next question. "Even just once?"
Tatiana jumped in. "Or your...relationship...with Dimitri?"
Anastasia's face flushed red. Of course she had. Unlike her sisters – with the exception of Olga – she was good at hiding her diary, so it never occurred to her to worry about anyone else finding and reading it.
It was nearly all in there – the jewels, Dimitri's vows to her, their one night together, both her guilt and elation resulting from the aforementioned night... Just about everything. She didn't censor herself when it came to her diary. Her most risqué thoughts sat side by side with dull lists of mundane activities and humorous observations.
"I see." Olga read the look on her little sister's face as plainly as if she had spoken and confessed to each word she'd written. "Then you must burn it."
Blanching, her heart in her throat, Anastasia blurted, "But why?"
"Commissar is going to have our bags searched and correspondences confiscated before we leave," Tatiana explained, sounding outraged and coloring quite a bit in the face herself. "He says he needs to be sure we are not stealing from this house."
"Really, though," Olga added in a tart, clipped voice, "he's most likely only looking for something to incriminate Mama and Papa."
"But that won't matter," Tatiana continued, "if he finds something else. He cannot know about the jewels, or all Mama's efforts were for nothing."
"Furthermore," Olga said, "if they find out about Dimitri, what he really is to you... Well, that wouldn't be too good for any of us. So, Tatya will watch the doorway and whistle if any guards come." She pointed to the stove. "You'd best stick that diary – and anything else that might give us away – in there while we've still got the chance."
"How do I know," stammered Anastasia, bewildered, "if something...?"
"I'll help," Olga promised, putting her arm around her. "We'll burn it all."
And so they did. Every page of Anastasia's diary, every single word, was pushed into the hot coals until it burst into flames and was no more. The cover was discarded with the rubbish.
Remembering that hers was the only diary Dimitri existed inside of as a complete, named entity, brought tears to Anastasia's eyes. It was as if she were erasing him from the story of their lives.
"I know it's silly," she croaked, as she mopped her streaming eyes with the lacy cuff of her sleeve. "It's just words..."
"Oh, darling, it's never just words..." Olga murmured into her ear consolingly. "You will have other diaries in your life, but you'll never get back what you've written about your first love. Your first time. I understand that. You're making a grand sacrifice, like a real heroine."
"I'm sick to death of being a heroine," she moaned. "It's every bit as awful as being a princess."
"Of course it is," she agreed, rubbing her on the back. "But that's our lot in life right now."
"So what next?" Anastasia wanted to know, sniffling and smoothing out her skirt as she got off her knees. "What else has to go?"
"Don't be cross, but Mashka mentioned your sketchbook to me before she left." Olga grimaced. "If it has half as many drawings of Dimitri as she claimed, at least some of them have to go – the quantity alone could tip off the guards."
Nodding, Anastasia marched to the other side of the room to fetch it. "Here, get rid of them all if you need to. I drew him too fat, anyway."