Natalya

By David Vincent

The year 1917 finds Russia in complete chaos as the long anticipated
winds of revolution finally sweep across the country. The Tsar, Nicholas
II, has been forced to abdicate and he and his family have been sent into
exile in Siberia. Meanwhile, throughout Russia numerous plans are being
formulated to free the Romanovs from their captivity. One of these plans
comes to involve Natalya Karakova, once a leading light in Russian high
society. But now, she and her husband, Constantine, find themselves much
reduced in circumstances and barely clinging to what is left of their once
glamorous existence. One of Natalyas fellow conspirators is an Englishman
named Jack Christie. As the two of them set off for Siberia and the dangers
that lay ahead, they both realize they are falling in love. And they both
also realize their plan has a mi

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 20, 2009
• ISBN: 9781453583364

David Vincent

David Vincent is a singer, songwriter, businessman, and icon in the international music community. He has performed in the globally successful bands Morbid Angel and Genitorturers, and he currently tours internationally with I Am Morbid, Headcat, and his own country band.

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Copyright © 2009 by David Vincent.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2009905223

ISBN: Hardcover 978-1-4415-4031-7

ISBN: Softcover 978-1-4415-4030-0

ISBN: Ebook 978-1-4535-8336-4

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To my sisters, Bette and Donna,

and to the memory of my sister-in-law, Norma.

Contents

Author’s Note

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Author’s Note

Although this is a work of fiction, it takes place against the historical background of Russia during the early years of the twentieth century, which saw a revolution and the fall of the Romanov dynasty. Therefore, there are many characters in this book who are based on the real people who lived and died during these turbulent times. The remaining characters are fictional and are not meant to resemble anyone known or unknown to the author.

Chapter I

December 1917

Natalya Karakova pulled back the lace curtains at one of the tall library windows of the Karakova Palace and peered cautiously out into the twilight. Something, a shot or a voice raised in a shout, something disturbing the ordinary, had stirred her from her chair, making her lay aside her book and come to the window. Her heart beat a little faster for in these troubled times, it could be almost anything. As her husband, Constantine, had said to her only that very morning, All sorts of creatures now roam the streets.

Outside the window, the Russian city of St. Petersburg lay frozen and white, wrapped securely in the cold embrace of its long winter. The Neva River, which cut through the center of the city like a sharp blade, was as hard as steel, and wintry winds blew across the flat plains surrounding the city, whipping mercilessly at the windows of the baroque palaces and great public buildings. Above in the heavens, the fires of the aurora borealis danced, lighting up the darkening sky with their strange, mystical brilliance. Though it was only midafternoon, the extended winter night had already begun. And though it was the time of day when the streets should have been crowded with people hurrying to finish up their business and to return to the warmth of their homes, Nevsky Prospekt, the city’s most famous thoroughfare—which was directly below Natalya’s window and which was normally filled to congestion with carriages, sleighs, brightly painted troikas, and, more recently, automobiles—was, on this day, almost completely deserted. Here and there, a lone figure darted across the street, and a single carriage turned a corner and sped off at great speed down an alley.

At the beginning of the eighteenth century, Russia had been an enormous but relatively backward country, still in many ways living in its medieval past. Its capital was Moscow, an ancient citadel steeped in hundreds of years of tradition and revered by many as a holy city. But others found it a stifling backward place, stagnating in its own history and preventing Russia from becoming a modern state. Among them was a man who had the power and the resources to make a change. Tsar Peter of the Romanov dynasty—the Great would be added later to his name at his own recommendation—was determined to wrench his country from its past and thrust it boldly into the present. Even if he had not been Tsar, Peter was a formidable presence at over six feet seven inches in height, and almost from the moment he was crowned, he was determined that Russia would have a new capital, a capital that looked toward the West. The land he chose for this herculean undertaking was perched on the edge of the Gulf of Finland and could only have been described as a miserable swamp unsuitable for human habitation. Many ridiculed this absurd idea though none would dare do so to the Tsar’s face as Peter had a frightening reputation and was known to kill with his own hands anyone who disagreed with him. Such was the ego and vanity of this man that it would not have surprised either his friends or his enemies, and he had plenty of both, that he chose to build his city here in this inhospitable place solely because everyone thought it couldn’t be done. But even if this were true, to some extent, there were still solid reasons for his choice. The most important of these was that this location gave Russia ready access to the sea and trade with the rest of Europe. Equally important in the Tsar’s mind, it gave the Russian people a vigorous breath of sea air, a robust inhalation of new life. As St. Petersburg, the Tsar named it not after himself as many supposed but for the apostle Peter, rose and eventually spread out over nineteen islands, thousands—some say hundreds of thousands—of forced laborers died of starvation, disease, and exhaustion. So many in fact that some said, Petersburg was founded on tears and corpses. But under the lash of Tsar Peter, the city grew at an incredible speed and in 1717, was officially declared the new capital of Russia. At that time, its population was over forty thousand residents. Two hundred years later, nearly two million people including Natalya Karakova called St. Petersburg home.

Natalya let the curtains fall back into place, but she remained at the window, hesitating a moment as if she were unsure of her next move. A shiver ran through her body, and she gathered her Italian brocade shawl tighter around her shoulders. She wore a simple high-waisted chemise of green silk with a fur trim in the Russian style. Her dress descended only to midcalf as was the fashion of the new century, which finally had decreed that women’s skirts no longer needed to reach to the floor. The only jewelry she had on was her wedding band and a single strand of pearls. Although she had closets full of expensive clothes from Paris and Berlin as well as a collection of jewels that easily rivaled that of any other woman in St. Petersburg, Natalya knew it was hardly the time for any extravagant display of finery.

Through all the years of her young womanhood, Natalya Karakova had been acknowledged as one of the reigning beauties of St. Petersburg. In fact, many had even referred to her as the most beautiful woman in all of St. Petersburg. Now at the age of thirty-four when she had begun to move into a more mature, but never matronly, phase of her life, she still retained most of the striking appearance that had made her so adored and envied in her youth. When she passed through a room, people still followed her with their eyes, and she still managed to turn hearts almost as easily as she turned heads. More Nordic than Slavic in appearance, Natalya was tall and lithe with long limbs, which gave her a look of fragile elegance. It was a look that in reality was in marked contrast to her real constitution. In fact, in the months to come, she would reveal a strength of will and spirit that even she had never suspected she possessed. Grigory Petrov, a minor court poet who claimed to have fallen in love with her at first sight, wrote a long poem about her, which became quite popular, in which he said, From her face shone the soul of St. Petersburg. Natalya was never quite sure what that meant, and the success of the poem, with copies at one time posted in almost every shopwindow, embarrassed her. With or without a poet’s praise, her face was quite extraordinary, dominated by high cheekbones and alert gray eyes that were the same shade as the waters of the Neva when it moved swiftly through the city during the fleeting summer months. Her complexion always had a touch of natural blush to it as if she had just come breathlessly inside from the cold. Natalya’s hair was blonde, a shade of white blonde that glowed with life in the sun and shimmered like spun silver by candlelight or under the stars. She usually wore it pinned up in a simple coiffure, sometimes in summer adorning it with flowers. Other times, she let her hair fall loose to her shoulders, its cascading waves touching her cheeks, but tentatively like a shy lover.

But in spite of her much favored appearance, her life of privilege, and even the occasional mask of cold indifference that sometimes slipped down across her fine features when she found herself confronted by someone of tedious boredom or, worse, someone engaging in petty cruelty that she could not abide, Natalya was most often thought of as a woman of warmth and charm. She was clever and witty with a delightful sense of humor, infinitely patient, and thoroughly knowledgeable about books, theater, and art. She might be abrupt, but she was never rude. And if she chanced to inquire as to your health or state of being, you somehow knew that she was sincerely concerned and would be distressed if she learned you were troubled or unwell. In only one aspect did she disappoint. Throughout all the salons of St. Petersburg where the ladies of society gathered to gossip and where scandal, real or imagined, thrived, there was never a derogatory whisper about Natalya Karakova.

Finally forcing herself away from the window, Natalya returned to her chair and once again took up her book. It was The Keys to Happiness by Anastasia Verbitskaya, one of her favorite authors, but the words on the printed page swam before her eyes and made no sense. So she put down the book, laid her head back, and closed her eyes. As she sat there with no sound except the crackling of the logs in the ornate marble fireplace, Natalya let her thoughts drift back to the St. Petersburg that used to be.

Peter the Great’s city, his impossible dream, quickly outshone its predecessor Moscow, and as the years passed, tales of St. Petersburg’s excesses matched and then exceeded the legends of China that Marco Polo had brought back to Venice. The Babylon of the Snows they nicknamed it, and like that ancient city, St. Petersburg soon became in itself a wonder. Tsar Peter, and afterward his successors, brought to Russia a series of renowned Italian architects who designed the baroque palaces, the splendid gardens, and the majestic boulevards called prospects, which stretched far into the distance and seemed to go on forever. They painted all the buildings in warm tones of red and yellow, green and light blue, giving St. Petersburg the look of a Mediterranean city of the south rather than what it was in reality, a northern city battered every winter by wild snows and harsh winds. This contrast between what was and what was imagined bestowed upon St. Petersburg an unreal, almost-artificial look that was certainly boasted by its having been built where few thought a city, any city, could ever exist. Like a great painted backdrop for a Tchaikovsky ballet or an opera by Borodin, St. Petersburg was a magnificent canvas against which the never-ending comedy, or tragedy, of daily life was played out.

In the summer months, the city was unbearable; hot and stifling, the streets filled with dust. Windows were left wide open in a desperate hope to catch even a whiff of salt air from the gulf. But then winter came, and with the first blast of cold air like an invigorating slap against the cheeks, St. Petersburg and its citizens revived and came back to life. That life for the few who stood at the top of society’s ladder, such as Natalya Karakova, consisted of an almost-nightly round of parties, masquerades, and charades as well as balls and receptions at the elegant Winter Palace when the Tsar was in residence. But there was so much more, so many other delightful ways to spend an evening in St. Petersburg. Having become the center of all that was new, all that was smart, and all that was cosmopolitan, the city boasted an array of cultural venues that easily rivaled those found in London and Paris. Definitely, the most celebrated of these was the blue-and-gold Mariinsky Theatre, home to the world-famous Imperial Ballet and its stars Anna Pavlova and Vaslav Nijinsky. In addition, there were numerous opulent theaters that presented everything from serious dramas—Sarah Bernhardt and Eleonora Duse were often in residence—to works of a more frivolous and even risqué nature. St. Petersburg also housed three opera houses and great halls for chamber music performances, and dotted along Nevsky Prospekt could be found the latest rage, the cinema. At first, the movie houses only showed foreign films, but the demand for Russian films became so great that by 1917, the Russian film industry had produced five hundred motion pictures. After a visit to the cinema, after a night at the opera, after the ball was over, the evening’s festivities had just begun. Wrapped in furs, the ladies and gentlemen of St. Petersburg’s high society bundled themselves into carriages and sleighs and sped off for one of the many elegant restaurants or supper clubs where they would dine and dance until the pink light of dawn. Unaccompanied gentlemen out on their own for the night might head for a favorite gambling club where fortunes changed on the turn of a card or to other well-known places where to the lusty tunes from gypsy violins willing company could easily be found.

Though she had spent hundreds of gay nights in the social whirl of St. Petersburg’s winter seasons, for Natalya, there was something else about the city of her birth that touched her and made her glad she lived there and would not have lived anywhere else even if she had been given the choice of the whole world. It was something as simple as a feeling, a feeling she got whether she was strolling along the Neva’s embankment in the warmth of a summer’s twilight or trudging through the snows along Nevsky Prospekt. It was a feeling that told her this was where she belonged, this was where she was meant to be. One of her friends, a lady much given to exaggeration in matters of dress and patterns of speech, was often heard to exclaim to most anyone she came upon, St. Petersburg is the center of the universe. I simply couldn’t live anywhere else! Natalya herself was not quite so similarly naive to think of St. Petersburg as the center of the universe despite all the wonders it had to offer, only that it was the center of her universe. The few times she had visited Moscow, she had found an atmosphere both oppressive and forbidding. She had, in short, hated the place. In that respect, she was like most sophisticated Russians who would spend long hours debating the preference of one city over the other. And it was most often the case, as it was with Natalya, that Russians who lived in one city greatly despised the other.

But now her beloved city had become a desolate place, a barren landscape filled only with fear. Even its name, Natalya had to remind herself, had been changed. At the beginning of the war, St. Petersburg’s name had been changed to the more Russian-sounding Petrograd. But there was perhaps even worse to come. Natalya had heard rumors that the Bolsheviks were planning to move the capital back to Moscow. Her poor dear St. Petersburg—first its name is taken away, then its very reason for being, seduced and then abandoned like a young flirtatious mistress when her paramour finally comes to his senses and goes back to his stodgy wife. But so much more than a name had already been changed.

Revolution, when it comes, very often seems to take those it is visited upon by surprise. So it was in Russia where most members of the nobility right up to the Tsar himself seemed genuinely amazed when the earth shook beneath their feet, and their whole world came tumbling down around them. But for years, a gathering storm of social unrest had been brewing across the vast Russian Empire. With a population estimated at 130 million, consisting of over one hundred different ethnic groups, the Russian Empire was the largest state on earth with a landmass that took up one-fifth of the entire globe. Its boundaries stretched from the Prussian border in the west to the Pacific Ocean in the east and from the Artic northern coast to the frontiers of China. In August of 1914, when Russia reluctantly entered into the European conflict that would come to be known as the Great War—or more naively simplistic, the War to End All Wars—there was a sudden and sincere burst of patriotism, a nationalist orgy of feeling that embraced both Russia and the Tsar. But as the years of the war dragged on and thousands upon thousands of young Russian men continued to die in what quickly came to be seen by many as a lost cause, enthusiasm for the war and the patriotism its beginning had spawned soon died. Then in September 1915, the Tsar, Nicholas II, a well-meaning if inept leader, made one of his most monumental blunders. At the urging of his wife, Alexandra, and her adviser, the starets Rasputin, he fired the competent commander in chief of the Russian armed forces and placed himself at the head of the army. Nicholas joined his army in the field some five hundred miles from Petrograd. He unwisely left the capital and the running of the government in the hands of his wife and Rasputin, and these two, through their incompetence, helped bring Russia to the very edge of the precipice. Like a train speeding out of control, the country careened toward total chaos at full throttle. Still, those at the top of society, including members of the Tsar’s own family, the Romanovs, failed to comprehend that the complete destruction of their way of life was now so close it could be smelled in the streets of Petrograd like smoke from an all-consuming fire that resisted all attempts to put it out. And while the Romanovs plotted among themselves to throw Alexandra into a convent, rid the world of the evil Rasputin—the one goal they managed to accomplish—and remove Nicholas from the throne and replace him with another member of their family, the Russian people had already decided they had had enough. There would be no more Romanovs ruling Russia.

During March 1917, food shortages plagued the capital, and riots broke out in the streets. The rioters were soon joined by revolutionaries demonstrating against the war and the monarchy. The government foolishly ordered the schools closed, and hundreds of angry students were added to the mobs in the streets of Petrograd. From the windows of the library where she now sat, Natalya and Constantine had watched a crowd of thousands march down Nevsky Prospekt, waving red flags and singing The Marseillaise. A regiment of soldiers, fierce Cossacks on great thick-chested horses, appeared, and when the demonstrators failed to halt, the Cossacks rode into their midst, slashing viciously to the right and left with their sabers. Horrified at the slaughter in the street below her, Natalya had turned her face away with an anguished cry. Only days later, almost all the soldiers in the city had gone over to the revolutionaries and the imperial government was dissolved. Tsar Nicholas was forced to abdicate, and the three-hundred-year-old Romanov dynasty came to an abrupt and, for many, an unlamented end.

In Petrograd, there was at first much turmoil as all law and order vanished; many shops and banks were looted and then set on fire. Even some private homes were similarly destroyed while not a few private long-standing scores were settled at the point of a knife or the barrel of a gun. But the provisional government that had been set up slowly managed to get things under control, and life, for a few months longer, returned almost to normal. The streetcars ran, the ballet and the theaters flourished again, the cinemas along Nevsky Prospekt were full, and the well-to-do continued to entertain their friends at lavish dinner parties. But then in November, the moderate provisional government was overthrown by the more radical Bolsheviks.

The takeover was actually rather mild and gave no hint of the terror and violence to come. On that fateful November evening, Natalya and Constantine attended a performance of Tchaikovsky’s ballet The Nutcracker at the Mariinsky Theatre. Before the performance began, the members of the audience amused themselves excitedly passing around the evening papers, which vividly detailed the struggle between the provisional government and the Bolsheviks. In the middle of the ballet, cannon shots were heard coming from the direction of the Winter Palace. Few, if any, stirred from their seats, and the ballet went on to its conclusion. So to the music of Tchaikovsky, the Bolsheviks stormed the Winter Palace and arrested the cowering members of the provisional government.

It’s begun, Constantine whispered to Natalya, searching for her face in the darkened theater. Neither of them had any way of knowing then that it was the beginning of the end.

Natalya was startled out of her remembrances by a discreet knock on the library door. She rose quickly, apprehensively, knowing that she was living through a time when a knock on the door could mean most anything, and most always, it was not good. But ever since her world had started to break apart, she had steeled herself to cope with it. She had never thought of herself as particularly brave, but Natalya had promised herself she would not show weakness. In spite of her resolve to remain firm, she was greatly relieved when, a moment later, the door opened, and it was the kindly wrinkled face of old Viktor that was revealed.

The elderly man was well into his eighties. Neither he or anyone else knew the exact date of his birth; all details pertaining to his ancestry, including even his full name, had been lost somewhere deep in the archives of the Karakova family history. He was the only one of their servants—and at one time, there had been more than a hundred—who had not deserted them. Natalya and her husband had always treated their servants almost like family—seeing they were well fed, comfortably housed, and even providing them with pensions when they retired. But in spite of this, when the first whiff of revolution was in the air, they had all left, except Viktor, and most, Natalya had been dismayed to learn, soon found themselves in circumstances much reduced from their days of service.

Viktor himself should have been retired years ago. But he stubbornly refused to even consider such a notion, and neither of the Karakovas were willing to force such a move upon him; both were convinced it would surely break his heart. He had served them through the fifteen years of their marriage and had been with Constantine during the long period of his bachelorhood and with his father before that. Viktor’s official title was master of the house, which made him sort of a majordomo and had given him command over the other servants when they had still been there. The old man had a childlike innocence about him, and his devotion to the man and woman he considered his charges, and whom he often called my dears, was complete and steadfast.

As he stepped into the library, Viktor’s walk was slow and careful as if he had to think about every step before he took it. He wore a monocle in his left eye, which meant nothing for at other times, he would wear it in his right eye and then sometimes not wear it at all, and though it would be hanging by a silver ribbon on his chest, he would fuss that he hadn’t the vaguest idea where it had gotten to.

Princess, there is a young man here to see you, Viktor announced. Though Natalya had corrected him a hundred times, trying to make him understand such titles were no longer appropriate and might even prove dangerous, he still persisted in addressing her in that manner. Likewise, even though servants and other members of households were now forbidden to wear any type of uniform, Viktor still continued to wear the military-looking green-and-gold uniform that had been designed for him many years ago complete with gold braided epaulets and a row of medals that Constantine had awarded him for years of loyal service.

Who is here to see me? Natalya asked.

A young man, Viktor repeated. He says his name is Pasha Nilradovich.

Natalya shook her head. I’ve not heard of him.

He seems quite determined, Viktor added with a frown. Rather disheveled looking, like most of those wild young men you see in the streets these days. Shall I send him packing, Princess?

Like a vivid flash of lightning, a memory stirred in Natalya’s mind, and she heard a voice from the past, a young woman’s shy confession of first love, His name is Pasha Nilradovich.

I’ll get rid of him, Viktor decided, already moving toward the door.

Have him come in.

Viktor turned back and looked at Natalya almost in amazement and certainly with a degree of disapproval. Are you sure, Princess?

Natalya smiled at him. It’s all right, Viktor. I’ll be quite safe.

Hardly convinced but trained to obey, Viktor left the library, muttering to himself as had become his recent habit. He returned with the young man, ushering him into the room with a marked and uncharacteristic lack of civility. And when he retreated from the room for the second time, the servant purposely left the library door open a crack. Natalya knew he would be hovering outside the door, straining to catch any sound of discord inside the room though his hearing was far from what it used to be.

Pasha Nilradovich proved to be a young man in his early twenties. Tall and lanky, he looked not unlike an adolescent who had just gone through a growth spurt and whose clothes no longer fit him. These clothes he wore were the traditional dress of the young revolutionary—a peasant’s blouse of rough brown cloth, baggy trousers of similar material tucked into high leather boots, and a long black overcoat, which looked to be neither warm or particularly unsoiled. His face was thin and pale with a wispy mustache that showed no promise of future growth. But in spite of his rather rough appearance, there was a sensitivity, an intelligence, to his face, and though his dark eyes burned with a youthful fire like two hot coals, it was clear that here was no mere street brawler or revolutionary insurgent.

Standing a respectful distance from Natalya, Pasha took off his wool cap, revealing shaggy brown hair of an unkempt nature. Twisting his cap nervously in his hands, he made a little bow to her, a gesture that spoke of a past where courtly good manners had been taught. Do you remember me? he asked.

Natalya had to stop herself before she answered for she had been about to respond to him in French. Like most members of the nobility, she and her husband spoke French when they were at home or out with their friends. They spoke Russian only to their servants or tradespeople they might encounter in the shops or cafes. As might have been expected, this apparent shun of the mother tongue was not looked upon favorably by those fueling the fires of revolution. Natalya also spoke English, fluently and with no trace of an accent. All her words were uttered in a lilting, almost-musical tone that was much used by the members of high society.

I do remember you, Natalya acknowledged in Russian although she had met him only once before, and that had been more than three years ago. Then he had looked so different. She remembered him as a young naval officer in a smart white tunic, all spit and polish, with slicked down hair and a smile on his face so bright one would have thought it could never have been wiped away. Looking at him now as he stood uneasily before her, she could discern just a glimmer of that other young man, just a whisper, as if the veil covering the past had been lifted for a half second.

They remained staring at each other for some moments in such intense silence, the labored breathing of old Viktor could be distinctly heard from the other side of the door. Then seeming to take in his surroundings for the first time, Pasha began to circle slowly around the room, his boots falling silently on the thick Oriental carpet.

The library was a small room with a feeling of cozy intimacy. It had become Natalya’s favorite room in the whole palace. She had made sure that it was simply furnished with comfortable leather chairs and a leather sofa covered with white fur throws. The wood paneled walls were lined with bookcases that contained hundreds of volumes bound in expensive Moroccan leather. Above the fireplace hung a Rembrandt, and around the room on various small tables could be found a collection of family photographs, antique snuffboxes from Constantine’s collection, and other objets d’art, some of considerable worth. Hours ago, Viktor had lit the lamps; so now the room was bathed in a warm golden glow that, at least temporarily, kept back the ugly cold darkness that waited outside beyond the windows.

Natalya watched as Pasha continued to move about the room, examining everything with much interest, even picking up some items and turning them over in his hands, but in a gentle manner, almost as if he feared he might drop them. At first, she thought he was reacting to the room because he had perhaps never seen one like it before, but then she realized this could not be true. And it dawned on her that he must be remembering a similar room he had known, a place where he had once been happy—a place, by the look of the sad little smile on his face, that obviously was no more.

Finally, his exploration completed, the young man came back to face her. He held her gaze for a moment as if he were about to say something, but instead, he threw himself rather abruptly into the chair she had recently vacated. Swinging one leg over one of the chair’s arms, he looked up at her, now with a sullen gaze. How many rooms are there in this mausoleum? he asked.

Somewhat startled by his sudden change of mood, Natalya took a couple of deep breaths, and because she was determined not to stand before him like she was on trial, she walked to the sofa across from him and sat down, folding her hands calmly in her lap. To be honest, I myself really have no idea, she responded. Hundreds, I would imagine. There are many rooms I have never even seen.

In reality, the Karakova Palace, her husband’s ancestral home, contained over three hundred rooms. Originally built in the seventh century as a monastery, it had grown through the years as each succeeding Karakova generation had added on to it in a startling and often unharmonious variety of architectural styles until it finally extended the length of three city blocks. Of all the other private residences in the city only the renowned Yusupov Palace was larger and more grand. Its present occupants spent most of their time in their private apartments, which took up two floors of a single wing of the mammoth building.

This wretched place is a perfect example of aristocratic decadence at its worst, Pasha fumed, making a face. I’m surprised the Bolsheviks haven’t moved in.

Watching him, Natalya sensed that something wasn’t quite right about his sudden change into an ardent young revolutionary; the transformation, she suspected, wasn’t quite complete. Boldly, she decided to challenge him. I know people who have lost everything, she began. Your Bolsheviks have taken all they had, every last ruble, and then thrown them out into the street. Many of them have fled the country. Others are starving to death.

Pasha was unimpressed. In Russia, people have been starving to death for hundreds of years. He had a challenge for her himself. If you’re so concerned about these people, why don’t you help them? Take them in. You’ve the room here to bunk a thousand easily.

I’ve . . . We’ve tried to help them, Natalya responded. They’re proud. They won’t take charity. And they don’t trust us anymore, she added quickly.

Because of your husband? Pasha asked.

Yes, Natalya responded.

Pasha snorted with contempt. Your husband considers himself a good friend of the revolution.

Others, Natalya thought to herself, had far less kind names to call him—collaborator was the one heard most frequently; traitor was another. These others, who had once been among her most intimate of friends, had turned their backs on her and treated her with contempt when she had tried to reach out to help them, when she had suggested to them that perhaps Constantine might be able to intercede with the Bolsheviks in their behalf. Perhaps her husband’s activities were wrong, Natalya had admitted to herself on occasion, but the reactions of her former friends were worse. And more than that, to her, they were unforgivable.

Of the few members of the nobility who joined the revolutionaries, some were idealists, some were just desperately hungry, and some like Constantine Karakova, Prince Karakova as he had formerly been known, saw it as a misguided attempt to preserve their life as they knew it. Constantine thought that if he cooperated with these new forces, they would let him continue his life as it had always been. He had served as a minister in the Tsar’s cabinet, and after the fall of the monarchy, he had offered his services to the provisional government. And once again, when the Bolsheviks had stormed into power, he had gone over to them.

Pasha swung his leg down and leaned forward in his chair. The Bolsheviks are just playing with him, like cats with a mouse. He won’t last much longer, he warned.

Natalya had suspected as much, and she felt certain her husband did as well. Only recently, he had told her they might have to leave Russia soon and quickly. That suggestion had brought to her a moment of naked self-analysis. Where would they go? What would they do? Had either of them the skills to survive outside of the rarefied atmosphere of the world they had both lived in all their lives?

She turned her attention back to the young man sitting across from her. Why did you come to see me? she asked him.

Pasha leaned closer to her so that their faces were almost touching and spoke in a whisper, Are we alone?

My husband is not at home, Natalya answered pointedly. And when Pasha nodded toward the door to the corridor, she added, My servant is quite hard of hearing.

Satisfied, Pasha seemed to relax, and the hard veneer that had covered his features slipped away. And Natalya realized that his revolutionary rhetoric had just been words that he was mouthing. He was playing a part; like her husband, he was doing what he had to survive. Knowing this, she immediately warmed to him. You can trust me, she assured him.

He avoided her look for a few moments and let his eyes roam around the room. When he finally turned his face back to hers, there were unexpected tears in the corners of his eyes. At Tsarskoe Selo, the Tsar’s . . . I mean, Nicholas’ study was a room very much like this one. Olga and I met there a number of times. We felt safe there because we knew her mother would never come in. Once, Nicholas did come in and catch the two of us together. We were only holding hands and talking. He said nothing to us, just sort of smiled and went out again.

Natalya had never been in Nicholas’ study though she had visited Tsarskoe Selo many times. It comforted her to know that in that opulent palace, there had been a room like the one they were in now, intimate and warm.

Pasha’s eyes narrowed to almost slits, and his hands, which up until then had been resting on his knees, suddenly clasped each other in a painful grip that bent his fingers back. His voice when he spoke was husky and strained, and he cleared his throat a number of times so that the words he said came out in a gasp almost like the words of a dying man. I intend to rescue Olga Nikolaevna.

Not quite sure she had understood him correctly, Natalya frowned. Rescue the Tsar’s daughter?

There is no Tsar, Pasha quickly reminded her.

Well, there once was, she reminded him.

Not anymore!

You cannot deny history.

But you can change it, Pasha insisted, and then he went off on a tirade, reciting a Bolshevik tally of supposed crimes committed against the people by Bloody Nicholas.

Tuning out his words but watching his face, Natalya realized that his rough revolutionary correct attitude had become so necessary to his survival that it would come over him without warning, as if some hidden resource dedicated to preserving his life had triggered it. She waited until his anger had dissolved as quickly as it had come upon him, and then she asked a simple question, What do you wish to rescue Olga from?

Pasha stared back at her as if he felt she had lost all sense of reason. Her captivity of course, he answered.

What captivity? Natalya asked. No one really knows where Nicholas and his family are. There are many stories about that they’ve gone to England or Denmark, she added while darker thoughts of a more sinister nature, which had haunted her for many weeks, now came forward in her mind, pushing aside the gentler whispers she had forced herself to believe.

Those stories are lies! Pasha shouted, jumping from his chair.

His cry was so loud that not even Viktor could have helped but heard it. And indeed, a moment later, he appeared hesitantly at the door. Princess?

Once again, Natalya had to assure him that everything was all right, and once again, Viktor reluctantly withdrew. But the library door remained open a crack.

Forgive me, Pasha said sincerely. I didn’t mean to shout at you. He stood before her, his face reflecting the torment raging inside of him. Nicholas and the rest of his family are being held in Siberia under guard.

Natalya nodded. Well then, perhaps later they will be sent to England.

Pasha sighed, and Natalya, for the first time, noticed how really different his face looked from the time she had seen him before. Then he