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.”