“Did you have any trouble getting here?” my host asked.

“Very little,” answered my companion. “We used a few matches—only three are left—to set fire to some hay in order to drive away two wolves. Matches are scarce these days.”

“Do you want some?” asked my host, handing him some loose ones.

“Thanks,” said my companion, “It is very pleasant here, but I must not stay long.”

“Marushka,” called our host, “tea, please.”

Immediately thinly sliced ham with cheese and bread were placed on the table, also a small samovar. My host was surprised when I refused the meat (a great luxury it was) but since Ekaterinburg I had not been able to stand the sight of it, remembering the shortage. I felt guilty taking sugar in my tea, but my host insisted and I took a lump but did not stir the tea in anticipation of a second glass. It was refreshing to us all.

As we finished, my companion said to me, “You are indebted to this gentleman, not to me. He saved your life.”

As if to end such embarrassing conversation, my host stood up and handed my companion an old, thick envelope, brown from age. The envelope was so thick that I thought it must have contained paper money and perhaps some jewelry. My companion lifted the flap and glanced inside it as our host said, “Take some bread and cheese to your friend. He must be hungry.”

“Are you really leaving?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, “my part is done.”

I did not know what he meant, but I did feel confidence in my host. Meantime I thanked the man for everything he and the others had done to help me. I began, “There is nothing I can offer you, but my deep, deep gratitude and appreciation. In the name of my family and myself, I thank you for what you have risked for me.”

He bowed and was gone. Each good-bye was less of Russia. That part of my rescue in the little room beneath the house was over.

The man had said that I owed my life to my host. What part had the latter played? I did have a sense of security with him. He seemed like one of my own people. I felt I could talk to him freely and find out who he was.

“Is this your house?” I ventured.

“Yes and no,” he said. “The cottage belongs to a former estate. Marushka’s husband worked on this farm but now he is missing in the war. The woods and fields you crossed were also part of the estate. One section used to belong to a family who were relatives of the Giers of the Ukraine.”

“Was there not a governor by that name?” I asked. “I remembered meeting him and his daughter.”

“The very same,” my host agreed, and I felt a common bond with him.

Just then Marushka came in and announced everything was ready for me. I thanked my host and followed her.

The house contained two rooms besides the kitchen. The host slept in the room in which we had tea. Marushka and I occupied the other room. I slept on a cot, Marushka on a narrow wooden bed next to the wall. On a stand stood a basin, a pitcher with water, soap and towel, and a lantern. I discovered this house, like many others, did not have inside conveniences.

Next morning outside the window I saw a vegetable garden. A small dog completed the friendliness of the house. He would sniff around every time I bathed the wound on my leg. When I shed a tear, as I washed, he would look at me soulfully as if to sympathize. He licked my hands. I was drawn to him right away and could not entertain the thought that I might have to leave him some day. He followed me everywhere in the day time and slept by my cot at night, as if to protect me from danger. You might have thought he had always belonged to me.

In the morning my host said, “We will not hurry. You need the rest and time for your wound to heal better. We will remain here a week or so.”

I was glad to hear this for he had already made me feel so comfortable in mind and body that I was glad to wait. He seemed to want to talk. After weeks of silence it was a treat to converse.

He said his name was Alexander, that he was an officer during the war. He had received the St. George’s Cross for his distinguished service in the Russian Army. He had also been decorated with the medal of St. Vladimir, 3rd class, usually given to commandants of large units. He knew my Father’s mother, and on one occasion had met us children at G.H.Q. when he had come to see Father.

During the war he was wounded in the abdomen and was nursed at the hospital in Kiev or Rovno where he had met my Aunt Olga. One evening he talked of my Father, saying His Majesty was kind, really too kind. He was so patient and understanding through his banishment. Only Christ could understand his suffering. Their Majesties suffered a long time. He bent his head and tears rolled down his cheeks. “It is all finished for all of us and for Russia.”

I remembered my Father’s tears on that final night of July 16th-17th after his talk with Yurovsky.

My host and I wept together. I breathed a prayer of gratitude to God for such a sympathetic and good friend. We had many talks together, but we did not touch on the subject so delicate to both of us. For the present neither of us felt equal to it. I wanted to hear of my rescue, yet again I did not, because of my family. He avoided the subject, fearing the effect the truth might have on me. We did talk of my life beneath the house. I told him of the excellent care the woman had given me, and said I was frightened by the various questions the men asked me.

“They questioned you?”, he said. “What about?”

“About my family, the imprisonment,” I answered. He was surprised at this news.

“Do you think they knew who you were?”

“Yes.” I said, “They never came out with it, but, judging from their questions, I suspected they had guessed.”

“Then we must leave immediately,” he said. “There will be trouble.”

He seemed agitated and called Marushka to get things ready. It was the third evening I had been with my host. Now we must cut short the week of delay we had both looked forward to.

On the fourth day, long before dawn, my host and I took to the road. It was early September, by the Russian calendar. I became aware of the date from a calendar hung in Marushka’s room. She used the previous year’s calendar, having changed the dates on it. Marushka, weeping as she did so often because of the loss of her husband, saw us to the door. We said a quick good-bye, and the little dog stood puzzled. It was hard to shut the door in the face of my little friend.

We were off. I carried nothing. My host carried a small canvas bag containing some food and a salve for his wound. We walked without event, and by late morning we were near a small town. My companion was quiet. At times he did not seem sure which road we should take. We rested about an hour; then suddenly he said, “I know now where we are. I see the church steeple over there.” He began to tell me that he was familiar with this part of the country. After walking several more hours, we came upon the ruin of a factory. We sat on the fallen bricks and ate our lunch. We had bread, hard-boiled eggs and a bottle of sour milk, and we purchased some apples.

For the first time, I knew approximately where we were. Passing the ancient city of Ufa, high up on the banks at the junction of the Ufa and Belaya Rivers, we had a beautiful view. We could see the vast stone quarries and stone cutting mills spread before our eyes. There were many chimneys, a witness to the size of Russian industries. But no smoke came out of them.

Part of Ufa was inhabited by Bashkirs, but now there were very many foreigners who were purchasing grain from the government, exchanging precious stones and platinum for the food sold or given them by the Bolshevik leaders, while the Russian people were not able to purchase their own products.

Here we stayed well into the afternoon, when my host surprised me by saying, “We are lucky that the train is leaving on this day. We will take the train from Ufa.”

We remembered that the depot was on the other side of the town, but when we reached it, we found no train there. We were told that the train had stopped farther down the track. We followed the track for a distance until we found the train standing. There were many peasants but the foreigners with their loot were boarding it first; some of the peasants even got up on the roofs of the cars. We finally managed to get into the doorway, but had to stand up all night. There were facilities on the train, but the rest rooms were packed with people.

We were afraid to get off the train for fear of not being able to get back on again. Our next stop was a small town named Bugulma. Here we changed to another train to go on to Simbirsk (since renamed Ulianov, after that heinous Tsederbaum-Ulianov-Lenin). We saw the Volga River at one of its most beautiful spots, the picturesque city of Simbirsk lying high on the bank, its many church steeples spread out before us. Suddenly I remembered what Miss Rita Khitrovo, former lady in waiting, had said of her ancestors, who had founded Simbirsk, and how we had hoped to make a trip to this historic city when the war was over. Palisades had been constructed here by the Boyar Khitrovo in the seventeenth century to defend the city from the Tartars.

Every Russian knew the song “Stenka Razin” about the famous Volga River robber, and that the many legends about him originated here. We saw the monument dedicated to the Russian historian, Karamzin. At Nicholas Garden, Alexander pointed out to me the Club of the Noblesse.

Seeing all this I felt a great pain in my chest. We passed the Convent of the Redeemer. I begged Alexander to let me enter it, since no one would know my identity. Alexander refused to listen to me, saying that many priests and nuns had already been driven out of convents, and many had been killed. It was no time to remain in Russia. It was dangerous; it might betray our whereabouts. So I had to be content with a prayer every time we passed a church. The sight of those holy sanctuaries lifted my spirits and calmed my nerves.

Alexander seemed to know this city, for without hesitation we walked some distance from the station to a wooden gate leading to a small house. He knocked on the door and an attractive lady of some forty years opened the door. Her name was Alexandra. They were happy to see each other.

“You look tired,” were her words of greetings.

“I am,” he said, “my side is troubling me.”

“You need a rest, I will have tea ready in a minute.” She invited us to sit down.

“Nikolai will be back any minute; he will bring some bread,” she said. “Usually the bread line is quite long and one must start very early in the morning.”

I was not prepared to find such a lovely lady in this house. I wondered who she was and what her relationship to my host could be. She was very aristocratic looking. Soon Nikolai, dressed shabbily in civilian clothes, like Alexander, arrived with a loaf of bread tucked under his arm. I could see he was a warm friend of Alexander. He was delighted to see us and said he had rather expected us. He and Alexander chatted at length while we drank our tea.

As we finished, he turned suddenly to Alexander and asked, “How did you ever happen to go to E.K. (that is, Ekaterinburg)?”

Alexander answering at length: “I wanted to join Admiral Kolchak’s army but was arrested and put in prison for a time. While there, I had a fresh attack and they let me out of prison. Instead of going to a hospital, I went to Ekaterinburg. There I met a priest by the name of Father Storozhev whom I visited several times. He informed me of the desperate condition at the Ipatiev House. It seemed he had been summoned to conduct a service there and was alarmed about the consequences. He suggested I contact a man by the name of Voykov, who was in charge of hiring the guards and other workers. I applied as a worker, but did not get the job.

“One day I went to the guard house next to the Ipatiev House where I became friendly with the guards through a guard whom I had met previously and with whom I later played chess. I returned to the guard house several times. Some of the guards were jolly but rough; most of the outside guards were Russians, former convicts. They did not object to my presence. They remained guarding the house to the last. The inside guards, I was told, were replaced by foreigners two weeks before the tragedy.”

Alexander was right; they were foreigners, mostly ex-prisoners of war.

It was as if Alexander were taking the opportunity to tell Nikolai, in front of me, what had happened. He felt that I ought to know.

“I saw Father Storozhev a few days before the night of July 16-17th,” he continued. “I went to the guard house again, after dark, because the priest had given me a feeling of danger. I did not tell him where I was going nor did I see him again. When I came upon the guards with whom I played chess, I saw most of them had been drinking heavily.

“They asked me to drink a toast to Comrade Yurovsky; he sent the liquor in appreciation for their services. I refused to take anything pointing to my wound. ‘Never mind, tovarishch,’ one of the guards said. ‘More will be left for us. You are sick and only good for the dogs.’ They seemed to be drowning something in drink. I am sure they were not aware of the forthcoming murder. I began to feel uneasy and feared there was real danger. I was afraid to leave the place. I wished I had four or five armed men with me. After dinner it was announced that no one would be allowed to leave or enter the place. They looked at me and said jokingly, ‘We have a new prisoner.’

“Some of the guards left drunk for their various posts. With several other guards I entered the courtyard. I heard a truck drive up to the house about eleven P.M. I offered the truck driver to help him back up the truck. He accepted my offer. It flashed through my mind that this truck might be for the purpose of secretly taking the family away. After a while the driver fell asleep, giving me the opportunity to get into the back of the truck. I lay down flat in the back of the truck. Imagine the shock when I felt warm, twitching objects thrown next to me. I knew then what had actually happened.”

At this point Alexander burst into tears. I ran out of the room. I had been hoping he would say that some of my family were still alive, but he denied it with his tears.

Only twice was the subject again brought up, once by Alexander and later by Nikolai who told me the rest of Alexander’s heroic rescue. From fear, Alexander remained in the truck, horror stricken and unable to move, realizing his dangerous position. He had no choice but to lie there quietly next to still warm and twitching bodies. If discovered, he too would have been shot. That night most of the guards were drunk. The truck moved rapidly out of the courtyard through the streets and then slowly over the bumpy country roads, the wheels sliding out of one deep rut into another. Suddenly Alexander heard a moan among the bodies. As the truck turned at the bend of the road, he picked up two bodies and tossed them into the bushes. The guards on horseback being far behind, Alexander jumped into a ditch and lay among the bushes until he knew they had passed. Returning to the bodies, he quickly examined them. One appeared to be lifeless. He wrapped the live one with his coat and carried it a long way to the first house he could find. It was the house with the dugout underneath. Alexander took notice of the location, which was in the vicinity of Uktus and Mramorskaya. The long walk with the heavy burden caused his wound to rupture, and infection set in on the side of his abdomen. He was ill and soaked in blood, not knowing what to do. He took a chance in asking unknown strangers to care for me, offering them a generous reward. If these people had known from the beginning who I was, they would probably have refused to care for me for fear of being discovered. One of these men kept Alexander informed of my condition. This explained why our journey from our little hiding place to Alexander’s cottage was so dangerous. I told Alexander and Nikolai about having some valuables sewn in my clothes. They said that that was perhaps another reason why my clothes had been burned and why they cared for me the way they did. They were well paid. Alexander also paid them through the brown envelope. How much was in it, I did not ask. He did say that I was fully clothed when he delivered me to the house and that my clothes were soaked in blood, probably from that of the others as well as my own.

When I left the dugout, I carried with me only the blood-stained handkerchief, the piece of blue glass, and my soul. If any one is still alive from among those who were with us in Tobolsk, he would recognize the handkerchief as the one seen in Tobolsk.

Alexander said nothing about leaving Simbirsk. I took it for granted that we would be moving on, but was grateful for the respite in which to get hold of myself. All I had heard had unnerved me. I suspected Alexander needed a rest for our strenuous trip ahead. On the evening of our third day a truck drove up. Alexander and I said good-bye to Mlle. Alexandra and were on our way again.

Alexander sat on the front seat with Nikolai, and I sat in the back on the straw-covered floor of the truck. We drove through the night with only the customary stops in wooded spots for rest and to change drivers, Alexander seemed unusually thoughtful; he was continually trying to spare Nikolai and me all he could. He made attempts at light conversation.

“We missed the hottest month of the year; it is usually in July, and January is the coldest,” he said.

I learned the truck belonged to a factory in Kursk, where Nikolai was employed by the new government in some industrial capacity, and the truck was to be delivered there. We continued our journey in the truck until late in the afternoon, when we stopped in a wooded spot with tall poplars, birches, walnut and elm trees which grew profusely in this area near Penza. We rested a while and then proceeded toward the city, an old historical site. We made some purchases of food here, although the prices were prohibitive. Alexander noticed a woman selling shawls. He approached her and asked for the price. It was so high that he glanced at me disappointedly—he knew I was cold as I had no coat. The woman came close to me and stared into my eyes. I was frightened. She said she would take only one-fourth of the price she had first asked. She selected the best one and placed it on my shoulders. When we left, I turned back for a glance at her; she was making a cross in our direction. Alexander hurried away, as I limped along next to him. At the time the cruel murder of the Imperial family was already known in Russia. Here we met people of many races, Tartars, Buriats, Kirghiz and others.

We passed a lovely square with beautiful trees where the Lermontov monument stood. Descending, we passed Sadovaya Avenue. It reminded me of the Sadovaya in Tsarskoe Selo. The canal, the pond, the orangeries, the Chinese Village, the Siberian blue bridge and the palace all came to my thoughts.

The truck rolled on. Nikolai glanced at me. I knew he felt sorry for me. Both men watched me tenderly giving every kindness to make up for the loss I had had some weeks ago. I was appreciative of all their attentions and hoped to cause them no unnecessary trouble.

When we passed Tambov, Alexander said he had some friends in Voronezh; perhaps we could get a little rest there. We arrived in Voronezh in the afternoon and stopped in front of the Convent of St. Mitrophanes. With my companions’ consent, I walked into the convent and asked if I might rest there for a few hours, while Alexander and Nikolai went to see their friends and a doctor. Here the kind nuns washed my clothes and prepared a hot bath for me, washed my hair, and dressed the sores on my leg which looked infected.

In about three hours, when I was ready to leave, they packed some food for us, all they could spare. While I prayed with the nuns, I was seized by a most extraordinary feeling. Three times I felt a breeze flying over my shoulders. My lips froze, I turned around and sensed nothing. In my mind I saw my family in the church in Tsarskoe Selo, entering through the small side door the Feodorovsky Sobor where we prayed with our beloved escort. The choir in the Feodorovsky Sobor with its beautiful voices sang throughout with such perfection that one wished it would never come to an end. I also saw my loved ones in Tobolsk in the winter church. Coming back to present surroundings, I realized that I stood alone among a few humble women. There was only a murmur of voices within these sacred walls. I thanked God for the kindness I had received in this convent. My heart found peace and I felt refreshed. I often wondered if they knew who their guest was.

As I came out of the convent, I was horrified to see Alexander approaching, his face pale, grief-stricken and excited. He said, “There is no use going to the Crimea. I have just heard from responsible sources that your Grandmother, both aunts, their husbands, and all their children have been killed. We also learned from a relative that Vostorgov (a high clergyman in Moscow), together with a great many others, were assassinated last month. Among them were the young Ministers Maklakov and Khvostov, who had replaced the old Minister Goremykin, Minister of the Interior.”

That Khvostov’s wife, Anastasia, had been shot in Moscow, I had learned previously. I could not cry but shook as if in a state of fever. All this distressing news pointed out our own danger. I had hoped that in a week I would be in the Crimea with my relatives.

We heard, too, what had happened in Sevastopol. The revolutionists had killed and tied stones to the feet of the young cadets and thrown them into the Black Sea. Their disappearance was a mystery until a young woman on her way to market saw some bodies and reported them. She was turned away from the scene and was not allowed to enter the street where the bodies were seen. Later a diver went down and came up screaming. “They are alive and walking on the bottom of the sea,” he claimed. He had lost his mind. A second diver discovered the bodies were upright; heavy stones were tied to their feet and the waving motion of water made them look as if they were walking.

Only fate helped me to listen with fortitude to this heartrending news about my relatives. Later I learned that the report about them was not true.

Alexander had also heard that late one night in June, 1918, Uncle Misha and his English secretary, Nicholas Johnson (who thought his presence might help the Grand Duke), were taken away into the woods near Perm, and mysteriously disappeared. Unfortunately they had been executed, as I learned much later.

Father was right, the taste of blood begets an epidemic.

Having heard all this about the Crimea, we knew that going there was out of the question, so we did not, as originally planned, go through Tula, which, I was told, seemed like our best route. We went instead to Kursk where Nikolai delivered the truck. While he was delivering it, we purchased some food. The price of bread was not so exorbitant, but we paid outrageous prices for the other products. Now we were headed for the Rumanian border.

When we first started this trip we passed mountainous fir-clad country—with many ravines. Now the country was much flatter and dotted with many granaries. We walked through forests and cut through the muddy wheat fields. We rested, then walked some more. We slept in farmers’ sheds on straw, glad of any place to keep dry, as it rained almost every day. We crossed railroad tracks, we saw rusty freight cars full of sacks of wheat. All were moldy, and the wheat was growing through the burlap sacks while the people were starving, forbidden to take this grain. Later on, when we ran out of food, Alexander bought some wheat from a farmer and both men ate a little of it. I would have eaten some, too, if I could have chewed it. The grain swelled inside of them and both men were uncomfortable, drinking water whenever they could. We heard that many had died who had eaten raw wheat.

We were not far from Kremenchug (on the east bank of the Dnieper) where, according to a letter we had received in Tobolsk, Lili Dehn was living. I would have liked to join her. Fighting was going on in the area. We continued our westward trek.

Many citizens in order to disguise their identity lived in charred railway cars. The walls were patched with canvas, the only protection against cold and heat. Many children were born on these cars, and died there as a result of exposure and lack of food. No one claimed the bodies of the dead which were buried in shallow graves near the railroad tracks. Many grain elevators were filled with charred corpses. The foreigners seemed well-fed and well-dressed; they received all the best attention. This was the “liberty” that Kerensky—and later the Bolsheviks—had championed, polluting the minds of the people.

As we continued on our way Nikolai and I noticed that Alexander was lagging behind. Nikolai stopped to examine him and found a pus spot on his shirt, just below his waistline on the left side. His wound was infected again. Fortunately, he had an effective salve with him which they applied and then bandaged the wound. We hoped that it would tide him over until we could get to a doctor. We gathered some leaves and made a bed for him. I put my shawl over him as he stretched out on the wet leaves. Nikolai and I sat beside him, hoping he would be able to reach the next village. I would have given my right arm and eye to save this good friend.

We were surprised to learn from the crackling noise of branches that there were other people in these woods. The footsteps came closer and suddenly two men walked up to us. They seemed to be afraid of us. When they saw us they started to go back in the same direction they came from.

“Come and join us,” said Nikolai in a friendly tone of voice.

“Is anything the matter?”, asked one of the men in a language we recognized as Serbian.

“Our friend’s wound has opened and is infected,” said Nikolai, “and we do not know what to do.”

The Serbian, in broken Russian, suggested that, when night came, we take our patient to the nearest house. He volunteered to look for and find a house. While we waited for his return, we talked with the other man and found that he was a Croatian. The two of them had not been able to get on the train in Kursk and had started to walk to the border. Both had been officers in the last war. One fought on our side, the other fought on the enemy’s side. Now they were on their way to their respective homes.

The Serbian returned in about an hour. He had located a house not too far away. At dusk the Serbian and Nikolai helped Alexander to his feet and supported him all the way to the house.

It was a thatched-roof, white-washed house in which a young woman about thirty-five years old lived with her four children. The little boy, five years old, with his blond curly hair and big gray eyes reminded me very much of Alexei at that age. I was drawn to him at first sight, especially when he looked at our invalid and asked, “Is the father ill?” His own father had been wounded in the war and they hoped he would get home soon. He imagined that his father had been ill the same way.

Small as the house was, we all spent the night there. We two women slept in one room with all the children, the men in the other room. By morning our invalid felt much better. We lingered all day to make sure that he was capable of continuing the trip. The woman was most generous. She shared with us her scanty food. To avoid the heat of the day the Serbian and the Croatian planned to start on their way in the early evening. When Alexander heard about their leaving, he insisted that Nikolai and I go with them. We protested, but he said his temperature was normal and the little mother promised to give him the best of care. He assured us everything would be easier if we obeyed him. Finally we were convinced and reluctantly left him with the promise that as soon as we were over the border, Nikolai would come back for him.