Our initial, glorious victories were, so tragically, only short-lived, and what we all expected to be a short war soon appeared otherwise. Our Second Army was all but wiped out in the Battle of Tannenberg-100,000 taken prisoner, 35,000 killed or maimed, with only 10,000 escaping-and it was even worse for the First. Lord, I think 125,000 of our men were slaughtered out there in Prussia. Really, we could not continue for long with losses like that, so it was no wonder that I heard grumblings when I walked beyond our walls. Less and less I was greeted with smiles and more and more with wicked words, for the poor, tired souls were angry at everything German, including me simply because of my ancestry.
“Hessian witch!” the nasty few would mutter behind my back, though in truth it did not hurt.
As incredible and ridiculous as it seemed even then, there were rumors about that I was sending gold to my native lands-yes, supposedly I was hoarding Siberian gold right there at my obitel and sending it by the nugget via secret courier to Germany to help in the war efforts against my beloved Russia! What tittle-tattle, what evil tongues! What no one knew was my intense dislike of the Prussians, who’d all but overrun my native Darmstadt, or, for that matter, that I’d never been fond of my own cousin, the Kaiser Wilhelm, who had once so strongly sought my hand in marriage. And these dark stories weren’t just the work of German spies, who were so intent on damaging the morale on the home front. Incredibly, it was also the work of those foolish revolutionaries, who came secretly flooding back into Russia, intent on undermining dear Nicky and Alicky, revolutionaries who were more determined than ever to wipe away our God-given monarchy. Black rumors swelled like great waves, passing from one tongue to the next, one claiming that Nicky was being drugged by Alicky, another that Alicky had a direct telegraph line from her boudoir all the way to Cousin Willy in Berlin. Of course, the worst of the worst was being said in and about that foolish man, Rasputin, who had become such a stain on the Throne. For the life of me I could not understand Alicky’s dependence on him, and I prayed night and day for her deliverance from him.
Sadly, all these untrue stories worked like dark magic. Our people were hungry, our people were tired, and unrest amongst all the classes was frothed up as easily as a pair of eggs. Just several weeks earlier an anti-German riot had erupted in Moscow with German homes and shops looted and destroyed. Even the police did not bother to interfere.
Of course, none of this was helped by a matter that did worry me-that our military hospitals were not being filled up by our own Russian wounded but by prisoners, both German and Austrian. Muscovites didn’t like that at all, even though the military hospitals were far less comfortable than the Red Cross or private ones. Nevertheless, the tongues said I only looked after Germans and even took them endless sweets and rubles. Such untruths. Yes, I did visit the wounded prisoners, for a soul is a soul no matter from what country, but I did no more than pray for them. Unfortunately, all this dark talk was put on my back even though I, perhaps more Russian than many Russians, cared so deeply for the men of my new homeland. To make absolutely sure there was no preferential treatment, however, I stopped my visits to the prisoners altogether and had a ladies’ committee, with my Grande Maîtresse Countess Olsuvieva at the head, look into this matter.
But what should have been a great warning of the darkness to come was the incident that took place upon my return from Petrograd-yes, not long after the outbreak of war even our capital had been renamed, for to the Russian ear “Sankt Peterburg ” sounded harshly German and hence unpleasant, and so it, too, was dashed. I had been there in the capital for the state funeral in 1915 of Grand Duke Konstantin Konstantinovich-soon after the battlefield death of one of his beloved sons, my dear Kostya had suffered a fatal infarkt-and upon my arrival home in Moscow everything at first seemed normal. At the Nikolaevski Station I descended my private railcar without incident and moved freely along the platform, perceiving no problem whatsoever. Unlike my previous days, I was traveling without a suite of any sort-neither court ladies nor guards of any sort-and while there were certainly many eyes upon me and I was, despite my robes, widely recognized, this was not unusual and by no means threatening either. Really, hitherto-fore in all my travels and ventures into the bleakest, poorest corners of our vast Empire, I had not once felt the least indication of malevolence directed upon my person. However, no sooner had I passed through the Imperial Waiting Rooms and exited onto the broad, bustling street than things began to disintegrate. A limousine was waiting for me, and as the uniformed driver helped me settle into the rear seat, a most violent disruption broke about, initiated no doubt by a handful of unpatriotic agitators.
“Look, it’s the German bitch!” shouted one man.
“It’s a filthy Romanov traitor!” hollered another.
“Get her! Down with her!”
It was shocking, really, how quickly they swarmed around the motorcar, rather more like a pack of wild dogs or mad beasts than human beings. Wasting not a moment, my chauffeur scurried quickly around and into the vehicle, but no sooner had he shut the door than fists began pounding the windows. In one moment there were ten men, the next twenty, and then thirty.
“German bitch!” they cried one after another.
I clutched automatically at the cypress cross that I always wore around my neck, and I could hear my heart pounding, feel my thoughts dashing here and there. Good Lord, what was happening?
“I think it best if we move quickly on,” I recommended to the chauffeur.
“Yes, but… but…” he said, motioning to the men now clambering over the hood of the vehicle.
“Just proceed,” I said as calmly as I could. “Do not worry, we are in God’s hands.”
White with fear, he managed to start up the motor and engage the vehicle in gear. We had rolled not even a half pace when a man jumped right in front of the vehicle, his arms outstretched, his face red with rage. Immediately, my driver stomped on the brakes and the vehicle jerked to a standstill. The man blocking our way screamed something, foul words that I had never heard in Russian, and an even greater cry of anger flew through the crowd. All around, from every side, people charged closer, flaming me with fiery insults. Someone pounded on my window, and I saw a furious red-faced woman with a scarf tied around her head. My inclination was to smile gently upon her, but this woman sucked in her cheeks and with great force expelled a good quantity of saliva upon the glass. And then another man did likewise, spitting his hatred upon us. Another followed suit, and then another and another, until the windows and the windscreen were covered. The next instant, several large men took hold of the wheels and the entire limousine began to rock most violently up and down and side to side.
“Please… drive on… quickly now!” I requested, clutching the seat. “Quickly!”
“But, Your Highness, what if I hit someone?”
“God willing, they’ll step aside!”
Despite all my good thoughts and all my good prayers, the fear came flooding into my heart like an evil river, rampaging and scouring my mind with doubt. How could this be? These were my children to whom I had given my entire soul and for whom I felt nothing but divine love. Where did such hatred come from? What sin had I committed to engender this rage?
I held tightly the cross upon my breast, firmly shut my eyes, and chanted, “Gospodi pomilui…” Lord have mercy…
No sooner had my driver pushed again on the accelerator and we began moving again, albeit ever so slowly, than something crashed against the side of the car with the most frightening sound. It sounded as if a bomb, and I screamed as I had not since childhood. All my fears whooshed back to that day when my Sergei was blown apart, and I was sure my end had now come as well. I struggled for my control, but found myself lost in that frightening memory when the center of Moscow rocked with my husband’s death. But it was not a bomb hurled against my motorcar but a rock, a cobblestone, actually, pulled right from the street. There came another, and then one after that, all raining down upon my vehicle, simply pure thunder and storm. Suddenly a stone sailed directly through one of the side windows, glass exploded everywhere, and I screamed yet again, as did the driver, his voice high and terrified. Almost the next instant a huge stone came hurtling directly from the front, smashing the windscreen into a thousand shards, glass like needles tearing at my driver. From behind I heard someone pounding on the window behind my head, and I tensed and steeled myself as if I were to be shot. All around voices and the worst insults came at me like cannon fodder, wounding me not physically but heart and soul, which I felt far more deeply. To my side I saw a massive hairy hand reach for the door, and from the coarse rage I understood that the intention was to rip me from my vehicle so that the crowd could pull me apart upon the street.
And then came the soldiers on horseback with whips and sabers, and it was only in this manner that the incident was concluded as promptly as it had begun.
Yes, the soldiers beat away our attackers posthaste, and the hooligans fled, for even though the days of serfdom were fifty years past, the memory of the master’s whip and knout was long and bitter throughout Russia. My driver sped hastily on, driving clumsily as he blotted the cuts on his forehead and cheeks. With tears in my eyes, I glanced back through the soiled rear window and saw a poor few continuing to fight, only to be beaten down and even trampled upon. I wanted to go back, to reach out to all of those poor souls and offer them solace, but my driver, wiping sweat and blood from his brow, sailed us through the heart of the city.
Lord…
By the time the motorcar reached my obitel and passed through the carriage gates, I had wiped away my tears. Word of the incident spread quickly, however, and some fifty sisters came scurrying out, the dear ones so concerned for my safety and shocked at the outbreak, and I did my best to calm them.
“Praise be to God for your safe return!” exclaimed my confessor, Father Mitrofan, the fear drawn all across his big face as he hurried out in his long black robes.
I did my best to hide away my shock and fear as I said, “Everything is perfectly fine.”
“But… but look at the motorcar-the windscreen is smashed! And you, Matushka, you are so pale and… and…!”
“Let me repeat, I am fine,” I said too sternly.
Father Mitrofan knew me far better, however, and he gently guided me along to my reception room.
“Please,” he called to one of my novices, “bring us tea at once.”
In the following days there was little I could do to control the story, and though the censors would not let it be printed in our papers, it flew all across Moscow -the Romanov nun attacked!-spreading like heathen fire. When word of concern came from the head constable of the city, I assured him that it had been only a scant few agitators and nothing serious. Indeed, many about the city were so shocked by the incident that they flooded my community with breads and vegetables, eggs and milk, as if to atone for some great sin. Wishing to quiet the worry, I forbade any and all of my sisters to speak of the matter-the sick and the wounded needed their attention, not stories of the doubters and faithless. Least of all did I want to worry Nicky and Alicky-the two were consumed by their war efforts-yet despite my best efforts an official report was made to the Emperor and his horror knew no end.
The only truly grievous result of the whole sad affair was that under Nicky’s command the highest authorities and even the Metropolitan came to me and all but forbade my travels beyond my white walls, particularly and especially to such dangerous places as the Khitrovka. Deep into the night, I prayed on my knees for guidance, and though in the end I acquiesced and agreed to stay close to home-if my presence stirred up such unrest, perhaps it was indeed best I not go about and be seen-my soul ached with concern. Yes, lying at night on my plank bed, I couldn’t help worrying. What of all the Ludmillas and the young Arkashas-if I were to remain essentially locked away, just who was going to reach out to them body and soul?
And though I essentially retired to my community, busying myself with prayers and care for the needy and war wounded, the world around me continued to deteriorate at an alarming pace. Under the strain of transporting all the troops, I heard of the railway system breaking down, with one muddle followed by another, and soon sugar was rationed. I was told, too, that the shelves grew emptier and emptier, not just of sugar but all foodstuffs, and one day another story came round that while the workers could barely get black bread, we at my obitel feasted on chicken cutlets and meat pies, not to mention fruit jams. It would have been an amusing story had I not clearly understood the danger in such lies, and all this while my diet consisted purely of vegetables, such as onions and turnips with an egg here or there and an occasional spot of milk. Sadly, too, out of the blue sky I received an anonymous letter telling me that my sister and I should return to Germany immediately because, after all, we were not Russian and our loyalties were nested firmly with the enemy. I paid it no attention, merely wished that my letter writer would come pray by my side.
With some degree of secrecy I did manage another trip to the capital and there to see my sister at Tsarskoye. There were many who had begged me to influence Alicky, who, with Nicky off at the front, ruled as essentially regent of the Empire. Her authority was understood by everyone of every class, and abhorred, too, particularly with the black name of Rasputin mentioned round every tea table and in every queue. Instead, I navigated away from any controversial subject with Alicky, and but for a few days we two sisters managed a good visit, cozy, calm, and homey. Her children, those four beautiful girls and the Heir Tsarevich, were such a delight to me, and for brief moments the horrors of war seemed distant. Despite the malicious tales otherwise, Alicky and I had always been and still were close.
Yes, I averted any difficult conversation with my sister, but upon my return to Moscow came another incident, more egregious than any other. It was said that our brother, Ernie, the Grand Duke of Hesse und bei Rhein, had been secretly sent to Russia by the Kaiser. Ernie was to negotiate some kind of shameful peace with Germany, and supposedly he’d been in hiding at the Palace in Tsarskoye. Simply preposterous. So said the tongues, however, claiming that such was the supposed reason for my recent visit to my sister. It was claimed that I, not any servant, cooked for him lest he be seen and recognized. Further, somehow disguised he was supposed to have got his way to Moscow, hiding in my railway carriage, and could now be found taking secret shelter in the depths of my obitel. At first I assumed this was the work of German spies, but it turned out the story was birthed quite effectively by our Russian revolutionaries. Clearly, their clever ploy was to use a deceitful story to knock away the God-given pedestal from which Nicky ruled.
It came as no surprise, then, that one morning I heard shouting and yelling from beyond the walls. I was in our hospital, attending to a serious wound on the groin of one of our soldiers, when my long-faithful Nun Varvara came running in.
“People are marching upon us, Matushka!” she gasped, unable to hide her fear. “There are men with sticks and rakes coming down the street-they’re shouting the worst things!”
“My dear, I’m busy at the moment. And please keep your voice down-as you can see this man needs his rest.”
“But, Matushka, I’m fearful for your safety!”
“Well, I am not. And besides, I am busy caring for this poor man. The bandages on his wound must be carefully changed.”
“But what-”
“Just lock the gates, my child, and I’ll be there as soon as I’ve finished. At the moment this man’s health is more important than anything else.”
Nun Varvara hurried off, and I returned to my duties of caring for the man before me. Wounded in battle, he had been brought back to Moscow and operated on in our theater just yesterday, the doctors having removed four small pieces of shrapnel. In great pain, the soldier had been slipping in and out of consciousness all morning.
As I removed the bandages and cleaned his groin with warm water, the man moaned and opened his eyes. I looked at him and smiled gently. His wound was serious, but if we kept it cleansed and covered I felt we could keep gangrene at bay.
“Who… who are you?” he asked, speaking for the first time.
I humbly replied, “I am your servant.”
“Someone said you are a princess… but you are not Russian… I can tell by your accent. Are you a German princess? Am I in Berlin? Am I a prisoner?”
“No, my good man, you are in your Motherland. You are in Moscow. And as I’ve already told you, I am your servant.”
From outside came shouting and yelling and some kind of racket. Dear Lord in Heaven, were our gates being broken down?
“What’s that?” said the soldier, struggling to sit up. “Are we under attack?”
I reached for some ointment and lint, and advised, “Please, just lie back down. There is nothing to be concerned about. We must attend to your wound, it must not be overlooked. Just relax.”
Unfortunately, the mayhem outside seemed to grow by the moment, and quite clearly I heard someone shout, “Nemka, doloi!”-Away with the German woman!-but I turned my mind to all things spiritual. There was no reason to doubt, no reason to mistrust, I thought as I finished bandaging the poor man, for all was in God’s hands. After all, not even a hair could fall from one’s head without God’s knowledge. And to calm my soldier I softly began to sing, “Svyeta Tixhi”-“Hail, Gentle Light.” No more than ten or fifteen seconds passed, however, when I heard the disturbing sound of glass breaking.
“Will you excuse me?” I said to the soldier.
But the man had already drifted away, his eyes closed. Moving now with haste, I rinsed my hands and hurried to a small window. Peering out, I saw a mob of easily forty or fifty people, mostly men. They had breached our main gate and were flooding into the garden, rakes and thick sticks raised in their hands. Worse, they were charging after two of my youngest sisters, who were fleeing toward a side door. Right before my eyes I saw a cobblestone fly through the air, hitting one of the sisters on the back. She stumbled, the other girl took hold of her and dragged her on, and the pair frantically disappeared inside a doorway. Just as they pulled shut the door, another stone sailed after them, smashing against the wood. Then came another, and another, flying this way and that, and window after window was shattered to pieces.
“Radi boga,” For the sake of the Lord, I muttered, quickly crossing myself.
Above the rabble, I heard a loud voice shout, “Shpionka, suda!” Bring out the spy!
“Nemka! Nemka!” The German woman, the German woman, the mob yelled nearly as one.
Without a moment’s waste, I hurried off, lifting the front of my robes as I made my way from my patient’s room and through a series of small corridors. I turned corner after corner, for our buildings were all linked by walkways, and when I reached the main doors of my own house I found not only a half dozen sisters frantically pushing against the door to hold it shut but Father Mitrofan throwing his weight against it as well. They had bolted the doors, of course, but the crowd outside was determined to batter their way in. Upon seeing me, Father Mitrofan and all my girls shouted their fear.
“Matushka, you must run away!” called Sister Mariya.
“They want to hurt you!” exclaimed the novice Makrina.
Even Father Mitrofan, usually so rational, frantically urged, “You must flee through the kitchens and out the back door!”
I slowed, gathering my thoughts and prayers. In all things there was wisdom, in all things there was His plan.
“Please, step aside and allow me to handle this,” I said to my sisters. “One must be ready at any time to wear the martyr’s crown of thorns.”
At first they hesitated, but my young ones meekly obeyed, retreating as one into the next room. As the beating on the doors grew steadily rougher and harsher and the screaming beyond louder and coarser, I knew absolutely what I must do. I reached for the iron bolts and drew them open, and then I threw wide the double doors. A great cry went up from the mob, which seemed poised to run right over me, but then the advancing horde stopped, stunned by the sight of me standing there in my gray working robes.
“Welcome to my community,” I said with a gentle bow of my head. “I am the Matushka of this obitel-is it to me you wish to speak?”
At first none knew what to say, how to act. There was some grumbling, some brandishing of the sticks.
Finally, one of them shouted, “We want your German brother, the Grand Duke of Hesse!”
“Give him to us!” yelled a handful of others.
“I, too, have heard such stories,” I began, my voice strong and clear, “but I can assure you that my brother is nowhere to be found within this community. In fact, he is nowhere to be found in Russia.”
“But he’s hiding in the cellar, I know it!” called one.
“I’m afraid you are mistaken, for I would never permit such a thing,” I replied. “It would be tantamount to treason.”
“Nemka, doloi!”
“German bitch!”
“Shpionka, suda!”
“Listen to her speak-she’s pure German!”
For half an instant it seemed they would rush forward and seize upon me, then ransack the entire community. I felt as if I were overlooking a kettle about to boil over, so evident was their anger and exhaustion.
“Once again,” I began, my words measured, “I can assure you that my brother is not here, nor has he ever been. However, a handful of you are welcome to enter our buildings and look throughout every room. I only ask that it be no more than six of you who come in because behind these walls and under these roofs are many sick and wounded, not to mention our orphans. Please, I entreat you, do not disturb my patients and do not frighten the children, for they have already been through so much.”
A voice from the back, certainly an agitator, shouted, “But I saw that German spy with my own eyes! I know he’s in here!”
“He’s hiding in the cellar!”
“There must be a secret room!”
“Please come in,” I quickly replied, “and look for yourselves. If only you would be so kind as to put down your sticks and rakes, you may spend all afternoon with us, you may search everywhere. Only again I ask you, please do so quietly.”
A man shouted, “She’s lying!”
“Let’s all go in, we’ll get him then!”
“Nemka, doloi!”
The crowd seethed, there was obviously nothing I could do to soften them, to appease them. It was only at this moment, only just then, that I feared all would be lost, and I worried not for myself but for the others, my sisters and our sick ones. I could see these unruly brigands shift from side to side, see their sticks and rakes start to tremble. Standing there calmly, quietly, I called upon the Lord for strength.
And then I heard it, the pounding of hooves. This time it was not the Cossacks but mounted gendarmes, and they came pouring through our broken gates, fifteen, no, twenty of them. As the crowd of bandits turned to see what was bearing down upon them, I quickly shut and bolted the doors, and I stood there behind the thick wood, listening to the mayhem, the screams, the shouts, the sound of gunfire. I closed my eyes and slumped against the doors, praying that there would be no loss of life.
It was all over quickly. Not even ten minutes later, when all was essentially quiet, I opened the doors again. What had once been a tranquil garden was now a battlefield, our lilacs and laburnums broken and dashed, and everything else torn apart by the fight. The sticks and rakes had been dropped helter-skelter, the rocks, too, as the people had fled, and all that was to be seen were some of the gendarmes arresting a few of the ringleaders and another handful of injured souls lying about.
“Quickly, sisters,” I said, leading the way into the garden and to the wounded. “Our help is needed.”
It was in this way that we tended to those who had meant us harm. There were many bruises, some broken bones, but fortunately there was no loss of life. While most of those hurt needed only some careful bandaging, there were four who remained in our hospital for more than a week, so serious were their injuries.
Later that day, I received a visit from the Metropolitan and the Governor-General himself, both of whom wanted to see what damages had been done and whether any of us had been harmed. I assured them that all were fine excepting Sister Evrosinia, the nun who had been hit on the back with the stone, for her bruise was so large that the doctors had ordered complete bed rest for a week. I felt no anger over the incident, only grief that my own people should feel that violence was their only avenue of hope. Yes, their poor lives were being stretched beyond limits-husbands off at war and being killed, impoverished wives at home trying to feed hungry mouths. How I longed to soothe their souls and fill their spirits right up with joy.
There were only two aftershocks from that day which weighed heavily upon my heart. First, the Metropolitan himself wondered if the times were so troubled that it might be best if I retired for a while to a distant monastery, perhaps even the one I’d visited not long ago up in the northern seas. I assured him, however, that my place was there in Moscow and that I would sooner die at my obitel than leave. Second, the Governor-General, realizing that I would not be leaving, ordered increased security be posted round our walls, which saddened me greatly, for not once had I ever wanted to be separated from the outer world and those in need.
Of greater concern, both of these men individually took me aside and pressed me on the same issue: Would I not, for the sake of the Empire and the Monarchy itself, please speak to both the Empress and the Emperor about the dark influence upon the Throne, namely, that man Rasputin?