Back | Next
Contents

Interlude

Tatiana: The changing of the guard

My favorite days were the ones where the Fourth Regiment was on duty. There were still those who remained friendly to us and it made the day easier for everyone, especially Alexei.

Papa, Alexei, and I spent several hours with the men of the Fourth in the guardhouse. There was talk and discontentment, some of which they were reluctant to discuss. But finally they did, opening up to Papa about the grumblings in the Second Regiment.

Those grumblings came to fruition in the most unexpected way on February Eighth. The soviet of soldiers of the Second had decided to replace Commissar Pankratov, the very man who worked so hard to “enlighten” them. They had decided that his ideology was not Bolshevik enough and called for a Bolshevik commissar to be sent from Moscow.

He was not their only casualty however. That crass man, Nikolsky, must also resign. They “insisted.” I confess, I looked forward to seeing him go.

I waited for Papa to ask what would happen to Commissar Pankratov, but he did not interrupt, letting the men of the Fourth lead the conversation now that they were so forthcoming.

They spoke of rumors that the new Soviet Russia was no longer at war and that the army was to be disbanded.

As they spoke their fears, he would pat their shoulders and say something encouraging, but his voice would break and sometimes he couldn’t finish speaking.

The men continued to speculate, to hope, and he’d sit there, blinking like a man keeping tears at bay.

Finally, when there was no more to say, no more to hear, Papa nodded his understanding and shook hands with them. Something sad passed between him and the men huddled in the guard house.

That sadness descended onto my father’s shoulders like a heavy cloak. Those shoulders that I once knew would hold up the world, remained weighed down even as he straightened, stood, and bid the men a good night. The cloak trailed behind him in the snow on the way back to the house, leaving invisible drag marks in the snow. He held onto my hand and Alexei’s, our skin separated by gloves. Even through them, I could sense a different kind of cold than the one clawing at our faces.

A few days later I found out why that news had made them so sad. Several soldiers from the Fourth came in secret to say their goodbyes. The old soldiers, those most friendly to us, those we had called “our guard” instead of our guards, were to leave us.


March brought even worse news as I served lunch to Prince Dolgorukov and Papa in his study. Colonel Kobylinsky knocked on the door and came in. He had just received a telegram.

We were to be put on soldiers’ rations and given a stipend from which to maintain our household. Our expenses were no longer to be paid by the State. The same State that had taken everything from us, decided what little we could keep, and with the stroke of a pen, turned us into beggars as well as prisoners.

That cloak of grief and sadness that I was certain only I could see, that I tried and tried to blink away but couldn’t, pulled at my father’s soul. I could see the toll of it in his eyes.

Resolved to our new fate, to this new judgment, Papa and Prince Dolgorukov drew up the accounts.

I went to tell Mama, and she and I joined them as they went over the numbers again and again.

“We shall have to dismiss ten servants,” Dolgorukov said.

Mama put her hand on Papa’s shoulders, trying as if by magic, to draw away the weight of that wearying cloak. They spoke quietly, not of themselves, but of what would happen to the servants and their families, for their devotion to us had led them down this dark road that would start with beggary and end up worse. They would forever be tainted by their association with us.

Like Father Vasiliev, who had been sent off, like Commissar Pankratov who’d shown us kindness, they would be branded as traitors to the new Soviet Russia.

Was everyone who touched our lives to be condemned for doing so?


Back | Next
Framed