Джейн Йолен: The Last Tsar's Dragons

For a while it had worked. But only a little while.

But Father Grigori, blessed be that holy man, had demanded the doctors be kept away. And as God so favored him, she had gone along with his advice.

And….

She’d reached the door of the nursery. It was slightly ajar. She listened for a second, heard no cries, no sobbing. Alexei seemed to be doing better under the priest’s care rather than the doctors’. Less bruising, better appetite….

But that cry that she’d been able to hear two floors away… that was not a sound she’d heard before. Perhaps the pain had maybe gotten worse. Ach! It was so difficult to know what to do.

I will put it in God’s hands. That can never be wrong.

She crossed herself again in the Russian way, though even after so many years in Russia, it felt like an affront to God. But otherwise, she was happier in this old religion than the newer Lutheranism she’d been born into. If it had only been the Russian Orthodox church, her dear husband, their daughters and son, she would have been content living in this barbaric country.

But the people….

Grandmama , she sighed, I am trying to be strong like you. But underneath that breath of courage…. These people will be the death of me.

She would have taken the Veronal and lain down for the rest of the morning, but she knew she could do nothing until her darling Alexei was tended to. And after that, a farewell dinner with her husband, who was to be off in the morning playing at soldiers with his popinjay generals, in wars they never quite seemed to win.

She trusted in the Lord, repeating that over and over in time to the sound of her feet on the carpet, on the steps, on the parquet floor. “I trust in the Lord. I trust in the Lord.” She repeated it like an instruction booklet. It was the only way she could be certain that His will would be done.

Of course the Jews are all safe, having seeded their shtetls with drachometers— early warning devices that only they could have cobbled together , I thought as I washed my hands in the basin. I checked the mirror casually. “You goat,” I said to myself sternly. “Think this through.” I was always stern with myself on the tsar’s business. Rather, the devices were put together by cannibalizing a German invention . “That’s more like it,” I said. “Trust the Jews to steal an idea.”

“The tsar will take that bit of Jew bait in better. Especially with his German wife.” I smiled. “And yes, I know I am speaking to myself. It’s the only way of holding an intelligent conversation in the palace. After all, no one else can keep up with my ideas.” Especially not the tsar. I do not say this last out loud. Alas, the Romanovs bred for stupidity. Rather like the British royals.

Even though I know myself to be alone, even though I am certain I did not say anything important that could be overheard, I glanced around, suddenly afraid someone might have sneaked in. Because I know, everyone knows, that there are spies everywhere. Even my dear wife reports what I say, do, to the authorities.

After all—everyone spies. My wife spies on me. As I on her.

Riffling through the desk drawers where I kept the more secret documents, I mumbled: “I have the information about that device somewhere.”

Of course that was often the problem—not getting the information, but finding the information when I needed it.

Ninotchka insists a messy desk is the sign of a disordered mind, and she constantly has the maid tidy things.

“Tidying things!” I nearly spat the words out. “That is a euphemism for hiding things where I can’t find them. Just because she thinks it’s messy does not mean I cannot find what I need. And right now….” I glowered at the order on the desktop. “Right now,” I whispered in case she might be up and about, “right now I am thinking about taking a different wife.”

After a minute of sorting through the piles, I found the information I sought, under an invitation to dinner. Of course!

“Here it is: Dov Krinsky!” I remembered now. Krinsky’s father had worked with a German scientist, as his chief dogsbody on experiments on something called a telemobiloscope. “A real Dusseldorf dummy!” That came out almost as a snort. The rest came tumbling after. “Yes! Yes!”

My right forefinger tapped the papers as I remembered, an old habit from a few years back when I was more spy than bureaucrat. “Hülsmeyer almost lost his shirt with the invention, forgetting to file the proper patents and papers. But the German navy got wind of it and its potential to spot oncoming ships and….” I could feel my excitement spilling over and I addressed the desk companionably. “I see you are ahead of me!”

“We got this from his mother,” I told the desk. “A disgusting crone of a woman. But susceptible—as they all are—to a rather large bribe.”

If the desk found this display of spleen unworthy, it kept its own counsel.

“Young Krinsky himself almost got away, through the underground, on his way to the Americas with the complete set of plans, and a prototype. Leaving his family behind. Isn’t that just like them?”

I held the paper up to the light, though I didn’t need to actually read it. Just the first line. The rest I had memorized, just needed that bit at the beginning to remind myself.

“Krinsky’s old mother died in questioning. That was done by a clumsy oaf of an examiner. Never, never let someone die if there are still questions to be answered. But not before telling us her son had died when the boat sank, along with the plans and the lessons.”

I was the only one who noticed there was a strange defiance in her eyes. So I ordered a complete search of the house and found a second set of plans. I told no one else, and the men with me who might have seen something all got shipped off to the front, following the tsar’s latest wrong call for soldiers. So now there were dead ends everywhere.

I didn’t say any of this out loud, so the desk had no chance to laugh at this little joke. I made a face at it.

“So you don’t find that amusing, Desk?” This was of course not fair to the desk, which could not read my thoughts. “You are not alone. No one else thinks I am a funny man, but the jokes are always on them.”

I walked back to the mirror, straightened my coat. Shook my finger at my reflection, all the while saying to myself: The tsar should have listened to you when you told him to gather the Jewish scientists all in one place and force them to work for Russia. Away from their families, their friends. Use them and rid ourselves of the rest.

I saw there was lint on my jacket and tried to pick it off.

The mirror image did not look pleased and made a sour moue with his mouth. I added, “So, once again I was not heeded.” Then I shouted for my man, Nikita, to deal with the lint.

“NIKITA!”

The room rang heavily with the sound, but there was no answer from him or from anyone else. Damn! Does no one work here but me?

And Nikita—never around when I need him.

“Servants are a pestilence,” I said aloud, not caring if any of them heard.

Then I took a brush from the top drawer in the small dresser beneath the mirror and removed the lint myself, as if I were a peasant. Then I proceeded to brush down the front of my jacket with more vigor than necessary.

Checking myself in the mirror again, I laughed, “Almost presentable, if still a functionary.” The mirror chuckled as well. Almost as if we were twins actually conversing.