Adrienne Sharp - The True Memoirs of Little K

The sun gave a luster now to everything, the buttercream palace, the blue cornflower sky, the black doors of the automobiles, the chocolate eyes of the horses upon which the Cossacks sat. The park birds had begun to herald this exodus which was to have been made in the desolation of night, but which was now taking place, thanks to Russia’s short summer nights, less safely, in plain view. And in this sunlight I was plainly walking backward toward a life I couldn’t conceive continuing without my son. What would I tell Sergei when I reached the bottom of the drive, Sergei who hoped his Magnificent Mathilde would bring back our beautiful boy? How could I tell him the truth of my failure? But now, with the column starting down the drive, the truth was all I had left.

And so I stepped in front of the first vehicle and the Cossack beside it, waved my short arms, and began to yell in my vulgar-sounding Russian—yes, I admit it, I speak more like a peasant than like a boyar , even in the French I acquired in exile this is the case, so perhaps my costume was not so much an impersonation as a revelation of my truest self— Stop! Wait! And at the unexpected sight of me the lead Cossack halted his horse and the drivers braked their vehicles to stare at this demented woman, and to them all I cried, I want my boy!

Would he bring his whip down on me as I had seen his comrade do to that poor man on the Troitsky Bridge in 1905? Like a mechanical toy, wound almost to breaking, I began to repeat over and over— I want my boy. I want my boy —until the Cossack looked back in bewilderment at one of the trucks that held the soldiers. From within the cab, someone shouted at him to move the old woman, and the Cossack spurred his horse forward. But when I stood my ground, instead of trampling me, he simply reined in his horse. I could hear both of them breathing and I raised my hands to him.

He called over his shoulder to Kobylinsky, standing on the running board of that first car, She wants her boy . The Cossacks let their horses stamp their huge feet and shake their long manes impatiently to signal me there was only so much of this foolishness they would allow. What is the delay? Move the woman , called a voice from the back of the line. I saw Niki lean forward in his seat, squint in my direction to take in my small shape, and abruptly straighten up. He had recognized me. But I could tell that Vova had not, as he peered around at the soldiers surrounding the motorcar. And then Niki pushed open the door and stepped out, walking forward past the lanterns fixed to the front of the hood, with Alix protesting from her seat; and at the tsar’s movements, the soldiers, all brass buttons and alarmed caps, began jumping down from their trucks, racing forward with raised rifles and fixed bayonets. Kobylinsky held his hand up to Niki, Her son must have left earlier with the underservants .

Her son is not an underservant , Niki said. He is part of my suite , and he gestured to the interior of the carriage to Vova, who sat next to Alexei on the middle seat. Kobylinsky looked clearly perplexed—Why would the tsar have a peasant boy as a member of his suite? Why would the tsarevich have the son of a peasant as a playmate?—but he said nothing, looking at Vova and then over at me. Niki studied my face as the soldiers converged about him, and I thought, Niki is not going to give Vova back to me, he still thinks as Sergei does that he will return to Peter in the fall, he thinks I’m acting precipitously, he doesn’t understand that Kerensky, with one shift of the winds, will soon be running for his own train to save his own skin . But then Niki reached into the car and took Vova’s hand and Vova climbed out onto the running board and jumped down.

He stood very close to Niki, pressed tightly against him in a posture of filial intimacy that set the soldiers to shouting, Look, that is the heir. This is a trick —their worst nightmare come true, someone in the imperial family was about to slip from their grasp. One regiment was posted at the station, but two remained here, and so there were many men to make a commotion and over it Niki held Vova to him with one arm around his shoulder, and Kobylinsky stepped back on the running board and called, futilely, to the excited soldiers, Move back , but his soldiers had no intention of moving back now, and they surrounded the cars, calling, Who is this boy? and, Where is the heir? , as if wondering for the first time why the tsar’s entourage counted in its number two boys instead of one. And I thought, What game is this? Surely they know who is who—they had been guarding the family for months. It was only later that I would learn that these men had been newly assigned to accompany the family, and what help were imperial portraits and genealogical charts (if these men had ever laid eyes on such things) in sorting out the bedraggled human reality of their prisoners? In Siberia the guards would take photographs of the family and servants and assign each one an identity card which, ridiculously, had to be produced on demand.

The soldiers encircled the carriage and one of them pushed by the tsar to reach into its interior. I could see Vova still had no idea who I was. Why had Niki drawn Vova from the motorcar and yet not sent him toward me? Perhaps he had in mind we were only to say goodbye, and the farewell I had been prepared to pretend I wanted might be all that I would, finally, be allowed—but with the soldiers all around, we were not even to have that chance. With a few shouts, one of the men pulled Alexei from his seat in the black automobile and stood him side by side with Vova as if to inspect them both, and the men began to shout, Which one is the heir? Which one is Alexei Nikolaevich? For how could they tell which was which? If Niki were so inclined, if he feared what lay ahead, he could push Alexei my way and take Vova with him to Siberia. And from the car I saw Alix reach for Vova’s tunic as if to pull him back within and I thought, Does she, too, know what is at stake? Or can she simply not bear to let him go? And from the girls in their car behind came a wailing which seemed only to further excite the soldiers, who pointed their rifles first at Niki and then at the boys, and when they remembered, at me. The soldiers closest to the car began to shout at the boys, What is your name? , but both remained silent with terror, looking mutely at those wide peasant faces, and through all this Niki remained with his arm around Vova, his eyes on the boys to keep them calm. What was he thinking now? And Kobylinsky from the running board called, Back to your trucks! The soldiers ignored him, but his words had some effect—they had been up all night and the train was ready at the station and on the train they could sleep—and so they called out to one another, Let’s take them both with us , and they gestured with their rifles to herd the boys back into the first car. After a quick look at me, Niki gave a nod to the boys. Alexei clambered back in immediately, but as Vova ducked his head to follow, I cried out and took a step forward. My son looked back at me, but the Cossack was closer and he leaned over on his horse and put out his hand, big as a wall, to stop me—but my son had paused and I took advantage of that moment to drop to my knees like a serf on the roadway with a petition in my hand. Yes, I played the beggar, but really, in my defiance of the tsar’s clear wish to keep our son for himself I was more the revolutionary, was I not? On my knees I called out to Niki as he turned from me toward the car, Tsar-Batiushka, remember Taras Bulba! , an incantation so bizarre the entire party halted, the soldiers, the Cossacks, even Kobylinsky, atop the car, and Niki, one hand on the car’s open door. Would Niki remember the opera whose hero gave up his country for the love of a young Polish girl? Would he remember how he had once toyed with me in his letter, playing at giving up the crown for me? Now his crown was gone. I needed him only to give up our son.