Robert Alexander - The Kitchen Boy

“Nyet-s, madame. I made it.”

“Really?”

“Look!” exclaimed Anastasiya. “It even has raisins.”

Aleksandra smiled. “You’re a magician, Vanya. How on earth did you make it in such a small kitchen and how on earth did you come up with all the ingredients?”

Kharitonov humbly bowed his head, and said, “Leonka and I, well, we make do. We make do.”

The truth of the matter was that while we had scrounged up a few raisins over the past few weeks, the krendel was missing cardamom as well as candied orange peel, items that had vanished from the markets months ago. Nevertheless, the entire household recognized the creation as quite a feat, particularly because it was made of the precious white flour we’d brought from Tobolsk and had carefully hidden in trunks and walls and even the back of the piano, all this lest it fall into the hands of the guards. However, the recent spat of fresh eggs and milk, not to mention a bit of vanille secretly brought by Sister Antonina last week, was more than Kharitonov could creatively resist. For days he’d been looking for an excuse, finally seizing upon Maria’s birthday. Making do without an oven, the master of improvisation had cooked the sweet bread atop the oil stove just this morning, baking it between two iron pans that he had carefully cupped together.

Following the Tsar’s lead, we rose to our feet, held hands, and bowed our heads as he intoned, “Gracious Lord, look down upon our dearest Maria with all of Your infinite kindness and wisdom. We beseech Thee to bestow upon Maria good health, long life, and great happiness.”

“What about a husband, Papa?” interjected Anastasiya. “She wants to get married, you know, and have scores of children!”

“Anya, don’t interrupt your father,” chided her mother.

“But it’s true, she wants to get -!”

“Anya!”

Nikolai Aleksandrovich crossed himself. “Hear our prayers, O Lord, and in these trying days protect our cherished daughter. Ah-min .”

All of us, even the one guard who stood in the doorway, likewise followed the Tsar’s example, crossing ourselves and muttering a solemn chorus of, “ Ah-min .”

Nikolai embraced his daughter, wishing her birthday greetings, followed by Aleksandra, who made the sign of the cross over Maria and kissed her as well.

Usually birthdays were observed at a luncheon with many distinguished guests, a lavish table of much food, entertainments, and great gifting, for Russians are among the most generous sort, particularly when it comes to their children, whom they love to spoil and do so endlessly. In earlier times a young girl of the nobility would be showered with sable hats and coats and muffs, pearl necklaces and diamond earrings and so on and so forth. And even though such a celebration was impossible that summer day, hardly anyone seemed to notice.

The Empress poured the tea by her own hand, an event once seen as a great compliment to a guest but was now commonplace. Since the fine china was long gone, Aleksandra filled tall, thin glasses perched in metal standards with handles. There was no lemon, no cream. The cunning Empress, however, had secretly managed to preserve a few cubes of sugar, and that morning we were all issued one. I followed Aleksei’s lead, pinching the cube between my front teeth as I sipped the tea, something that caught his mother’s glare, to be sure, for it was a peasant’s habit, something Aleksei had seen one of the guards do.

The krendel was cut and served. And then the gifting began.

Olga presented a novel in French, Tatyana a bookmark that she had painted with her own hand, Aleksei a rock he had polished like a sultan’s jewel. A tablet of drawing papers came from Botkin, hand-knit stockings from Demidova, and a small bunch of flowers from Trupp. The baked delight, of course, was the gift from cook and me. And after all of us had made our presentations came the finale, several packages from Maria’s parents.

“Here, my love,” said Aleksandra. “Open this first.”

The young woman did, finding enclosed a religious title, Complete Yearly Cycle of Brief Homilies for Each Day of the Year . Maria opened the volume, silently cherished the inscription, and then read it aloud.

“To Our Dear Darling Daughter from Your Very Own Loving Parents, Mama & Papa +, 27 June 1918.” She folded the book shut, and leaned forward and kissed her mother. “ Spacibo, Mama. Ya ochen tebya lubloo .” Thank you, Mama. I love you very much.

“And what about me?” asked her father.

“Papa, of course!” she said, jumping up and planting a kiss upon his bearded cheek.

Nikolai embraced Maria, kissed her, and held forth a small box. “Here, my child. You must have something beautiful too, you know, otherwise good fortune will not follow you in the year to come.”

“Oi!”

It was this gift that Maria had been waiting all morning to receive, for she was not simply a Romanov, not simply a Grand Duchess, but most importantly a young woman, who was well schooled enough to know how these things worked, that the prettiest gift always came last. And while what Maria found was no Romanov treasure, it was most certainly a thing of beauty, particularly during such dark days of imprisonment. The other daughters crowded around, and Maria lifted out a fine gold bracelet from which hung a simple charm of love carved from green stone.

“Oi, kakaya krasota!” Oh, what beauty, exclaimed Maria.

“Do you like it?” asked her father.

“I love it and I shall never, ever take it off!”

Maria jumped up and kissed first her father, then her mother, who fastened the bracelet on Maria’s left wrist.

We all finished our sweet treat and single glass of tea. Conversation dissipated, and we servants, knowing our places, retreated. Only Dr. Botkin remained with the family in the withdrawing room, and soon we heard the sounds of the piano. It was a little program, first featuring the voice of Anastasiya as well as the Empress, whose contralto was so beautiful that she might have pursued a career in singing had she not been of such high estate. That was followed by the older pair, Olga and Tatyana, who played fourhand a beautiful piece, so sweet, so melodic, that it washed away any ill purpose from that house. Hearing the flow of the keys, the gush of the tune, I froze in the kitchen, gazed out the window, and thought for a few brief moments that maybe everything would be fine. Da, da , even the guards momentarily lost their anger, their burning zeal, for I noticed a few of them pause in their random patrol and gaze off in uncomplicated thought. All at once, and only that once, did things within The House of Special Purpose seem at peace.

But there were important duties to be done, namely there were “medicines” to be dealt with. And looming in everyone’s mind was the essence of time, as promising as it was threatening. In short, the celebration of Her Greatness Grand Duchess Maria Nikolaevna’s nineteenth birthday soon concluded and the feminine hands of the house resumed their deceitful needlework. By noon the rooms took on the air of a sweatshop, albeit a secret one.

Meanwhile, I wheeled about the Heir Aleksei, driving him from room to room. We played troika for hours, finding everything of interest when in fact there was nothing. Given our common age we were able to see things others could not, however, and as such the route around the dining room table became a troika track, the large potted palm in the drawing room became an oasis in the Sahara, and later the dogs, Jimmy and Joy, chasing and barking after us, were transformed into rabid wolves. Truth be told, we occupied ourselves for hours with a talent I have long since lost.