Tonight Chekov was out with some of the other lads, attempting to make some more friends to counterbalance Yermilov and his thugs. Personally, Dostovalov thought they should just proceed with Yermilov’s accident. Chekov argued, probably correctly, that Yermilov’s untimely death occurring so soon after he informed on them would certainly rouse suspicion.
That’s why he’s the thinker, and I’m the doer, speaking of which—
Dostovalov hopped a waist high picket fence—such a pedestrian barrier to the residence of what used to be the imperial family—and made his way through the snow to the back door of the governor’s mansion. Two uniformed men stood, shivering, on either side of the door. Dostovalov raised his right hand in greeting.
“Dostovalov, right on time!” the young man on the right said. This was Virhkov. The other guard, another youngster named Blokhin merely nodded his greeting.
“Virhkov, shhh,” Dostovalov said. “Wouldn’t want to wake Citizen Romanov or his family, would we?”
“No, I suppose not,” Virhkov said. “Thanks again for covering our shift.”
“Don’t mention it,” Dostovalov said, then, acting on impulse, he peeled a few rubles out of his pocket and handed a couple each to Blokhin and Vhirhkov. “In fact, buy a round for the lads on me, eh?”
Their young, unlined faces lit up.
“You’re a real pal, thanks,” Blokhin said. Virhkov nodded rapidly behind him.
“Off with you, youngsters,” Dostovalov said, grinning. “Go have fun.”
The two youngsters trudged off through the snow. With the proper guards relieved, Dostovalov settled in for another sort of vigil. He leaned against the wall, a dreamy smile curving his lips. He imagined Olga, lithe of limb and slender of figure, wrapping herself in her thick coat even now, perhaps tiptoeing her way out of the bedroom she shared with her three sisters. Was she as excited to see him as he was to see her?
What has gotten into me? Sergei was right, I am pining.
The back door creaked open and Olga, bundled in a thick black fur coat, stepped out onto the back patio of the mansion. She smiled at him, blue eyes sparkling like sapphires in the moonlight. Dostovalov inhaled deeply.
“Good evening, Olga,” he said.
“Good morning, you mean, Antosenka,” she said, her smile turning impish. “It’s almost two, I thought you’d found better company.”
Dostovalov chuckled and shook his head.
“I can think of no better company in all the Russias,” Dostovalov said.
“I bet you tell all the girls that,” Olga said, shivering against the cold night air.
“Perhaps,” Dostovalov said. “But I’ve rarely meant it before.”
Olga slapped his arm and laughed merrily.
“‘Rarely,’” she quoted. “You are an impudent scoundrel. I’ve known men like you.”
“Forgive me, Your Highness,” Dostovalov said. “But I don’t think you’ve known a man like me in your life.”
Olga blushed, but then her face fell.
“Please don’t call me that,” she said. “They hauled away Bishop Germogen just for praying for my father as, ‘the Emperor.’ I don’t want you in trouble.”
“It’s two in the morning,” Dostovalov said. “I doubt there’s anyone around to hear us, but I take your point.”
“Please do,” she said. “Say, do you have a smoke? It’s freezing out here and I could use one for my nerves.”
Dostovalov obligingly tapped out a cigarette and lit it for her. Olga took a long drag off of it and sighed. Dostovalov nodded in approval; the girl hadn’t flinched at the ration-card quality tobacco.
“You’re wrong, you know,” she said.
Dostovalov’s eyebrows shot up, and he tilted his head at her.
“Not about that. No, I mean I’ve been around soldiers—and not just the officers. Tatiana and I worked in a hospital for the wounded. That’s where I picked up this habit.”
Olga gestured with her cigarette, then took another large puff.
“I know,” Dostovalov said. “They made sure we knew about you and the empress tending the wounded.”
“It wasn’t just photographs for propaganda, you know,” Olga said. “We assisted in procedures, helped save some lives, even. And we would sit and talk with the boys while we sewed or knitted blankets. Brave, wonderful boys, most of them. Mother, Tatiana and I were exhausted all the time, but we were happy. What we did mattered. One of my favorites, Mitya, had a big black mustache like yours. Though of course his manners were so very refined.”
Olga softened the last with a gently mocking tone and a smile.
“An officer, I presume?” Dostovalov said, frowning.
“Yes, an officer,” Olga said. “Don’t be jealous, Antosenka. Once he was recovered, he went back to the front. I was very sad when he left. Then the February Revolution, and the October. I don’t even know if he’s alive still.”
Olga was quiet for several seconds, her gaze far off, her expression unfathomable.
“I know the war was terrible,” Olga said. “I saw the men maimed by it. But I think what’s coming is so much worse. I’m afraid. For my family, yes, but for all Russia as well.”
Dostovalov gently grasped Olga’s shoulder through the thick fur and drew her close. She stiffened at his daring, but then relaxed, leaning into him, and accepting the comfort he offered.
“I think they’ll let you leave eventually,” Dostovalov said. “The communists don’t want to anger Britain or the rest of Europe at this point, not while they’re so fragile.”
“They also don’t want the monarchists to have figureheads to rally around,” she said. “No, they’re not letting us leave Russia alive.”
Dostovalov squeezed Olga tighter, her body warm against him even through his coarse uniform and her furs. There, in the bitter cold of the Siberian winter, her fragility was a tangible thing, the fear coiled inside her warring with the nobility and dignity expected of her. Even with the Romanov Dynasty thrown from the halls of power into captivity, Olga and her family carried themselves upright and proud—but not with the idiotic, inbred arrogance he’d seen from so many of his officers in the Army.
Never as politically aware as his friend, Chekov, Dostovalov had simply viewed the nobility and royalty as something that, much like bad weather or pestilence, God meant to be endured. They were inflicted upon the common man to build character in the here and now and make the fruits of the hereafter all the sweeter in comparison. He neither loved nor hated the imperial family as he neither loved nor hated a snowstorm—the existence of both were mere facts of life, no sense staying mad about them. He expected the communists would be no better, and thus was unperturbed that they seemed to be fucking everything up.
The Romanovs as people, though, were nothing like what he’d expected. The former emperor was unpretentious, quiet, polite, and practically radiated integrity. His love for his children shone in every word and deed, and their adoration of him was just as obvious. After three weeks observing them around Freedom House, Dostovalov allowed himself the uncharacteristically philosophical observation that maybe they’d simply been too good a sort of people to rule Russia effectively. Except perhaps the empress, she seemed like a bit of a reclusive loon, but even she had been polite and cordial in her own clenched-jaw fashion.
And amidst them all, Olga shone brightest to the war-hardened Dostovalov. He admired her tenderness with her ailing little brother, her unabashed affection for her sisters, especially Tatiana, and the way she struggled valiantly against her own melancholy to find the joy in even simple, day to day chores. The tendrils of their shared doom seemed to grasp her more tightly than they did the serious and practical Tatiana, the affable Maria, or the incorrigible Anastasia, but still Olga shone in defiance of her blackest thoughts and feelings.