Ulitsa Great Friday 19, Tobolsk, Russia
Once again, Mokrenko had had to explain to the lieutenant that he ought not be the one to speak to the photographers. “Your accent is still all wrong, Maxim Sergeyevich. Maybe the photographers will be sympathetic to the royal family and closed-mouthed. But maybe they’re flaming Reds, too. Better I should go and ask. Meanwhile, you and the rest can go scout out the town and start working on diagrams.”
Thus it came to be that Rostislav Alexandrovich Mokrenko found himself passing by the mansion wherein the Romanovs were held prisoner. He passed it, waving to the same soldier who had hustled them on earlier. Then, taking a short left off of Ulitsa Bolshaya Pyatnitskaya, and then an immediate right, Mokrenko found himself in the photography studio of Maria Ussokovskaya, in the house she shared with her husband, also a photographer, Ivan Konstantinovich Ussakovsky.
It was the wife, Maria, who opened the door for Mokrenko, asked his business, and led him upstairs to the studio. On the way, the sergeant was surprised to see postcards of the town being offered for sale, as well as portraits of the entire royal family, as well as their servants, retainers, teachers, and friends. He was especially shocked to see one of the infamous Rasputin decorating a portion of one wall.
Mokrenko wasn’t especially surprised that both were home. He’d assumed, not unreasonably, that the husband shared in the business. As it turned out, though, no, the husband, a government official, was home because the Bolsheviks had taken over the town and he didn’t know if he even had a job.
“And you know, Rostislav Alexandrovich,” said Ivan, a man of average height, hirsute, with his hair parted in the middle, “these people are lunatics. I mean, sure, a new government wants new people; I can understand that. But there are old services that still need to be performed and they haven’t a clue even of their existence and value. You would think they might ask, but, no; these people are already certain they know everything of value. I have never encountered such arrogance. Compared to the average Red, the tsar, himself, is a model of humility. And his daughters? The most shy and self-effacing…”
“Beautiful girls, too,” said Maria. She kept her hair rather short and had just missed being pretty. Even so, though, she was very well built and, on the whole, presented a pleasant aspect. “I’m a fairly good photographer, if I do say so myself, but I have never yet been able to capture even a small portion of how lovely those girls are.”
“Are you constrained from selling the portraits you have taken?” Mokrenko asked.
“Only if I’d signed a contract to that effect. Generally, I do not sign such.”
“Where did you manage to get portraits of the ex-tsar and his family?”
“At the governor’s mansion, which they’ve re-named ‘Freedom House,’ of course. The poor creatures are only allowed out one day a week, Sunday, to go to church, and that only for a few hours… and not always. We had to take their pictures for the ID cards they’re forced to carry—it’s only for the humiliation; as if everyone doesn’t know who they are—and I did a little extra.”
“May I see?” asked Mokrenko.
“They’re not secret or anything,” answered Maria. “Of course, you can.”
Mokrenko’s eyes it up when he saw the collection. There were not only portraits of the royal family, but in the course of taking those the Ussakovskys had also taken pictures of between a third and a half of the interior of the house. I shouldn’t be surprised; this is the closest photographer, so of course this was always where the tsar or the Reds were most likely to go.
The sergeant noticed the woman’s eyes were misty, as she sorted out the photographs for him. “Are you all right?” he asked.
She sniffed, slightly, “It’s just that those poor people have been put on soldiers’ rations, and not generous soldiers’ rations, at that, and have had their budget cut to the bone. And they’re freezing in that drafty old house. I feel terrible for them. It’s not fair, either; the girls and the little prince did nothing to deserve being mistreated.”
“I wonder,” asked Mokrenko, deciding that these people could probably be trusted either to support the royals or to not put two and two together, “if you would sell me copies of all the pictures you’ve taken of the royal family and their entourage. Also, if I may, I’d like to buy a selection of the postcards you have made of the town. There are some other pictures, too, I would like, if you have the time…”
“What a strange place,” said Turgenev, after dinner, when back in their quarters. “We found the market today and saw the strangest things.”
“Where’s that, Maxim Sergeyevich?” Mokrenko asked. “And what was strange about it?”
“Center of town. Some booths. Some people just laying their wares on cloths on the ground. But it was the kind of things on offer that was strange. For example, I saw a general’s full-dress uniform. Why would there be a general’s full-dress uniform here? And milk? Do you know how they sell milk here? They cut it with an axe, then weigh it and sell it by the pound!
“There were fur dealers there, too. Lesser lights than the Strogonovs, these were men, oh, and a couple of women, eager to carve out their own share of the fur market for themselves. I think we can get some good prices there. And you, Rostislav Alexandrovich?”
In answer, the sergeant laid out a sheaf of photographs. “There are more coming,” he explained and then, dropping his voice to a whisper, he said, “but with these we can truly brief the main force on the layout of the place, no?
“Oh, and Maxim Sergeyevich? I think you need to visit the cathedral we passed as we rode into town. Some very interesting things to be seen there.”
Interlude
Tatiana: Dear Aunt Ella
Despair is a sin.
It was that thought that kept me company in the middle of the night as I lay there, exhausted, yet unable to sleep.
If I slept the nightmare would come back. I’d been snatching bits of something I could not call rest ever since the night that Olga was violated.
Raped. She was raped.
I sat up and threw the covers off, adrenaline coursing through my veins, heart racing. Clumsily, I shoved my feet into slippers and rooted through the blankets and coats atop my bed for my robe.
My fingers were still shaking as I cinched the robe tight. Given what had happened—Raped. She was raped.—I shouldn’t have dared leave our room, shouldn’t have dared leave my sisters, but I also couldn’t spend another moment curled up like a child, hiding under the blankets, pretending sleep while I waited for Olga to start muttering and whimpering to herself.
I blundered my way past my sisters’ beds, through the quiet halls to my father’s study. There was something about its musty smell, the aroma of cigars, the lingering scent of uncleared glasses and ashtrays that soothed.
My fingers found the lamp and clicked it on.
One of Mama’s blankets sat in a pile nearby. I picked it up to fold it, defaulting to habit, succumbing to the need to do something. Instead, I draped it around my shoulders, sat down, and pulled a few blank sheets of paper and a fountain pen from one of the drawers.
Dear Aunt Ella, I wrote. The tip of the pen paused at the start of the next line. A drop of ink pooled at the tip as I pressed it into the paper.
I eased it off before it could bleed more of its black blood.
I wanted to write about cheerful things, the kind of normal, frivolous things that make up happy times. Instead, my heart bled all over the letter.