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.
Unexpectedly, Niki laughed. Yes. He remembered Taras Bulba, and he laughed. And when he turned from me, decisively, still smiling, it was to grasp Vova by the shoulders as he stood on the running board of le grand Son Impérial Majesté, to guide him away from the car. And then, after a triple kiss to my son’s cheeks and an embrace, he whispered something into his ear and pushed him along in my direction, saying aloud, Go. But to my frustration Vova did not run toward me, but moved vaguely, like a somnambulist, so that I began to wonder if he, too, had not been drugged by the dispensary of Dr. Botkin, and I clapped my hands at him as if he were a dog—hurry, hurry—even as the weeping girls, their faces contorted, had the girls become so attached to my son in this short time?, began now to climb from their seats, while Niki tried to hold them back. I had disrupted the entire convoy! Vova looked over his shoulder at Niki as if hoping to be called back. What madness was this?
Through the tall thin trees I could see the tiny figure of Sergei watching helplessly from the road. I turned back. Vova had neared the last Cossack, the one with the big fist, a hulking man with a beard that spread across his chest like a shield, and just as he was almost within reach of me, the soldiers, infuriated that their fellows had not impeded this decision of the tsar, recovered themselves and shouted out orders of their own. Prisoners were not to give orders. Nicholas Romanov was no longer tsar. The boy would come with them. The Cossack reached down and gripped Vova, mid-step, by the neck, and I could see Vova’s features twist in pain; with this, he seemed, finally, to wake. He took in my small shape, my dark hair beneath my babushka, my brown eyes, and when I smiled at him, encouragingly, the distinct outward tilt of my dog teeth: the peasant woman in front of him was his mother, and his mouth opened. I thought he might speak, but whatever word he thought to say became a wince as the Cossack, still holding Vova, began to turn his horse around to lead him back. Seeing this, Niki barked, Ostanovites!—Stop!—with such authority that all these men, the Cossacks still enough the tsar’s servants, the soldiers still so much the peasant with their hundreds of years of subjugation at the hands of the squire, paused. Even the Cossack’s horse paused, one hoof in the air to await the pleasure of the master.
And Niki marched uncontested down the line of them toward my son, the revolutionary soldiers stepping back involuntarily in deference, cowed, their insolence abruptly evaporating, as well it should in the presence of the tsar. Still, a few followed after him, calling ineffectually, Gospodin Polkovnik—Mister Colonel—Colonel Romanov! until Niki whipped around abruptly and thrust his face to these soldiers’ faces, one breath apart, and, uncertain, off-balance, the men backed away. I have only one son, Niki said, his voice a scythe. And I know who he is. And with a flat gesture of his hand, without taking his eyes off the men, Niki signaled the Cossack to release Vova, which he did at once. Vova stepped away quickly, rubbing his neck as the Cossack looked back and forth from the commander to the tsar, his big hand still open as if surprised by itself. The tsar at that moment could have done anything, could have called the Cossacks to charge, could have ordered the Cossacks to hang these soldiers from the trees, could have sent them to the Winter Palace to drag Kerensky and his ministers off to the Peter and Paul Fortress. But he did none of that, as he had done nothing on the train in March of last year in Pskov. Perhaps he was now afraid of further endangering us all, as he had been afraid of endangering his country and his subjects.
And so, he made Vova the only subject of his orders, telling him, Go to your mother, and then Niki strode back to his family, and the group of soldiers behind him rallied, shrugged, and waved their rifles to corral everyone back to their various places, Niki having snatched from them, temporarily, their precious authority, a humiliation for which the soldiers would later make the family pay. Vova and I stumbled back as the cavalcade of horses and trucks passed in a cyclone of wind and sand; as the first black car flew by I saw Niki staring straight ahead, Alix, beside him, head down. But in the middle seat, there was a face turned toward Vova, the small white sad face of the tsarevich Alexei, who raised one hand to his friend in farewell.