He handed her an envelope he was holding. "This has the details of the charges and where he is being held. I have included a note with the name and address of the Commissioner of Police."
As he turned to leave, she added: "Thank you, Yakov, you are a good friend."
Chapter 10
~ Thursday 8 August 1918 ~
As well as the pressure of my new job, I also needed to find somewhere to live, a home of my own that would be convenient for work. With no money until my first pay-day, still two weeks away, I was forced to pawn my necklace ~ the one given to me by the royals for my seventeenth birthday, and my only possession of value, since everything else I owned had been left behind when I fled the bloodbath in Yekaterinberg.
Sacha accompanied me as I viewed a number of apartments, and I was grateful for her opinions. Eventually, I used most of the money to pay the deposit and a month's rent on a furnished studio flat, and, with the few Rubles that remained, I bought some sturdy, practical clothes for work, so I could return the garments that Sacha had lent me.
From the window of my new home, on the top floor of a block only ten minutes walk away, I could see across the rooftops to the towers of the Kremlin, golden and sparkling, almost close enough to touch, and beyond them the river, wriggling like an eel through the centre of the city.
It was a simple room, clean, with just a bed, a wardrobe and chest of drawers, a table with one chair, and a compact kitchen area in one corner; I shared a bathroom and toilet with the three other tenants on that landing. It was all I needed ~ somewhere to sleep, and to study. Each evening I would return to my little nest with my arms full of books and pamphlets, lent to me by Aleksandra, and I would read and make notes far into the night.
It was a constant source of amazement to me as I discovered how little I really knew. In my time at Alexander Palace, I had tried to keep up with the news, but as I read the literature that I brought home each evening from Aleksandra's collection, publications that had never appeared in the royal libraries, I began to discover things that amazed and shocked me.
"I had no idea they were so callous," I told her as I returned a leaflet about the Bloody Sunday massacre ~ when a crowd of about three thousand citizens had marched peacefully to the Winter Palace to ask the Tsar for help, and had been fired on by soldiers at the gates. "I mean, I read about 'incidents' like this, but it was always portrayed as a matter of law and order."
"I was there, in the crowd," she answered, grimly, "that's why I wrote that leaflet. Nicholas was not the gentle man he tried to portray. The palace was not under threat ~ father Gapon, an Orthodox priest who led the march, just wanted to hand over a message of loyalty to him. But the fact is that he was not even in Saint Petersburg at the time of the massacre, it was probably the Empress who ordered the soldiers to open fire. It was widely known that Alexandra had no time for the working classes, she regarded them as nothing more than animals, but to order the soldiers to attack them ... it sickens me to remember that day. I am ashamed to share the same name."
She put the leaflet back in its drawer, then turned to me as I sat at my desk. "There is much more like that, Mia, my friend; I suspect that you soon will hate them as much as I do."
* * *
I enjoyed my early morning walks to work. The late-summer air was warm and pleasant, even at that early hour, and my shadow, cast by the low sun behind me, pointed the way ahead to a new day, filled with exciting new experiences. I sauntered along the pavement, past a row of shops ~ grocers, butchers, greengrocers, each with its now-familiar queue ~ then crossed the road towards one of the pedestrian entrances in the high wall that surrounded the Kremlin.
As I walked along the pavement beside the wall, my attention was caught by a young man at the kerbside a short way ahead, trying to start his automobile. He crouched at the front of the car, shouting abuse at the reluctant engine, while vigorously turning the starting handle. Motor cars were becoming a more common sight by then, but his behaviour was amusing because of his obvious frustration. Eventually, the machine burst into life with a cloud of smoke from the exhaust, and he ran to the side and jumped in. So interested was I that, even when I reached the arched opening in the thick wall, by which I was to enter the Kremlin gardens through a heavy oak gate, I paused to see him drive off.
As the car lurched forwards, he appeared to lose control, and the vehicle veered onto the pavement, hurtling towards me, the engine roaring loudly. I tensed to jump aside, but there was a lamp-post set in the pavement ahead, and as he tried to negotiate the gap between it and the wall, he found that the car was just too wide and, with a horrible scraping noise, it came to a sudden halt, wedged in the space. I could not help laughing at his ineptitude. With more loud revvings, he managed to reverse the car, tearing pieces off it as he did so, then, to the sound of crashing gears, plunged forwards again into the road.
At this moment events suddenly became very frightening. As soon as he had passed the lamppost, instead of continuing along the road, he again swerved onto the pavement, heading directly at me. Realisation dawned on me that perhaps this was not just bad driving, but a deliberate attempt on my life.
I had a split second to act. I jumped into the archway for protection, and pressed my back against the gate, facing the road, groping behind me for the heavy iron latch. But there was no time to open it before the car slammed diagonally into one side of the arch, more bodywork flying off as it came abruptly to a halt with one wheel only an inch from my body. I could feel the heat of the engine, and see the driver's face through the shattered wind-shield, wild eyes glaring at me from beneath a cap, his face twisted in a grimace of hate.
More crunching of gears preceded another reversing, as I desperately fumbled with the clasp of the gate, then the wreck was hurtling towards me again. I felt the latch finally release in my hand, and the gate gave way behind me. I fell through on my back into the gardens beyond, just as the car again hit the stonework, this time penetrating far enough to have crushed me, had I still been trapped against the gate. Twisting onto my knees on the brick path, trying to regain my feet, I saw the man's hands suddenly appear before his face, holding a pistol, pointed at me. I leapt to one side, stumbling, falling and scrambling, seeking the protection of the wall, and heard shots and pinging sounds as the bullets ricocheted from the stone blocks of the arch and the path where I had first fallen.
I struggled to my feet, hampered by my long, heavy skirt, and began to run along beside the wall, trying to put distance between us. I heard the roar of his engine and more scraping of metal on stone as he again reversed out of the arch, and I realised that he could not pursue me on foot as the hulk of his vehicle was blocking the entrance. I had gained precious seconds.
Not daring to look over my shoulder, I ran until I reached a small, square building that stood among trees, close to the wall. There I met a small group of people coming out of the doors, drawn by the commotion nearby. Some were priests, and I saw that the building was a chapel, with an icon of Jesus above the door and a traditional, onion-shaped, domed roof. One of them, an elderly man, hurried up to me. "What is happening?" he asked, anxiously, looking at my dishevelled appearance.
Delayed shock was making me shiver, and he put his arms around me reassuringly. "A man in a car was trying to kill me," I blurted, pointing towards the gate. His two younger colleagues immediately swept past me, their robes flying, and ran to the opening.
"Don't be afraid," the old priest said soothingly, "You are safe now." He led me into the chapel, and sat me on a wooden bench just inside. Some women were gathered there, and one was despatched to bring hot tea. We talked, and I described what had happened.
The younger priests returned a few minutes later. "We spoke to some bystanders," one of them explained. "Your attempted assassin has fled the scene. Apparently, a few people tried to apprehend the man as he ran from the wreckage of the car, but were prevented by two armed men, who escorted him away."
"Who would do such a thing?" on
e of the women asked.
I shook my head. "I really have no idea," I replied. Secretly, though, I could not help but think it might have been one of Avadeyev's men, caught up with me. If so, I was in real danger, and could be exposed at work at any time.
I sipped my tea, self-control slowly returning. When it was finished, I stood. "Thank you all for your help," I said sincerely. "Now I really must get to work."
"This should be reported," said one of the younger men. The others nodded sagely.
"I will tell my employer," I assured him.
The two young priests walked with me to the garrison building and on up to my office, then left me in the care of Aleksandra.
When they had departed, I told Aleksandra everything that had happened. "I cannot think why anyone would want to kill me," I said again, aware that I was not being honest with her.
"We have many enemies," she stated simply as she examined my hands, scratched and puffy from my fall and scrambled escape. "I will arrange security guards for you; I am angry with myself for not thinking of it sooner."
"Security?" I said. "Why would you expect me to need security?"
"All of us in the commissariats have guards with us at all times," she answered, waving an arm to indicate everyone in the building. "The counter-revolutionaries would love to bump one of us off ~ just think of the propaganda they could generate. Lenin has a small army with him, wherever he goes."
"And you?" I asked. "I've never seen any bodyguards since I've known you."
She shrugged her shoulders, and raised an eyebrow. "Two men from the secret service accompany me whenever I go out. That you have not seen them is a tribute to their ability to remain inconspicuous."
"Yes, but that's you, and Lenin and Trotsky, you are prominent members. But no-one is interested in me," I said.
"On the contrary, Mia dear, somebody seems to have taken against you. I suppose you are a very desirable target, because you are close to Yakov and me." She picked up her telephone, lifting the earpiece from its cradle and holding the speaking trumpet close to her mouth.
"Department thirteen, please, Natasha," she said into it after a moment, then smiled at me as she waited to be connected. Another pause, then ... "Kollontai. Yes. Please be so good as to send two agents to my office for permanent assignment to Comrade Mia Nestorova, Comrade Sverdlov's secretary." I heard some scratchy sounds from her earpiece. "Yes," she replied, "that is correct," then hung up.
She then stood and crossed to a cupboard behind the door, and took out a first-aid box, which she carried to her desk. Then she brought the basin and ewer from the stand in the corner and began to bathe my hands with disinfectant, drying each carefully.
"Any other injuries?" she asked, and I hitched up my skirt to show her my grazed knees. I was surprised to find that they were bleeding quite badly. These, too, she cleaned, then wrapped a gauze bandage around each.
She was just replacing the first-aid box in its cabinet when a tall, muscular man in a tight-fitting, dark suit knocked and entered the office. He introduced himself as Vasily, and escorted me to my own room. There he explained to me about the security arrangements for protecting Party members, inside and outside the Kremlin, and asked for details of my routines, where I lived, and so on. He also asked me to tell him everything about the morning's incident. It was all very matter-of-fact and business-like, but also extremely thorough. Before departing, he told me that I was to ring his dispatch office whenever I was planning to leave the building, and two men would be assigned to watch over me until I returned.
Chapter 11
~ Yakov ~
Yakov came to see me that afternoon. "I heard what happened to you this morning," he said, hitching his bottom onto the edge of my desk and taking one of my hands in his, studying the grazes on my palms and knuckles from my fall. "Are you all right?"
I nodded, smiling at his concern for my welfare. "It left me shaking afterwards, what with it being a surprise, and the ferocity of the attack, but the strange thing is that I was sure I would survive."
He smiled. "I am amazed that you are relatively unhurt."
"Ah," I said ruefully, "not completely." I cast a quick eye at the door, to make sure it was closed, then pulled up my skirt as far as my knees, to reveal a matching pair of blood-stained bandages. As I did so, I realised that it was a rather wild and abandoned thing to do, to expose my legs to a man, but he was a good friend, and I felt comfortable in his company. "I scraped them while crawling on the path after falling through the gate," I explained. His eyes opened wide. He tried to pretend it was in shock at my wounds, but I could see that he was also enjoying the sight of my bare limbs.
Suppressing a grin, I lowered my skirt again while he gathered his flustered wits.
"I … erm … wondered if you would like a little distraction," he said, rather too quickly. "An evening at the ballet. Alexander Gorsky, the director at the Bolshoi, is a good friend, and I can easily get tickets at short notice."
"What a good idea," I exclaimed. "I haven't been to the ballet for years."
"I think you'll love it. Gorsky has his own ideas, and has changed Swan Lake in a way that I think is good, but which many of the critics hate. Well, like so many people, they can't deal with change. What do you say? Will you come tonight?"
"Thank you, Yakov, I would love to."
"Splendid," he smiled, jumping from my desk and kissing my hand before releasing it and heading for the door. "I am off out now. I'll return and pick you up here at seven."
* * *
After he had left, I looked despondently down at my dress. Chosen to be plain and sturdy for work, it was also now grubby, scuffed and blood-stained from my adventure. Certainly not suitable for the ballet. The big clock on my wall told me that I had less than three hours to get ready. I dashed through to Aleksandra's office. "Where can I get a dress suitable for the ballet?" I said, breathlessly.
"Was that Yakov's voice I heard?" she asked, mischievously.
"Were you listening at the door?" I countered, grinning. "You were!" I pointed at her, accusingly.
"No! Certainly not!" But there was a guilty expression on her face. "Oh, very well. He came to see me first, to seek my advice. He didn't know if you would accept. I said that there was only one way to find out, and that was for him to ask you himself." She paused. "I wasn't listening, though, honestly."
I laughed. "Oh, I wouldn't mind if you had."
She stood up from her desk. "Come with me to my apartment," she instructed, "and let's see if we can find something suitable for you to wear."
She abandoned her desk, and I followed her along the corridor to the stairs that led up to the third-floor rooms. Not for her the ostentation of the Kremlin Palace like Lenin and Stalin, she was happy with a modest, but still comfortable, apartment above her office.
I suspected that these rooms had once been provided for the minor royals and flunkies who formed part of the various Tsars' retinues over the centuries ~ the dukes and duchesses, barons and earls, cousins, high-ranking military officers and honoured retainers who helped to keep the monarchy afloat. Aleksandra had a suite of three rooms, and she led me through an elegant lounge into her bedroom.
There she opened up her wardrobe, revealing a row of beautiful gowns. Seeing my amazement, she grinned. "I have expensive tastes when it comes to clothes," she said, lifting out one. "Try this, I think it will suit you." It was a beautiful, modern dress, of soft, creamy satin that seemed to flow in layers, with ruffled edges of golden silk.
She helped me into it, and she was right, it fitted well, but I was rather shocked at how revealing it was. I looked at myself in her long mirror as Aleksandra adjusted the lace sleeves and pulled at the wide, silk ribbon that formed a simple belt. The neckline was low and wide, leaving my shoulders bare and a good deal of my bust exposed. From there, folds of ivory satin followed the shape of my body until they flared from the slightly-emphasized bustle to descend gracefully to the floor.
I was t
ransported back to the night of the grand ball at Saint Catherine's Palace, two years earlier, when I had met Frederick, my young Prince. But I hardly recognised the young woman whose image I now saw in the mirror.
Through my exile and imprisonment with the royal family over the past year, I had become accustomed to wearing simple clothes, often dirty and worn ~ now, suddenly, I was transformed into a lady again, only the lady had blossomed. I was no longer the little girl, dressing up for her first ball ~ the person who returned my stare now was a woman, with curves and care-lines and, yes, breasts. Only my knitted hat spoiled the effect; it certainly did not compliment the rest of my ensemble. Aleksandra laughed as I snatched at it and whipped it off, revealing the downy growth it hid. My hair was slowly growing back, but it was still very short, and split by the scar where the bullet had passed.
"I think a wig would be helpful," she grinned, reaching up to lift down one of several boxes ranged along the top of the wardrobe.
* * *
After a bath in Aleksandra's private bathroom, I began to look and feel better. She redressed my wounds, then helped me into the gown, completing my outfit with a pair of gloves to hide my wounded hands, a coiffed wig to conceal my shaved head, and a beautiful pair of silk slippers. I looked down at how much of my skin was exposed, and turned to look anxiously at her. She held up a finger, reached into the wardrobe, and produced a silk shawl, which she draped over my shoulders.
Yakov arrived early to pick me up, and smiled with approval when he saw my outfit. We made our way down to the yard, followed by two bodyguards. An elegant Landau was awaiting us, with a liveried driver and footman, and drawn by a pair of white horses. Yakov held my arm as I climbed the step, while the footman held open the door for us. I felt like Cinderella going to the ball, though the illusion was somewhat stretched by the presence of our two burly bodyguards standing to one side.
We arrived at the theatre as darkness began to fall. The street-lighter was going from one lamp-post to the next along the avenue beside Teatralnaya square, lighting each gas-lamp with his long pole, and, at the top of the square, the colonnaded entrance to the Bolshoi was glowing like a candle from hidden spotlights. A bronze statue of Apollo and his chariot, hovering above the entrance, shone almost magically as we alighted and began to slowly mount the wide steps.