silk nightdress, she darted out of the Imperial bedroom. On slippered feet, the Empress glided towards Pekkala. “You must go to the Emperor at once!”
On her breath, Pekkala smelled the sickly odor of the opium-laced medicine without which Alexandra Romanov could no longer find her way into the catacombs of sleep. “What has happened, Majesty?”
“It is the nightmare,” she hissed .
A moment later Pekkala stood in the doorway to the Tsar’s bedroom .
The Tsar lay spread-eagled on his bed. The sheets had been kicked off. Sweat darkened his nightshirt .
Two nervous doctors hovered in the shadows .
“Pekkala,” groaned the Tsar, “is that you?”
“I am here, Majesty.”
“Get these butchers out of the room.” Feebly he gestured towards the doctors. “All they want to do is turn me into a morphine addict.”
The two men, somber as herons, filed out of the room without even glancing at Pekkala .
“Shut the door on your way out!” the Tsar commanded .
The doctors did as they were told .
Slowly, the Tsar sat up in bed. He was a picture of complete exhaustion. With twitching hands, he reached for the cigarette case which lay beside his bed. It had been fashioned out of solid gold by Michael Perchin, one of the workmasters at the Fabergé factory. The case had been engraved with gentle S-shaped curves, which reminded Pekkala of patterns he had seen as a child, in windblown sand down by the water’s edge at his family’s summer cottage on the Finnish island of Korpo .
From this case, the Tsar removed a cigarette. Each one contained a blend of tobacco prepared for him alone by Hajenius of Amsterdam. The frail rolling papers were emblazoned with a tiny silver double-headed eagle, the crest of the Romanov family .
As Pekkala stared at these objects, flinching momentarily when the Tsar struck fire from a jewel-encrusted lighter, it occurred to him how little they mattered to their owner at that moment. The Romanovs had built a wall of silver, gold, and platinum to keep the world away from them. But the world still found its way in. Like water filtering through cracks in a stone, it would ultimately shatter their existence .
“The Empress mentioned a nightmare,” said Pekkala .
The Tsar nodded, picking a fleck of tobacco off his tongue. He muttered a single word. “Kodynka.”
Then Pekkala understood .
On May 26, 1896, the day of Nicholas’s and Alexandra’s coronation, the Tsar and Tsarina had undergone a grueling five-hour service at the Assumption Cathedral in the Kremlin. Four days later, as dictated by tradition, the newly crowned couple would proceed to Kodynka field. There they would greet the thousands, perhaps even tens of thousands, of spectators who had come to wish them well. These spectators would be fed and gifts marking the occasion would be distributed. The Imperial couple would then proceed to the French embassy, where a celebration of unparalleled extravagance had been prepared. This included more than 100,000 fresh roses, which had been brought by express train from France .
The festivities began at Kodynka long before the Imperial couple were due to arrive. At one point, reacting to a rumor that the food tents were running out of beer, the crowd stampeded. More than a thousand people were crushed to death, many of them falling into shallow drainage ditches dug in lines across the field .
As the royal procession began its journey to Kodynka, the dead and dying were loaded onto carts and transported from the field, forming a macabre procession of their own. In the confusion, cartloads of disfigured corpses ended up among the lines of ornate coaches bearing the jewel-encrusted guests who had been invited to the ceremony .
To make matters worse, the Imperial couple were persuaded to continue with their schedule and attend the French embassy gathering .
Although guests at the party remarked on the obvious distress of the Emperor and his bride, the image of the pair waltzing,
On her breath, Pekkala smelled the sickly odor of the opium-laced medicine without which Alexandra Romanov could no longer find her way into the catacombs of sleep. “What has happened, Majesty?”
“It is the nightmare,” she hissed .
A moment later Pekkala stood in the doorway to the Tsar’s bedroom .
The Tsar lay spread-eagled on his bed. The sheets had been kicked off. Sweat darkened his nightshirt .
Two nervous doctors hovered in the shadows .
“Pekkala,” groaned the Tsar, “is that you?”
“I am here, Majesty.”
“Get these butchers out of the room.” Feebly he gestured towards the doctors. “All they want to do is turn me into a morphine addict.”
The two men, somber as herons, filed out of the room without even glancing at Pekkala .
“Shut the door on your way out!” the Tsar commanded .
The doctors did as they were told .
Slowly, the Tsar sat up in bed. He was a picture of complete exhaustion. With twitching hands, he reached for the cigarette case which lay beside his bed. It had been fashioned out of solid gold by Michael Perchin, one of the workmasters at the Fabergé factory. The case had been engraved with gentle S-shaped curves, which reminded Pekkala of patterns he had seen as a child, in windblown sand down by the water’s edge at his family’s summer cottage on the Finnish island of Korpo .
From this case, the Tsar removed a cigarette. Each one contained a blend of tobacco prepared for him alone by Hajenius of Amsterdam. The frail rolling papers were emblazoned with a tiny silver double-headed eagle, the crest of the Romanov family .
As Pekkala stared at these objects, flinching momentarily when the Tsar struck fire from a jewel-encrusted lighter, it occurred to him how little they mattered to their owner at that moment. The Romanovs had built a wall of silver, gold, and platinum to keep the world away from them. But the world still found its way in. Like water filtering through cracks in a stone, it would ultimately shatter their existence .
“The Empress mentioned a nightmare,” said Pekkala .
The Tsar nodded, picking a fleck of tobacco off his tongue. He muttered a single word. “Kodynka.”
Then Pekkala understood .
On May 26, 1896, the day of Nicholas’s and Alexandra’s coronation, the Tsar and Tsarina had undergone a grueling five-hour service at the Assumption Cathedral in the Kremlin. Four days later, as dictated by tradition, the newly crowned couple would proceed to Kodynka field. There they would greet the thousands, perhaps even tens of thousands, of spectators who had come to wish them well. These spectators would be fed and gifts marking the occasion would be distributed. The Imperial couple would then proceed to the French embassy, where a celebration of unparalleled extravagance had been prepared. This included more than 100,000 fresh roses, which had been brought by express train from France .
The festivities began at Kodynka long before the Imperial couple were due to arrive. At one point, reacting to a rumor that the food tents were running out of beer, the crowd stampeded. More than a thousand people were crushed to death, many of them falling into shallow drainage ditches dug in lines across the field .
As the royal procession began its journey to Kodynka, the dead and dying were loaded onto carts and transported from the field, forming a macabre procession of their own. In the confusion, cartloads of disfigured corpses ended up among the lines of ornate coaches bearing the jewel-encrusted guests who had been invited to the ceremony .
To make matters worse, the Imperial couple were persuaded to continue with their schedule and attend the French embassy gathering .
Although guests at the party remarked on the obvious distress of the Emperor and his bride, the image of the pair waltzing,
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