the shopkeeper can begin to realize the coincidence. “How beautiful.” Tatiana holds up a length of sheer lavender covered with tiny whorls of velvet shaped like lilac blooms. “Mama would love this.”
“At least as much as you do,” I tease.
She pats her pockets. “Do you have any money?”
“Not a kopek. I dare you to ask the security agents for the loan of a few rubles.”
Her hand flies up to capture a giggle. “Olga Nikolaevna, you are absolutely wicked!” she whispers through her fingers. “Those poor men are going to have an apoplexy as it is.”
My merriment drains in the space of a heartbeat. In my impulse, I didn’t think of what our excursion will mean for the people responsible for us. There’s more than a scolding from Mama at stake if we’re found out—these men could lose their jobs regardless of whether we get home safe. We’ve already made all sorts of extra work for them. The moment we leave, they’ll be bent over the counter with their notepads, interrogating the shopkeeper who spoke to me. The flush on my cheeks crawls down my neck and across my chest at the thought of it.
“Tatya, let’s go home. We can send Nyuta back with our pocket money to fetch the scarf for Mama.” I glance at a shelf full of books at the back of the store and press my lips between my teeth.
Tatiana lays the scarf aside at once. “Are you ill again, dorogaya ? You look feverish.”
“No. But those men—it’s cruel of us to risk their jobs so we can look at trinkets. We should go back.”
Realization douses Tatiana’s face. She crosses herself and nods.
No one says a word all the way back. The security agents would never presume to lecture us, but their looks of relief when we leave the shop tamp my spirits down until the guilt smolders like a pipe full of tobacco. Even the driver mops his brow and the back of his neck when we climb into the motorcar. We don’t even dare tell the Little Pair about our adventure.
After that I content myself with the inside of the lazaret. So many of the soldiers are kind to us—and good- looking, even in their hospital-issued dressing gowns. We tease Mashka, but Tatiana and I both have our favorites, the way we always pick out officers to flirt with on the Standart . But now we aren’t just little girls frolicking on holiday with Papa’s staff. Many of the young men in the lazaret are only a year or two older than my sister and I, and they know it as well as we do. There’s Nikolai Karangozov with his cane and dark mustache, who loves having his picture taken. Tatiana has her sweet Volodya from the Caucasus, and handsome little Dmitri Malama. For me, there is none but dear golden Mitya Shakh-Bagov.
Together we sit and talk, drink cocoa, and play bloshki . Sometimes Mama lets my sister and me telephone the lazaret in the evening to talk to our soldiers. From time to time when they’re well enough, Anya invites them to tea with the four of us at her house. Volodya and Mitya always humor the Little Pair with their photo albums and chatter, but I know they have a special fondness for Tatiana and me. Even after weeks in the lazaret, sweetheart Mitya’s cheeks flush pink when he sees me coming. We both know it isn’t fever.
Such a dear boy he is, shy as a little girl, but I can see his feelings painted plainly on his face. And yet we never talk of what we feel for each other, perhaps because we both know nothing can come of it. Even in my Red Cross uniform, even though he calls me simply “Olga Nikolaevna” or “sister,” never “Your Imperial Highness,” I am still a grand duchess, eldest daughter of the tsar. I am free to say no to the crown prince of Romania, but I can’t say yes to an army officer from the Caucasus. Mitya is no freer to ask than I am to answer. I wonder if I were only Citizen Romanova? But what can it possibly matter? My fate is as uncertain as Mitya’s, and all the other men we’re sending back to the front.
11.
MARIA
“At least as much as you do,” I tease.
She pats her pockets. “Do you have any money?”
“Not a kopek. I dare you to ask the security agents for the loan of a few rubles.”
Her hand flies up to capture a giggle. “Olga Nikolaevna, you are absolutely wicked!” she whispers through her fingers. “Those poor men are going to have an apoplexy as it is.”
My merriment drains in the space of a heartbeat. In my impulse, I didn’t think of what our excursion will mean for the people responsible for us. There’s more than a scolding from Mama at stake if we’re found out—these men could lose their jobs regardless of whether we get home safe. We’ve already made all sorts of extra work for them. The moment we leave, they’ll be bent over the counter with their notepads, interrogating the shopkeeper who spoke to me. The flush on my cheeks crawls down my neck and across my chest at the thought of it.
“Tatya, let’s go home. We can send Nyuta back with our pocket money to fetch the scarf for Mama.” I glance at a shelf full of books at the back of the store and press my lips between my teeth.
Tatiana lays the scarf aside at once. “Are you ill again, dorogaya ? You look feverish.”
“No. But those men—it’s cruel of us to risk their jobs so we can look at trinkets. We should go back.”
Realization douses Tatiana’s face. She crosses herself and nods.
No one says a word all the way back. The security agents would never presume to lecture us, but their looks of relief when we leave the shop tamp my spirits down until the guilt smolders like a pipe full of tobacco. Even the driver mops his brow and the back of his neck when we climb into the motorcar. We don’t even dare tell the Little Pair about our adventure.
After that I content myself with the inside of the lazaret. So many of the soldiers are kind to us—and good- looking, even in their hospital-issued dressing gowns. We tease Mashka, but Tatiana and I both have our favorites, the way we always pick out officers to flirt with on the Standart . But now we aren’t just little girls frolicking on holiday with Papa’s staff. Many of the young men in the lazaret are only a year or two older than my sister and I, and they know it as well as we do. There’s Nikolai Karangozov with his cane and dark mustache, who loves having his picture taken. Tatiana has her sweet Volodya from the Caucasus, and handsome little Dmitri Malama. For me, there is none but dear golden Mitya Shakh-Bagov.
Together we sit and talk, drink cocoa, and play bloshki . Sometimes Mama lets my sister and me telephone the lazaret in the evening to talk to our soldiers. From time to time when they’re well enough, Anya invites them to tea with the four of us at her house. Volodya and Mitya always humor the Little Pair with their photo albums and chatter, but I know they have a special fondness for Tatiana and me. Even after weeks in the lazaret, sweetheart Mitya’s cheeks flush pink when he sees me coming. We both know it isn’t fever.
Such a dear boy he is, shy as a little girl, but I can see his feelings painted plainly on his face. And yet we never talk of what we feel for each other, perhaps because we both know nothing can come of it. Even in my Red Cross uniform, even though he calls me simply “Olga Nikolaevna” or “sister,” never “Your Imperial Highness,” I am still a grand duchess, eldest daughter of the tsar. I am free to say no to the crown prince of Romania, but I can’t say yes to an army officer from the Caucasus. Mitya is no freer to ask than I am to answer. I wonder if I were only Citizen Romanova? But what can it possibly matter? My fate is as uncertain as Mitya’s, and all the other men we’re sending back to the front.
11.
MARIA
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