“An excellent question.” I could tell by the way he said it that Sergei was smiling. “The tsar and his ministers have left the palace. There are calls for him to abdicate. That would leave the Duma in charge, I suppose, but the leaders of the workers’ groups want their soviets to have a say. There’s talk of a constitutional assembly, elections—don’t you see? The people will finally be heard. Just like in your beloved England.”
Papa harrumphed. “‘The people.’ That’s an awfully vague term.”
“Like it or not, things are changing. Speaking of which, I’d put a red banner or cockade on the front door.”
“What for?” Mama asked.
“It’s the symbol of revolution, and whatever your private leanings, it won’t hurt to make a show of support.”
“You’ll be telling me to walk around in a peasant’s tunic next!” Papa said.
Sergei laughed. “I wouldn’t dream of it. You’ll be wearing a jacket and tie till the day you die.”
In the days after Sergei’s visit, we learned to be wary of knocks at the door. Sergei had told my parents that bands of army deserters were roaming the city, men with weapons and no clear loyalty. Until the police got things under control, it would be wiser to stay indoors. Papa instructed Old Ivan not to admit any strangers, but we had no visitors for days, other than a few servants from neighboring houses who came to the kitchen door to ask for news. We didn’t have any to share. It wasn’t until a week later that we heard fists slamming violently against the front door.
Papa and I threw down the cards we’d been playing after supper and rushed to the front hall. From a hubbub of indistinguishable shouts, a voice called out, “Open up!”
Mama ran out from her sitting room, and Papa thrust me into her arms.
“Go,” Papa urged.
Old Ivan came shuffling forward, but Papa waved him away. As Mama pressed against my back, pushing me up the stairs, I heard the bark of male voices and the clatter of boots across the floor. In the upstairs hallway, I began to make the turn to my room, but Mama grabbed my arm and pulled me into her bedroom, then the adjoining bathroom.
“Stay here,” Mama ordered before closing the door.
My hands and legs felt shaky, and I was conscious of each ragged breath. I heard the creak of drawers as Mama moved around the bedroom. Then came the thunder of footsteps on the stairs. Papa was speaking, then Mama, and then the bathroom door opened. Papa stood in the doorway, smiling ruefully, giving me a look that said, I know there’s nothing funny about this, but play along.
“The house is being searched for weapons,” he told me. “I said we have none, but these soldiers are intent on making sure.” He put his arm around my waist, and his fingers pressed into my stomach, holding fast. “As you can see, my friends, there’s nothing here but a bathroom and my daughter, Nadia.”
Half a dozen men in filthy military uniforms milled around my parents’ room, pawing at the bedsheets and rummaging through the bureaus. Their smell felt like an assault, the earthy bitterness making me want to cover my face. I knew better than to do so. Mama was standing at the end of the bed, her arms crossed tightly across her chest, looking quietly defiant. The soldier who appeared to be in charge stepped closer when he saw me look at him, tilting his face so I could see the scar that ran from his cheekbone to his chin. I’d never had anyone look at me with such contempt. What have I done? I thought, panicked. Papa squeezed me closer, just enough to remind me I was a Shulkin. I mustn’t look scared.
One of the men pulled out a knife and began slicing into the mattress. Others kicked clothes into piles on the floor and ripped open pillows, releasing clouds of feathers. Watching them caper around like rowdy children, I realized most of the soldiers weren’t much older than me.
“Have you satisfied yourselves with a look at my underclothes?” Papa asked with an indulgent smile. “Perhaps I can offer you a drink in honor of our brave fighting men. I have a son in the army, you know. The Fourth Cavalry.”
“Good for him,” the scarred man sneered, but Papa was already urging the rest on with waves of his hands.
“To the dining room. I have some excellent bottles of champagne I’ve been saving for a special occasion. We will toast the revolution. Something to eat as well, what do you say?”
The promise of food was enough to lure them out, even the man with the scar. When they’d gone, Mama threw herself against me and held on tight, murmuring prayers of thanks. There was something odd about the embrace—Mama felt all lumpy—but it was only after she let go that I realized why. Flashing a self-satisfied smile, Mama pulled out the top of her bodice to show me the necklaces and rings she’d hidden inside.
We waited in that ruined room for two hours, until Papa called out for us. Through a combination of charm and bribery, he’d convinced the men to leave.
“They were only boys,” he told us. “Young soldiers crave discipline, whether they admit it or not, and once I’d proved I had nothing to hide, they fell in line.” Even their leader had softened in the end, when Papa took him aside and slipped him a fistful of money.
Papa said we shouldn’t have any more trouble, but he hired armed guards, just to be sure. Gradually, we drifted back into our old routines. Mama returned to her weekly round of social calls, and my school reopened in mid-March. There, I heard about what happened while I’d been hidden away at home. Policemen, imperial guards—anyone who could be denounced as a “tsar’s man”—had been shot on sight, their bodies lying in the streets for days. One old prince who resisted a search by self-declared revolutionaries had been murdered in his home, but no one I knew had been killed or even injured. The violence had been terrifying, but short-lived.
As the snow softened to slush and sunlight began to pierce the stubborn Petrograd haze, it seemed the worst had passed. Even Papa approved of the tsar’s abdication and agreed it was time for a fresh start. But with so many different groups elbowing for power, it was impossible for any one faction to get anything done, and I soon grew tired of my father and uncle’s political debates. As the chauffeur drove me to and from school in our Mercedes, we passed a few buildings that had been damaged by gunfire. Other than that, the city looked much the same.
In late May, the servants began packing for our move to the country. I’d heard stories about trouble on large estates; according to the biggest gossip in my school, crazed peasants were marching across the land with pitchforks, killing their masters and putting heads on pikes. When I brought the story up at dinner—not really believing it, but wanting to be reassured—Papa scoffed.
“Ridiculous! The Socialists spread stories like that to scare us away.”
“It’s not all rumors,” Mama said. “The Goletskys?”
“He got what was coming to him.” Turning to me, Papa said, “Prince Goletsky was a boor and a tyrant. He took pride in whipping his servants himself. I’m not at all surprised that one of them used this unrest as an excuse to kill him.”
“It was more than one,” Mama said. “They stabbed him in the chest and burned the house down around him.”
Papa’s glare made Mama flush.