In about three hours, when I was ready to leave, they packed some food for us, all they could spare. While I prayed with the nuns, I was seized by a most extraordinary feeling. Three times I felt a breeze flying over my shoulders. My lips froze, I turned around and sensed nothing. In my mind I saw my family in the church in Tsarskoe Selo, entering through the small side door the Feodorovsky Sobor where we prayed with our beloved escort. The choir in the Feodorovsky Sobor with its beautiful voices sang throughout with such perfection that one wished it would never come to an end. I also saw my loved ones in Tobolsk in the winter church. Coming back to present surroundings, I realized that I stood alone among a few humble women. There was only a murmur of voices within these sacred walls. I thanked God for the kindness I had received in this convent. My heart found peace and I felt refreshed. I often wondered if they knew who their guest was.
As I came out of the convent, I was horrified to see Alexander approaching, his face pale, grief-stricken and excited. He said, “There is no use going to the Crimea. I have just heard from responsible sources that your Grandmother, both aunts, their husbands, and all their children have been killed. We also learned from a relative that Vostorgov (a high clergyman in Moscow), together with a great many others, were assassinated last month. Among them were the young Ministers Maklakov and Khvostov, who had replaced the old Minister Goremykin, Minister of the Interior.”
That Khvostov’s wife, Anastasia, had been shot in Moscow, I had learned previously. I could not cry but shook as if in a state of fever. All this distressing news pointed out our own danger. I had hoped that in a week I would be in the Crimea with my relatives.
We heard, too, what had happened in Sevastopol. The revolutionists had killed and tied stones to the feet of the young cadets and thrown them into the Black Sea. Their disappearance was a mystery until a young woman on her way to market saw some bodies and reported them. She was turned away from the scene and was not allowed to enter the street where the bodies were seen. Later a diver went down and came up screaming. “They are alive and walking on the bottom of the sea,” he claimed. He had lost his mind. A second diver discovered the bodies were upright; heavy stones were tied to their feet and the waving motion of water made them look as if they were walking.
Only fate helped me to listen with fortitude to this heartrending news about my relatives. Later I learned that the report about them was not true.
Alexander had also heard that late one night in June, 1918, Uncle Misha and his English secretary, Nicholas Johnson (who thought his presence might help the Grand Duke), were taken away into the woods near Perm, and mysteriously disappeared. Unfortunately they had been executed, as I learned much later.
Father was right, the taste of blood begets an epidemic.
Having heard all this about the Crimea, we knew that going there was out of the question, so we did not, as originally planned, go through Tula, which, I was told, seemed like our best route. We went instead to Kursk where Nikolai delivered the truck. While he was delivering it, we purchased some food. The price of bread was not so exorbitant, but we paid outrageous prices for the other products. Now we were headed for the Rumanian border.
When we first started this trip we passed mountainous fir-clad country—with many ravines. Now the country was much flatter and dotted with many granaries. We walked through forests and cut through the muddy wheat fields. We rested, then walked some more. We slept in farmers’ sheds on straw, glad of any place to keep dry, as it rained almost every day. We crossed railroad tracks, we saw rusty freight cars full of sacks of wheat. All were moldy, and the wheat was growing through the burlap sacks while the people were starving, forbidden to take this grain. Later on, when we ran out of food, Alexander bought some wheat from a farmer and both men ate a little of it. I would have eaten some, too, if I could have chewed it. The grain swelled inside of them and both men were uncomfortable, drinking water whenever they could. We heard that many had died who had eaten raw wheat.
We were not far from Kremenchug (on the east bank of the Dnieper) where, according to a letter we had received in Tobolsk, Lili Dehn was living. I would have liked to join her. Fighting was going on in the area. We continued our westward trek.