At four in the morning we had tea again. As daybreak was pouring through the windows and the lights were turned off, breakfast was ordered for 5:30. By mistake or by force of habit, the table for us five children and the governess was set upstairs. This caused a furious consternation and confusion around the watchful men. We were not allowed to go upstairs and we did not care to return there again.
Finally an excited officer came running and announced to Count Benckendorff that he had talked with Kerensky who was on his way to us. The room became full of people who waited interminably to say good-bye to us and to the staff who were to go with us. The sentries filled the doorways, forming a long line on both sides to the waiting motors. We strained our swollen eyes in the dawning light to see all we could as the cars sped down the courtyard and through the garden’s side entrance.
Near the fence there were some people who had been waiting all night to have a glimpse of their Emperor for the last time. They ran toward this gate but were repulsed by the sentry. We saw the church with its blue dome, the double eagle and the golden cross, the little lake, the palace, the park, all for the last time. The iron gates, our prison gates, swung open and closed after us. Our hearts closed with them. There were no bells ringing as we left our home, no cheering of the regiments of Cossacks who used to pass in brilliant parade before the palace. No convoy followed the Emperor on horses, dressed in tall caps and red and blue coats; and no yellow flag fluttered on the car. No flag caught the morning breeze on the roof top; it had been removed long ago, even though Father and we were still there. The cars moved like a funeral procession.
Escorted by a detachment of cavalry, we arrived at the Alexander station. The air was fresh. The golden sun flooded the sky. One hoped that he could hear the words: “I shall light your way wherever you go.” What a change in the appearance of this charming and beautiful village had taken place! The immaculate asphalt roads of Tsarskoe Selo I used to drive over only five months ago were no longer the same. I could see the wound the new leaders had inflicted upon this peaceful village. It was indeed a depressing and fearful sight.
In order to board the train, our automobiles stopped a short distance from our own white station, which was not far from the public one. Approaching it we saw in the distance a heap of luggage still being loaded into the train. With the troops guarding the vicinity, we walked along and crossed the track. As we were to board the train, Mother gave her hand to Kerensky who kissed it and wished her a pleasant trip. There was no stool to step on and Mother had trouble negotiating the high step. When she reached her compartment, she collapsed and fell before anyone could catch her, spraining her ankle and a finger, and struggling to catch her breath. Dr. Botkin gave her a sedative. Partly because of the heat, it was several days before she recovered from the strain.
It was sad to leave our friends, especially those officers who stood at the station humbly with their caps in their hand, and their heads bowed for the last time—their final reverence to Russia. The family stood near the windows in two different cars and blessed those good men, when suddenly several of them entered the car, and wanted to fall on their knees before Father, but he would not let them do so. Instead, he embraced them, their faces resting on his shoulder. This great man thanked his loyal officers (especially two men, Kushelev, and another whose name I do not remember but which was something like Artasalev) for their services with the words, “Be loyal and help your country; they need you now more than ever.”
With these words, they withdrew, and Father touched his own insignia of command, promoting them to a higher rank for the last time. This touching scene made him withdraw from the window so that they might not see the tears in his eyes. Suddenly on order of Commissar Kozmin, all the shades of the car were drawn.
Already within the confines of these quarters, Father’s spiritual agony was supreme. He knew that he had abdicated not for selfish reasons, but to avoid the bloodshed which he foresaw, but which the others did not. Now, this suffering family carried with them into uncertainty the centuries-old secrets of the dynasty.
With a quick jerk and screech the wagons-lits began to move. The vibration sent shivers to our souls. It was 6:30 A.M. We hoped the train would be heading for the west or south. However, it was not long before we realized much to our disappointment that we were heading eastward.
Father once promised us that as soon as the war was over, he would take us to visit the Siberian cities. It was now evident that Father’s promise to us of a Siberian trip was being fulfilled without advance knowledge or planning. Later when Kerensky was being accused by the people for sending us to Siberia, he did not have the courage to admit it, but instead cowardly tried to lay the blame on my Mother by saying that it was her wish to have the family go to Siberia. The truth is however that when it became evident that we were being sent to Siberia, Mother remarked, “Of all places, how could he think of Siberia?”