The Witches of St. Petersburg

¹⁷ 12 August 1904, St Petersburg

Militza would never forget hearing the boom of the gun salute. She held her breath. Bang! There it was.

One hundred and two.

It echoed around the city.

And the city stopped in its tracks.

Militza ran to the window and threw it wide open. Bang! Another one. She couldn’t believe it. Bang! Again. She looked down into the square to see all the traffic had halted. The trams were not moving. Pedestrians were stationary, rooted to the spot on the pavement, in the road, frozen in an instant. They were all listening. Could it really be true? Were they hearing correctly? Had the cannons at the Peter and Paul Fortress just announced the birth of a male heir to a reigning monarch for the first time since the seventeenth century? Bang! There it was again. It was as if the cannon itself was blowing away all that was miserable, all that was woeful and depressing about the war: the loss of life in Manchuria, the endless news about the Japanese sinking Russian ships. Great explosions of hope and happiness were being blasted through this troubled city.

Militza’s telephone rang urgently. Stana! She couldn’t wait for her butler to answer, so she ran down the stairs in her morning dress and picked it up in the hall.

‘God be praised!’

‘Philippe be praised!’ she replied. ‘We are saved! The Tsarina is saved!’

‘Russia is saved,’ enthused Militza.

‘And so is Montenegro!’

The rush of adrenaline was so powerful Militza began to tremble. It had all been worth it! They had done what everyone else had failed to do. They had managed to furnish the barren Tsarina with an heir. A son! At last.

‘I can’t believe it,’ she said, laughing down the telephone. ‘We did it!’

‘We did,’ came Stana’s reply. ‘No one can touch us now.’

Outside, church bells began to ring. There were ripples of applause and shouts of joy from the street below. The servants began to arrive in the hall, their normally sullen, uncommunicative faces beaming with elation.

‘It’s a boy!’ shouted a footman.

‘A boy!’ confirmed a lady’s maid.

Bang! The cannons carried on firing. Again and again. Three hundred and one times in total. It went on for well over an hour and by the time they had finished and Militza looked out again into the streets below, flags were being hoisted up poles, the double-headed eagle was flapping from every conceivable vantage point and the national anthem was playing in the park across the street. This was going to be a party, a very large party and everyone was going to join in. Work was most definitely over for the day and when the factories opened their gates, hours before time, the labourers and machinists poured out into the streets. Instead of closing, most of the restaurants pulled their tables out into the streets and, in the more expensive hostelries, the managers cracked open champagne, serving regulars free of charge.

At about four, Stana arrived, running into her sister’s salon. Her face was flushed with excitement and her dark eyes shone as she hurled herself into her sister’s arms.

‘A boy! A boy! A boy!’ She kissed her sister, hugged her tightly and started to laugh. ‘I am giddy!’ she exclaimed. ‘Positively giddy! It really is incredible. I thought it would never happen. Do you think it was Seraphim? Philippe? Dr Badmaev’s herbs? The dolls? The poppets? And have you heard the other news?’ she said, smiling even more.

‘What other news?’

‘Nikolasha told me.’ Stana looked like she was fit to burst. ‘The Vladimirs are furious! Incredibly furious because Kirill, Boris and Andrei are now one step further away from the throne.

‘Apparently,’ she said, grinning, ‘Vladimir went completely silent at luncheon when he received the telegram. He left and didn’t return for an hour, then when he did return, he continued to sit in silence, all the while being handed fresh cigarette after fresh cigarette, by the Cossack standing behind him. You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife, apparently. No one knew what to do or say. And when your host isn’t speaking, what are you supposed to do? Nikolasha was told by the American military attaché who was there! It was only when he was leaving to return to St Petersburg that Colonel Mott found out what was in the telegram and what had made them so annoyed!’

‘Oh, the poor Vladimirs, all that plotting, all that money, all those connections, undone by a baby that is not even twenty-four hours old.’

‘Isn’t it wonderful?’

‘Are you ready?’ asked Peter, marching briskly into the room. He was dressed in a white naval jacket with golden buttons and large gold epaulettes, clearly ready to go out.

‘For what?’ Militza looked confused.

‘There’s been a telephone call inviting us to come and look at the baby.’

‘So soon?’ asked Stana, her eyes darting from her sister to her brother-in-law. ‘Are we to be the first?’

‘Well, apart from Ella and Sergei who were there for luncheon today, I suppose we are.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes,’ confirmed Peter. ‘Apparently, almost as soon as Alix sat down for luncheon at twelve thirty she felt pains; she went upstairs immediately and then the baby was born less than half an hour later.’

‘Just in time to ruin someone else’s luncheon,’ smiled Stana. Peter looked across at her. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, shrugging, ‘I’ll explain another time.’

‘So I have the car ready,’ continued Peter. ‘We should go.’ He looked at the two sisters. ‘Immediately.’

Driving through the streets of St Petersburg and out into the countryside beyond was one of the most memorable journeys of Militza’s life. The air was warm, the sky was a clear, cobalt blue and the noise of singing and the ringing of bells, plus the strains of the national anthem, serenaded them almost all the way to the Gulf of Finland. Even in the tiniest villages, where the chickens outnumbered the wooden houses that clung either side of the dirt road, they were celebrating. Royal flags were as ubiquitous as the smiles on the faces.

But no one was smiling quite as much as Nicky. When he met them on the top of the steps of the Lower Dacha, it was as if all the worries of the last few years, all the strains that had etched themselves all over his ashen face, had disappeared. He looked so happy, so light and carefree, he almost danced like a feather in the wind before them.

‘What an unforgettable day!’ he declared from the threshold, his pale eyes shining. ‘How blessed we are! How blessed we were the day we met Maître Philippe. Come and see him. Come and see the future Alexei II.’

‘Alexei?’ asked Militza, as she walked into the hall.

‘Named after the father of Peter the Great! Alexei the Great, that’s what they’ll call him! My son! My heir!’

‘How exciting!’ said Stana.

‘He is such a big boy!’ continued Nicky. ‘Eleven and half pounds.’

‘And the Tsarina?’ asked Militza.

‘In heaven!’ he replied. ‘And he is feeding well already. He suckled the breast almost immediately. What an appetite! He’s so perfect and I can’t wait for you to see him. He has blue eyes!’

‘All babies have blue eyes when they are born,’ said Militza, handing over her hat and gloves.

‘Not as blue as these!’ Nicky shot back as he bounded towards the stairs. ‘They are as blue as the Caspian Sea! As deep as Lake Baikal. Hurry up! Alix is desperate to see you! Desperate to thank you! What a wonderful day! It’s a sign, you know; our luck is changing. His birth will bring about a speedy and victorious end to the war in Manchuria. In fact,’ he stopped at the top of the stairs, ‘I am going to make all the soldiers, the entire army fighting at the front, Alexei’s godparents!’ He stood, grinning, his arms outstretched. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think it’s a perfectly capital idea!’ replied Peter, as he climbed the stairs behind the Tsar. ‘That’ll boost morale.’

‘And I shall send them all icons. Icons of St Seraphim, Russia’s greatest saint!’

‘Amen,’ added Stana.

At the top of the stairs the four Grand Duchesses, all dressed in matching frocks, giggled and jostled with excitement.

‘Out of the way, girlies!’ said Nicky, sweeping them aside in a rustle of white chiffon. ‘They’ve come to see Alexei!’

The party reached the top of the stairs and paused for breath.

‘I think,’ said Peter, ‘perhaps ladies first?’ He gestured towards the closed bedroom door. ‘And perhaps you and I should have a little brandy?’

‘A glass of champagne,’ corrected Nicky. ‘I think we have cause for it.’

As the two men retired back downstairs to Nicky’s study, Militza and Stana knocked on the door.

Inside the room, the curtains were drawn, and behind a screen of white with blue cornflowers, lay Alix. Propped up in bed, on a mountain of soft pillows, surrounded by numerous glittering gold icons and dressed in a white frilled shift, she smiled broadly as they entered, a look of soft joy and elation all over her face.

‘Stana! Militza!’ She spoke softly, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘He is here! At last. Can you believe it? My son. How can I ever thank you? How can I ever thank Philippe? I know it was that night, bathing in the waters. I felt it. I felt everything change. I hoped. I prayed. I believed. And now God has, at last, given me a son. A son to rule Russia. I am so happy.’

Tears welled up in her eyes and she did not bother to hold them back or disguise them in any way. She held out her hands. Both Stana and Militza leant forward and kissed them. ‘My sisters,’ she said. ‘My very beloved sisters. Please tell Philippe how grateful I am. Please let him know what he has done.’

‘What you have done!’ enthused Stana, squeezing Alix’s hand.

‘What we all have done,’ corrected Militza.

‘Yes, all of us,’ said Alix. ‘Together.’

‘Together,’ repeated Stana.

‘But write to Philippe,’ said Alix, ‘for I no longer know where to find him.’

‘I will do,’ reassured Militza. ‘He resides in Paris now; his health is not good.’

‘But this news will cheer him greatly,’ added Stana.

‘Tell him he was right, he was right after all,’ Alix said, smiling.

‘Where is he?’ asked Militza. ‘Where is Alexei? May we see him?’

Alix pulled back the covers slightly and there, lying tightly swaddled and fast asleep, was Alexei. The Tsarevich, the naslednik, the future they had all been waiting for. Here he was. Militza half expected the heavens to sing, the voices of angels to burst suddenly into song at the very sight of him. The sisters leaned in, holding their breath, almost as if by breathing on him they might cause him to disappear. This child was so precious, a child of prayers. The hopes and fears of millions of souls rested on his not-yet-day-old shoulders. Alix put her finger to her lips as she pulled back the sheets a little more.

‘Isn’t he perfect?’

‘He’s beautiful,’ replied Militza, for he was. He was plump and pink and he had wisps of blond hair that were already beginning to curl. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Me?’ Alix smiled. ‘I think I now know what it is like to die and ascend to heaven. I am floating.’ She laughed. ‘And that is nothing that Dr Ott gave me. In fact, the birth was so easy.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I had none of the problems that I had with the girlies, none at all. I had barely finished my luncheon before he arrived. A little early,’ she said and shrugged, ‘although we all know not early enough! But I am blessed. I feel blessed. I am so happy.’

‘May I touch his face?’ asked Militza. She too laughed a little, for it was truly a miracle. ‘I just want to make sure that he is really there and is not some form of sorcery or witchcraft!’

Militza stretched out her hand. It was shaking a little as she curled her index finger and touched his fresh, soft cheek. It felt like warm, smooth silk. She let out an involuntary sigh.

‘I know,’ agreed Alix. ‘Look as his lips! His ears! And his beautiful neck.’ She began to undress him, removing the tightly swaddled cloth that wrapped him.

‘Oh, don’t. Really!’ said Militza. ‘There is no need. Don’t disturb him. He’s asleep.’

‘Oh no, I want you to see him, see quite how perfect he is!’ insisted Alix. Now her hands were shaking as she tried to undo the bandages. ‘He is so beautiful, you have to see him. You simply must.’ She pulled at the cloth and the baby began to moan. ‘Shh, my angel. Shh, my beautiful boy,’ Alix hushed as she continued to unwrap him. Round and round the bandage went. ‘Oh my goodness! What has Gunst done!’ she said, laughing a little. ‘So much cloth!’ The more she unwrapped the baby, the more agitated he became. ‘Hush, hush!’

‘Honestly, there is no need!’ said Militza, her heart beginning to race.

‘Don’t carry on,’ agreed Stana, the two sisters exchanging anxious glances.

‘I insist!’ replied Alix, her eyes shining. ‘You simply must see how beautiful he is!’

And as the final bandage came off, the tiny newborn baby screamed in pain. His cry was so shockingly loud, so agonizingly visceral, that both Militza and Stana recoiled in horror. And there, in amongst the mewling, screaming, kicking baby and the swaddling and the bandages were clots and blots of blood.

‘Oh my God!’ exclaimed Stana leaping off the bed.

The baby’s legs went rigid as he inhaled to scream once more. He opened his toothless mouth and cried out in pain. His whole body shook and his tiny face crumpled and went bright pink with agony.

‘He’s bleeding,’ said Stana.

‘It’s Gunst,’ said Alix, swiftly trying to gather up all the bandages. ‘She’s bound him too tightly. Far too tightly. What a stupid woman! Stupid, stupid woman. Hush, little one. Hush.’ But Alix’s fingers fumbled;, she was shaking too much to pick the bloody cloth scattered all over the bed.

‘Shh,’ said Militza, taking hold of Alix’s hand. ‘Calm down. If you panic, the baby will too. Let me help you.’

‘What’s going on?’ A heavyset nurse, smelling of soap, ran into the bedroom, her head covered in a tightly wrapped scarf. ‘Why is he crying? Why he is undressed?’ She looked from one sister to the other, her small accusatory eyes darting back and forth. ‘Who undressed him? He must be bound. It is the only way to stem the flow. Who did this?’

She gently gathered up the screaming, naked baby and snuggled him into her large bosom and, without saying another word, she took him straight out of the room, leaving Alix sitting helpless in bed. Militza looked at the bloodied bandages lying on the top of the bed. Some of the stains were crimson fresh, others a dried dark brown. Despite the airless warmth of the room, she suddenly felt cold. She had seen this before. She turned to look at Alix. Her eyes were wide and terrified and yet her jaw was rigid and strangely defiant.

‘Gunst must have swaddled him too tightly,’ stated Militza, picking up the cloth.

Alix stared at her and her gaze did not flicker. ‘I am sure she will not make the same mistake again.’