Our initial, glorious victories were, so tragically, only short-lived, and what we all expected to be a short war soon appeared otherwise. Our Second Army was all but wiped out in the Battle of Tannenberg-100,000 taken prisoner, 35,000 killed or maimed, with only 10,000 escaping-and it was even worse for the First. Lord, I think 125,000 of our men were slaughtered out there in Prussia. Really, we could not continue for long with losses like that, so it was no wonder that I heard grumblings when I walked beyond our walls. Less and less I was greeted with smiles and more and more with wicked words, for the poor, tired souls were angry at everything German, including me simply because of my ancestry.

“Hessian witch!” the nasty few would mutter behind my back, though in truth it did not hurt.

As incredible and ridiculous as it seemed even then, there were rumors about that I was sending gold to my native lands-yes, supposedly I was hoarding Siberian gold right there at my obitel and sending it by the nugget via secret courier to Germany to help in the war efforts against my beloved Russia! What tittle-tattle, what evil tongues! What no one knew was my intense dislike of the Prussians, who’d all but overrun my native Darmstadt, or, for that matter, that I’d never been fond of my own cousin, the Kaiser Wilhelm, who had once so strongly sought my hand in marriage. And these dark stories weren’t just the work of German spies, who were so intent on damaging the morale on the home front. Incredibly, it was also the work of those foolish revolutionaries, who came secretly flooding back into Russia, intent on undermining dear Nicky and Alicky, revolutionaries who were more determined than ever to wipe away our God-given monarchy. Black rumors swelled like great waves, passing from one tongue to the next, one claiming that Nicky was being drugged by Alicky, another that Alicky had a direct telegraph line from her boudoir all the way to Cousin Willy in Berlin. Of course, the worst of the worst was being said in and about that foolish man, Rasputin, who had become such a stain on the Throne. For the life of me I could not understand Alicky’s dependence on him, and I prayed night and day for her deliverance from him.

Sadly, all these untrue stories worked like dark magic. Our people were hungry, our people were tired, and unrest amongst all the classes was frothed up as easily as a pair of eggs. Just several weeks earlier an anti-German riot had erupted in Moscow with German homes and shops looted and destroyed. Even the police did not bother to interfere.

Of course, none of this was helped by a matter that did worry me-that our military hospitals were not being filled up by our own Russian wounded but by prisoners, both German and Austrian. Muscovites didn’t like that at all, even though the military hospitals were far less comfortable than the Red Cross or private ones. Nevertheless, the tongues said I only looked after Germans and even took them endless sweets and rubles. Such untruths. Yes, I did visit the wounded prisoners, for a soul is a soul no matter from what country, but I did no more than pray for them. Unfortunately, all this dark talk was put on my back even though I, perhaps more Russian than many Russians, cared so deeply for the men of my new homeland. To make absolutely sure there was no preferential treatment, however, I stopped my visits to the prisoners altogether and had a ladies’ committee, with my Grande Maîtresse Countess Olsuvieva at the head, look into this matter.

But what should have been a great warning of the darkness to come was the incident that took place upon my return from Petrograd-yes, not long after the outbreak of war even our capital had been renamed, for to the Russian ear “Sankt Peterburg ” sounded harshly German and hence unpleasant, and so it, too, was dashed. I had been there in the capital for the state funeral in 1915 of Grand Duke Konstantin Konstantinovich-soon after the battlefield death of one of his beloved sons, my dear Kostya had suffered a fatal infarkt-and upon my arrival home in Moscow everything at first seemed normal. At the Nikolaevski Station I descended my private railcar without incident and moved freely along the platform, perceiving no problem whatsoever. Unlike my previous days, I was traveling without a suite of any sort-neither court ladies nor guards of any sort-and while there were certainly many eyes upon me and I was, despite my robes, widely recognized, this was not unusual and by no means threatening either. Really, hitherto-fore in all my travels and ventures into the bleakest, poorest corners of our vast Empire, I had not once felt the least indication of malevolence directed upon my person. However, no sooner had I passed through the Imperial Waiting Rooms and exited onto the broad, bustling street than things began to disintegrate. A limousine was waiting for me, and as the uniformed driver helped me settle into the rear seat, a most violent disruption broke about, initiated no doubt by a handful of unpatriotic agitators.

“Look, it’s the German bitch!” shouted one man.

“It’s a filthy Romanov traitor!” hollered another.

“Get her! Down with her!”

It was shocking, really, how quickly they swarmed around the motorcar, rather more like a pack of wild dogs or mad beasts than human beings. Wasting not a moment, my chauffeur scurried quickly around and into the vehicle, but no sooner had he shut the door than fists began pounding the windows. In one moment there were ten men, the next twenty, and then thirty.

“German bitch!” they cried one after another.

I clutched automatically at the cypress cross that I always wore around my neck, and I could hear my heart pounding, feel my thoughts dashing here and there. Good Lord, what was happening?

“I think it best if we move quickly on,” I recommended to the chauffeur.

“Yes, but… but…” he said, motioning to the men now clambering over the hood of the vehicle.

“Just proceed,” I said as calmly as I could. “Do not worry, we are in God’s hands.”

White with fear, he managed to start up the motor and engage the vehicle in gear. We had rolled not even a half pace when a man jumped right in front of the vehicle, his arms outstretched, his face red with rage. Immediately, my driver stomped on the brakes and the vehicle jerked to a standstill. The man blocking our way screamed something, foul words that I had never heard in Russian, and an even greater cry of anger flew through the crowd. All around, from every side, people charged closer, flaming me with fiery insults. Someone pounded on my window, and I saw a furious red-faced woman with a scarf tied around her head. My inclination was to smile gently upon her, but this woman sucked in her cheeks and with great force expelled a good quantity of saliva upon the glass. And then another man did likewise, spitting his hatred upon us. Another followed suit, and then another and another, until the windows and the windscreen were covered. The next instant, several large men took hold of the wheels and the entire limousine began to rock most violently up and down and side to side.

“Please… drive on… quickly now!” I requested, clutching the seat. “Quickly!”

“But, Your Highness, what if I hit someone?”

“God willing, they’ll step aside!”

Despite all my good thoughts and all my good prayers, the fear came flooding into my heart like an evil river, rampaging and scouring my mind with doubt. How could this be? These were my children to whom I had given my entire soul and for whom I felt nothing but divine love. Where did such hatred come from? What sin had I committed to engender this rage?

I held tightly the cross upon my breast, firmly shut my eyes, and chanted, “Gospodi pomilui…” Lord have mercy…

No sooner had my driver pushed again on the accelerator and we began moving again, albeit ever so slowly, than something crashed against the side of the car with the most frightening sound. It sounded as if a bomb, and I screamed as I had not since childhood. All my fears whooshed back to that day when my Sergei was blown apart, and I was sure my end had now come as well. I struggled for my control, but found myself lost in that frightening memory when the center of Moscow rocked with my husband’s death. But it was not a bomb hurled against my motorcar but a rock, a cobblestone, actually, pulled right from the street. There came another, and then one after that, all raining down upon my vehicle, simply pure thunder and storm. Suddenly a stone sailed directly through one of the side windows, glass exploded everywhere, and I screamed yet again, as did the driver, his voice high and terrified. Almost the next instant a huge stone came hurtling directly from the front, smashing the windscreen into a thousand shards, glass like needles tearing at my driver. From behind I heard someone pounding on the window behind my head, and I tensed and steeled myself as if I were to be shot. All around voices and the worst insults came at me like cannon fodder, wounding me not physically but heart and soul, which I felt far more deeply. To my side I saw a massive hairy hand reach for the door, and from the coarse rage I understood that the intention was to rip me from my vehicle so that the crowd could pull me apart upon the street.