And then came the soldiers on horseback with whips and sabers, and it was only in this manner that the incident was concluded as promptly as it had begun.

Yes, the soldiers beat away our attackers posthaste, and the hooligans fled, for even though the days of serfdom were fifty years past, the memory of the master’s whip and knout was long and bitter throughout Russia. My driver sped hastily on, driving clumsily as he blotted the cuts on his forehead and cheeks. With tears in my eyes, I glanced back through the soiled rear window and saw a poor few continuing to fight, only to be beaten down and even trampled upon. I wanted to go back, to reach out to all of those poor souls and offer them solace, but my driver, wiping sweat and blood from his brow, sailed us through the heart of the city.

Lord…

By the time the motorcar reached my obitel and passed through the carriage gates, I had wiped away my tears. Word of the incident spread quickly, however, and some fifty sisters came scurrying out, the dear ones so concerned for my safety and shocked at the outbreak, and I did my best to calm them.

“Praise be to God for your safe return!” exclaimed my confessor, Father Mitrofan, the fear drawn all across his big face as he hurried out in his long black robes.

I did my best to hide away my shock and fear as I said, “Everything is perfectly fine.”

“But… but look at the motorcar-the windscreen is smashed! And you, Matushka, you are so pale and… and…!”

“Let me repeat, I am fine,” I said too sternly.

Father Mitrofan knew me far better, however, and he gently guided me along to my reception room.

“Please,” he called to one of my novices, “bring us tea at once.”

In the following days there was little I could do to control the story, and though the censors would not let it be printed in our papers, it flew all across Moscow -the Romanov nun attacked!-spreading like heathen fire. When word of concern came from the head constable of the city, I assured him that it had been only a scant few agitators and nothing serious. Indeed, many about the city were so shocked by the incident that they flooded my community with breads and vegetables, eggs and milk, as if to atone for some great sin. Wishing to quiet the worry, I forbade any and all of my sisters to speak of the matter-the sick and the wounded needed their attention, not stories of the doubters and faithless. Least of all did I want to worry Nicky and Alicky-the two were consumed by their war efforts-yet despite my best efforts an official report was made to the Emperor and his horror knew no end.

The only truly grievous result of the whole sad affair was that under Nicky’s command the highest authorities and even the Metropolitan came to me and all but forbade my travels beyond my white walls, particularly and especially to such dangerous places as the Khitrovka. Deep into the night, I prayed on my knees for guidance, and though in the end I acquiesced and agreed to stay close to home-if my presence stirred up such unrest, perhaps it was indeed best I not go about and be seen-my soul ached with concern. Yes, lying at night on my plank bed, I couldn’t help worrying. What of all the Ludmillas and the young Arkashas-if I were to remain essentially locked away, just who was going to reach out to them body and soul?

And though I essentially retired to my community, busying myself with prayers and care for the needy and war wounded, the world around me continued to deteriorate at an alarming pace. Under the strain of transporting all the troops, I heard of the railway system breaking down, with one muddle followed by another, and soon sugar was rationed. I was told, too, that the shelves grew emptier and emptier, not just of sugar but all foodstuffs, and one day another story came round that while the workers could barely get black bread, we at my obitel feasted on chicken cutlets and meat pies, not to mention fruit jams. It would have been an amusing story had I not clearly understood the danger in such lies, and all this while my diet consisted purely of vegetables, such as onions and turnips with an egg here or there and an occasional spot of milk. Sadly, too, out of the blue sky I received an anonymous letter telling me that my sister and I should return to Germany immediately because, after all, we were not Russian and our loyalties were nested firmly with the enemy. I paid it no attention, merely wished that my letter writer would come pray by my side.

With some degree of secrecy I did manage another trip to the capital and there to see my sister at Tsarskoye. There were many who had begged me to influence Alicky, who, with Nicky off at the front, ruled as essentially regent of the Empire. Her authority was understood by everyone of every class, and abhorred, too, particularly with the black name of Rasputin mentioned round every tea table and in every queue. Instead, I navigated away from any controversial subject with Alicky, and but for a few days we two sisters managed a good visit, cozy, calm, and homey. Her children, those four beautiful girls and the Heir Tsarevich, were such a delight to me, and for brief moments the horrors of war seemed distant. Despite the malicious tales otherwise, Alicky and I had always been and still were close.

Yes, I averted any difficult conversation with my sister, but upon my return to Moscow came another incident, more egregious than any other. It was said that our brother, Ernie, the Grand Duke of Hesse und bei Rhein, had been secretly sent to Russia by the Kaiser. Ernie was to negotiate some kind of shameful peace with Germany, and supposedly he’d been in hiding at the Palace in Tsarskoye. Simply preposterous. So said the tongues, however, claiming that such was the supposed reason for my recent visit to my sister. It was claimed that I, not any servant, cooked for him lest he be seen and recognized. Further, somehow disguised he was supposed to have got his way to Moscow, hiding in my railway carriage, and could now be found taking secret shelter in the depths of my obitel. At first I assumed this was the work of German spies, but it turned out the story was birthed quite effectively by our Russian revolutionaries. Clearly, their clever ploy was to use a deceitful story to knock away the God-given pedestal from which Nicky ruled.

It came as no surprise, then, that one morning I heard shouting and yelling from beyond the walls. I was in our hospital, attending to a serious wound on the groin of one of our soldiers, when my long-faithful Nun Varvara came running in.

“People are marching upon us, Matushka!” she gasped, unable to hide her fear. “There are men with sticks and rakes coming down the street-they’re shouting the worst things!”

“My dear, I’m busy at the moment. And please keep your voice down-as you can see this man needs his rest.”

“But, Matushka, I’m fearful for your safety!”

“Well, I am not. And besides, I am busy caring for this poor man. The bandages on his wound must be carefully changed.”

“But what-”

“Just lock the gates, my child, and I’ll be there as soon as I’ve finished. At the moment this man’s health is more important than anything else.”

Nun Varvara hurried off, and I returned to my duties of caring for the man before me. Wounded in battle, he had been brought back to Moscow and operated on in our theater just yesterday, the doctors having removed four small pieces of shrapnel. In great pain, the soldier had been slipping in and out of consciousness all morning.

As I removed the bandages and cleaned his groin with warm water, the man moaned and opened his eyes. I looked at him and smiled gently. His wound was serious, but if we kept it cleansed and covered I felt we could keep gangrene at bay.

“Who… who are you?” he asked, speaking for the first time.

I humbly replied, “I am your servant.”

“Someone said you are a princess… but you are not Russian… I can tell by your accent. Are you a German princess? Am I in Berlin? Am I a prisoner?”