Caught up in his anger, Misha fell silent. He could go on for hours. So many stories. So many horrors. But enough. He was so tired… so very, very tired.
“But here, dorogaya, I must draw to a close.” He took a deep breath, gathered all his energy just to hold himself together. “And so this is my story, the one I’ve never been able to tell. I apologize. I apologize for my lies, but we were so afraid, your grandmother and I. You must understand that she was but a simple novice, so sweet, so pretty, and I was but a plain kitchen boy. And these things we could not tell you because we were ever afraid of the Bolsheviki, ever afraid that they would not only come after us, but later, after both you and your father. This was a real danger too because the Reds were doing this, they were going after Russians everywhere, even killing one of their own, that kommunist Trotsky, in Mexico. This is exactly why the Tsar’s sisters fled so far as well – Ksenia to England and Olga eventually to Canada, where of course she died above that tiny barber shop.
“But I apologize both for me and your Baba Maya. Because of our fears we presented ourselves to you as a lie. Yes, my beloved wife was none other than the young, innocent Novice Marina.
“Well, my dear, I shall end now. I’ve instructed my lawyer not to give you this tape, nor the key and combination to my vault, until I have died. Which means that by the time these words reach your ears I will have left this earth to join your grandmother. Be confident, my sweet one, in our love for you. Be strong in our faith in your abilities. There is nothing more precious in the world than you, our lovely granddaughter – not even the Romanov gems that you will soon see. Since the early death of your father, my son, seventeen years ago, you have burned like a bright star in our lives, your grandmother’s and mine. Our sincerest thanks for restoring in part our belief in the goodness of the world.
“Oh, but I hesitate to say good-bye…” Suddenly he felt hot tears flood his eyes, and he crudely blotted at them. “There are so many more stories. So much more to tell.” His voice began to quiver. “But enough… enough… ya tebya ochen lubloo. I love you very much.”
Realizing that he could no longer control himself, the old man quickly flicked off the tape recorder. He mopped his eyes, then slumped forward, resting his forehead in the heels of his worn hands. It had been harder than he thought, but he’d done it, gotten through it all. Yes, he’d given his granddaughter a thousand truths.
He wanted to sit there, basking in his memories, both horrific and wonderful. But now was no time to linger. He was so close, so very close, and he had so little left to do.
Pushing himself on, Misha popped the cassette out of the small black machine. He picked up his gold pen, gathered his thoughts and energy, and on the tape itself, wrote, “For Our Katya.” He then slipped the tape into the envelope he’d already addressed to his granddaughter, sealed it, and placed the packet in the center of his desk. Sure, he thought. Everything was in order. He’d gone through all his papers, all his files. He wanted to leave behind as clean a trail as possible. There was no sense in making this difficult for Kate, no sense making it more complicated than it already was or would be.
Misha rolled back his chair, braced himself, and then pushed himself to his feet. He sensed himself teetering and leaned over, placing both hands on his desk. So old, he thought. So much time had passed, so many things had happened. Sometimes he felt like he could live another century, other times, like now, he felt as if he had but minutes left.
As he carefully moved to his built-in bookcase, a jolt of pain bit his left knee, his bad one, and he stood still. Then proceeded. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a key, one that he always carried on his person. He next reached up to the wall of books, where he pushed aside two volumes and revealed a brass lock. When Misha inserted his key and turned it, a well-oiled and well-balanced three-foot section of the entire bookcase, stretching from floor to ceiling, began to swing out. He pulled it fully open, revealing yet another door, a metal one, with a brass handle and a dial lock. He’d had this hidden vault installed sixty years ago when May and he had bought this house. Now he spun the dial to four numbers – 1-8-9-4, the year of the Tsar’s ascension to the throne – and immediately there was a gentle, pneumatic sound and the door moved slightly. Misha pulled on the handle, swinging forward the thick, heavy door. The first thing he did was hit a light-switch, revealing a walk-in safe some six feet deep and five feet wide. The only other person in the family to know of its existence was, of course, May, and together they had come in here three or four times a year, not simply to check on things, but to marvel at the treasures and bathe in bittersweet memories.
Misha had never worried about being robbed. If the house had been broken into, the thieves would have gotten only the inconsequential stuff – the silver flatware, the tea set, some of May’s day to day jewels – but not this, the secret heart of his life’s work. At first glance the contents of the vault seemed pathetic, for on the left hung a rack of old clothes, a raincoat, suit, and pants for him, a dress, hat, and a coat for Maya. On the right stood a rack of shelves filled from floor to ceiling with boxes, some small, some large. Beneath them, resting on the floor were three bankers’ boxes that contained sundry documents.
In the beginning, May and he had sold hardly any of it, no more than a small bag or two of insignificant diamonds. They’d used that money not only to escape Russia, but to launch their lives in America. Later on, of course, Misha had sold more of the loose gems, none of them of historical value, using the cash to buy sundry Fabergé items that the cash-poor Soviets – not to mention the defrocked Russian princes – were selling all across Europe.
Oh, yes, thought Misha, reaching for a box on the fourth shelf. He quite liked this one, and he pulled the cardboard box halfway out, opened the lid, and revealed a gray jewelers’ bag inside. Flipping that open, he gazed upon a Fabergé box some twelve inches long and four inches deep that was covered with lapis and diamonds. Before it was hidden away here it had sat for several decades on Tsar Nikolai’s desk. Fabergé had been a master of combining styles from different periods, turning objets d’art into functional things of beauty, what he termed objets de fantaisie.
Oh, and this one, thought Misha as he closed up that box and reached for another. This one was May’s favorite. Lifting another jewelers’ bag into his hands, he felt something heavy and egg-shaped, which he slid into his palm. It was a large gold egg encrusted with a multitude of double-headed eagles – the emblem of Imperial Russia – that were fashioned out of platinum and hundreds of diamonds. And like all of the fifty-six eggs Fabergé had created for the Imperial Family, this one too contained a surprise: Misha tipped back the top of the egg and a diamond encrusted Orthodox cross popped up. It made him laugh, just like it always did. Created as an Easter present to mark Aleksandra’s conversion to Russian Orthodoxy, the egg had the year 1896 drawn in rubies on the back.
Upward of twelve Fabergé eggs had vanished during the flames of the revolution, and yet Misha and May had secretly managed to obtain seven of those. And all seven of them were in here. Reaching for the box to his right, Misha opened it, revealing another egg, this one in green enamel atop a solid gold pedestal. Flowers fashioned from gold and platinum, rubies, sapphires and, of course, diamonds, covered the egg. When Misha tipped back its lid he found a gold perfume bottle inside, its cupola top encrusted with a frosting of tiny diamonds. He gently laid it down, then quickly opened the lids of the next two boxes. Opening the inner boxes of each, Misha reached in and felt the shapes of two more eggs swathed in jewelers’ bags. Without even opening them, he turned his attention to the smaller box on the next shelf down. Opening the cotton bag inside, Misha slipped a diamond some two inches in diameter into his palm. He slid the diamond back in its bag and surveyed the wall of shelves. Five shelves, to be exact, all lined with similar boxes, some sixty or seventy. It was all here, the contents of the entire suitcase he and May had carried out of Russia, all of the gems carefully catalogued and packed. Many, he knew, dated back to the time of Peter the Great. One piece of jewelry, an emerald the size of a silver dollar that was in turn surrounded by a halo of 20-carat diamonds, had been a gift to Ivan the Terrible.