Tsarskoe Selo, Russia, 16 December 1914

Vladimir

It was still dark when Prince Vladimir Pavlovich Paley rose from his bed. He had asked his valet to wake him up at five, but there had been no need to wait for his call. In fact, he hardly slept on that dreadful night. The palace was dead quiet and he could only hear the sound of the snowflakes, tapping gently against his window. He walked the short distance that separated his bed from the window and tried to look at the garden outside, but it was still too dark to distinguish anything, except for the growing snow pile on his balcony.

After a while, he turned back and sat on the edge of his bed. He lit his table lamp and looked at his watch. It was still four in the morning, which meant it was too late to go back to sleep, but too early to go downstairs. With nothing else to do, he just stared at his pristine uniform, which one of the maids had hung beside his bed the previous evening. He didn't want to put it on yet, because he had promised his father he would wait for him to help. He was also going to be responsible for putting on his insignias, orders and epaulettes. A symbolic gesture before they said their farewells.

This wasn't the first time his military career had taken him away from his family. Although he had been born in Russia in 1897, he was the illegitimate son of Grand Duke Paul, the Tsar's widower uncle, and his mistress, Olga, who at the time, was married to one of the officers of the Grand Duke's regiment. Once his mother had received permission from the Tsar to divorce her first husband, his parents defied the rules of propriety and were married, when Vladimir was five years old.

Going against the will of the Tsar and the Imperial Family had its price, his parents were exiled, a particularly hard blow considering they both had children from their first marriages who were forced to stay behind in Russia. His father had a daughter, Marie, and a son, Dimitri, while his mother had a son, Alexander and two daughters, Olga and Marianne.

Due to his parents' exile, Vladimir had spent his childhood in Paris, along with his two little sisters, Irina and Natalia, who had been born in France, where they all lived a carefree and luxurious life as private citizens.

However, when Vladimir was just eleven years old, with little experience of the world outside Paris and Biarritz, he was sent alone with his tutor to Russia, the homeland of his parents, to start his military training at Corps des Pages. It had been a terrifying experience at first, a complete shock even. In Paris, he had his room, and private lessons with a tutor and servants to attend to his every need. He had never given much thought to how privileged his life had been until he arrived in St. Petersburg and was told he had to live in a barrack which he had to share with nineteen other boys of the same age. Although they had been all born into rich families (Corps des Pages was an exclusive military academy for the sons of aristocrats and noblemen), the boys slept in camp beds in an enormous open space which offered little protection from the bitter Russian winter. Whoever complained about it was treated to extreme punishments which included beatings from the officers or running around the building in the snow. Vladimir had never dared to complain and was a hard worker, so he became popular among his teachers and fellow cadets. All in all, even though this had been a difficult adjustment, it never felt like something real. Sometimes it could even be fun. What now awaited him at the front was entirely different.

Some of his friends were already fighting. One of his closest friends and a fellow soldier at the Corps des Pages, was Prince Andrei Alexandrovich. Born just a few days after Vladimir, he was the Tsar's nephew, the son of his sister Xenia, and had been one of the first of their class to leave, just a couple of weeks after the war had started. Andrei's uncle had sped up his promotion and graduation from the academy so that he could join his father, Grand Duke Alexander, in Kyiv, in the Ukraine. Another cousin, Prince Oleg Constantinovich, had been killed in action, just two months earlier.

In all honesty, the military had never been Vladimir's calling, but there hadn't been a choice. His father was a proud military man, who had lost everything after choosing to marry his mother. There was little else Vladimir  could do and he had often felt useless in his Parisian existence, as much as he tried not to show it. Sending Vladimir to a military academy had been his father's way of taking control, of giving his son the purpose he felt he had lost.

Protesting wasn't in Vladimir's nature, but his soul longed for other calls. For as long as he could remember, the simple things had always filled his heart with joy. Walks in the woods, the cold chill rushing through his body when he dipped his feet in the freezing sea water at Biarritz, a good play, a sentimental song, a well-written poem, a painting. All of these things had always stirred something inside him which connected him to some mysterious and elusive force in the world which seemed oblivious to most people. As soon as he could write, he had tried to put those feelings into words. It was all very amateurish at first, but then he could not stop and he would fill pages upon pages with random thoughts, poems, and scribblings.

When words weren't enough, he turned to drawing. He learned to draw as naturally as he had learned how to write. It all came to him so naturally that he almost felt he had been born with those talents. The same happened with music. He could easily learn how to play any instrument which interested him just by watching and listening.

Only one person seemed to notice and encourage his interests and that was his mother. She was his biggest champion and didn't mind when, at first, his interests shifted rapidly from instrument to instrument, then to painting, writing, and then back to music again. They looked at the world in much the same way. She had the same restless soul, the same hunger to see and try everything until she discovered what made her happy.

As it turned out, he was interested in all forms of art. He felt he wasn't capable of choosing only one, so he drifted through each of them, according to his taste at the moment. Perhaps that was the reason why his father never supported that side of him. Maybe he saw it as little more than a hobby, even when everyone around them - artists, writers, and painters - praised his precocious talent, his father always dismissed their flattery.

"A lot of people can write," he would say. "And a lot of people can paint and a lot of people can play. He's just one more. Don't make him think he's a prodigy."

Those words always hurt. Art was everything to him, it was the very essence of his being. If his father couldn't understand it, if he couldn't accept it, then, could he really love him? Or did he just love the idea he had of him?

When he informed Vladimir that the time had come for him to leave and start his military training, he accepted it as a fait-accompli. He didn't want it, but it never crossed his mind to refuse it. In any case, maybe that would be his chance to prove to his father that he was talented at something. If the arts didn't matter to him, then the military would have to do it.

At exactly 4:30, Vladimir heard a knock on the door. When he opened it, he found his father, already dressed in his uniform, and his valet, standing next to him. Before he was able to utter a single word, his father stepped forward and held him in his arms.

"Let me hold you, my dear child," he whispered into his ear, "before your mother wakes up and takes you all to herself."

His father was a kind person, but he was also deeply reserved. Although he always had a word of encouragement and affection for his children, he was rather distant when it came to physical demonstrations, which made the embrace all the more unexpected and touching. Vladimir managed to hold back his feelings, but, as soon as his father let go of him, he could see his eyes shining with tears he tried to conceal. His valet, who was standing just behind him, was not so restrained. He was already taking out his handkerchief to wipe his eyes.

After the first emotional moment was over, the valet stepped forward and helped Vladimir get into his uniform. Every step of the procedure was done slowly and carefully, almost in a ceremonial way. Once he was dressed, his father went over to his desk and grabbed the wood boxes where his orders, insignias and epaulettes were stored. He took them out, one by one, and placed them on his chest, following meticulously their order of importance.

The entire procedure didn't take more than thirty minutes, but it had felt much longer. Once they were done, his father made the sign of the cross over his head, gave him his blessing and held him one more time and his valet did the same. The time had come for them to say their goodbyes. Vladimir and his family would attend a church service at 6 am and, after that, he would have to catch his train to the front. His valet had offered to accompany him, but Vladimir felt like it wouldn't set a good example to the other soldiers. War was a serious business. One that didn't allow perks.

After they parted with the valet, Vladimir and his father made their way downstairs, to their private dining room, where they would have their last breakfast together in a long time. There, already in their places, they found his mother and his two little sisters. As soon as he walked in, Irina and Natalia came rushing towards him and clasped him tightly into their tiny arms. His mother was waiting behind them, tears already pouring down her face. Vladimir set his sisters aside gently and went over to her.

"What is this, mama?" He asked her with a soft smile. "You almost make it look like I'm a dying man, already!"

She shook her head violently and buried her eyes into her soaked handkerchief.

"Don't you dare use that word, Bodia! You'll break your poor mama's heart. Whatever is left of it in any case."

Vladimir tried to laugh. He took his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his mother's tears away with it. The scene was already proving too violent for the girls who were exchanging terrified glances between their mother and brother. His father was next to them, with an arm resting on the shoulders of each girl.

"Come now then. Let's not think of disagreeable things. Let's make this meal a pleasant one as if I was going nowhere and this was just another ordinary day!"

His mother nodded slowly and Vladimir accompanied her back to her place. He tried to remain cheerful throughout the entire meal, even though he grew more restless as the minutes went by. The worst of it all was really to leave his family behind. He didn't care much about what might happen to him, but it pained him to think of what it might do to his mother and sisters.

***

At exactly 5:45 in the morning, they left the palace and walked the short distance that separated them from the church. It was still dark and bitterly cold, but at least it wasn't snowing anymore. Irina and Natalia ran ahead of them, throwing snowballs at each other and the rest of them, seemingly oblivious to the seriousness of the situation. At any other time, their parents would probably have scolded them and told them to behave, but their shrieks of delight were the only thing that made their dreadful walk bearable.

When they walked into the church, they all took their hats off and bowed in respect. After that, they made the sign of the cross and prayed quietly for a little while. As they were doing so, his mother went off to get candles for them all.

At that hour, they had expected to be alone for the service, but there were already two Red Cross nurses standing near the altar. They walked slowly towards the altar and were surprised when both nurses left their places immediately and went over to them. They didn't recognize them at first, because of the uniforms, but, as soon as they did, his mother made a deep curtesy and his father exclaimed:

"Am I seeing this right? Is this Alix?"

One of the nurses was Anna Vyrubova, the sister of their brother Alexander's wife. The other was the Empress, who gave them a warm smile and nodded her head.

"It is indeed," she said, in her soft, low voice. "I hope you don't mind us being here. Nicky told me your son was leaving for the front today and I had to come to say my goodbyes and wish him well."

His father shook his head and stood aside to let Vladimir pass. He walked over to her slowly and nervously. Even though he had lived in Russia since he was eleven, he had never seen the Empress this close, only from a safe distance at public events. She had always struck him as being somewhat cold and distant, but, when he stepped forward, she immediately kissed him on the cheek and made the sign of the cross over his head.

"You are the pride and joy of this country. The Emperor and I will pray for your safe return."

Vladimir nodded and kissed the Empress' hand in return. She then called Anna Vyrubova to move forward. She took two items out of her hands and showed them to him.

"These are two small tokens I would like to give you," she said as she put each of them into his hands. "It's an icon of Saint Michael and a prayer book, to keep you safe at the front. I have given these to all family members who have left. It's a small thing, but I trust it will make you remember that we think of you all and the dangers you are putting yourselves through for the sake of Russia."

For the second time that morning, Vladimir felt tears in his eyes. He kissed the Empress' hand once again and thanked her from all his heart. He didn't dare to look at his mother then. She could only hear her sobs behind him.

After this brief interchange, the priest appeared and the service began. The Empress and Anna Vyrubova stayed with them throughout the entire ceremony. In the end, the priest blessed Vladimir at the altar and they all said a special prayer for him. He then followed him to make his confession.

When he returned, only his family was there. After he was finished with his prayers, they all went outside, where the sun was rising. They didn't have much time to admire it. They were already running late when they squeezed into his father's car, which was waiting for them outside the church. The journey to the train station was made in the deepest silence, broken only at times by his mother's sobs.

When they arrived at the platform, his train was already waiting. He kissed both of his sisters, held his mother in his arms for a very long time and then, finally, went over to his father. He handed him the only bag he was taking with him and kissed his forehead.

"I have talked to the Empress." He whispered into his ear. "She's going to talk with the Emperor. He may grant me a commission. If he does, we'll see each other very soon, I promise."

Vladimir looked at his father with a mix of joy and worry. His health had not been good for a few months, which was why the Tsar had decided not to send him to the front. Of course, he would be delighted to be with his father and share his burden with him, but not at the cost of his well-being. He wanted to tell him not to worry, but the train began to whistle. He was immediately rushed inside by his father and, the next minute, he was taking a seat by the window.

His family stood on the platform, waving at him until the train began to move slowly. After, he could only see his sister Natalia, running as fast as she could behind the train. She was shouting something, but he could not understand it. She stopped at the edge and continued to wave. That was the last image he saw before the train entered the tunnel.