Diary of a Wimpy Czarovitch, Page 2

transfusions and receipt of blood clotting injections; now afflicted hemophiliacs merely consider the illness an inconvenience. However, Ryan White, died of the dreaded disease before he was eighteen because of tainted blood transfusions in this century.

  The Romanovs were excellent at keeping diaries. Alexei's actual diary was probably burned when his mother burned her private papers at the Alexander Palace when she received word that her husband Nicholas II had abdicated; consider this faux diary a ghostly replacement. This boy whose papa was the richest autocrat in the world was destined to be the last Czarovitch of Russia; read about his lost world of wealth and privilege in his diary. This is Alexei's story in his own words.

  3 January 1914, 16 January 1914, Annitchkov Palace, St. Petersburg (The Romanov family kept their diaries with two dates which were thirteen days apart. Most Russians used the old style Julian calendar.)

  Hurrah! Grandmother dear’s ball for my sisters is finally over now. Olga is almost nineteen, Tatiana, seventeen, Marie, fifteen, and Anastasia is thirteen. I’m Alexei, their youngest brother, the Czarovitch of all Russia, and I’m ten. I wonder who was the belle of the ball? Was it dignified Tatiana, stunning Marie, our little Bow Wow or Olga, the eldest grand duchess? It certainly was not Anastasia who at thirteen is flatter than a board and clumsier than a water buffalo. In all likelihood, it was my fancy grandmother who loves dancing and dressing up, but who still insists on being the Cinderella at every festive occasion, despite being in her sixties.

  After the ball Papa can spend more time with me and my overwrought Mama can relax again. My sister, Anastasia, often called "the imp" didn't get to put her hair up after all, because she's too young. Mama refuses to let her wear it up until she's sixteen; she's still mad about it, but she'll get over it. She can't stay angry for long, however she's been buzzing around the palace like an angry bee trapped in a glass jar for about a week now.

  "I'm not too young to put up my hair, you just don't want any of us to grow up," yelled my sister hatefully to Mama one day as she stamped her foot defiantly; stinging my poor sensitive mother. In her own way, Anastasia's right, too, Mama would like to stop time and preserve all of us - the same way that Papa conserves his memories in his green photo albums, but we are not photographs to be pasted nor priceless gems which Mama can lock up like she does her necklaces in her elegant jewelry boxes; we're flesh and blood humans, thorns and all, not hot house flowers.

  I'm so glad that Papa and I do not have to fuss over our hair, but simply let our barber cut and styles it once a month. Thank heavens I was born a male. I simply let the wind style my locks which are darkening for a breezy look.

  Mama hates going to balls and dreads going out in public; public appearances make her face all splotchy and red and she stammers and stutters awkwardly in front of strangers.

  When she arrived home early from the ball after enduring it until midnight, she came to kiss me good night, her face was bright scarlet as red as a cherry, because she'd been around the Russian aristocracy and my grandmother Minnie, the Empress Marie Feodorovna. I don't think the two of them like each other very much. I can tell from their body language and the fact that I've got a sixth sense about some things since I'm destined to be Czar of all the Russias.

  They're always very polite to each other, but they never kiss or hug each other like my Auntie Annya kisses Mama and as Mama kisses Auntie Elizabeth. They don't spend time alone together and they have absolutely nothing in common. Mama is always embroidering or sewing something for the poor and grandmother doesn't think this is necessary and considers sewing beneath her dignity as the Empress of Russia. I've caught them glaring evilly at each other when they thought I wasn't looking. They both have their own powerful personalities. For awhile after mama became Czarina, Grandmama refused to give up the state jewels and this caused a problem with mama who considered this treatment an insult to her. They've had other disagreements, so I've heard. They both carry grudges and are slow to forgive. I should know since I've broken a few of their vases on more than one occasion with an errant rock from my sling shot or a flying pea from my pea shooter. Off course those were accidents. My timing or aim was off. Mother said that it was my judgment that was off.

  Mama looked beautiful in her dark midnight blue velvet gown, with her silver tissue veil cascading down her back from her diamond studded tiara; her blue order for bravery which papa gave her draped across the bodice of her gown. Despite her red face she looked magnificent which was her carefully orchestrated intent, but so did my Grandmama dear in her plain brown satin ball gown. Some say my Grandmama is the more beautiful of the two. She doesn't look old enough to be my grandmamma, but she is; her faux hair pieces add to her allure.

  Papa's hair is getting flecks of silver in it as is his beard and moustache. I asked mama cautiously: "Who was the belle of the ball?" Answering coyly she muttered: "Isn't it always Grandmama? Who else would dare surpass her?"

  I shouldn't have asked. In my own artistic opinion, my mother was the more elegant of the two, but in public something happens to her magic. It dries up. Mama and Grandma both have powerful personalities and one shouldn't get caught in their cross fire. When Mama married Papa, Grandmama had trouble relinquishing her crown jewels and her power so I've heard which caused trouble both Mama and Papa who would not demand them. Finally Grandmama was educated about the proper protocol and procedure during the transfer of power and gave Mama the jewels.

  Tonight, Mama's diamond tiara was shimmering like a thousand fireflies and glowed torch like under our palace crystal chandeliers. Mama smelled like a rose garden and Grandmama dear smelled like violets. Both of their diamond necklaces were spectacular containing diamonds as large as eggs dripping down their necks like rain drops. Mother came and kissed me goodnight and I didn't want to let her go, so she stayed with me and told me a story that her gangun, Queen Victoria, had told her when she was a young girl in Buckingham Palace in London about a troll. When I marry, I shall find someone as enchanting as my mother who is the loveliest flower in papa's garden.

  4 January 1914, 17 January 1914

  My sisters have chattered of nothing else other than the dancing and I'm sick of hearing about how elegant they looked in their ball gowns, but now I suppose I shall have to hear about who they danced with for ages. "Wasn't Bruno handsome?" asked Anastasia to Marie for the fourth time at luncheon." Then Marie piped up: "He didn't compare with Sergei Pavlovic. But I've set my cap for Victor who is my third cousin once removed." Plump Bow Wow better forego her chocolate bon bons or she won't be dancing with anyone even if she thinks she is the most beautiful of my four sisters with brown eyes the size of saucers. Tatiana's hair is the longest. Her brown hair when undone now reaches well past her waist in the last long hair contest I judged. I think I'll go to bed, their droll comments are hardly worth waiting up for. It's all so boring. I'm glad that Papa and I have more interesting things to discuss like hunting and military maneuvers. Women, especially my four sisters are so silly; always simpering and fawning about. I'm glad that I'll grow to be a man who has something attention-grabbing to talk about like repeating rifles and hunting deer and wild boars.

  Thank heavens I was too young to attend the ball; I couldn't have gone anyway because this was one of my bad times; I'm feverish and my left leg is swollen and won't bend. The pain is almost unbearable. Mama reminds me that our savior suffered more than I do, but he was part God. When Mama returned from the ball she turned back into mama and massaged my limbs with hand cream scented with lavender. Soon my family shall take the train back to Tsarkoe Selo to our one hundred room Alexander palace. I don't really like the Annitchhkov palace much because it is filled to the brim with Grandmama's costly treasures and here I must behave like a young gentleman rather than a "wild hooligan."

  Grandmother won't let me shoot my sling shot or shout in her palace and I must not put my elbows on the dining room table nor chew with my mouth open when I'm eating. Nor can I grab choice morsels of food from Anasta
sia's plate. "Farting frogs!" I'll be glad to get back to the Alexander Palace and my own room where I can relax again and play with my puppy Joy. Grandmama is a little too refined and French for my tastes. I don't like French food, especially escargot simmered in garlic and cream sauce. Imagine eating bugs for dinner! I almost gagged after Grandmama demanded that I at least try one. I don't like speaking French which is the preferred language of Grandmama's court. When I am Czar, my court shall speak only Russian like I do now.

  I am just like Papa and prefer plain Russian food, particularly fish soup, borscht, dark bread with lots of butter. The plainer the food, the better I like it, but I do have a weakness for blinis drenched in butter, jam, powdered sugar and cinnamon and so does Bow Wow, but I have a hollow leg and can eat as many as I want without gaining weight. Bow Wow can't indulge like I do without suffering the consequences.

  Papa gave me this diary and wants me to write in it every day. He says that it will help me develop some discipline. He has kept a diary ever since he was a young man and so I shall, too. I want to be just like him, only taller. I want to be as tall