The Paleys (1915-1921) - An Alternate Romanov Story

Tsarskoe Selo, Russia, 16 December 1914

Vladimir

The sun had yet to rise when Prince Vladimir Pavlovich Paley climbed out of bed. Although he had asked his valet to wake him at five, sleep had proved impossible on such a dreadful night. The palace was shrouded in silence, broken only by the soft tapping of snow against the glass. He crossed the room, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet beneath him, and peered out of the window, straining to make out any sign of life in the garden below. All that greeted him, however, was darkness and the steadily growing layer of snow on his balcony.

After a while, he turned away from the window and sat on the edge of his bed. Reaching over to switch on the table lamp, he glanced at his watch. It was only four o’clock. Too late to attempt a few more hours of sleep, yet still too early to begin the day. With nothing else to do, his gaze drifted to the uniform hanging neatly beside the bed, laid out by one of the maids the previous evening. He hesitated to put it on, knowing he had promised his father he would wait for him to help fasten the insignias, orders, and epaulettes. It was a small ceremonial tradition they had shared before every important departure for as long as he could remember.

Being separated from his family because of his military duties was nothing new to Vladimir. Born in Russia in 1897, he was the illegitimate son of Grand Duke Paul and Olga, who at the time was still married to an officer serving in the Grand Duke’s regiment. Although the Tsar eventually granted his mother permission to divorce her first husband, the Imperial Family never approved of their marriage, and when Vladimir was five years old, his parents chose to wed regardless.

Their defiance came at a heavy cost. They were banished from Russia, a punishment made all the more painful by the children they were forced to leave behind. His father had a daughter, Marie, and a son, Dimitri, while his mother had a son, Alexander, and two daughters, Olga and Marianne. Vladimir spent his childhood in exile in Paris alongside his two younger sisters, Irina and Natalia, who had both been born in France. Stripped of their titles and living as private citizens, they nevertheless enjoyed a comfortable and carefree life.

That life ended when Vladimir was eleven. Accompanied only by his tutor, he returned to his parents’ homeland to begin his education at the Corps des Pages, the Empire’s most prestigious military academy.

The transition was as abrupt as it was frightening. Gone were the comforts of his spacious bedroom and private tutors, replaced by a crowded barracks shared with nineteen boys his own age, all from families as privileged as his. The bitter Russian winter crept through the thin walls and into their camp beds, leaving them cold long before dawn. Complaints were met with harsh punishments or forced runs through the snow, and Vladimir quickly learned that quiet perseverance earned far more respect than protest. Despite the hardships, there had been moments of genuine camaraderie and friendship among the cadets. But now, as he prepared to leave for the front, he knew this would be something altogether different.

Several of his friends were already fighting. One of the closest was Prince Andrei Alexandrovich, a fellow cadet at the Corps des Pages who had been born only a few days after Vladimir. As the son of Grand Duchess Xenia, he was also the Tsar’s nephew, and had been among the first in their class to enter active service, only weeks after the outbreak of war. At the insistence of his father, Grand Duke Alexander, Andrei had been allowed to graduate early and join him in Kyiv. Another of Vladimir’s cousins, Prince Oleg Constantinovich, had been killed in battle only two months earlier.

The military had never been Vladimir’s calling. His heart had always belonged to literature and the arts, but his father, a career soldier to his very core, had imagined a different future for his eldest son. Having sacrificed everything for his marriage to Olga, Grand Duke Paul saw the Corps des Pages as an opportunity to give Vladimir purpose and perhaps reclaim something of the life he himself had lost. Beneath his stern discipline lay a quiet fear that his son might one day feel as adrift in exile as he often had.

Vladimir never argued. It simply wasn’t in his nature. Yet his soul was stirred by things that many people scarcely noticed: long walks through the woods, the icy Atlantic washing over his feet at Biarritz, an unforgettable play, a melancholy melody, a beautifully crafted poem, the play of light across a painting. Those quiet moments awakened something inside him that he could neither explain nor ignore, and from an early age he tried to capture that feeling in words.

When words failed him, he drew. Every sketch became another attempt to express what language could not, and he would happily lose entire afternoons with a pencil or paintbrush in his hands. Music came just as naturally. He seemed able to pick up almost any instrument and instinctively understand it, moving effortlessly from one to another with the restless curiosity that defined so much of his childhood.

Only one person truly understood that part of him: his mother.

She encouraged every new interest without hesitation, never asking him to choose between writing, painting or music. They shared the same creative spirit, the same endless curiosity about the world around them, and together they found beauty where others seldom thought to look.

His father, however, saw those talents very differently. Whenever visitors admired Vladimir’s work, Grand Duke Paul would dismiss it with the same familiar remark.

“Plenty of people can write, paint or play.”

The words were never intended to wound, yet they always did.

Art was never merely a pastime to Vladimir. It was the way he understood both himself and the world around him. As he accepted his father’s decision to send him to military school, it never occurred to him to rebel. Instead, he quietly hoped that, if his father could not value his artistic gifts, perhaps he might one day earn his admiration in uniform instead.

At precisely half past four, a sharp knock echoed through Vladimir’s room. He rose to answer it and found his father standing outside in full military uniform, accompanied by his valet. Before Vladimir could say a word, Grand Duke Paul stepped forward and pulled him into a firm embrace.

“Let me hold you one last time, my dear son,” he murmured close to Vladimir’s ear, “before your mother wakes and claims you entirely for herself.”

The trace of humour in his words did little to conceal the sorrow beneath them, though Vladimir could hear his father’s pride just as clearly.

His father was a kind and devoted man, though he rarely allowed his emotions to show. Vladimir had never doubted his love, but embraces such as this were unusual enough to take him completely by surprise. He fought to keep his composure while his father held him, but the moment they drew apart, tears gathered helplessly in his eyes. Even the valet standing discreetly behind them was visibly moved and turned away to dab at his face with a handkerchief.

Once they had all recovered themselves, the valet stepped forward to help Vladimir into his uniform. Every layer was arranged slowly and with deliberate care, lending the simple act of dressing the solemnity of a ritual. When he was ready, his father opened the velvet cases containing the insignia, orders, and epaulettes and fastened each one in its proper place, his hands lingering over the task as though precision might somehow delay the moment of departure.

The process itself did not take long, though to Vladimir each second seemed to stretch unbearably. When the final decoration was in place, his father raised a trembling hand, made the sign of the cross over him, and murmured a blessing for his safe return. The valet followed his example before drawing Vladimir into one last embrace. Struggling to master his emotions, Vladimir thanked them both and left the room to join the rest of his family downstairs.

The family’s private dining room had been laid with their finest china for what would be their last breakfast together for a very long time. His mother was already seated at the head of the table, tears streaming silently down her face. The moment Vladimir entered, his two younger sisters, Irina and Natalia, ran to him and threw their arms around him. Their mother gently called them back as he crossed the room to her side, overcome by a mixture of love and sorrow.

His smile faded the instant he saw her properly. She shook her head before he had even spoken, desperately trying to hold back her tears, her handkerchief already damp in her hands.

“What is it, Mama?” Vladimir asked softly, resting a hand on her shoulder. “You look as though I’m about to die.”

“Don’t you dare say that word,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

Grand Duke Paul immediately slipped an arm around his wife’s shoulders, quietly dabbing at her tears with his handkerchief while Irina and Natalia drew closer, watching their parents with anxious eyes.

“Let’s not spend our last breakfast thinking about the worst,” Vladimir said with a gentle smile as he absent-mindedly moved the food around his plate. “I’d much rather remember happier days.”

His mother gave a small nod, though the sadness never truly left her face.

Throughout the meal, Vladimir did his best to keep the conversation light, recalling family holidays, amusing childhood stories and happier times that coaxed the occasional smile from his sisters. Yet beneath every laugh lingered the same quiet thought: in only a few hours, he would leave them all behind, and there was no way of knowing when, or even if, they would see one another again.

***

At a quarter to six, they stepped out of the palace into the bitter winter darkness. Fresh snow still blanketed the ground, though it had thankfully stopped falling. Irina and Natalia ran ahead, laughing as they threw snowballs at one another and at anyone unlucky enough to cross their path. On any other morning, their parents would have scolded such behaviour without hesitation. Today, however, the sound of their laughter was a comfort.

As they entered the church, they removed their hats and crossed themselves before bowing their heads in silent prayer. While the rest of the family remained together, Olga quietly slipped away to light candles for their intentions.

They had expected the church to be empty at such an early hour, but two Red Cross nurses were already standing near the altar. As the women approached, the family barely recognised them beneath their uniforms. Only when they drew nearer did they realise they were Empress Alexandra and Anna Vyrubova.

“Am I truly seeing this correctly?” Grand Duke Paul exclaimed with delighted surprise. “Alix?”

“It is indeed,” the Empress replied in her characteristically soft voice. “I hope you don’t mind our being here. Nicky told me your son was leaving for the front today, and I couldn’t let him depart without wishing him well.”

His father stepped aside, allowing Vladimir to approach. Although he had lived in Russia for several years, he had never stood this close to the Empress before. From afar, she had always appeared distant and almost intimidating, yet the woman who greeted him now immediately kissed his cheek before making the sign of the cross over him.

“You are one of Russia’s finest sons,” she said warmly. “The Emperor and I shall pray for your safe return.”

Vladimir bowed his head and kissed her hand. At a quiet gesture from the Empress, Anna Vyrubova stepped forward carrying two small objects.

“I would like you to take these with you,” the Empress said, placing them gently into his hands. “An icon of Saint Michael and a prayer book. I have given them to every member of our family who has gone to the front. They are humble gifts, but I hope they remind you that you will remain in our prayers every day you are away.”

Emotion tightened Vladimir’s throat for the second time that morning. He kissed the Empress’ hand once again and thanked her quietly, not daring to look towards his mother as he heard her weeping softly behind him.

Soon afterwards, the priest arrived, and the service began. The Empress and Anna remained with them throughout the liturgy, and at its conclusion the priest blessed Vladimir before hearing his confession.

When he emerged, only his family remained. Together they stepped back outside into the pale light of dawn. There was barely time to admire the sunrise before they hurried towards the waiting motorcar that would take them to the railway station. The journey passed almost entirely in silence, broken only by the quiet sound of his mother’s tears.

By the time they reached the platform, the train was already waiting. Vladimir kissed both of his sisters, then held his mother in his arms for as long as he dared before finally turning to his father. Grand Duke Paul took the single bag he was carrying and drew him close, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“I spoke to the Empress,” he whispered near Vladimir’s ear. “She intends to speak with the Emperor on my behalf. If he grants me a commission, we may see one another again very soon. I promise.”

Vladimir looked at him with mingled hope and concern. His father’s health had been fragile for several months, which was precisely why the Tsar had refused to send him to the front. Nothing would have comforted Vladimir more than having him nearby and sharing the burden of war with him, but not if it placed his life at greater risk. He opened his mouth to tell him so, but the shrill whistle of the train cut through the platform before he could speak. His father hurried him towards the carriage, and moments later Vladimir found himself seated beside the window, scarcely able to understand how the final goodbye had passed so quickly.

His family remained together on the platform, waving as the train slowly began to pull away. Gradually, their faces disappeared from view until only Natalia remained, running alongside the carriage as fast as her legs could carry her. She was calling something to him, but her words were lost beneath the grinding wheels and the gathering speed of the train. At last, she stopped at the end of the platform and continued to wave, growing smaller in the distance until the train entered the tunnel and darkness swallowed her from sight.