Now the Russian people were helpless, numb as from paralysis. With stunned eyes they watched the nightmarish happenings in their country, the wiping out of their possessions, and the tragic end of their families. XIX WINTER The days passed rapidly as winter approached, the cold was relentless. We were glad of the warning to bring warm clothes. December was very cold and it continued through the months of January and February. The house was unbearably cold and our bedroom was like an ice house; even a glass of water had frozen solid overnight. Our rooms were large and each had only one tile stove, providing scant heat against the raw winds that forced themselves right through cracks in the windows. Even Mother, who always preferred cool rooms, complained of the cold. The only time the house ever felt warm to us was on coming in from the icy outdoors. Mother’s arthritis began to give her serious trouble, her joints and fingers became swollen. She suffered a great deal of pain and was not able to write or paint as much as before. Tatiana had a gift for nursing. She knew how to care and comfort the sick. She massaged Mother’s frostbitten hands in a bowl of warm water. Mother’s eyesight troubled her, too; her glasses no longer helped, since she needed new ones. The cork on the bridge of her frame had broken off and she felt this increased her sinus condition which bothered her to the very end. After a long debate a doctor came and she at last had her new glasses. Now she spent a great deal of time in theological studies and writing in the old Slavonic language. Father’s joints were swollen also, but my saintly Father never complained lest he might worry us. We all were supposed to keep our diaries. Alexei made only occasional entries. Whenever he was encouraged to think of something, he wrote “The same old thing.” I too lost interest, for fear that writing what took place in our daily lives might cause us trouble. Olga and Tatiana wrote a great deal, but right after our parents left, General Tatishchev suggested that they burn all unnecessary papers. Olga’s poems and Mother’s poems and paintings all went up in smoke. Our dogs always went with us on our walks. They were our constant diversion; they saved these outings from complete boredom. We envied their retrieving sticks we threw and jumping happily, since we ourselves felt cramped. Every morning my own dog Jemmy announced her arrival by scratching frantically at the bedroom door. Her happy mood made us forget our troubles. I carried her up and down the stairway, because her legs were too short to climb the stairs. Her long silky ears got into everything. Her long tongue was always out. The poor animal did not know that a few months later her happiness would end in Ekaterinburg.