Going to War
Tsarskoe Selo, Russia, 16 December 1914
Vladimir
The sun had yet to rise when Prince Vladimir Pavlovich Paley climbed out of bed. Despite requesting his valet to wake him at five, he found himself unable to sleep on this dreadful night. The palace was shrouded in silence, broken only by the gentle tapping of snowflakes against the glass. He rose from his bed and crossed the room, his footsteps muffled by the plush carpet beneath his feet. Peering out the window, he strained to make out any signs of life in the garden below, but all that greeted him was darkness and an ever-growing pile of snow on his balcony.
After some time, he turned around and sat on the edge of his bed. He reached over to turn on his table lamp and glanced at his watch. It showed four in the morning, meaning it was too late to try and go back to sleep, yet still too early to start the day. With no other options, he gazed at his uniform that hung neatly beside the bed, courtesy of one of the maids from the night before. He hesitated to put it on, knowing he had promised his father he would wait for him to assist with adding insignias, orders, and epaulettes. It was a ceremonial tradition they both cherished before parting ways.
Being separated from his family due to his military duties was not a new experience for him. He was born in Russia in 1897, as the illegitimate child of Grand Duke Paul and his mistress Olga, who, at the time, was married to one of the officers in the Grand Duke's regiment. Eventually, his mother received permission from the Tsar to divorce her first husband, and she and Vladimir's father were then able to marry when he was five years old, without the Tsar's permission.
Defying the Tsar and the Imperial Family came with consequences. His parents were banished, a harsh punishment made worse by the fact that they had children from previous marriages who were left behind in Russia. Vladimir's 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 Paris as a result of his parents' exile along with his two younger sisters, Irina and Natalia, who were born in France. As private citizens, they lived a luxurious and carefree life.
At just eleven years old, Vladimir had only known a life of luxury in Paris and Biarritz, where tutors and servants catered to his every whim. But all of that changed when he was sent alone with his tutor to his parents' homeland, to begin military training at the Corps des Pages, the most exclusive military academy in Russia.
It was a terrifying and jarring experience for him. Instead of his comfortable room and private lessons, he found himself living in a crowded barracks with nineteen other boys his age, all from wealthy families like his own. The bitter Russian winter seeped through the thin walls of their camp beds, leaving them shivering and miserable. Complaints were met with severe punishments from the officers or forced runs in the snow. Vladimir learned quickly not to complain and instead focused on becoming a hard worker to gain favour with his teachers and peers. Despite the difficulties, there were moments of fun and comradery among the cadets. But now, as he faced the reality of going to the front lines, he knew it would be an entirely different and dangerous experience.
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 in their class to join the military, just a few weeks after the war began. Andrei had been promoted and graduated quickly from the academy at the insistence of his father, Grand Duke Alexander, so he could join him in Kyiv, Ukraine. Another cousin, Prince Oleg Constantinovich, had tragically lost his life in battle just two months prior.
The military had never been Vladimir's calling. He had always been more drawn to literature and the arts, but his strict military father had other plans for him. After losing everything because of his marriage to Vladimir's mother, his father saw sending him to a military academy as a way to regain control and give his son purpose. Deep down, the Grand Duke often felt out of place and useless in his Parisian existence and didn't want his son to face the same existence.
Vladimir wasn't one to speak up and protest, but his heart yearned for something more. He found joy in the simplest of things - taking walks in the woods, feeling the icy ocean water at Biarritz rush over his feet, watching a good play, listening to sentimental songs, reading well-crafted poems, admiring a painting. These small pleasures always stirred something inside him, connecting him to an elusive force in the world that most people seemed oblivious to. Ever since he could write, he tried to capture these feelings on paper. His early attempts were amateurish, but he couldn't stop himself from filling page after page with his thoughts, poems, and ramblings.
When words weren't enough to express his innermost thoughts and emotions, he turned to drawing. Each stroke of his pencil or brush felt like a cathartic release of all that he couldn't put into words. It was as natural to him as breathing, an instinctive talent that seemed to have been bestowed upon him at birth. And just like with writing, he could lose himself for hours in the act of creating something beautiful.
Music came just as easily to him. His ears were attuned to the melodies and rhythms of the world around him, and he could effortlessly pick up any instrument and play it as if he had been born with it in his hands. But despite his obvious talent, only one person truly recognized and encouraged it - his mother. She saw the spark within him from a young age and she nurtured it without hesitation.
At first, his interests shifted rapidly from one instrument to another, then to painting, writing, and back to music again. But his mother never wavered in her support. They shared the same curiosity for life, the same restless souls always seeking out new experiences and chasing after what made them happy. Together, they looked at the world through creative eyes, ever eager to discover its wonders and possibilities.
He couldn't choose just one form of art to focus on. His bedroom walls were covered in sketches, paintings, and poems scattered across the floor. Each day he woke up with a different inspiration, eager to explore new mediums and techniques.
But his father never understood this creative chaos. Whenever visitors complimented his talent, his father would brush it off as a mere hobby.
"Plenty of people can write, paint, or play," he would say dismissively, crushing his young spirit.
How could his father not see how much art meant to him? It was more than just a hobby - it was his entire being. Did his father truly love him if he couldn't accept this integral part of him? Or did he only care about the image of a perfect son he had crafted in his mind?
As the news was delivered to Vladimir that it was time for him to leave and begin his military training, he simply accepted it as a predestined outcome. Though he did not desire it, it never even occurred to him to defy his father's wishes. Perhaps this would be his opportunity to prove to his stern father that he had some form of talent that he could approve of. If art held no importance in his father's eyes, then perhaps the military would serve as his means of validation.
At precisely 4:30, a sharp rap on the door echoed through Vladimir's room. He hesitantly opened it to find his father dressed in full military attire, accompanied by his trusty valet. Before he could utter a single word, his father stepped forward and engulfed him in a warm embrace.
"Let me hold you one last time, my dear son," he whispered gently into Vladimir's ear, "before your mother awakens and claims you for herself."
The words held both sorrow and pride within them, a bittersweet reminder of what lay ahead for Vladimir as he embarked on this new journey.
His father was a kind man, but he kept his emotions hidden. He always showed love and support for his children, but physical displays of affection were rare. That's why the embrace from his father took Vladimir by surprise and touched him deeply. He tried to hold back his tears, but as soon as his father let go, they welled up in his eyes. Even his valet, standing behind him, couldn't contain his emotions and had to wipe away tears with his handkerchief.
Once everyone had regained composure, the valet stepped forward to help Vladimir into his uniform. Each step of dressing was done slowly and with great care, almost like a ceremonial ritual. Finally dressed, Vladimir's father retrieved the velvet boxes containing his awards, insignias, and epaulettes from his desk. He placed them on Vladimir's chest in order of importance, careful not to miss a single one.
The procedure was swift, but each second felt like an eternity. His father's trembling hands made the sign of the cross above his head and blessed him as he prepared to leave for war. Vladimir's valet, with a sad smile, repeated the gesture before giving him a reassuring embrace. As they bid their farewells, Vladimir tried to hide his emotions and walked down the stairs to meet the rest of his family.
The private dining room was set with their finest china for their last breakfast together in a long time. His mother sat at the head of the table, tears streaming down her face already. His two little sisters, Irina and Natalia, ran up to him and embraced him tightly. Their mother gently pulled them away as Vladimir went to her side, feeling overwhelmed by love and sadness all at once.
Vladimir's soft smile turned into a concerned frown as he watched his mother's reaction. She shook her head vigorously and choked back tears, her handkerchief already soaked through.
"What is it, mama?" Vladimir asked, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "You look as if I'm about to die."
"Don't you dare say that word!" she cried in a trembling voice.
Vladimir's father, stepped in to comfort his wife, while their two daughters exchanged worried glances. Grand Duke Paul reached for his handkerchief to wipe away his wife's tears while the girls huddled close to their parents for support.
"Let's not dwell on the harshness of what's to come," Vladimir said with a forced smile, pushing his plate of food around. His mother nodded slowly, but there was still a melancholy aura surrounding her.
As they ate, Vladimir tried to keep up a light conversation, making jokes and reminiscing about old family vacations. But deep down, he couldn't shake off the internal turmoil of leaving his loved ones behind. It was unsettling to think about their well-being without him by their side.
At the early hour of 5:45, they stepped out of the palace into the frigid darkness. The ground was still covered in a layer of snow, but thankfully it had stopped falling. Irina and Natalia darted ahead, playfully tossing snowballs at each other and anyone in their path. Usually, their parents would have scolded them for such unruly behaviour, but today they were grateful for hearing them laugh and play.
As they entered the church, they removed their hats and bowed with reverence. Each member of the family crossed themselves and prayed silently for a moment. Meanwhile, Vladimir's mother slipped away to light candles for their intentions.
They had expected to be alone for the early morning service but were surprised to find two Red Cross nurses standing near the altar. As soon as the nurses saw them approaching, they abandoned their posts and made their way over. At first, the family didn't recognize them in their uniforms, but upon closer inspection, they realized they were none other than Empress Alexandra and her faithful friend, Anna Vyrubova. Vladimir's mother curtsied deeply and his father exclaimed with joy:
"Am I seeing this right? Is this Alix?"
"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 nation. 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," the Empress 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 help 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 again and thanked her from all his heart. He didn't dare to look at his mother then. He 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. Vladimir 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 been frail 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 moment, 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 of the platform and continued to wave. That was the last image he saw before the train entered the tunnel.
