December 24th, 1911. 8:00 PM.
Blue Salon, Alexander Palace. Tsárskoye Seló (Tsar's Village).
Christmas Eve at the Romanov court was, traditionally, an intimate and decidedly Germanic affair. Out of deference to Empress Alexandra, born in Hesse, the family celebrated on December 24th, with fir trees brought from the imperial forests, decorated with real wax candles, gilded walnuts, and blown-glass apples.
The Blue Salon smelled of pine resin, of mandarins brought from Crimea, and of the warm wax of flickering candles that cast dancing shadows across the silk-papered walls. Outside, snow fell over the palace park, muffling the world and silencing, for one night, the roar of factories and the political intrigues that battered the Russian Empire.
Nicholas II sat in his favorite armchair, smoking a cigarette through a long holder, watching his family. There was a lightness in the air that he had not felt in years.
The Holy Man was absent, Rasputin had been exiled to Siberia a month ago. Nicholas had feared that the monk's absence would bring about his wife's nervous collapse. But the opposite had occurred.
Alexandra Fyodorovna sat on the sofa, dressed in mauve velvet. Her gaze held none of the feverish hysteria of before. One hand rested softly on Alexei's shoulder, who sat at her feet, and her face reflected a serene peace. Her son, the miracle child, had become her anchor. The Empress's faith had shifted from the filthy mystic to the pragmatic blue-blood.
"Open the presents!" exclaimed Anastasia, breaking protocol and solemnity with her usual energy.
The Grand Duchesses threw themselves upon the packages wrapped in silver paper. There were modest Fabergé jewels for Olga and Tatiana. Watercolor books for Maria. New dancing shoes for Anastasia. There was laughter, kisses, and the cheerful sound of paper being torn.
Alexei received his gifts with a polite smile. A model warship. An antique edition of War and Peace. A set of silver drafting compasses.
"Thank you, Papa. Thank you, Mama," he said, kissing his parents.
"And you, Alyosha?" asked Nicholas, smiling. "I know you've been very busy saving the Empire's economy, but I hope you haven't forgotten your old father."
Alexei stood up. He walked to a corner of the salon where he had left a box.
It was not an elegant box of velvet or Moroccan leather. It was a rough, unvarnished pine crate, its corners reinforced with black iron. It looked like a small ammunition box.
The salon fell silent. The sisters stopped laughing, sensing that the mood had shifted.
Alexei carried the box to Nicholas. It was heavy. The boy had to use both hands and make a visible effort to set it down on the low table, pushing aside a tray of sweets.
'THUD'.
The sound was dense.
"It's not pretty, Papa," said Alexei, placing his hand on the rough wooden lid. "It doesn't shine like the eggs Carl Fabergé made for you. And it doesn't smell of incense like the icons Grigori used to bring."
Alexei opened the metal clasp and lifted the lid.
Inside, resting on a bed of oily wood shavings, lay a rectangular block of grayish metal, dull, heavy, and plain. It had a serial number and the double-headed eagle stamped into it, but the eagle did not hold a scepter and orb. It held a hammer and a micrometer.
"What is it, son?" asked Nicholas, touching the cold metal.
"It is an ingot of Babbitt alloy, ISD-1912 Standard," explained Alexei. "It's lead from the Urals, hardened with calcium and antimony. Cast at the Putilov Factory yesterday morning."
Alexandra frowned slightly. "Lead, Alyosha? You're giving your father lead for Christmas?"
"I'm giving him something far more precious in the history of our nation, Mama," Alexei corrected gently.
The boy looked his father in the eyes.
"The English and the Germans tried to stop us, Papa. They took away the precision steel our Empire relied upon to function. They took away the fine tolerances that kept our increasingly powerful machines running. They believed that without their gleaming parts, Russia would grind to a halt. They believed we would get on our knees and beg for spare components."
Alexei ran his fingers along the gray block.
"This metal is the answer. It's a little rough, yes, it's heavy, too. It would poison you if you licked it. But it holds against the heat of hell. With this, we have made truck engines run. With this, Tsiolkovsky's airships can fly. With this, the factories of Moscow will start weaving again tomorrow without depending on other Empires... this is the dream that Grandfather wanted."
Nicholas II took the ingot. It was incredibly dense.
"It's the metal of resilience, Papa," Alexei continued. "It is physical proof that we do not need Europe to validate us. We can be rough, Papa. We can be ugly in the eyes of Paris or London. But this metal will not break easily. And as long as we have this, your throne will not break either."
Nicholas looked at the ingot. Throughout his entire reign, people had given him objects of exquisite beauty that symbolized the fragility of the great Empire his ancestors had built, enamel eggs that shattered, crystal that splintered.
The Tsar's eyes filled with tears. Not of sadness, but of a profound and sudden understanding, the kind that is born when one finds the great answer to a great problem.
"It is the most beautiful gift I have ever been given," said Nicholas, his voice thick.
He set the ingot on the table as though it were a sacred relic.
"Thank you, Alyosha."
"Merry Christmas, Papa."
Olga moved to the piano. She began to play the opening notes of Stille Nacht (Silent Night). The family began to sing, first tentatively, then with full voice. The Grand Duchesses' voices rose, crystalline and pure.
Alexei sang with them, but his eyes drifted to the dark window. Snow was falling over Russia.
He knew that at that very moment, an express train was crossing the border at Brest-Litovsk, carrying a physicist with disheveled hair and a violin. He knew that in the Urals, the furnaces had not been extinguished for Christmas. He knew that in the basements of Odessa, smugglers were toasting with vodka.
The Silent Night was a brief truce. The year 1912 was about to be born, and it would not bring peace. It would bring science, industry, and the roar of machines awakening from a long sleep.
Alexei squeezed his mother's hand. The Empress squeezed back, firm and steady.
"Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh... (Sleep in heavenly peace...)," they sang.
But Alexei was not thinking of sleeping. He was thinking of waking.
. . . . .
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