Romanov

by Nadine Brandes

  The guards changed at ten—our signal to retire for the evening. As we climbed into bed I still heard scuffles on the floors below. Whispered voices. Each show of Bolshevik nervousness emboldened me. Rescue was coming. This was it. I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth, letting the spell burn.

  At 1:30 a.m. I startled awake. I’d heard something. What? What had I heard? It came again—the cling of the bell at the double doors that connected the landing to the sitting room. They weren’t locked, so whoever was ringing it could come in if he wanted. No.

  The bell was ringing to wake us up.

  I launched out of bed, but Dr. Botkin beat me and Papa to the door. Probably for the best—how would I have kept the spell in if I’d answered?

  Dr. Botkin opened the door. Yurovsky stood before him, fully dressed and looking more haggard than ever. “The situation in Ekaterinburg is now very unstable. The Whites might, at any moment, launch an artillery attack on the city.”

  Would they truly? Even if they knew we were here? An artillery attack could kill us! Did they know we were being kept here? I gripped Papa’s arm and he reassured me with a squeeze of his hand.

  “It is too dangerous for the family to remain on the upper floors.” Yurovsky spotted Papa and me at the edge of the room. Olga joined us, a frail ghost in her nightgown. “Please wake the others. We must take you to the basement for your own safety.”

  Dr. Botkin nodded, bowed, and closed the door. Then faced us. Pale. But smiling. “It is time.”

  The mixture of terror and excitement was almost too much. Ajnin. Ajnin. Ajnin. My knees buckled, but I caught the doorframe. Tonight. It would end tonight. Surely.

  The first person to come to mind was Zash. What would happen to him? Would he be captured by the Whites? Would he escape and return to the life of a simple worker? Would he think of me at all?

  I dressed in my jeweled camisole first, the Matryoshka doll out of my shoe and back in its place. All covered by my typical long black skirt and white blouse. Everyone else took their time. Didn’t they know we were probably going to be rescued? That or blown up. Or simply moved to a new place of exile by the Bolsheviks. Frankly, any of those options would be more desirable than another two months—or even two days—in this terrible place. Especially with Yurovsky in charge and Zash an obedient soldier.

  We washed as best we could and grabbed a few belongings stuffed in pillowcases. I wanted to scream at them to hurry, but I kept my mouth tightly closed—something Alexei would have commented on had it been a normal day.

  At last, after forty minutes, we exited our quarters and met Yurovsky on the landing.

  Three soldiers stood with them—one of whom was Zash. I paused, startled, but then hurried forward to let the others out—all of the Romanovs and all of our servants. Dr. Botkin, Anna, Kharitonov, Papa’s manservant.

  Yurovsky didn’t let us bring the dogs with us. I understood, as they could get excited or unmanageable during something so crazy as a rescue. They would behave better upstairs. But just in case, I left the door cracked so they could get out if we weren’t able to come back for them.

  Papa carried Alexei—both of them in their soldier uniforms. They looked so handsome, even in their frailty. I was proud to belong to them.

  Yurovsky and the guards led us to the stairs. We lined ourselves up with proper protocol—like the days of old. Papa in front, carrying Alexei and accepting no assistance. Alexei sat as regally as he could manage in Papa’s arms, even with his bandaged leg and the winces from each jostle. Mamma followed using a walking stick and leaning heavily on Olga. Then Tatiana, Maria, and me.

  The servants were behind us—Trupp hauling blankets and Anna carrying pillows. Dr. Botkin lugged his small case of medical tools.

  Zash placed himself at the back by me. He stared straight forward, not meeting my eyes, but sweat slid down his temple and I could practically hear his nerves scraping.

  Please, Iisus, protect him. I took his hand in mine, but he yanked his away and met my gaze with a look of pure horror. I’d never seen such an expression on a man. Things must be worse than Yurovsky let on. The White Army must be in the city. Maybe even at the very palisade gate.

  “What about our personal belongings?” Mamma asked as we descended.

  “It’s not necessary right now,” Yurovsky said in what seemed to be a strained calm. “We’ll get them later and bring them down.”

  We exited the house into the courtyard and I sucked in the night air. The midnight sun was below the horizon, for a couple hours at least. The darkness carried a threat and a tension I felt in the deepest shadows as we passed. We reentered the house through an adjacent door that led into the basement. My heart stalled. I didn’t want to descend into such darkness. I didn’t want to enter the tomb. What if the White Army did fire artillery and we were buried?

  I stalled at the top of the stairs. Zash stopped beside me. He didn’t nudge me forward. He didn’t encourage me to enter. He stood there, trembling even more fiercely, then surveying the night as though searching for the enemy. His gaze finally landed back on me and he took a deep breath. “If you are hiding a spell, now is the time to use it.”

  I almost missed his words, he spoke them so quietly. So . . . he knew I had the doll? Perhaps he overheard me talking with Papa, or perhaps Yurovsky had alerted the soldiers, but Zash had just shown that he cared about me. About my safety. About my family.

  I opened my mouth. Ajnin. I swallowed hard. I couldn’t respond. I tried again, but the spell practically leapt free. I clamped my lips closed. I couldn’t tell Zash that I had a spell. I couldn’t tell him I wanted him to come with us. The frustration burned my eyes. I can’t speak, I wanted to say.

  Instead, I shook my head, trying to convey my predicament.

  Zash’s countenance fell in some sort of resignation. He misinterpreted my head shake, but there was nothing I could do about it now. He’d see soon enough. And I prayed—oh, I prayed—that he would be spared. That he would be safe. That he could escape with us.

  With a deep breath he straightened. If he could be brave, so could I—despite the fact we were tightening our courage for opposite causes.

  I descended the stairs, counting as I went. Twenty-three. The same number of years Papa had sat on the throne. We entered a room with a single naked lightbulb swinging from a cracked plaster ceiling, splashing yellow light from wall to wall.

  Mamma stopped and gestured with her walking stick. “Why are there no chairs? No place to sit?” Did Yurovsky expect Mamma and Alexei to sit on the cold ground? How long would we be here?

  “Of course.” Yurovsky sent a Bolshevik to fetch a chair.

  The man returned within minutes, muttering under his breath as he slammed a chair in front of Mamma and then Alexei. “If the heir wants to die in a chair, very well then. Let him have one.”

  This Bolshevik thought we were all going to die. Surely the White Army wouldn’t murder us. They would see that we were captives. They would come here to save us.

  Papa set Alexei in the chair. Alexei watched the guards with wide eyes, taking in their every movement. Their every whisper. Their every emotion. His brow wrinkled, seemingly confused by what he saw.

  Mamma sank into the other chair.

  “Please, everyone, take positions behind the tsar and tsarina.” It was the first time Yurovsky had ever used Papa’s title.

  We moved behind our parents, and Papa situated himself in front of Alexei. I didn’t like the idea of him receiving the brunt of the White Army’s arrival. But he was a soldier. He would know what to do and how to protect us.

  I folded my arms and stood to the side, in full view of the door, showing Yurovsky I wasn’t afraid. And I still didn’t view him as my leader. Trupp and Kharitonov situated themselves in front of me. Protecting me.

  “You will all wait here,” Yurovsky said. “We have a truck coming to take you to safety.” He left the room, leaving us with the three soldiers.

  So Yurovsky was movin
g us. That would be my moment to use the spell. If the White Army didn’t arrive before Yurovsky piled us into this truck he mentioned, then I would release the spell, whatever it was. The little coal leaped excitedly against my tongue, as though sensing my plan. I couldn’t wait to set it free. To learn of its power. To help us escape.

  We couldn’t allow the Bolsheviks to take us away again. I looked to Papa. He sensed my gaze and met it. I raised my eyebrows and lifted my hand to my chest where the doll sat. He gave a slow nod. That was all I needed.

  After about a half hour of shifting my weight and rolling my tongue against the spell, the sounds of machinery rumbled into earshot. It sounded like a truck. Gears ground. Then footsteps. Yurovsky had returned. Most of us had slumped against the wall by this point, but Zash remained rigid, looking sickly under the naked bulb.

  I’d never seen him so pale or ill.

  Yurovsky opened the door and led a group of soldiers into the room. Did we really need so many to escort us? I didn’t recognize some of their faces.

  “Well, here we all are.” Papa faced the commandant. “What are you going to do now?” He was tired of the waiting. Tired of the slinking about.

  Only then did I realize Yurovsky held a piece of paper in his left hand. “Please stand.”

  We all pushed off the wall and Mamma, with a grumble or two, hauled herself up from her seat. Alexei remained in his chair, unable to stand with or without help at this point.

  Yurovsky cleared his throat and held the paper high. “‘In view of the fact that your relatives in Europe continue their assault on Soviet Russia, the presidium of the Ural Regional Soviet has sentenced you to be shot.’”

  Papa’s head snapped up. “Wait.” His face paled as though splashed with milk. “What?”

  “‘. . . the Regional Soviet, fulfilling the will of the revolution, has decreed that the former Tsar Nikolai Romanov, guilty of countless blood crimes against the people, should be shot.’”

  Then Yurovsky pulled a Colt from his pocket and shot Papa in the chest.

  21

  Ringing.

  Silence.

  Papa fell to the ground, his uniform turning his impact into a soft flump. Blood pooled. Pulsed. Slower. Slower. Slower.

  I heard it.

  I heard its chant dying.

  Romanov. Ro . . . manov. Ro . . . man . . . ov.

  The soldiers all drew guns.

  Not just on Papa. Us. All of us. My senses screamed. I couldn’t think. What was happening? Wild panic reflected in Zash’s eyes. He raised his own pistol.

  Aimed at my chest.

  I’d yet to take a breath. Papa’s heart still pumped. I couldn’t look away from Zash, even as his comrades pulled their triggers. Even as bullets slammed into plaster and bodies and wood. I was frozen. I was dead already.

  Zash’s hand trembled.

  He looked away.

  And he pulled the trigger.

  22

  My chest crumpled beneath the impact. I tumbled backward into the sea of gunshots, the smell of pistol smoke, the hot blood and cold cement. Screams were lost in the chaos. Glass shattered. Darkness smothered us. I felt myself dying. My hope, at last, snuffed.

  Zash . . .

  Zash had been my executioner.

  My life flickered. I could not see. I could hear only Yurovsky screaming for everyone to stop, then the soldiers running up the stairs, sucking in the night air. Thinking they could escape what they’d done. Leaving us alone. Gasping corpses. Dying together.

  In the momentary silence I heard moans from my sisters. A cry from Dr. Botkin. I wanted to weep. I wanted a hand to hold. I didn’t want to die alone. But I couldn’t move. Heat spread through my chest, numbing my body. Hitching my breath.

  Footsteps returned and then a command to the soldiers.

  To return.

  To finish the job.

  I finally let myself slip away.

  23

  Consciousness returned with a shard of pain in my spine. My body swayed. Back and forth. Rough arms under my armpits and others gripping my ankles. Then weightlessness. I landed hard on wood that shuddered from an engine.

  Where?

  What?

  Help.

  My eyes cracked open and I sucked a breath. It was lost in the sounds around me. I saw only darkness. I reached up and my hand brushed a canvas wall. Truck. The back of a covered truck. Voices everywhere. Scents of death and betrayal.

  Something heavy landed beside me, causing the truck to quake. I turned my head. Moonlight filtered in from a place I couldn’t see. The heavy thing beside me was a body.

  Alexei. Still in his small uniform and half wrapped in one of our monogrammed sheets. His skin pale. Blood splashed on his neck. His eyes dead.

  And I remembered.

  Execution. They killed us. They had killed us all. Except I was alive. My Romanov blood pumped.

  Alone. Alone. Alone.

  Romanov. Romanov. Romanov.

  No. Please. I didn’t want to know what had happened. I didn’t want to be alive. I didn’t want Yurovsky to find me. To hurt me.

  A hot tear slid down my temple and into my ear.

  Then I heard a sweet but terrible sound. A soft moan from the cherished, ill boy beside me. My Alexei. I turned to face him. Saw his chest rise. I was not alone. He was not alone. With every effort of my will and body, I slid my hand and found his. Sticky and cold and heavy. I wrapped my fingers in his.

  “Alexei,” I tried to whisper. I wanted him to know I was here. I wanted him to hear my voice. But only a wheeze emerged from my throat. I took a breath. It burned and pinched and resisted. “Alexei.”

  But his name was not what slipped through my lips. Instead, a hot coal of a spell tumbled out as I unwillingly said, “Ajnin.”

  My pain evaporated. I turned weightless. I could no longer feel the vibration of the truck beneath me or Alexei’s hand in mine. I was neither hot nor cold. Neutral. Completely healed of all wounds. Energized. Renewed.

  My mind rose from the slog of slumber and pain. Sparked to life. If I was healed, I needed to get to my family—to rescue them. I had survived—the soldiers might be trying to kill the rest of my family as I lay here.

  I forced away the weight of the situation, the fear of execution, the despair of reality. Instead, I opened my eyes and scanned the inverted world for the presence of soldiers. None. I tumbled backward out of the truck and rolled into a shadow. I didn’t want to leave Alexei in there, but I didn’t have time to think.

  The rest of my family needed me.

  The Ipatiev House glowed under the low half-moon, ghostly and pale as though ashamed of what had taken place in its belly. I kept flat along the palisade and slid toward the basement door. Soldiers emerged, carrying a body so riddled with bullet holes I only recognized Papa from his shredded uniform.

  I fell back against the palisade, a hand to my heart. “Papa.” My distraught croak seemed as loud as a bullfrog in the night, but no soldiers paid me any mind. They tossed him into the truck and took no notice of me.

  As they returned to the house for another body I could not bear to identify, I rushed to the truck. To Papa. I couldn’t make out his face beneath the blood, just his mustache. His chest didn’t rise. Didn’t fall. It didn’t act like a chest at all, caved in from the impact of endless bullets.

  I stumbled back and closed my eyes. No. Papa couldn’t be dead. I used his spell. I did what he asked! He needed to wake up and tell me what to do. I reached to shake him. To tell him I’d obeyed his instructions.

  But my hand didn’t meet his shoulder. I couldn’t seem to touch him. Had my fear numbed me?

  “Nastya?” Alexei’s scared, timid voice came like a bugle call from behind me. I spun, my heart galloping up my throat.

  Alexei stood in the courtyard next to the truck, but he wasn’t himself. He shimmered of silver and moonlight and a splash of dimmed rainbow. An ethereal creature, still in uniform, but transparent. I could see through him to the s
oldiers carrying another body out of the basement toward the truck.

  I froze. What happened to him?

  We needed to hide. I glanced back at the truck at Papa’s body. Beside him lay Alexei’s injured body. And beside him lay a longer body in a black skirt and bloodstained blouse that clung to a jewel-lined camisole.

  Me.

  My body.

  My knees buckled and I landed hard on the ground, holding my hands in front of my face. Moonlight glistened through my transparent palm. I was transparent, too. I was double. There were two of me—Nastya in the truck and Nastya on her knees. I was a terrifying duplicate of myself—a ghostlike copy that could move and think and see just like the unconscious body of me.

  The soldiers paid me no mind as they tossed Tatiana’s body into the truck, half on top of my physical one. I fell to all fours and sucked in deep breaths. They couldn’t come fast enough. What happened? What happened?

  “Nastya, are we dead?”

  Alexei came up behind me, handling this odd state much better than I was. I used the back of the truck to claw myself to my feet. The machinery felt distant and less than sturdy beneath my touch. Alexei’s physical body lay prone, solid, and bloodied in the bottom of the truck. But an ethereal copy of him stood—stood—beside me, uninjured, relying on me for an answer.

  “I . . . don’t know.” I reached for Alexei’s hand and we touched.

  “They can’t hear us or touch us. But I can touch you. Why?”

  “I don’t know, Alexei!” Panic sent my voice spiking, almost begging for a soldier to overhear and come explain the madness.

  “If we’re ghosts, Papa and the others must be, too. We need to find them.” Like when he read Maria’s letter a lifetime ago, telling us we were going to exile in Ekaterinburg, he remained calm. Only thirteen, but a soldier from skin to marrow . . . and even to transparent soul.

  “You’re right. If we’re like this, Papa’s soul, or ghost, or whatever we are must be somewhere.” My ghost-heart lurched at the need to see my papa walking and moving and smiling again. To hear his voice. To run to him and find a semblance of normal.