Laughing, Talia waved at her friends. “This is Andrei,” she called happily to them. “The man I love.”
“The one you thought was dead but only had amnesia?” one girl questioned.
“The only one I’ve ever loved!” Talia replied with conviction.
Andrei glanced down at her with a creased brow. Fleeting images of this very girl pining away for his brother threatened to mar his present euphoria.
She understood immediately. “I was a bit of a fool myself, Andrei. I wasted a good deal of time, too. How could I not have known all that time that it was my best friend whom I loved, not his brother?”
“Ah, well . . .” he said airily. “We know now and that’s what matters.” Then with an intense look, he added, “I truly mean that’s what matters.” He grasped her hand in his. “Let’s walk and talk, Talia. For so long I have wanted to do that—almost as much as I’ve wanted to kiss you.”
“But it’s raining.”
“Do you care?”
She laughed. “Not in the least!”
They walked for an hour—all the way back to Vassily Island and their mothers’ apartment. They were drenched to the skin, but still they lingered on the doorstep and continued talking just as they had so many times in the past. They sat together on the step, and he clasped his arm around her shivering shoulders. The rain finally stopped and a few stars sparkled through cracks in the clouds.
Only when Talia’s lips quivered so with cold that she could no longer form intelligible words did they finally retreat indoors. The family cheered when they walked into the apartment. And the two lovers glowed despite their wet, bedraggled appearance.
27
Alexis Romanov put his hands in front of him in the shape of a book. Tatiana called out, “Book title!”
Alexis nodded then, pausing only a moment to think, raised his arms, and clasped his hands so as to form an imaginary rifle. He jerked his hands energetically and managed to be quite animated, though he was seated in a chair. He then completed the picture by making guttural sounds in his throat.
“No sounds,” said his sister Anastasia.
“Now, Anastasia,” said their father, “let’s not be too legalistic about this. Baby is doing his best.”
“But it’s not fair.”
Alexis shrugged and silenced the sounds, still “blasting” away with his invisible machine gun.
The others gathered in the parlor to play “charades” began shouting out guesses. “Battle!” “Shooting!” “War!”
At the word “war” Alexis vigorously tapped his nose.
Mr. Gilliard, the children’s tutor, called out, “War of the Worlds!”
Alexis silently indicated he would move on to the next word. He had barely laid his head on his hands in peaceful repose, when Tatiana shouted, “War and Peace!”
“That was too easy,” whined Anastasia.
“Then you should have gotten it,” said Tatiana with just a hint of smugness.
“Well, I was thinking of something harder,” said Anastasia.
Nicholas said, “I shall put my mind to it later and try to come up with more difficult charades.”
“But, Papa,” said Alexis, “won’t we perform our play tomorrow?”
It took a great deal of invention to keep five active adolescents and young adults entertained in the backwater village of Tobolsk, especially as winter began to clamp down in late October. They often played games such as this evening’s charades. Sometimes Nicholas read aloud. But by far the most enjoyable event was the performance of various plays. This was one of Alexis’s favorite pastimes. Everyone took part except Dr. Botkin, who said there needed to be an audience. Even Alexandra would take a small role now and then when she was feeling up to it.
“I think we need more practice,” said Olga.
“I suppose so,” conceded Alexis. “And there is still one part not taken.” He cast an incisive glance at Botkin.
“Now, now,” protested the doctor. “I am a far better spectator than actor. You would all agree if you saw me.”
“But this part was made for you. A country doctor. You must do it.”
“I assure you—” But the doctor was obviously wavering.
“It’s only a couple of lines,” persisted Alexis. “You could say them in your sleep.”
The doctor threw up his hands and chuckled. “All right! But you will regret this, mark my words.”
And thus one evening passed upon another in the modest home, once occupied by the governor, there in Siberia. The life of the deposed tsar and his family took on an air of peace and contentment—on the surface of things at least. Though the doctor and the royal tutors and other servants were free to come and go—Botkin had even set up a modest medical practice in town—the royal family themselves were still captives. They were comfortable, however, and able to receive some correspondence from their relatives. Colonel Kobylinsky, the head of the guard detail, treated them with civility, even respect. In fact, any guards that had direct contact with the family invariably ended up quite sympathetic to the royals.
Church services were held in the house, at least at first. But because there was no consecrated altar, there could be no Mass. This was hard on Nicholas and his family, for their spiritual well-being was very important to them. Eventually, they were allowed to attend Mass at the local church. They went to the early morning service and the public was prohibited. But when the Romanovs were out on the streets, the citizens of the village indicated their respect by bowing and doffing their caps.
It took nearly two weeks after the Bolshevik Revolution for the news to reach faraway Tobolsk. Nicholas had been avidly following events in Russia as much as possible. He had placed much hope in the attempted Kornilov coup and had been greatly disappointed at its failure. For the first time in months, he felt regret over his abdication. He had surrendered the throne only in hopes of benefiting his country, but now he was seeing how much in vain that act had been.
With the rise of the Bolsheviks, the national situation seemed more desperate than ever. Nicholas considered Lenin little more than an upstart ruffian, that is if the man wasn’t an out-and-out German spy. It pained Nicholas greatly to see Russia fall into the hands of such a person. Other than this emotional strain, the Bolshevik takeover had little effect on the captives in Tobolsk. It was almost as if the royal family had been forgotten—and that, of course, was more a blessing than a curse.
Signs that the situation was changing came gradually. Finances were tightened and new guards of a younger, more revolutionary bent arrived. As Christmas approached, there was great excitement, even among the doctor and tutors and a few close servants who had come to feel very much a part of the family. Alexandra had knitted each of the loyal friends a special gift. Other gifts—handmade, of course, for gifts of Fabergé eggs and such were long in the past—were exchanged among the family. In this joyous time, all the cares and uncertainties of the outside world almost faded into the white snow-covered background.
On Christmas Day they all attended church together feeling a deep sense of contentment and camaraderie. Then the priest, Father Vassiliev, committed a great indiscretion. During Mass he invoked the once traditional “Prayer for the Long Life of the Imperial Family.”
The young guards, full of revolutionary zeal, were outraged. Without even waiting for the service to end they protested.
“This is treason!”
“Long life to the Soviet only!”
One guard drew his weapon and, aiming it at Nicholas, demanded, “Revoke the prayer or we shall see how long the life of the ex-tsar is!”
The priest was placed under immediate arrest, but the harshest reprisal to the royal family was that their privilege of attending church was taken away. Not only were they deprived of spiritual comfort, but also of their only chance for a break from their confinement.
28
“I don’t like the term ‘ministers,’” offered Stephan Kaminsky. “It’s been overused and
smacks too much of bourgeois authority.”
“I agree, we need something new,” said Lenin.
Within two days after the Bolshevik Revolution, the Central Committee met to hammer out the policies of the new government. The first task was to assign positions for cabinet members, but the Central Committee was sidetracked on the issue of names.
“How about the Council of People’s Commissars,” suggested Trotsky.
“I like it!” Lenin replied enthusiastically. “It has a good revolutionary sound.”
“Then, you will like this as a name for our nation,” Trotsky continued, “Soviet of People’s Commissars.”
But finding a good name for the new government was far simpler than finding qualified individuals to run it. Many of the leaders of the revolution had spent the majority of their lives in prison or in exile, not running governments in any capacity. Even Lenin admitted in those early days that they were bound to make mistakes.
Inexperience, however, was the least of their problems. Their enemies were still many and viable and in no way ready to concede defeat. Within five days of the October revolution, Kerensky made an attempt at a counter-coup with several thousand soldiers he had managed to recruit. He failed and was forced into hiding, but others, both monarchists and moderates, continued to rally support. General Alekseev, one-time Chief of Staff under Nicholas, and later Supreme Commander of the Army under the Provisional Government, was called out of retirement to lead the White Army that had begun to form in the Don region where counterrevolutionary sentiment was especially high.
Establishing Bolshevik authority outside of Petrograd had to begin with Moscow, which proved to offer the toughest resistance to the new government. At first the pro-Bolshevik forces had been able to seize several important strongholds, including the all-important Kremlin. But counterrevolutionary forces rallied and eventually were able to siege the Kremlin. After three days the Bolsheviks were forced to surrender, but as they were exiting, the besieging army opened fire on them and dozens of Bolsheviks were killed. The Bloodless Revolution begun in Petrograd was turning out far differently in Moscow.
As the moderates claimed control of the inner city, Lenin called for Red Guard forces from other parts of the country to go to the aid of Moscow.
“Moscow is the heart of Russia,” he said. “This heart must be Soviet in order to save the revolution!”
Stephan Kaminsky commanded a force of Red Guards from Petrograd. Even with his lack of military experience, he was certain no war could have boasted worse fighting than that which was waged in Moscow. The Reds fought their way back into the city from the outskirts, gradually squeezing the moderates into a tighter and tighter circle. Finally, after a week more of fighting, the Bolsheviks retook the Kremlin—and Lenin had his Soviet heart back.
But it was still anyone’s revolution. Naysayers predicted Lenin’s government would last only a couple of weeks. How could a quarter of a million Bolsheviks wield authority over a hundred and thirty million subjects? Hopes rose and fell with each successive battle.
And still the Bolsheviks hung on. Perhaps no one realized how years of exile, imprisonment, and hiding from the authorities had toughened these revolutionaries.
In January, Daniel received a message from Lord Bruce inquiring about the status of their little “project.” Daniel decided it was time to get a firsthand picture of the situation in Tobolsk. Also, he had been hearing via the “grapevine” of other rescue operations that he thought bore investigation. Besides being extremely busy with work, due to the volatile events in the city, little Katrina contracted pneumonia, and he could not consider any travel until she was well. He was not able to get away for several weeks.
In addition to observing “the lay of the land” in Tobolsk, Daniel wanted to investigate one rescue organization specifically because of the credentials of its leader. Called the Brotherhood of St. John of Tobolsk, the man at its helm was one Lieutenant Boris Soloviev. The peculiarity of his credentials was in the fact that he was Grigori Rasputin’s son-in-law.
Having studied mysticism in India, Soloviev returned to Petrograd in 1915 and became involved in the spiritualist and occult groups surrounding Rasputin. Yuri’s wife, Katya, had known him vaguely in those days. She was reluctant to speak of those confused times in her life and could make no judgments on the man’s sincerity. She did say that she remembered Maria, Rasputin’s daughter, mentioning that she did not care for Soloviev at all and wished everyone, specifically her father and Anna Vyrubova, would stop trying to match them.
Daniel thought Soloviev’s marriage to Maria Rasputin in October, 1917, was terribly convenient. The connection to Rasputin gained Soloviev the immediate confidence of both Anna Vyrubova and the empress. And this quickly made him the final “clearing house” of practically all rescue organizations. All financial contributions were funneled through him, and since his return to Siberia following his wedding, all those interested in rescue operations reported first to him. Maybe it was Daniel’s natural American independence, but he wasn’t going to accede to Soloviev until he was absolutely certain about the man’s sincerity. Though Soloviev’s relationship to the late Rasputin had won the confidence of the empress, it had just the opposite effect on Daniel.
The normal three-day trip by train to Tiumen stretched to five arduous days due to several breakdowns and a strike by railroad workers. Finally in Tiumen it appeared as if Daniel’s quest would end completely. He was supposed to make contact with a Lieutenant Melink, fiancé to Dr. Botkin’s daughter, Tatiana. But the delayed train threw off their rendezvous. He had a photograph of Melink. The lieutenant was to identify him merely by the fact that he was a foreigner, a rare enough sight in Siberia. Daniel also had a code, something only Tatiana would know, to further identify him to Melink.
When he did not see Melink, he feared they had missed each other completely. Daniel waited another day before attempting to make his own way to Tobolsk.
In a waterfront tavern, he tried to hire transportation, a task that was made even more difficult by the language barrier. Daniel’s Russian, because of his wife’s tutorage, was better than many foreigners’, with a solid command of the vernacular, but Siberian Russian was practically another language.
Ivan Rajbcov, a burly Siberian with slanted Mongol eyes and swarthy, leathery skin, shook his head. “Do you see the sky, American?” he said through an interpreter. “A storm could blow through at any minute.”
Outside, ominous clouds hung heavy in the gray sky. In summer, one traveled by boat between the two towns. That, of course, was impossible now. The only way to Tobolsk in winter was via sleigh, and then only if the weather cooperated.
“I am willing to take the risk,” said Daniel. “And I will pay you well for doing so.”
“Bah!” scoffed the Siberian. “I don’t care about your puny neck. It’s my horses that worry me.”
“There’re a couple of villages on the way. If worse comes to worst, we could hole up in one of them should a storm hit. I wouldn’t wantonly endanger our lives or that of innocent beasts.”
“So, what’s so important in Tobolsk, American? Are you going to see the former tsar?”
“I’m an American newspaper reporter. I’d like to report on the situation there.”
Rajbcov leaned close. “You put my name in your newspaper?”
The near proximity of the Siberian made Daniel wrinkle his nose, for the man smelled far worse than his precious horses.
“Sure,” Daniel replied, quickly removing his notebook and pencil from his pocket. “Tell me how to spell it.”
The man grinned, revealing rotten, uneven teeth. “If my horses die, you pay for them?”
“Of course, but—”
“But who pay for you or me if we die?” The Siberian laughed and tossed back a glass of vodka. “How much?”
Daniel took several bills from his wallet and laid them out on the coarse table. “Two thousand rubles now and two thousand more when we reach our dest
ination.”
“It could take five or six days. Only two by water. He grinned again and said, “But no water in winter.” Rajbcov wrapped his hands around the rubles and stuffed them in his coat. “We go in the morning.”
But in the night a blizzard struck and Daniel could go nowhere. As the wind howled outside, he began to wonder about the wisdom of his mission. If nothing else, it made him certain there could be no rescue attempt until spring. Even two healthy men would find it difficult to travel by sleigh in winter—and utterly impossible if, as it was doing now, the weather did not cooperate. But for a retinue of a dozen, including women—one of which was reportedly in frail health—and a handicapped boy, such a journey was impossible.
Late in the afternoon, Daniel returned to the same tavern. Not only did he hope to find Rajbcov, but he also knew this was the best place to meet people and make contacts. Rajbcov was standing at the bar, his grimy hands clasped around a bottle of vodka.
“No sleigh ride today, American,” grinned Rajbcov.
“Maybe tomorrow,” said Daniel.
“After this storm, the pass will be blocked for . . . who knows how long.”
“So, you’re saying no one can get through?”
Rajbcov shrugged, sloshed a measure of vodka in a glass, and tossed it back.
“I suppose I’ll take my money back then,” said Daniel. “You can keep two hundred rubles for your trouble.”
“What money, American?”
Daniel sized up the Siberian. He was at least six feet tall and weighed no less than two hundred and fifty pounds. He probably had been in more fistfights that week than Daniel had been in all his life—and he’d been in a few. However, Daniel had never been one to roll over in defeat.
“Listen, Mr. Rajbcov, I’m sure we can work this out reasonably.” Daniel wasn’t sure at all. “I don’t have eighteen hundred rubles to throw around, and I am certain you don’t need it to get around that you cannot be trusted as a businessman—”
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