by Staton Rabin
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Sunday, 14 July 1918
WE SLEPT THAT NIGHT at an ammunition dump in Ekaterinburg—our heads resting against a white powdery heap of saltpeter that was softer than the pillows at Stavka. I had not wanted to waste any time sleeping. But Varda insisted we could plan better after a good night’s rest. I was tripping over my own feet from exhaustion—so, at last, I had to admit she was right.
That night I dreamed that I was dancing Petrouchka—and leaped so high I floated off into the sky, where someone I knew greeted me in heaven—on angel’s wings.
“Ah—welcome, Alyosha!” Father Grigory said, kissing me on both cheeks. “Surprised to find me here? I spend some time with devil, but he get sick of me, send me here!”
“Yiowwwww!”
Varda and I awoke to the rude shock of cold water pouring on our heads—followed by loud laughter.
“That’ll teach you!” a soldier said, tossing away an empty bucket. “This is no place for children—go away!”
The water was filthy, and stung our eyes. We scrambled to our feet and ran away.
Within minutes we were back outside Ipatiev House.
As the cathedral bell tolled seven times, several nuns carrying baskets of goods approached the wooden fence. The guards smiled as if their faces weren’t used to it, opened the fence gate for the nuns, and let them pass inside.
“There must be some way to get my family out of there,” I muttered, inspecting every footprint in the dust and crack in the fence.
“Alexei,” Varda whispered. “Will you stop with the Sherlock Holmes stuff already? The guards might catch us.”
I stopped dead in my tracks and grabbed her by both arms.
“Sherlock Holmes? That’s it!”
I pulled her away to a bench in the square across the street, where we could talk more freely.
“What’s wrong?” Varda said.
“‘ Scandal in Bohemia!’”
“Huh?”
“Is title of story my papa read to us! In story, Sherlock Holmes trick woman to show him where she hide secret photograph.”
“Alexei, do you really think we should be wasting time yapping about books when your family is in danger?”
“Listen! Sherlock Holmes goes to woman’s house in disguise—pretends he is injured. Woman has him carried inside house, Holmes asks window be opened for air. Then friend Watson throws smoke bomb through window, shouts, ‘Fire!’ Woman thinks her house is on fire, goes straight to place where precious photo is hidden. Now Sherlock Holmes knows where photo is!”
“Good for Sherlock Holmes. So?”
“You do not see? We get someone inside Ipatiev House, fake sudden illness or injury. They gasp for air, ask for window open. I throw smoke bomb through open window from outside, shout ‘fire!’ Bolsheviks go straight for what is most precious to them: hidden Romanov family. They want family dead, but not from fire. They bring everyone outside, tsar and family escape under cover of smoke!”
“Alexei, this is crazy! Smoke bombs?”
“It work for Sherlock Holmes! You are scientist, da? You know how to make?”
“Well, I do, actually. The kids set smoke bombs off all the time in the boys’ bathroom at school. But—but that’s not the point! I—”
“Good! We save my family!” I took Varda by the hands and danced her around. As I spun her around in the mazurka, she couldn’t help but laugh.
“Alexei,” Varda said, “how are we going to find somebody to get inside that house?”
I glanced toward the Ipatiev gate, where the nuns were now exiting, nodding farewell to the guards, baskets empty. I turned back to Varda and smiled.
“Welcome to Ekaterinburg, ‘Sister Varda.’”
We knocked on the door to Novotikhvinsky Convent.
“Yes?” a cautious voice answered through the heavy oak door.
“We are two strangers seeking refuge with the holy sisters of the church.”
After all, it was true. My parents had taught me never to lie—especially to nuns.
The door crept open a crack, and a kindly blue eye peered at me. Then the door opened all the way.
“Welcome, my children,” the nun said. And then she did the most extraordinary thing. She fainted.
“I’m so sorry!” I said some minutes later to the mistress of the convent, who had come rushing into the room when she’d heard the other nun hit the floor. “I didn’t mean to frighten her.”
“No need to apologize, Your Highness,” the mistress replied as she kneeled, waving the smelling salts under her holy sister’s nose. “You are not to blame. But you can imagine the shock! We all thought the tsarevich was dead.” She pointed to a portrait of me with my family that was hanging on the convent wall. “And your poor family is being held prisoner….”
“Yes, we know. Have you spoken with them?”
The mistress helped the other nun—now awake, but still groggy—to the couch, patting her hand.
“Only briefly. The Bolsheviks permit us to bring baskets of food to them every morning at seven—a few eggs, some milk, perhaps a few grapes. Everything is rationed now. I only wish we had more to give them!”
“Do they—do they seem well?”
She sighed.
“As well as can be expected. Your parents look terribly tired and worried, of course. And your sister Olga, too. They know the danger they are in. The other girls … seem more carefree. Perhaps they are too young to really understand. Sister Antonina here even saw Grand Duchess Marie flirting with several of the guards.”
How like our “Mashka”! My clever sister Marie—trying to win the guards’ sympathy with her charm and beauty! But I knew it would not change my family’s terrible sudba. I was their only hope.
“Do they… ever speak of me?”
Sister Antonina sat up on the couch and looked at me.
“Once I overheard the tsarina say to the tsar, ‘If only our dear Sunbeam were here! The days would not seem so long!’”
“Da!” I said. “Mama calls me ‘Sunbeam,’ sometimes.”
The convent mistress nodded toward Varda, then extended her hand to both of us.
“I am Sister Agnes, and over there are Sisters Antonina and Maria.” We nodded at them. “Who is this nice young lady with you?”
“My cousin Varda, from America.”
Varda, looking a little bewildered, smiled at the nuns with a little wave, and they smiled gently back.
“We need your help,” I said to the holy sisters.
“We pray for your family—every day,” Sister Agnes said. “It is a crime what the Bolsheviks have done to them. A crime against God!”
She crossed herself, then patted the couch next to Sister Antonina so that we would sit next to her.
“Now, my children,” Sister Agnes said, with a surprisingly conspiratorial glint in her eye. “Tell us exactly what you would like us to do.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Monday, 15 July 1918. Morning.
THE BELL OF ASCENSION CATHEDRAL tolled once, twice—seven times. Two nuns strode up to the fence gate of Ipatiev House and knocked sharply. A slovenly-looking guard opened the gate and looked them over.
Please, Holy Mother, let nothing go wrong!
Through the field glasses I’d kept courtesy of the Red Army, I studied the scene from a safe distance. Would the guard let them through?
Sister Maria gestured to the other nun. I knew what she’d be saying to the guard: “Sister Antonina is ill today, so sent Sister Catherine in her place.”
The guard studied the nun called Sister Catherine suspiciously for a moment. I held my breath. Then—thank God!—he let them pass. In less than thirty seconds Varda, doing a very good imitation of a Russian Orthodox nun who’d taken a vow of silence, would be inside the house. Within another minute she would pretend to faint from the stifling heat of summer. What man would doubt the actions of a pretty nun?
Once Varda was carried upstairs to Ipatiev’s on
ly couch, Sister Maria would beg for the side window to be opened to give the fainting victim some fresh air. The instant I saw the window open, that would be my cue.
The day before, Varda had prepared two smoke bombs in tin cans. All I had to do was light the matchsticks we’d sunk into the material inside the cans. I’d throw one smoke bomb over the Ipatiev House fence and through the open upstairs window, the other into the street, and when their fuses burned down—KA-BOOM!
You may be wondering how we made smoke bombs. Varda used the convent oven to melt together six parts saltpeter, which we’d stolen from the ammunition dump, with four parts …
Well, do not expect me to give you the details! The formula includes a very common, harmless ingredient found in every kitchen. But Varda warned me that the final mixture could be very dangerous in the hands of foolish people or small children. You can imagine how Sister Antonina wrung her hands as she watched us use the convent oven for our plans!
Varda said the bombs would make enough smoke to cover a whole city block. This would give us plenty of time to lead my family down the street and escape into the woods, where Sisters Agnes and Antonina—God bless them!—were in the convent’s truck, waiting to drive all of us away.
I watched the house, waiting nervously for my chance. I knew that inside, at this very moment, Varda would be presenting a basket of eggs to my family. She’d draw their attention to one of them, and Sister Maria would say that they should eat it immediately, it had come from a special chicken! Special? No joke! This egg’s yolk and white had been blown out through a tiny hole—like for making painted Easter eggs. Inside, rolled up into a tiny scroll, was a note for my parents on which I’d written: “Tsarevich alive and well. When you hear ‘fire!’ run for northwest corner of square, where friends will take you to safety.” I’d signed the note “Sunbeam,” so my family would know it was from me. Crack the egg open—and they’d find it!
I watched the attic window.
At last! The window opened!
I struck a match and lit the fuses on the smoke bombs, then rushed toward the house.
Suddenly a dog came running around to the side of the house, nosing around for a good place to pee. It spotted me and froze, like pointing game. Then, ears flattening against its head, the dog crouched playfully, wagging its tail in happy recognition. This wasn’t “a dog”—it was my dog.
Joy!
I held up my hand, silently pleading with him.
Oh my God, Joy—please, no! Don’t!
RRRRUFF! RRRRUFF!
He bounded toward me, knocking me over and licking my face like I was ice cream.
I was thrilled to see him again, of course, but his timing might have been better. Four Ipatiev guards, alerted by the barking, barreled toward me from their posts. They pulled a yelping Joy off me and yanked me to my feet.
Naturally, being found with two lit bombs in my hands did not argue well for my innocence. The guards blew out the fuses and placed me under arrest.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
I STOOD SILENTY IN THE FRONT ROOM of Ipatiev House, a rifle butt pressed roughly into my shoulder blade. Varda and Sister Maria were being led downstairs by two other guards. My Little Peasant was shaking with fear. With all my being, how I wanted to help her! But I turned away, eyes staring straight ahead.
It may seem cruel that I pretended not to know her—and, da, it nearly broke my heart. But you must understand. I knew that if the Bolsheviks guessed that Varda had been part of my plan, she too would have been taken prisoner—or worse.
“We caught the boy red-handed, Captain Lepa,” one of my captors said to a nasty-looking guard, thrusting me toward him. “The little bastard was going to throw these through the window.” He handed his captain the smoke bombs.
“Good work, comrade!” Lepa jerked his head toward Varda. “Verhas, who is that girl? I don’t remember seeing her here before.”
“Just one of the sisters who come daily from the convent. Replacing one who is ill.”
He turned his attention back to me.
“We must find out if the bomber was acting alone or is part of a counterrevolutionary conspiracy.” Lepa planted me right in front of Varda. “Sister, the people demand answers: Is this boy from the town? Do you know him?”
It was clear she understood the general idea of the captain’s question.
I stared at Varda now, pleading silently with her to do what was best for her. Oh, she argued with me, she protested—I could feel this strongly in my mind. But at last, thank the Lord, I silently persuaded her, and she reluctantly surrendered to my wishes.
“Nyet,” Varda said to the Captain.
“Get the nuns out of here,” he said to the guards.
As Sister Maria and Varda were rushed out the door, my American cousin craned her neck around for one last look at me. The pitiful look in her eyes pulled at my heart like a troika drawn by the mightiest horses. But we both knew that there was nothing I could do now that would not endanger her life.
She was gone.
Suddenly, a young guard watching from the doorway caught my eye, gasped, and dropped to his knees. With a trembling hand, he swept off his cap and bowed his head with deep reverence.
“Your Highness!”
“Kabanov!” another guard said. “For Christ’s sake, get up!”
The young man rose slowly to his feet. He looked at me sadly, and I could see he had tears in his eyes. I recognized him as one of Papa’s grenadiers before the war. I nodded toward him, giving a small smile of gratitude.
“Mother of God, it’s the heir!” another guard said. “Get Yurovsky!”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
FOR A MOMENT, I BARELY RECOGNIZED HER. Her hair had turned white as the Snow Maiden’s. That still-beautiful face was etched now: a map showing the path to years of pain and worry. Though she sat in a wheelchair, she struggled unsteadily to her feet, reaching toward me like a man in the desert who’d caught sight of his last glass of water. But was I a mirage, or was I real?
“Mama!”
I fell, sobbing, into her open arms.
“Who are you, young man? Tell me who you are before my poor heart dies of hope.”
I had forgotten—I was two years older now, and looked it; my voice had changed.
“It’s me, Mama. Your Alexei.”
She looked uncertain, confused. She sniffed my hair, inhaling deeply, and then the most peaceful smile lit up the darkened shadows of her face. Like the midnight sun.
At last my family was together again. My captors had taken me to the five rooms on the main floor, where my parents and sisters, Dr. Botkin, and several loyal servants who had gone into exile with them—our cook Kharitonov and Leonka the kitchen boy, Mama’s lady-in-waiting Anna Demidova, and our footman Mr. Trupp—were being held. And even though I knew, as my family did not, what terrible sudba was in store for us, for this moment I could not have been more happy. This is what the Bolsheviks in their cold-eyed hatred would never understand. They who did not love God, did not trust in him as we did—did not know love even in their own families, else why would they leave their own at home just to torment mine? There was nothing they could take away from us, as long as we were together. Nothing!
Papa, dressed in a common colonel’s uniform, embraced me silently, his heart too full to speak his feelings. And if ever I had even a moment’s doubt about who was the father of my blood, I knew for certain who was the father of my heart.
My sisters fluttered around me, chirping answers—and questions—through their tears.
“We thought the Bolsheviks had stolen you!”
“My arm circles all the way around your waist—just skin and bones!”
“Felix said you’d just vanished—he’d thought you’d fallen through the ice and drowned!”
“Look at you! Our handsome young man will slay all the girls!”
“I’m sorry, I’m a little fool. Forgive me for every time I called you ‘pest’!”
My sister
s had always been careful not to hug me too tightly, for fear of bruising me. But today, in our happiness and relief at seeing one another, none of us worried about this.
I heard a noise at the door, and turned around.
“Zhillie!”
We stood a moment, just staring at each other. Then I bounded toward him like Joy, and embraced him. Gilliard was always shy and formal. As I released him, he took a step back, wiping his eye on the cuff of his sleeve. He cleared his throat a couple of times before he could get any words out.
“Alexei, have you been keeping up with your studies?”
“No, Zhillie. You know I am a lazy schoolboy.”
Tugging at his pointy beard, he cracked a smile. Then his expression became very serious.
“They are sending me away tomorrow. I demanded to remain here with your family, but I am a Swiss national. They insisted I must leave.”
I nodded. Actually, I was more relieved than disappointed that the Bolsheviks were taking him away. Gilliard would have a chance to escape, and would not share our sudba.
As for Varda, I knew that Sister Maria would take her back to the convent and make sure she was safe. But this did not stop me from thinking about her, worrying about her, needing her. In every way, she was my family too.
That night, Mashka and Tatiana sat at the parlor piano, playing and singing. But they looked frightened and ill rather than joyful. Two guards, reeking of vodka, sat pressed close on either side of them. One of the men was turning music pages with long dirty fingers. They forced my sisters to sing revolutionary songs.
“Louder!” Dirty Fingers said, nudging a sickened Mashka in the ribs. “Play ‘Let’s Forget the Old Regime’ and ‘You Fell Victim to the Struggle’!”
“Leave her alone!” I said, lunging at him. The man tossed me off like a flea.