by Staton Rabin
The man in the wheelchair didn’t say anything. He just smiled and waved at the crowd.
As they were wheeling him off the stage, he passed right by me—and suddenly grabbed me by the wrist.
“Varda,” he said in a dry, raspy whisper.
How did he know my name?
I nodded.
“Must talk with you in private,” he said.
I rolled the old man’s rusty wheelchair into an empty conference room down the hall. He asked me to shut the door behind us. When I turned back to face him, his head leaned on his chest, as if he’d nodded off. I was going to slip out. But then his eyes popped open, and he stretched his wrinkly neck like a supersize tortoise coming out of his shell. As he leaned toward me, I caught a whiff of mothballs from his wool jacket.
“Alexei survived.”
“What?”
“He escape murder.”
If I’d been hooked up to an EKG, it would have been doing the mambo, but I tried not to show it.
“The murder? How—how do you know?”
“I knew tsarevich. I was there.” I did the math. If this guy was over one hundred years old … Yeah, I guess he could be telling the truth. And he was Russian.
I sat down across from him, ready to listen.
Vasily Filatov leaned back in his wheelchair, as if just trying to remember things took all of his energy. His eyes glazed over. It was like he’d gone into some kind of trance.
“Twenty-three stairs. Twenty-three stairs they go down to basement room at House of Special Purpose. Tsar carry Alexei in his arms. Tsarina walk with cane, her back hurts. In room, tsarina says to Yurovsky, ‘Why is there no chair here? What, may we not sit?’ So two chairs brought in: one for tsarina, other for Alexei. Family, servants, line up against wall, like posing for photograph. Yurovsky says, ‘You must wait here for arrival of truck.’ They think they will be taken to safe place. They do not suspect truth—but Alexei, he knows.”
I nodded at him to continue, bracing myself—wanting to hear, dreading to hear.
“Yurovsky goes to check on truck. He returns—with nine, maybe ten men. Then Yurovsky order prisoners to stand. He take crinkled piece of paper from pocket, reads to them: ‘In view of fact that your relatives continue their offensive against Soviet Russia, Presidium of Ural Soviet decide to sentence you to death.’ Tsar says, ‘Lord, oh, my God! Oh, my God, what is this?’ Tsar turns to face family. Oh, my God! No!’ All confused. Doctor Botkin says: ‘So we are not to be taken anywhere?’ Tsar turns back to Yurovsky. ‘I can’t understand you. Read it again, please.’ Yurovsky reads order again. Tsarina and Olga cross themselves. ‘What?’ Tsar says. ‘What?’
“‘This!’ Yurovsky says, pulling pistol from pocket. Then … bullets fly everywhere, deafening, smoke, screams—oh, the screams! My papa fall forward, I grab for him—”
As his voice broke off, tears rolled down the dry creases in the old man’s face like rain in the desert. He pounded his clenched fist on the arm of his wheelchair.
“My God, I was useless—useless!”
The old man bent his head, covering his face with both hands, while his bony torso shook with his sobs. I put my hand on his shoulder.
At last he looked up at me, blue eyes washed with tears and suddenly as clear as a young boy’s.
“I am Alexei Romanov.”
“No!” I pulled away, stumbling, as the old man reached for my hand. “What? You think this is some kind of joke? You think this is funny?”
“Varda—my dear! Please—don’t go!”
He held out his open hands to me. Wheeling on him furiously, I crouched down low so I could look him right in his lying eyes.
“People died—do you understand? Real people, with real feelings—and real relatives who loved them. You can’t go around pretending—pretending like this is some kind of stupid game!”
“So I am liar. All right, believe this if you want to believe. But sit, listen to story. Make good story, old man’s story. Please. Listen … is all I ask.”
Well, he was one hundred and six. And a hemophiliac. I figured it wouldn’t cost me much to humor him. I looked at my watch.
“Lunch’ll be over soon. I’ll give you ten minutes,” I said, pulling up a chair.
He smiled, with the few teeth he had left.
“Will only take five.”
He pressed his hands together, like for making a prayer.
“They found bones of tsar, his family, servants killed with them in Ekaterinburg. Da?”
“Yes, in the forest about thirty years ago.”
“Were bones of Alexei ever found?”
I said nothing.
“Were they?”
“That—that doesn’t prove anything!”
“Night of murder, firing squad shoots, bullets bounce off Romanovs’ bodies. Murderers in shock, terrified—What means this? Does God protect royal children? Is family immortal? When shooting stops, I hear terrible moans. My parents, they were already in heaven. But my sisters and I—we were still alive!”
“After a firing squad? How?”
“So much smoke, noise, screams, confusion—like scene from hell, oh, you cannot imagine! Ten men, maybe more, shoot at eleven people in small room—this not firing squad, this chaos. They cannot see who they are shooting. But most of reason we survive was candy and medicines.”
“What?”
“That’s what Mama called our jewels. Before murders, girls sewed family diamonds into their corsets, underclothing, the pillows Anna hold. And more diamonds inside my jacket. Bullets don’t go through diamonds. Killers see my sisters still alive, know must finish them off. So they fix bayonets to rifles, and—”
He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “Forgive, please. That part, so horrible, I cannot speak.”
“I understand.”
“Men check bodies, make sure all are dead. Then through gunsmoke, I see one man, he’s moving toward me. He watches my chest rise, fall—sees I still breathe. He aims gun close, only a foot from my chest. Fires one shot. BOOM! I feel hard hit in chest. I think I am dead, join family in heaven, da? But something in breast pocket blocks bullet. I find—I still breathe. I don’t dare move, shut my eyes, pretend to be dead.”
His voice grew weak. I leaned closer, straining to hear.
“They wrapped us in sheets, carry bodies to truck waiting outside. Drive truck through Koptyaki forest. The White Nights are over, is now dark as black bread. Road is rough, and muddy from rain. With every bump, my heart, my body, cries out in pain—but I make sure no cry come from my lips. The truck’s engine make noise, it stalls, we are stuck in mud. They unload the bodies from the back. And when they go look for another truck—this, this is when I escape. I hide under bridge near railroad tracks, then follow tracks to Shartash station, next town. Only a few miles. There I spot Papa’s former grenadier, Kabanov, guard from House of Special Purpose. He had run away too, unwilling to shoot us. And he helped me, bring me to his mama’s house. They take care of me.”
I stared at him, thinking. Could it be true? At last I sighed, shaking my head.
“You do not believe me, da? I do not blame! Who would believe story? When I tell people I am Tsarevich Alexei Romanov, the Soviets think boy is crazy, put me in—how do you say? My English now is very poor.”
“Asylum. Mental institution.”
“Da! Was there for many year. They forget all about me. Even when Bolsheviks no longer in power. I write many letters, no one listen. So I begin to lie. I say I am only Vasily Filatov, not tsarevich. Doctors decide I am sane. But I still can’t get out—commitment papers, they are long lost. Maybe could have bribed my way out—with diamonds sewn inside jacket. But they were all I had left of my family! Finally, write directly to Russian president, wheels of bureaucracy turn. Last week, they let me go. Russian president saw my medical records, tells American scientists I am hemophiliac, one hundred and six years old. ‘Wonder man,’ how does he survive so long with terrible disease? Is medical miracle
! Of course I control my bleeding with mind, as Father Grigory did; is very rare ability, but is no miracle. Only God can make miracle. American scientists invite me here. I knew I find Varda here too.”
I looked at my watch and stood up.
“Your five minutes are almost up. Look, I’m not saying I believe any of this. But if you’re Alexei, you could have traveled into the future. Anytime you wanted! How come you didn’t just escape after your family was dead? Why didn’t you come to me?”
“I wanted to! I try—God, again and again! But after beautiful family murdered in front of my eyes, I was alive, da—but something within me was dead. It change me forever. The magic not work anymore.”
I really didn’t know what to say. But I could see that to him, his story was real.
“I’m sorry about your—I mean, it was terrible what happened to Alexei and his family. I can see you’re really sad about it. No matter who you are.” I looked at my watch. “Look, nice meeting you. There’s another lecture about to start. I gotta go. I’ll take you back to the auditorium, okay?”
I walked behind his chair and started wheeling him toward the door.
“Mr. Filatov? Don’t be mad at me. Let’s shake hands. Look, it was a great story, okay?”
His head was resting on his chest, he seemed to be sleeping again.
But he wasn’t breathing.
I shook him.
“My God—Mr. Filatov!”
His lifeless hand opened, and an object tumbled from it: A Kevlar cell phone, dented by the bullet lodged in it, with the initials VER and a double helix.
I fell to my knees.
“Oh, my darling Alexei!”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Alexei Nikolaevich Romanov, the last tsarevich of Russia, was born in 1904. After four girls were born to the royal couple, the country finally had an heir, and his arrival was greeted with great joy. But within the royal household that joy soon turned to sorrow. Within six weeks of his birth, Alexei began bleeding at the place where his umbilical cord had been cut, severing him from his mother. It was immediately clear to royal court physician Dr. Botkin that the boy had inherited the tragic disease of hemophilia—which came from Tsarina Alexandra’s side of the family.
Tsarevich Alexei, his parents, Tsar Nicholas II and Tsarina Alexandra (“Alix”), and his sisters, Grand Duchesses Olga, Tatiana, Marie (“Mashka”), and Anastasia, were the central figures in the last imperial family of the three-hundred-year dynasty of Romanov tsars who had ruled Russia. Some descendants of the Romanovs are still alive today, but they do not rule Russia, which now elects its leaders.
Nicholas Romanov, Alexei’s father, was a well-intentioned man who adored his family. He and his wife Alix had one of the greatest loves of any royal couple known to history. They suited each other perfectly—where he was weak, she was strong—and where she was weak, he was strong.
But Nicky (as his wife called him) was rather shy, did not like confrontations, and viewed the Russian people like children for whom the tsar was “father.” Nicky often said he was “just a plain, simple man,” and wished he could be a simple farmer instead of an emperor. He was easily influenced, and it was once said of him: “Tsar Nicholas is like a feather pillow, he bore the impression of the last person to sit on him.” So he was temperamentally unsuited to be a modern twentieth-century leader. He never seemed to fully understand just how angry many peasants and workers eventually became at their Russian leaders, and at him in particular. The people’s main complaints included lack of ownership of land for peasants, food shortages, and unsafe working conditions, low pay, and long hours for workers in factories. Others, especially the educated classes, wanted political and civil rights. Russian Jews were forced to live in ghettos called shtetls, were restricted to certain professions, and were victims of pogroms—mass murders instigated by, or given tacit approval by, the government. There is much evidence that Nicholas II approved of the persecution of Jews, though he did not personally order Jewish massacres.
My own grandmother, a Jewess, fled Russia-Poland as a child around 1911, and came to the United States. Nicholas’s grandfather, Alexander II, had been a reformer—so when Alexander was assassinated by a terrorist, the Romanov family concluded that it was better to crack down and be autocratic rulers than to allow the people more freedoms. Alexander’s successor, Nicholas’s father (Alexander III), ruled Russia with a strong hand. But when Nicholas himself became tsar in 1894, Russia was modernizing and changing—and to many Russians the monarchy seemed a thing of the past. Nicholas was not a strong ruler as his father had been, and could not adjust to these rapid changes.
When war came to Russia—in 1904-1905 with the Russo-Japanese war, and again in 1914-1918 with World War I—the common people of Russia had to endure starvation, fuel shortages, and catastrophic loss of life in battle, while the rich (including the tsar and his family) seemed almost untouched by these tragedies. During both wars, revolutions erupted in Russia, including workers’ strikes, disruption of train service, and violence.
In 1905, Father Georgii Gapon led a peaceful march to the Winter Palace, to appeal to the tsar for help for the starving workers of Russia, and present him with a petition. The tsar’s military commanders ordered the soldiers to fire upon the crowd of peaceful demonstrators. Between one hundred fifty and two hundred Russian people were massacred, and hundreds more wounded, in this tragic event that came to be known as “Bloody Sunday,” and Nicholas was thereafter known as “Bloody Nicholas.” He did not order the murder of Father Gapon’s demonstrators. But the night before the march, Nicholas, who was at Tsarskoye Selo at the time, was told about the planned demonstration and the military’s preparations to block it. He chose to remain away from St. Petersburg on the day of the demonstration, and he did nothing to prevent his military and police from using whatever force they thought necessary against the marchers. Nicholas was genuinely horrified by the bloodshed that resulted (“Lord, how painful and sad this is!” he wrote in his diary)—but it was too late. The people rose up in anger against their tsar.
In hopes of stopping the revolution, Tsar Nicholas reluctantly agreed to establish an elected legislature called the Duma (similar to the British parliament). Although some strikes and unrest continued, this seemed to satisfy the people for a while. The war with Japan ended in a defeat for Russia, and Prime Minister Stolypin instituted some reforms that would enable more peasants to own the land that they worked on. During the first revolution, in 1905, the army stayed loyal to the tsar, the unpopular war with Japan ended, and the revolutionaries were disorganized—so the Russian people were ultimately not successful in overthrowing the imperial government. And things calmed down for a while.
However, the Russian royal family remained fearful of assassination attempts in the wake of the 1905 revolution. So after the murder of his Uncle Serge (husband to Alix’s sister, Ella), Nicky and his family spent more and more of their time in the relative safety of the Alexander Palace at Tsarskoye Selo, about fifteen miles from the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg. They lived there as a close and happy family, their contentment marred only by the bleeding episodes of young Alexei, who was carried by his sailor-nannies, Nagorny and Derevenko, whenever he was unable to walk. When the boy was well, he was tutored by Pierre Gilliard,‡ Sydney Gibbes, and Peter Petrov.
The royal family rarely went out in public, and seemed not to understand the deep discontent growing among their people. When World War I came, costing many Russian lives, the people were loyal to the tsar at first, but eventually as things got worse and the war dragged on, they could no longer endure the hardships they suffered, and they rose up in revolution. During the February Revolution (1917) a provisional government took over Russia in a coup, and forced Nicholas to abdicate his throne. At first he abdicated in favor of Alexei, but when the doctor explained to him that his hemophiliac son would not be likely to live a normal life span, Nicky abdicated in favor of his brother Michael. (“We bequeath Our inheritance to Our
brother the Grand Duke Mikhail Alexandrovich and give him Our Blessing on his accession to the throne”) Under pressure from the revolutionaries to step aside, Michael signed a manifesto agreeing to accept the throne “only if such is the will of our great people, who must now by universal suffrage and through their representatives in the Constituent Assembly establish a form of government and new fundamental laws of the Russian State.” But no such vote happened, and some historians say that if one can claim that Michael ever became tsar at all, it was only for a single day. The provisional government, led by Alexander Kerensky, remained in charge.
Nicky’s family was kept under house arrest at Tsarskoye Selo from March 1917 until August 1917. After that, the family was moved to Tobolsk, Siberia—supposedly for their own safety, since the provisional government was now being challenged by the Bolsheviks (communists) led by Vladimir Lenin. The Bolsheviks took power in a coup that began in October 1917 and came to be known as the October Revolution. Their harsh Cheka (or All-Russian Extraordinary Commission for Combatting Counter-Revolution and Sabotage)—the Bolsheviks’ secret police—helped the Bolsheviks keep control of the new government. But the Bolsheviks were never in a clear majority, and they had many enemies.
After the Bolsheviks signed a peace treaty with Germany (Treaty of Brest-Litovsk in early 1918), which angered many Russians who felt their leaders had “sold out” to an imperialist enemy, the Bolsheviks’ power in Russia was challenged again in a civil war. Using Trotsky’s tough and well-organized Red Army, the Bolsheviks struggled to keep control of the government—but they were opposed by a number of forces. Most important among these were the government and armies led at first by the Socialist Revolutionaries (moderate socialists), and then the White armies and governments led by Imperial military officers and nobles. All these groups and others tried to force the Bolsheviks out of power. None wanted a return of tsarism, but they also did not want the kind of communist government that the Bolsheviks wanted for Russia.