The Last Tsar

by Edvard Radzinsky

  Everyone knew it. At a dinner in the home of Grand Duke Nicholas Nikolaevich, his wife, the Montenegrin Princess Stana, kept exclaiming as if inspired: “Before the end of the month we will have war. Our armies will meet in Berlin. Germany will be destroyed.” Only a look from the tsar interrupted this prophecy.

  War. This was her trap. Now Alix constantly had to demonstrate her patriotism and her hatred for Uncle Willy and Germany.

  Her brother Ernie lived in Germany, though, and he was going to have to fight her husband. Her homeland would send its sons to fight her new country. And of course, war would give her enemies, her many enemies, a terrible ace. She was already hearing the future whisper “German!” behind her back. But all this was in the inmost recesses of her soul. The only person who could read her soul was the Siberian muzhik, who understood immediately. He was the chief opponent of war with Germany. Over and over again he repeated the potential misfortunes and whispered terrible prophecies.

  Rasputin had one other secret: he always said what she wanted to hear. Including what she kept deeply hidden and did not dare utter even to herself. He said it for her.

  Rasputin was the sole figure who could have averted war at that time. She could have cited him as the voice of God and the people. She could have entreated Nicholas to listen to him.

  Rasputin, however, lay wounded in a distant Siberian village.

  The day after the state dinner with the French president, under a hot, threatening sky, 60,000 men engaged in military exercises. In the evening there was a farewell dinner on board the France, and a military orchestra played marches. With a convulsive smile Alix listened to the frenzied allegro. Once again, the French ambassador described the scene in his diary: With a suffering, somehow pleading face, she begged the ambassador, “Couldn’t you possibly….” Paléologue guessed and with a gesture of his hand asked the orchestra to stop. She was on the verge of hysterics. Olga rushed over to her.

  The Gulf of Finland was lit by the moon, and the battleship’s shadow lay on the water.

  From Nicholas’s diary:

  “19 July, 1914. After breakfast summoned Nikolasha [Nicholas Nikolaevich] and informed him of his appointment as commander-in-chief until I could join the army.… At 6.30 went to vespers. Upon my return I learned that Germany had declared war on us….

  “20 July. A good day in particular in the sense of an upsurge of spirit. At 2.30 set out on the Alexandria to Petr[ograd] and took a cutter directly to the Winter Palace. Signed the declaration of war. From the [Hall of] Malachite, we went out into St. Nicholas Hall, in the middle of which the declaration was read. Then public prayers were said.… The entire hall sang ‘Save Us, Lord’ and ‘Many Years.’ I said a few words. Upon our return the ladies rushed to kiss our hands and rather wore Alix and myself out.… Then we went out on the balcony on Alexander Square and bowed to the enormous mass of people.… At about 6 we went out onto the embankment to the cutter through a large crowd of officers and public. We returned to Peterhof at 7.15 and spent a quiet evening….

  “23. In the morning learned good news: England has declared war on Germany….

  “24. Austria has finally declared war on us. Now the situation is quite clear.”

  Thus began the war that destroyed an empire.

  On December 31, he looked back as usual on the year just past:

  “We prayed to the Lord God to give us victory in the coming year and a quiet, tranquil life after that. Oh Lord, bless and strengthen our incomparable, valorous, and uncomplaining host for further victories.”

  What about Rasputin? Once recovered from his wound he sent telegrams. Subsequently a great deal would be written about a certain mysterious telegram to the empress in which Rasputin predicted ruin and misery in war.

  Alix herself later believed this and in Tobolsk talked of the mysterious telegram. But in the notebook of the holy man’s utterances, I found some very different telegrams from those days:

  On July 19, the holy man wrote a telegram predicting peace: “I believe in, I hope for, peaceful rest. A great crime is being undertaken, we are not participants.”

  But the prediction did not come true; war began—and Grigory predicted victory. Yes, as always, he predicted what his masters wanted to hear.

  July 20, 1914: “The criminals shall receive all evil and cunning a hundredfold.… Strong is the Lord’s grace, beneath its shelter we shall remain in greatness.”

  But when he returned to Petersburg and sensed Alix’s casting about, Rasputin attempted to revive his apocalyptic predictions. Nicholas forbade him to visit the palace. As always, the Holy Devil did a turnabout just in time. Now he was declaring to his admirers: “I am glad about this war. It will rid us of two great evils: drunkenness and German friendship.”

  Chapter 7

  A NOVEL IN LETTERS

  The German embassies were burned. The Literary and Artistic Circle expelled anyone with a German name. The future Prime Minister Boris Stürmer considered changing his German name. Petersburg was renamed Petrograd.

  All debates in the Duma were forgotten. Unity, unity! All discord in the large Romanov family was forgotten.

  To his joy, now, during this national war, Nicholas gained the right to pardon—and his brother Misha returned to Russia. Only to perish there a few years later. Unity, unity!

  The story of his great-grandfather flickered before him: like the war with Napoleon, this would be a patriotic war. The entire people. Unity, unity! He set out for Moscow, the ancient capital, the symbol of the Fatherland.

  The Kremlin. The emperor and the family entered the white marble St. George Hall, Alexei (as usual he was sick, having hurt his leg) carried by his sailor-companion; alongside the tsaritsa was her sister Ella.

  Maurice Paléologue recorded the emperor’s inspired words: “A magnificent impulse has gripped all Russia, without distinction for tribe or nationality. Hence, from the heart of the Russian land, I send my valiant warriors fervent greeting. God is with us!”

  Outside Assumption Cathedral, by the bell tower of Ivan the Great, there were immense crowds. The bell chimes drowned out their ecstatic cries, and the marshal of the court, Count Benckendorff, gazing at the smiling crowd, spoke triumphantly and mockingly: “Here’s the revolution they promised us in Berlin!”

  Yes, warnings had come from Berlin: if there is war, it may well end in revolution in Russia. Actually, there had been many such warnings earlier as well, at the very start of Nicholas’s reign. But now all was forgotten: smiling shouts—the people were greeting the tsar’s family. There was joy on Alix’s face, for the first time in many months. Her dream had come true. How unexpectedly it had been achieved, this long-awaited unity—the people and the tsar!

  In the golden dusk of the ancient Assumption Cathedral, the trembling flames of candles, court singers in silver garments from the sixteenth century, the source of the Romanov dynasty. The Divine Liturgy was read, and the precious stones on the brocade of the clergy’s vestments flickered in the candlelight.

  In just three years, lost in wintry Siberia, they would recall this ringing of bells, this ecstasy of the people at the sight of their emperor.

  “Official and private information reaching me from all over Russia is one and the same. The same popular exclamations and reverential zeal, the same rallying around the tsar.… No dissent whatsoever. The difficult days of 1905 seem to have been crossed out of their minds. Holy Russia’s collective soul has not expressed such power since 1812,” wrote the French ambassador.

  On what a triumphant note this epilogue began.

  “Everything has been closed up, all the revolutions have hidden themselves away, everyone’s thoughts are of common service to the Homeland. One breathes very easily in this pure atmosphere, which has become almost unknown among us,” wrote a Duma deputy.

  In 1914 sadness bordering on despair reigned among the Bolshevik revolutionaries.

  The Bolshevik leaders were scattered across the world: Lenin, Zinoviev, and Trots
ky were in hopeless emigration. Actually, no one in Russia gave them the slightest thought now, except maybe the police.

  Apathy and hopelessness had gripped the exiled revolutionaries. A most curious company gathered that year in Turukhansk exile: a certain young Georgian spent entire days on his cot, his face to the wall. He had stopped taking care of himself, had even stopped washing his dishes, and the dog licked his plate. His name was Joseph, and one of his party names was Stalin. In just four years he would be living behind the Kremlin Wall, right where the tsar and his family were now.

  Here was another resident of Turukhansk exile. He too had fallen into a severe depression. Then, in September 1914, another exiled Bolshevik, Sverdlov, ran into him here. Sverdlov was linked with him not only by a commonality of views but also by an old and fond friendship. It was with chagrin that Sverdlov wrote his wife: “I spent a few days with George. He’s not doing very well.… It is absolutely impossible for him to live away from turbulent activity. We need to find some outlet for his energy.”

  “George” was one of Goloshchekin’s party names. Thus two old friends met in Turukhansk—Goloshchekin and Sverdlov, the two future organizers of the execution of the tsar and his family.

  And Ekaterinburg, where the last tsar parted with his life, would be renamed Sverdlovsk after one of these two friends now in exile.

  Grand Duke Nicholas Nikolaevich became commander-in-chief, and soon afterward the Tsar of All the Russias set out for the front to join the army, to Headquarters at Baranovitchi.

  The tsar went to war, and the tsaritsa wrote him letters. “The tsar went to war”—that is how fairy tales used to start. Once upon a time, in another century, preparing to become the rulers of the country, they had written each other endless letters. Now, on the eve of his farewell to the throne, everything was repeating itself. Between these two streams of letters lay their entire life. A life that did not require them to resort to the pen, for in twenty years of marriage they had rarely been apart. And here it was: war.

  As once before, they wrote each other in English. Many years had passed since she had come to Russia, but she still thought in the language of her grandmother Victoria. She placed a cross at the end of her letters: “Save and protect.”

  “I REREAD YOUR LETTERS AND TRY TO IMAGINE IT IS MY BELOVED TALKING TO ME”

  In their letters, they carried on a conversation. Here I take snatches from their vanished speech.

  She: “Ts[arskoe] S[elo], Sept. 19th 1914. My own, my very own sweet One. I am so happy for you that you can at last manage to go, as I know how deeply you have been suffering all this time—yr. restless sleep has been even a proof of it.… Except all I go through with you & our beloved country & men I suffer for my ‘small old home’ & her troops & Ernie.… egoistically I suffer horribly to be separated—we are not accustomed to it & I do so endlessly love my very own precious Boysy dear. Soon 20 years that I belong to you & what bliss it has been….

  “Sept. 20th 1914. Oh, my love! It was hard bidding you goodbye and seeing that lonely pale face with big sad eyes at the waggon-window—my heart cried out, take me with you.… I came home and then broke down, prayed—then lay down and smoked to get myself into order. When eyes looked more decent I went up to Alexei and lay for a time near him on the sopha in the dark.”

  He: “Headquarters, 22 September, 1914.… How terrible it was parting from you and the dear children, though I knew that it was not for long. The first night I slept badly, because the engines jerked the train roughly at each station. I arrived here the next day at 5.30; it was cold and raining hard. Nicolasha met me at the station at Baranovitchi….

  “[The officers] made a long and interesting report to me in their train, where, as I expected, the heat was terrible!…

  “Beloved mine, I kiss you again and again.… I am quite free and have time to think of my Wify and my family. It is strange, but it is so.”

  She: “Sept. 24th, 1914.… Sweetheart, I hope you sleep better now, I cannot say that of myself, the brain seems to be working all the time and never wanting to rest. Hundreds of ideas and combinations come bothering one—I reread your dear letters several times and try to think its Lovy speaking to me. Somehow we see so little of each other, you are so much occupied and one does not like to bother with questions when you are tired after your reports and then we are never alone together….

  “25th.… This miserable war, when will it ever end. William, I feel sure must at times pass through hideous moments of despair, when he grasps that it was he, and especially his antirussian set, wh. began the war and is dragging his country into ruin. All those little states, for years they will continue suffering from the aftereffects. It makes my heart bleed when I think of how hard Papa and Ernie struggled to bring our little country to its present state of prosperity.… Prayers and implicit trust in God’s mercy alone, give one strength to bear all. And our Friend helps you carry yr. heavy cross and great responsibilities—and all will come right, as the right is on our side.” (“Our Friend,” “Gr.,” or “He”—this is what she called the Holy Devil in her correspondence. This third party was constantly present. She would mention him hundreds of times in her letters.)

  Nicholas returned to Tsarskoe Selo. And soon again—“the tsar went to war.” As always, in the train car he found her letter. It was a ritual.

  She: “Oct. 20th.… Twenty years to-morrow that you reign & I became orthodox! How the years have flown, how much we have lived through together….

  “Oct. 22nd 1914.… How vile one having thrown bombs from aeroplans on to King Albert’s [the Belgian king] Villa.… thank God no harm was done but I have never known one trying to kill a sovereign because he is one’s enemy during the war!” (They were still living in the nineteenth century, and the new iron age shocked them.)

  “Oct. 24th 1914.… There were many wounded … one officer had been 4 days in Olga’s hospital and said there was not such a second sister.”

  Now the empress was working in the hospital alongside her daughters.

  “Oct. 27th 1914.… Oh this miserable war! At moments one cannot bear it any more, the misery & bloodshed break one’s heart.… All over the world losses! Well, some good must come out of it, & they wont all have shed their blood in vain. Life is difficult to understand—It must be so—have patience; that is all one can say—One does so long for quiet happy times again! But we shall have long to wait.”

  He: “27 October, 1914.… At last I am able to write a few lines.… I found old Petyusha [Prince Peter of Oldenburg, husband to the tsar’s sister Olga].… They spent three hours under the fire of the Austrian heavy artillery.… Petya conducted himself with the utmost coolness and requests an award for himself; I therefore gave him the Arms of St. George, which made him nearly mad [with joy].… I had the pleasure of spending the whole of Saturday with Misha, who has become quite his old self and is again charming.”

  Yes, Michael Alexandrovich and his wife, who now bore the title Countess Brasova, were back. Misha would receive the Cross of St. George, commanding an irregular cavalry. They were alike, Nicky and Misha. They both loved their wives very much, and Misha, like Nicky, worried about his wife’s nerves; Countess Brasova had not forgiven her humiliation. Her salon would open the doors wide to the Duma’s left-wing deputies. “In court circles she is even accused of betraying tsarism.… She says things for which someone else would have been sentenced to twenty years in Siberia,” wrote Paléologue.

  Again Nicky is at Tsarskoe Selo, only soon, once again….

  She: “Nov. 17th 1914.… Once more the hour of separation has come—& always equally hard to bear … when you are gone … a bit of my life gone—we make one.… You always bring revival as our Friend says … comforting to know His prayers follow you—It is good you can have a thorough talk with N[icholas Nikolaevich] & tell him your opinion of some people & give him some ideas.”

  News had already reached “our Friend” that the commander-in-chief was gathering evidence against
him. He complained to “Mama”—and now Alix asked Nicholas to suggest “a few ideas” to the commander-in-chief.

  She: “Our last night together, its horribly lonely without you—and so silent—nobody lives in this story. Holy angels guard you.”

  He: “18 November, 1914. My beloved Sunny and darling Wify.… I have read your sweet, tender letter with moist eyes. This time I succeeded in keeping myself in hand at the moment of parting, but it was a hard struggle.… My love, I miss you terribly—more than I can express in words.… I shall try to write very often, as, to my amazement, I have come to the conclusion that I can write while the train is in motion. My hanging trapeze has proved very practical and useful. I swung on it many times and climbed up it before meals. It is really an excellent thing for the train, it stirs up the blood and the whole organism.”

  From the letter of Konstantin Sheboldaev, a pensioner who had worked for the Ministry of Internal Affairs:

  “When I arrived in Sverdlovsk I was shown the Ipatiev house. At that time it was already a special attraction, for the select—visit the house where the tsar’s family was shot. By the way, near the fence they showed me the place where he had his trapeze. When he arrived he immediately hung it and began swinging. His feet went high over the fence. At that moment they immediately decided to put up a double fence.”

  She: “No. 19.… Nov. 20th 1914. There is a belated gnat flying around my head whilst I am writing to you.… Dearest Beloved—I kiss yr. cushion morn and evening and bless it and long for its treasured master.… It’s quite mild weather. Baby is going in his motor and then Olga … will take him to the big palace to see the officers who are impatient for him. I am too tired to go and we have at 5¼ an amputation … in the big hospital.… My nose is full of hideous smells from those blood-poisoning wounds.”

  “HOW CLOSE DEATH IS ALWAYS”