The Secret Wife

by Gill Paul

  Back at the cabin she read Vera’s translation on her laptop. Some entries referred to people she didn’t know:

  March 22nd, Friday.

  I wrote to Aunt Ella in Perm. We have such happy memories of the parties she took us to, but looking back we were raw and uncouth, like country cousins. We huddled together not knowing how to talk to anyone, and the other guests avoided us, unsure how to introduce themselves. I pray Ella is safe and sound, and Grandmamma, and everyone else. I miss them all terribly. We have been captives for over a year now, our fate in God’s hands. I remain hopeful, although it seems our future will not be in Russia. I think I can be happy anywhere so long as M is with me.

  Who was M? Kitty wondered. Her sister Maria? And which side of the family was Aunt Ella from? The entry finished:

  At 8 o’clock in the morning we went to obednitza, and after dinner had vechernaya then Confessions in the hall. I read more of Anna Karenina before bedtime and keep wanting to give her a good shake! Vronsky was not worthy of her.

  Kitty laughed. She had often felt the same way about the gullible heroine of Tolstoy’s classic. As she read on, she got a sense of someone with a girlishness about her, yet at the same time a sense of responsibility for those around her. And although she didn’t say as much, Kitty could tell she was anxious.

  A week later another batch arrived from Vera, covering the months of April and May 1918.

  8th April, Sunday.

  Papa is upset because a new directive from the Red Guards forbids him and Alexei from wearing their epaulettes. It is ridiculous because no one can see us now that we are banned from leaving the grounds. I tried to commiserate but Papa never discusses our predicament. Perhaps he talks to Mama, but certainly not to me. Olga is sunk into depression and Maria and Anastasia seem not to comprehend our situation as they fight and play and fight again regardless of whether the guards are watching. Mama and Alexei are obsessed by their symptoms, and I can understand that with no distractions it is easy to think of nothing else, but I wish they would try. Forgive me my tetchiness this evening, dear diary. I hope it will evaporate overnight and I will wake in the morning with a soul of pure compassion.

  In the early days of May, Tatiana described the tortuous journey they were forced to make from Tobolsk to Ekaterinburg. It seemed to have taken a week, which surprised Kitty because according to Vera’s book the distance was only about three hundred miles.

  Each jolt of the carriage makes Alexei gasp with pain. I know the driver can hear and is doing his best to avoid the biggest holes, but the road is in poor condition at this time of year straight after the thaw. I hope it was easier for Mama, Papa and Maria, when the ground was still hard with ice. If only we had been able to travel with them.

  She wrote of their joy in joining their family in Ekaterinburg and described the accommodation:

  OTMA [a note from Vera explained that this was the acronym the girls used to refer to all four of them] shares a room with floral wallpaper and an oriental-style rug. We do not have beds yet but are sleeping on the floor on our piled-up coats … In the afternoon we sat for half an hour in the garden, where there are beautiful lilac and honeysuckle bushes. It was a shame to come indoors where the air is stuffy and the heat intense. Some nuns sent eggs and cream to build up Alexei’s strength, and it is encouraging to know there are good people in this town who are thinking of us.

  On the 19th of May there was a strange entry about an eye in the fence. Vera wrote that she had translated it literally but wondered if it might perhaps be an obscure metaphor, possibly religious, with which she was not familiar:

  I don’t know what made me notice it, because we were several feet away, but there was a flicker that drew my attention. At first I thought I must be imagining it, then I supposed it must be a child because it is at the level of my chest, but there was something about the way it seemed to follow me that was familiar. And then I made the joyful discovery!

  The entry finished right there and Kitty found herself as mystified as Vera had been. What was the discovery? It was frustrating reading a ninety-eight-year-old diary. At one moment she would begin to feel she was getting to know Tatiana and then some oblique reference made her realise that she knew next to nothing.

  14 June, Thursday.

  Papa has run out of tobacco and is irascible as a result. I went to speak with Anton, one of the guards, to ask if some might be found, and he made the most obscene request I have ever heard. If M were to hear of it, he would kill him on the spot.

  The mysterious M again, and he seemed to be a man. She had no idea of his identity and supposed Tatiana disguised his name in case the guards demanded to read her diary.

  Kitty knew from one of Vera’s books that the girls had sewn their jewels into the seams and linings of their clothes, to protect them from the guards’ pilfering, but there was no mention of this in her diary. She imagined it would have been uncomfortable to sit down while wearing a garment with jewels in its seams.

  They must have been scared witless during those months of waiting to learn their fate but within the diary there was a focus on the daily routine of meals, prayers, exercise and reading. It was a quiet life.

  When the final batch of translation came through, Kitty skipped ghoulishly to the last entry. It was dated Sunday 14th July and the tone was sombre.

  Father Storozhev came to conduct a service today with his deacon Buimirov. We were pleased to see him because it has been a long time since we took communion. He sang ‘At Rest with the Saints’ [Vera inserted a note that this was the Russian Orthodox prayer for the departed] and feeling the relevance of the words ‘Give rest, o Christ, to the souls of your servants where there is no sickness nor sorrow nor sighing, but life everlasting’ we all fell to our knees – apart from Alexei, of course, who cannot get out of his chair. None of us joined in the responses to the liturgy but at the end we came forward to kiss the cross and Mama and Papa took the sacrament. As Storozhev left, I whispered thank you to him. I can’t say why but I have a feeling we will not see him again.

  After that Tatiana had copied out some words that Vera said were those of a Russian holy man, Ioann of Kronstadt: ‘Your grief is indescribable, the Saviour’s grief in the Gardens of Gethsemane for the world’s sins is immeasurable, join your grief to his, in it you will find consolation.’

  According to the history books none of them had any idea they had just two days to live, but something about the tone of this entry made Kitty wonder if Tatiana perhaps had an inkling.

  Chapter Thirty

  Ekaterinburg, Russia, 26th June 1918

  Dmitri worked non-stop over the next three weeks while setting his plans in motion. He booked rooms to accommodate the twenty men he hoped Malevich would bring with him. Housing them all in one place would have raised suspicion so he chose lodgings spread around town and reserved two or three rooms in each. Henry Armistead would stay with Sir Thomas Preston, as he had on previous occasions.

  When the two thousand roubles arrived from Dmitri’s mother, he took the cash and went to visit the farmer, Piotr Tolmachev. They sat at his kitchen table, where a sheepdog nuzzled up to Dmitri’s thigh, trying to ingratiate itself, as he placed the bag of money on the table and opened the top.

  ‘What I want,’ he said, ‘is for your daughter to provide me with a plan of the inside of the house: where the family live, and where the guards are stationed. We need to know everything about the security arrangements.’

  The farmer’s eyes were transfixed by the glimpse of banknotes, and he nodded in agreement. ‘No problem, my friend.’

  ‘And then I want her to switch places with Tatiana, the second-eldest Romanov girl, for just one night.’

  ‘You want what?’

  Dmitri continued calmly: ‘We need to talk to one of the family so that they understand the plans, and Tatiana has the most practical nature. Besides, your daughter resembles her in height, build and colouring.’

  The farmer’s face reddened: ‘If she wa
s discovered, she would be executed.’

  Dmitri shook his head. ‘She will not be discovered. The imperial family will be forewarned and will surround her so she looks inconspicuous. She will switch clothes with Tatiana and then switch back again the following morning. It is only one night. And in return I am offering your family the chance of a new life.’ He gestured towards the bag.

  ‘But they might not want the house cleaned two days running,’ the farmer protested.

  ‘I have noticed the women always work two mornings in a row and we will alter our plans to suit their schedule. I guarantee your daughter will only spend one night there. You have my word.’

  The farmer lent his elbow on the table, hand over his mouth, as he thought. ‘I cannot give you an answer now,’ he said at last. ‘I must discuss it with my wife and daughter.’

  ‘Be wary, my friend. The more people who know, the more likely the secret is to be revealed, and if we cannot carry out the plan I will not be able to give you the money.’ He closed the top of the bag and stood. ‘I will return the day after tomorrow, when I am sure you will have further questions for me.’

  As he rode back to his cottage, Dmitri was stricken with guilt. He knew what he planned was wrong; he knew he would be damned forever if it didn’t work out, but he could not risk Tatiana being inside the house when Malevich’s men stormed it. He would spring her free before the raid. With any luck, all would be released unharmed: the Romanovs would be spirited safely out of Russia, the farm girl Yelena would return home unsuspected, and Tolmachev could take his cash and relocate to Crimea. But he was taking the precaution of getting Tatiana out of the way in case the guards opened fire during the rescue. May God forgive him.

  When Dmitri returned to the farm two days later, Tolmachev’s wife and daughter joined them at the kitchen table.

  ‘I will tell you what I know about the house,’ Yelena agreed, ‘but I do not see how I could pass for Grand Duchess Tatiana. I am nothing like her.’

  It was true she was a rather plain, pudgy-faced girl, but her height and hair colour were right. ‘You would be surprised to learn how little we look at another’s face once we know them,’ Dmitri told her. ‘We form an impression and after that we glance into a room, see the right number of figures and think no more of it. So long as you do not engage directly in conversation with the guards, they will believe you are Tatiana because it will not occur to them to think otherwise.’

  ‘But the other cleaners will notice. They all know me.’

  ‘Can you trust them?’ Dmitri asked. ‘Or could Tatiana walk out separately at the end of the morning?’

  ‘Perhaps my friend Svetlana will help,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘We’ve both become fond of the Romanov girls.’

  ‘You will be the death of my daughter,’ the wife hissed. She was a stocky woman and Dmitri could tell Yelena would look exactly like her in another twenty years. ‘I want you to know I am against this.’

  ‘Hush,’ the farmer told her. ‘This man is vouched for by the British consulate. I trust him.’

  Dmitri felt shamed by his trust, and moved on quickly. ‘Perhaps we could talk about the house?’

  Yelena explained that the family all lived on the first floor, and she drew a plan of the rooms. She showed him where the guards took their meals, where the chapel was, and she drew a map of each of the entrances. ‘There’s a door leading down to the basement just here,’ she pointed. ‘Some of the guards sleep there.’

  Dmitri looked at her sketch and asked questions until he felt he could picture every corridor and doorway. ‘How far in advance do you know the days you will clean?’ he asked.

  ‘Only a couple of days,’ she said. ‘It is roughly once a week, although the actual dates vary. The next days will be Monday the eighth and Tuesday the ninth of July.’

  Dmitri nodded. ‘So after that it could be the fifteenth and sixteenth?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘We’ll speak again. Thank you with all my heart for this information.’

  Malevich and his ‘spruce trees’ arrived on the 10th of July and they met at Dmitri’s cottage. After they greeted each other and Dmitri handed round shots of illegal vodka he’d purchased from his landlord, they sat down to study the layout of the Ipatiev House and hear from him about the number of men in the guard posts and the hours at which the guard was changed. There were fewer guards on duty from one till five in the morning so they agreed the raid must be between those hours. The plan was to kill the external guards instantly before they could signal to waken their comrades indoors. It was made trickier because a curfew had been imposed on the town and all citizens were supposed to stay indoors after eight in the evening, but as yet it was not being strictly enforced.

  ‘We shoot for the heads,’ Malevich suggested. ‘You say the sentry posts are around twenty feet tall and we will be on the opposite side of the main road? That’s close enough range.’

  Everyone knew it was risky. There were many ways the plan could fail but they talked it over endlessly, exploring every possibility, until it seemed as foolproof as such things ever can be. Dmitri trusted Malevich with his life, and the men he’d brought were former imperial guards, trained to a far more exacting level than any common soldier. He felt a thrill at the impending action. At last he would be doing something after seventeen fruitless months of watching from the sidelines. At last Tatiana would be free.

  No one except Tolmachev, his wife and daughter knew about the plan to free Tatiana from the house. Dmitri was too ashamed to share it with Malevich or Sir Thomas. It had no strategic advantage; it was purely his own selfish scheme to keep her out of harm’s way.

  Dmitri visited the British consulate every few days and Sir Thomas confirmed that Henry Armistead was still planning to arrive on the 13th, and that he had agreed to help. As the day grew closer, Yelena confirmed that she would be working on the 15th and 16th and Dmitri asked Sir Thomas to tell Armistead the cargo would be ready for dispatch in the early hours of the 16th.

  He then wrote a note for Tatiana to warn her of what would happen. ‘We need your help to plan a rescue. On Monday, a cleaner will switch clothes with you while they are working in the house and you should leave with the other cleaners and let her take your place. Don’t be scared. I will be waiting outside.’ It was only as he wrote this that it dawned on him what a huge risk he was asking her to take. What would happen if she were discovered trying to walk out? What if a guard intercepted this note? But still, he convinced himself, it was safer than being inside the Ipatiev House during the rescue operation.

  He walked past the house on Friday the 12th, while the girls were in the yard, and looked through the knothole. Once he was sure Tatiana had spotted him, he stuck the note into the hole, so it protruded only slightly on the other side, then walked off. He turned back as he reached the street corner and could see the paper had already gone. There was no changing his mind now.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Ekaterinburg, Russia, 13th–15th July 1918

  On Saturday the 13th of July, Dmitri rode to the consulate in the afternoon hoping to meet Henry Armistead, only to be told he still had not arrived.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Sir Thomas assured him. ‘I telephoned and was told that he left yesterday, so he should be here by nightfall. Come again tomorrow.’

  The following day there was still no sign of him and no word either. Armistead must have been delayed on the journey. Dmitri felt he would explode with tension. He ran his fingers through his hair and hardly noticed when he yanked out a strand. Pain was a welcome distraction.

  He met Malevich early on Sunday evening to discuss the options.

  ‘I think we should go ahead. The arrangements are made, all the men are here,’ Dmitri argued. ‘The longer we wait, the more chance there is of something happening to them.’

  Malevich was adamantly against it. ‘There is no point freeing the Romanovs without a strategy to whisk them out of the country. They can’t get o
n a train without the railway workers reporting it. It’s too far to reach safety by road. We need Armistead’s help.’

  Dmitri had to accept he was right, but felt panicky at the thought of waiting. Anything could happen in a week.

  After their meeting, Dmitri tried calling on Sir Thomas again but there was no sign of the merchant and Sir Thomas was at a loss to explain his absence. He tried to calm the increasingly distraught Dmitri. ‘He has never let me down before. I’m sure he’ll be here tomorrow.’

  Dmitri didn’t explain to him why he was quite so agitated. Sir Thomas didn’t know that the following day Yelena would be going into the Ipatiev House to change places with Tatiana. Should Dmitri stop her? Or should he trust that Mr Armistead would appear and the plan could proceed?

  Back at his cottage, Dmitri sat up late mulling over the options until his brain was frazzled, absent-mindedly stroking the waistcoat Tatiana had knitted for him. There was still time to ride to Tolmachev’s farm and tell Yelena that the plan was delayed till the following week – but he was reluctant because he yearned so badly to see Tatiana. He had been counting the hours until he could hold her in his arms and a week seemed an impossibly long delay.

  Eventually he decided that Yelena should go ahead and make the switch. If Armistead did not arrive, it could be a trial run for the following week, giving Dmitri a chance to brief Tatiana about their plans, so the family could take cover when the rescue began. He convinced himself it made sense.

  Next morning, Dmitri watched as the party of cleaning ladies made their way into the Ipatiev House at 8 a.m., Yelena among them. He rode round the town, in an attempt to contain his extreme agitation. This was the moment when it could all go wrong. At eleven he enquired at the consulate, to be told that Mr Armistead had still not appeared, and he glanced into the exercise yard to see Tatiana strolling with her sisters. Was she going to do as he asked? She must be petrified. At twelve noon, he positioned himself on a street corner just a few houses further down Vozhnesensky Prospekt and consulted his pocket watch, wearing an old jacket and cap like a factory worker.