The Romanov Conspiracy

by Glenn Meade

  They rounded a snaking bend in the river and approached a large, imposing white-painted house with a pantiled roof. Tall wooden palings made of silver birch, at least fifteen feet high, were erected all around the garden. It created a fortified compound, sealing the property from the outside world. Yakov saw watchful guards patrol the grounds with rifles. “Can they be relied upon?”

  “They’re baying for Romanov blood, every one of them. They’d kill the entire family this minute given half the chance.”

  The gates swung open and the convoy drove into the compound.

  36

  The thirteen-year-old boy whose face was known by millions stared, fascinated, at two black beetles crawling across the garden’s wooden table. “I bet mine is faster than yours and wins the race.”

  “Bet how much?” Anastasia asked her brother.

  Alexei’s brow furrowed. He fumbled in his pocket and withdrew a polished pebble. “How about this? It’s my best stone.”

  “A stone? Don’t you ever use your noggin, Alexei? What would I want with a stone, for heaven’s sake?”

  Innocent mischief sparkled in her brother’s eyes, his head tilting to one side, offering an impish grin. “You never know when it might come in useful. To throw, and suchlike. David killed Goliath with a stone. Stones can be very useful things.”

  “That’s a pebble, not a stone.”

  “Do you want it or not? I’ll not offer it again, you know?”

  “Of course you will. You’re always offering to trade useless pieces of scrap.” Anastasia shook her head, smiled, and ruffled Alexei’s hair. “Mama’s right to call you her baby. You’re such a child, Alexei.”

  “I’m thirteen! And it’s not useless. You’re useless.” Alexei playfully slapped his sister’s arm.

  Anastasia went to slap him back but stopped. Alexei wasn’t wearing his usual khaki tunic but a patched gray shirt and sailor pants, sewn in many places, and grubby with mud. With his huge, sad blue eyes sunken into his finely chiseled face, he appeared even more gaunt than usual. Every day, he looked more like a skeleton. She felt such pity for him. Their mother—seated in the far end of the garden in her wheelchair and deep in conversation with Papa—complained that her “baby” now weighed less than eighty pounds. “You’re lucky I’m not in the mood to hit you back.”

  Her brother’s smile widened. “Lucky? You’re getting soft, Anastasia!”

  The two beetles dawdled together on the edge of the table, despite Alexei poking them with a finger.

  “You may as well use snails,” she said, bored.

  Alexei picked up the beetles and placed them in a matchbox.

  Patrolling guards passed them, flicking watchful looks. When they were out of earshot, Alexei whispered, “What do you think was in the note?”

  “I told you, I didn’t have time to read it.”

  “Maria thinks it has to be from groups loyal to Papa who want to rescue us. Do you really think they’ll rescue us, sis?” Her brother’s big, soulful eyes gazed up at her.

  She said, “I expect they will—eventually.”

  She heard singing. Her sisters, Tatiana, Olga, and Maria, strolled at the far end of the garden, arm in arm, singing a lullaby. The guards always paid them extra attention, especially when they looked pretty.

  But even Olga and Tatiana looked more and more gaunt of late, all of them worn down by their close confinement, poor diet, and the stress of not knowing what would happen to them next.

  Alexei stuffed the matchbox in his pocket. He removed a handkerchief and unwrapped a piece of sweetbread that the cook had given him that morning. He bit off a morsel before returning it to the handkerchief and stuffing it in his pocket. “Still, they’re taking an awful long time to rescue us, aren’t they?”

  “Is that a clean handkerchief?” Anastasia asked.

  “Sort of. It’s a few days old.”

  “Alexei! I saw you blowing your nose in it yesterday!”

  “It was only a little blow! It’s clean enough. Olga says the novices, Maria and Antonina, will bring us fresh bread and eggs and cheese today. What do you think?”

  “If the guards don’t take most of it.”

  Anastasia’s attention was drawn to a window in the upstairs floor of the house. The single window in their first-floor quarters that the komendant allowed to remain open. She saw a figure stare down at her.

  “What’s the matter?” Alexei asked.

  “There’s someone watching us from our quarters.”

  “You mean the komendant?”

  “No, not that idiot. It’s a man I’ve never seen before. He’s wearing a leather jacket.”

  37

  In the upstairs living quarters, Yakov observed the family through an open lime-washed window. Their voices drifted up from the patchy garden.

  Rising above the voices was singing. Three of the sisters sang a lullaby that he recognized. At one end of the garden, the frail-looking boy and the girl named Anastasia sat huddled over a garden bench. Nearby, the ex-tsar chatted with his wife, seated in a wheelchair. All of them looked a little shabby, their clothes worn.

  “You know what I found strange, Commissar?” Yurovsky, the komendant, observed.

  “What?”

  “How Russia could believe the Romanovs were like gods. But they’re not, are they? They’re no more than educated peasants.”

  Yakov thought, He’s right. What surprised him was that they seemed so ordinary.

  On the way upstairs to the family quarters, Yakov passed a stuffed mother bear and its cubs on the landing. Down in the hallway he spotted a child’s battered wheelchair.

  The komendant said, “The boy’s a cripple, really. His legs are weak, and the father carries him everywhere. A rare blood disease can cause him to bleed to death, and he’s in a lot of pain because he bruises easily. We allow the mother some ice packs to alleviate his discomfort.”

  “And his sister Anastasia?”

  “She’s the passionate one. Lots of spirit. The survivor in the family, if you ask me.”

  The komendant, Yurovsky, was a tall, well-built man with dark wavy hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He was about forty, with a thin mouth and weasel eyes. Yakov sensed a man who was incredibly cunning.

  “We confiscated a fortune in gold and jewels and precious gems from the family. It’s all locked in strongboxes. I’m certain they have more hidden on their persons. We’ll find it all, don’t worry, Commissar.”

  Yakov didn’t fail to notice the electric wires running through downstairs windows and connected to bells, part of the elaborate security system.

  The Ipatiev House was smaller inside than it appeared, the narrow corridors crammed with guards coming and going. In the living quarters, someone had placed sachets of lavender scent to mask the smells of food and stale air.

  The rooms were littered with the Romanovs’ personal belongings.

  On a table lay a sewing basket, with rolls of thread, a set of playing cards, and a chessboard; some toys belonging to the boy, including a bow and arrow; and the random trinkets children collect: a few coins, some smooth stones, and a few old buttons; bits of string.

  Yakov’s eyes were drawn to a bright object—a finely made religious travel icon—lying on a nearby side table. He took it in his hands and studied it. Made of dark mahogany, the lid was shrouded in filigree silver and covered in turquoise beads. He opened the lid and an icon of St. Michael popped up, in gilded paint. It was the kind of thing often given to children on birthdays.

  “It belongs to the daughter Anastasia, if I’m not mistaken,” the komendant offered.

  Yakov couldn’t fail to notice that the room was filled with religious objects: icons, Bibles, images of saints, prayer books.

  “The fools spend half their day praying,” the komendant observed. “They share their quarters with their doctor, Botkin, and the three servants who decided to remain loyal to their masters. Loyal idiots, they may as well not be here.”

  “Why?”r />
  “We make the Romanovs do their own housework. It keeps them in their place. The father’s days of being called Tsar Nicholas are long gone. Here he’s addressed as Nicholai Romanov, citizen.”

  Yakov laid aside the travel icon and stared down at the muddy garden.

  His hatred for the ex-tsar felt all-consuming; the sight of the man made his blood boil. For the tsar’s German wife, he felt nothing. It was the children who drew his attention like a magnet. Tatiana, Olga, and Maria looked like remarkably graceful young women. Anastasia was pretty, too, but seemed a more robust character.

  The komendant said, “One or two of the guards seemed infatuated by the girls, so I replaced them.”

  Yakov studied the boy, Alexei, and Anastasia. There was something otherworldly about all of the children, an innocence almost, as if they had been protected from the harshness of the world around them. A chill went through him.

  Can I really execute such beautiful, innocent creatures?

  And he knew the answer to that question immediately. He would follow orders.

  He snapped shut the window, felt an icy stab in his heart. He slipped the piece of paper from his tunic and lay it on the table. “Kazan explained about this latest note.”

  Yurovsky nodded. “The truth is, hardly a week goes by without some note or other being thrown over the fence from Romanov supporters or their enemies. Some are insults and threats, others suggest that help is imminent. Some I’ve had written myself.”

  “What?”

  Yurovsky grinned slyly. “Not this one, but it’s a tactic of mine, to keep up their spirits until we have no further use for them. If they lose hope, they’ll fall apart, and I can’t have that. Besides, my guards are always vigilant. These rescue notes will never come to anything.”

  Yakov folded away the note. “That’s reassuring. Nevertheless, I want to talk with the daughter Anastasia.”

  “She can be a stubborn one, so may I suggest that you talk with her father present? It might be easier to get the truth out of her. He’ll exert some influence.”

  “Very well. Summon the family.”

  Yakov waited in the office and heard the clatter of footsteps on the stairs and then a door closed. The komendant returned. “Ready whenever you are.”

  When they reached the Romanov quarters, the komendant pressed an electric bell on the wall by the door.

  It rang inside, then Yakov snatched open the door and led them into an L-shaped drawing room, the walls covered with yellow patterned wallpaper.

  Five people were crowded into the room and Yakov recognized every face.

  Gathered around a table were the former tsar and his wife, Alexandra, their son, and Olga and Tatiana. Alexei was seated in a chair. They all looked surprised to have a visitor.

  All of the family rose, except the crippled boy.

  The mother, her graying hair tied in a severe bun, looked like an anxious headmistress. Gone was any impression of the arrogance she was famous for; now her hands trembled, her eyes darted nervously.

  Many Russians mistrusted the German-born former tsarina because of her relationship with Rasputin. Others considered her a spy. Yakov thought she looked like a woman close to a nervous breakdown.

  Up close, the former tsar appeared frail and nervous. But his shoulders looked well developed from carrying the boy. In his plain gray tunic, patched uniform pants, and scuffed riding boots, it was hard to believe that this man once ruled a sixth of the world with an iron fist. Yakov thought, So much tyranny is carried out by people with innocent faces.

  “I’m Commissar Leonid Yakov. The purpose of my visit is to assess your security. I should warn you that enemy spies are at work in Ekaterinburg. For this reason it may be necessary to move you all again at short notice.”

  “May I ask to where this time?” The ex-tsar’s voice was a tired whisper, his watery blue eyes vacant.

  “That will be for others to decide. For now, I wish only to have two people in the room: Anastasia Romanov and her father. Everyone else leave,” he ordered.

  The boy held on to his father’s hand and pleaded, “Papa, I want to stay with you.”

  His father gently pried open the boy’s grip. “No, please do as you’re told, Alexei. Obey like a good soldier. That’s my boy.”

  “But Papa …”

  “No buts. You must do as I say.”

  The boy turned and gave Yakov a pleading look.

  Yakov ignored him and said to his father, “Where’s your daughter?”

  “In the next room, with her sister Maria.”

  “Fetch her. The rest of you get out of my sight.”

  38

  “May I ask why you wish to see my daughter?” A ticking clock echoed somewhere in the house as the former tsar fidgeted with his fingers, a worried father edgy with nervous energy.

  “You’ll find out soon enough.” Footsteps sounded in the hallway and a knock came on the door. “Enter,” said Yakov.

  Anastasia Romanov stepped into the room. High cheekbones and a determined mouth gave her a confident, strong-willed look.

  “I’m Commissar Yakov. Sit down.”

  “Actually, I’d prefer to stand.” She went to join her father, resting her hand on his shoulder. He held it tightly as if to reassure her. But something about the young woman’s demeanor told Yakov that she didn’t need reassurance. He sensed defiance, a fighting spirit.

  “So, you’re Anastasia?”

  “Who else would I be? You summoned me, didn’t you?”

  Yakov bristled. “Don’t be insolent. Of all the prisoners in this house, you’ve proven the most difficult, do you know that?”

  The girl stared back at him, not a shred of fear in her eyes, only rebellion. “I can’t argue with your opinion, Commissar. It must be as you say.”

  “You’d do well to bite back that tongue of yours, or it might get you into trouble.” He noticed an object in her right hand. “What are you holding?”

  She held out a small box in her palm.

  “What is it?” Yakov demanded.

  “A travel icon.”

  He took the box from her and opened it. It was the one he saw earlier in the family quarters. The side and top were little flaps, and once opened revealed a propped-up little altar.

  Anastasia said, “It’s St. Michael. A favorite saint of mine.”

  Yakov impatiently snapped it shut and tossed in on the table. He took the page from his pocket, unfolded it, and laid it down. “Do you recognize this? ‘Be strong. Help is near. Philip.’ The guards found it near you in the garden. You were about to pick it up.”

  Anastasia gave a puzzled glance at the paper. “That … that doesn’t mean it’s mine.”

  “Don’t play games with me. Whom do you know named Philip?”

  “Commissar, if I may speak?”

  Yakov fixed the ex-tsar with a scornful look. “Keep your mouth shut. Citizen Nicholai Romanov, I’m not talking to you.” He returned his attention to the daughter. “I’m waiting for an answer.”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  Yakov walked round the table and confronted her. He smelled the faint scent of her lavender soap. “It may interest you to know that the man who wrote this note may be a foreign spy we’re hunting.”

  The girl looked genuinely stunned. “A spy?”

  “You heard me. What does this note mean? What help is near? Who is Philip? A friend of your family?”

  “I … I have absolutely no idea.”

  Yakov picked up the note, thrust it in front of her face, losing his patience. “It’s obviously someone who’s trying to help you.”

  “Is it?”

  “What if I told you that we’ve found this Philip? That we arrested him near this very house and that he’s being interrogated as we speak?”

  Was it Yakov’s imagination, or did the girl react? He was certain he saw a flicker in her eyes.

  But then she stood her ground. “Why would that matter to me? I alread
y told you, I don’t know who you’re talking about. If you’ve found him as you say you have, then you ought to know who he is.”

  In frustration, Yakov brought a fist crashing down on the table. “Listen to me. Either you tell the truth or your privileges will be withdrawn: your daily walks, your food ration. Everything will be taken away.”

  The girl said stubbornly, “Look around you, Commissar. Does it look as if we have much to take? Isn’t it enough that you persecute us?”

  Yakov persisted. “I ask again, who is this Philip?”

  Her father intervened. “Commissar, may we speak alone, man to man?”

  Anastasia protested. “No, Father, you don’t have to—”

  “Respect my wishes, Anastasia. I wish to speak with the commissar alone, if he will allow it.”

  Yakov considered, and nodded.

  Nicholai Romanov said to his daughter, “Please leave us, Anastasia.”

  “But Father—”

  “Leave,” he said firmly.

  Yakov jerked his head at the girl. “Go. Join the others. If I need you again I’ll summon you.”

  Anastasia picked up the St. Michael icon, defiance blazing in her eyes. “Don’t you dare hurt my father.” She went out, banging the door.

  “You must forgive my daughter. Sometimes the young have no fear.”

  Yakov noticed that Nicholai Romanov’s right hand twitched in an uncontrollable spasm. “May I see this note you speak of?” he asked.

  Yakov handed it over.

  Nicholai Romanov examined the paper and looked up. “Ever since we’ve been held captive we’ve heard whispers that promise our liberation.”

  “From whom?”

  “Notes are usually thrown over the palings, although of late they’ve stopped. I’ve no doubt some are meant to bolster our spirits, but I believe that others are meant to taunt us. They have only given my family false hope, especially the children.”