by Glenn Meade
“From when de Gennin originally designed the city as a fortress?”
Petrovsky smiled. “You know your history.”
I encouraged him, pouring another drink. “Tell me more.”
“The entire demolition was carried out using a wrecking ball and bulldozers and with mysterious haste on the night of July 27, 1977, on the orders of Uri Andropov, at the time still head of the KGB. I remember clearly when we breached a basement tunnel. Part of it had those white glazed tiles you often see in late-nineteenth-century buildings. That’s when the men from Moscow appeared.”
“Men from Moscow?”
Petrovsky swirled his whiskey. “The KGB. Suddenly their senior people were swarming all over the site like flies. Even Boris Yeltsin, the future Russian president, came to have a look.”
“Really?”
“I was ordered to give him a private tour of the underground passageways. The demolition was halted for a time that night. We donned our safety helmets, armed ourselves with electric flashlights, and I led Yeltsin and the KGB people down into the bowels.
“Actually, the tunnel ran directly from a breached wall in the bricked-up storeroom next to the infamous execution chamber—which was pretty small. Less than four yards by five. I found it incredible that up to twenty-two people were crowded into it for the shootings, half of them with guns blazing. I’m surprised many of the executioners weren’t killed by ricochets. Yet none of them were, if we’re to believe the official accounts.”
Petrovsky rolled his glass between his hands. “I especially recall the excitement as we went down. Yeltsin seemed extremely interested in the tunnel. The KGB told me not to discuss it with anyone, and later I never saw it mentioned in any accounts of the demolition, which seemed to me strange.”
Petrovsky looked at me uncertainly. “I suppose it’s okay to mention it now. I mean, it’s all such a long time ago. Anyway, I’m over eighty now. What can those swine do to me?”
“Is there anything else you remember?”
“Only that I noticed one of the senior KGB men consult some notes as we explored the tunnels—they actually looked like photocopies of old papers—and I distinctly overheard him using the words ‘escape route’ to Yeltsin. I remember my ears pricked up at that. That was it, basically. When the tour was over, Yeltsin shook my hand and everyone went back to work, and I was ordered to fill in the tunnels with rubble. Eventually, a church would be built on the site, called the Church on the Blood.”
By the time we finished talking the whiskey bottle was half-empty. Petrovsky rose, a little unsteady, his face flushed.
I said, “Is there anything else you recollect, anything at all that you think important? And I do mean anything. Even the slightest memory that may stand out in your mind could be important to my research.”
Petrovsky scratched his chin. “Only how surprised I was at the intensity of the KGB’s curiosity. It’s as if they wanted to examine every inch of the tunnels, like it was a history lesson.”
“Why do you think that was?”
He shrugged. “Heaven knows.”
I thanked him for his time and he led me to the door. We said our good-byes, but as I was about to descend the stairs, Petrovsky called out, “There is one other thing. It’s probably unimportant. But you said if I remembered anything.”
“Yes?”
“There was a metal turret in part of the tunnel. When I examined it with my flashlight I noticed a faded white paint mark scrawled on the wall above it. The KGB men seemed most interested in that and took pictures.”
His words sent a chill through me. “What did the scrawl look like?”
“A swastika. Actually, a reverse swastika to be precise.”
Vadim Fomenko was once an official KGB historian. He resigned and became an outspoken critic of the communist regime, a treachery for which he was sentenced to five years in a gulag. But that was over forty years ago, and now, in his late seventies, this gaunt, eccentric man is one of the most knowledgeable people alive on the subject of the Romanov assassination. He seemed happy to meet me for coffee in Stockholm, where he lives with his daughter.
Without much prompting, I steered Fomenko onto the subject of Yurovsky, the Ipatiev House komendant, and the “official” account he gave of the Romanov executions, in which he claimed all of the family had been killed.
“His account of that night has to be treated with a certain amount of suspicion,” Fomenko began. “Yurovsky was a very devious character. The way he lulled the Romanovs into suspecting nothing was amiss speaks volumes. He was a natural liar who changed his account of the bloody events on several occasions. In 1918, he gave one version in a report to Moscow. In 1920, he gave a different version, in which he even got the number of victims wrong. In 1922 and in 1934, two more accounts were offered.”(tinku)
“Why do you think that was?”
Fomenko laughed. “Because liars need to have good memories and Yurovsky didn’t have one. Even the official version offered by Moscow in 1921 was different from his.” He met my gaze. “Frankly, it amazes me that in all of sixty years Moscow never once attempted to verify Yurovsky’s version of the graves’ location, or finally dispose of any buried remains. I find that truly amazing, don’t you?”
“Why do you think they didn’t?”
“Heaven knows.” Fomenko shrugged. “But five different accounts—if you include the official 1921 Moscow version—smacks to me of something not right. Of course, lying came naturally to Yurovsky, just as he lied to the Romanovs.”
“You’re saying there was a cover-up?”
“Of some kind,” Fomenko replied. “Let’s face it, the Romanov case has always been shrouded by intrigue and conspiracy. No fewer than five of the original investigators died in highly suspicious circumstances.
“One of them a judge, Ivan Sergeyev, was assassinated after he admitted to a reporter that his investigations led him to believe that Anastasia escaped death. Someone obviously wanted to shut him up.”
Fomenko sat back. “When I worked in the KGB archives, I heard rumors of files hidden in the secret party library in Moscow. Records that mention the Imperial family and involve foreign agents, and the survival of one or more of the children. All kinds of rumors and sightings circulated after the killings—the most prominent suggested Anastasia was helped to escape. I always found it ironic that her name, Anastasia, means the ‘resurrected one,’ or ‘she who will rise up again.’”
Fomenko paused. “And then, of course, there’s the famous mystery train. Shortly after three a.m. on the morning of the massacre, the Ekaterinburg stationmaster recorded that a train departed with its shutters drawn, after some kind of incident or other. In all the years afterward, no one’s ever been able to ascertain where the train went. Or who was on board. It literally vanished.”
“In your expert opinion, could any of the Romanovs have survived?”
Fomenko seemed amused. “How many times has that question been posed? Shall I tell you the truth?”
“Yes.”
“Nobody really knows. Not even the experts. Logic and DNA samples tell us that none of the family appear to have survived—even though in Anastasia’s case it cannot be confirmed with certainty. None of the bones discovered exactly match her age profile.
“And according to many experts, unless DNA is one hundred percent accurate, it means nothing. Anything else is just probability. In a famous seven-hundred-page judgment, a German court once concluded that there was no way the death of Anastasia could be conclusively proven.”
He sat forward, eager to make his point. “It’s well documented that there were at least three occasions that night when she could have escaped, despite the wounds she no doubt suffered. Eyewitness accounts stated that on two occasions after they thought she was dead she stirred and cried out.”
He paused. “We also know that the komendant was highly distracted that night. He’d also been drinking. In fact, most of the executioners got blind drunk, if not befo
re then just after the killings.
“Think about it. There must have been absolute chaos after the shooting, with blood everywhere. The air was thick with choking gunsmoke, the room covered in blood and bodily fluids. The half-drunk guards were deafened by the gunfire and their eyes were streaming from the smoke. The komendant admitted he had to lie down for half an hour after the killings because he felt so ill, and so he left his victims unattended.
“In fact, the guards were in no state to even transport the bodies to the woods—that was left to others, though the komendant joined them. As I said, even he got the body count wrong.”
“So an escape isn’t inconceivable?”
“It may seem unlikely, but in war, nothing’s implausible. On two occasions the komendant claimed that Anastasia had to be finished off.” Fomenko shrugged. “But was it really her they finished off? Were the guards sober enough to ascertain she was dead? Would they have even noticed if she was missing? And remember, all the girls had jewels and precious stones sewn into their undergarments for safekeeping, which was why the guards claimed it took so long to kill them. Their bullets and bayonets wouldn’t penetrate the clothes; it’s as if they were wearing bulletproof vests.
“Even those who disposed of the bodies gave completely differing accounts. Some said the bodies were pulverized to dust and bone fragments, and yet almost complete skeletons were found. Then there’s the controversy over the tsar’s remains—he once suffered a serious head wound with a sword, the result of an assassin’s failed attack. Yet the skull declared to be the tsar’s bears no such wound. A baffling mystery.”
Fomenko was in full flow, thoroughly enjoying himself now. “Even Yurovsky’s accounts of the killings are full of doubtful expressions like ‘I don’t recall when,’ ‘It seems to me,’ ‘I don’t remember exactly,’ and ‘As far as I remember.’ That doesn’t sound to me like a man certain of anything. His reports were full of holes.”
“What do you think really happened?”
Fomenko shrugged. “I think that either in the house or on the drive out to the Four Brothers mine area, something unusual occurred that was covered up. But I doubt we’ll ever know what.”
“Why?”
“Because there are still files on the period and on the killings that have never seen the light of day. And never will.”
“Even after all these years?”
He made his point by touching a fingertip. “For one, the KGB and its successor were always a state within a state. Their kind run Russia now, for heaven’s sake. How many assassinations have they carried out over the decades at home and abroad they’ve ever admitted to? Not a single one. Keeping secrets is their business.”
He touched a second fingertip. “Two, do you really think they’d want to open up a hornet’s nest by resurrecting such a bloody business from the past? I mean, to this day they’ve never even made public all of Lenin’s papers.”
Fomenko added, “If I’ve learned one thing, it’s that anything is possible in Russia. Just like a Russian doll—you open up one part, thinking you’ve got to the end of it, only to find another part inside.”
“Do you think we’ll ever get to the bottom of it?”
Fomenko half-smiled. “No, I don’t. But I recall an interesting little book published in America in 1920, titled Rescuing the Czar. Badly written, it purported to tell the real events of that night. But the U.S. government intervened and had the book rights withdrawn. I heard veiled whispers in the KGB that suggest some parts of the story may give a hint of the truth. Look into it, if you’re interested.”
“I’ll do that.”
Soon Fomenko’s daughter arrived to drive him home. As she strolled on ahead to the parking lot, leaving us to have our final word, I said, “Did you ever hear of a man called Leonid Yakov?”
Fomenko smiled knowingly. “Yes, I’ve heard of Yakov. Also known as Michael Yakovsky, or Vassily Yakov. He had several aliases, as many Bolsheviks did in the early days, to avoid arrest. There were all kinds of stories about him.”
“Such as?”
“That he oversaw the Romanov executions—that much is true—and crushed an attempt to rescue the royals. He was Lenin’s white-haired boy after that and could do no wrong. But rumors said his heart wasn’t in it anymore after Ekaterinburg. He faded into the background and later died in Moscow in 1976.”
We reached his daughter’s Volvo and Fomenko offered his hand. “It’s been a pleasure, doctor. I hope I’ve been of some help?”
“One last question. The foreign plot you mentioned. Komendant Yurovsky claimed it was one of the reasons for the execution. Was there really any truth to it?”
“Actually, only hours after the massacre, a telegram was sent to Lenin informing him that a ‘serious’ rescue had been foiled. And in an interview before his death in 1938, the komendant claimed he was aware of an attempt to snatch the family that night, and that it came perilously close to succeeding. But no sooner did the interview appear in print than it was withdrawn, as was the journalist.”
“What do you mean?”
“The writer was executed in Stalin’s purges. Another strand to add to the mystery. Shortly after, Komendant Yurovsky conveniently died, of stomach cancer.” Fomenko smiled. “By all accounts, the executioner went to his death in agony.”
The road to Kildare Stud Farm in Kentucky was hardly a road at all, just a blacktop track that wound up through emerald-green hills. It ended in a vast, sunny meadow of incredible beauty, on which stood a pretty house with several barns and lots of white-railed paddocks.
Constance “Connie” Ryan is a sprightly woman in her late sixties, and the youngest of Finn Ryan’s four daughters—Lydia Ryan’s nieces. When I saw her for the first time I felt stunned. Life sometimes offers up the near-same faces, generation after generation, and hers was no exception. It was as if I were looking at an older version of the young Lydia in the photograph taken with Uri Andrev all those years ago at Briar Cottage.
Connie Ryan had the same eyes, the same dark Celtic beauty. She was enthralled to hear my request to discuss the aunt for whom she had a lifelong fascination.
After we’d finished our introductions, she ushered me into a parlor, the walls covered in family photographs. “You said you were interested in Lydia’s time in Russia as a governess to the Romanovs. That her name came up during your research into the period, Dr. Pavlov?”
“That’s right. And I’d be grateful for anything else you can tell me.”
“Let me show you some photographs that may interest you.” She pointed to one of the snapshots with obvious pride. “This is Finn, my father.”
I saw a young man with a mop of fair hair, and a freckled Irish face.
Connie said, “He sailed into New York harbor from Ireland on December 14, 1918, having lost his leg while gun-running for the Irish republicans. Quite a few Irish-Americans went back to the land of their forefathers to help in the fight for freedom, you know.”
“Did your father talk much about those times?”
“He never really did. It was almost a taboo subject.”
“Why’s that?”
“I guess because of the fact that Lydia disappeared, presumed dead. It was something he never truly got over.”
“Did he ever discover what happened to her?”
She frowned. “If he did, he never said. Toward the latter years of his life, he toyed with writing a book about their years together in Ireland. I even helped him type up some notes. But sadly, he passed away before he had too much written. I still have the notes somewhere. I kept them as a memento.”
Connie moved along a wall covered with photographs: some in frames, others on shelves. She picked one up and passed it to me. “This is Lydia. She was quite a gal, apparently. Her father always called her mo cushla. That’s Gaelic. It means ‘the beat of my heart, the very breath of me.’ My father loved that expression. He always said it summed up how he felt about Lydia. They were that close.”
She hand
ed me another snapshot, of Lydia in some sort of palace setting with the pretty Romanov children: the four girls, Tatiana and Olga, Maria and Anastasia, in white cotton dresses with satin ribbons. And Alexei, no more than eight, wearing his sailor’s uniform, mischief in his smile. A stab of grief went though me; their image still hauntingly tragic when I thought of the savagery of that night.
Connie said, “My father always had a strong interest in the Romanov tragedy.”
“Really?”
“I guess because of Lydia’s connection to the family. In fact, he traveled to Russia shortly before he died, in 1977.”
“Why?”
She handed me another photograph. It was of Finn as an old man, the snapshot obviously taken in Russia: a golden cupola in the background. “Ekaterinburg seemed to hold a particular fascination for him. This was before glasnost, of course, but he managed to get a tourist visa. The visit seemed important to him. I still miss him, you know.”
I stared at the photograph, heard the pain in her voice.
Connie replaced the photograph on the shelf. “Perhaps you’d care to see the family plot where my father’s buried?”
“I’d like that.”
On a coffee table was a vase of yellow roses. She plucked two and led me on a short walk across some fields—the same fields where Lydia had learned to ride and shoot—until we came to a small, wire-fenced graveyard. It was the kind of family plot you often see in rural America, and in the afternoon sun it looked very peaceful, with a dozen or so granite headstones.
“This is my father’s grave.”
The black granite was inscribed simply, “Finn Ryan. A proud American who helped in the fight for Irish freedom. 1900–1977. Gone to lie in the arms of the Lord.”
Next to it, another slab was inscribed: “Lydia Ryan. Born 1894. Died 1918.” At the bottom of the stone it said simply, “Love never forgets.”