“So what is the matter with your hands?” asked Yurovsky with a small smile. “Why is it that you keep rubbing them?”
“I’m trying to ward off a chill, for I fear the return of pleurisy, from which I have only recently recovered,” replied Father Storozhev.
“Ah, now of these things I know, for not only am I a trained medic, but I myself have had an operation on my lungs.”
Yurovsky proceeded to dole out his free advice, and when he was finished we were told to proceed into the living room. First went Father Archpresbyter, then Father Deacon, Yurovsky, and finally me. Just as we entered, Nikolai Aleksandrovich, dressed in his khaki field shirt, khaki pants, and his high leather boots, came through the doors from the dining room, the two younger daughters behind him.
“Well, are all of your people present?” asked Yurovsky.
The Tsar nodded toward those at the front of the room. “Yes, all.”
The Tsaritsa, wearing the same dark blue cotton dress she’d worn for weeks, was seated next to the Heir, who was in the wheeling chaise and wearing a jacket with a sailor’s collar. The older daughters stood nearby; all four girls had changed and now were dressed nearly identically in dark skirts and simple white jackets, the same simple jackets that usually hung at the foot of their cots.
The Tsar took his place at the head of the family. On the edge of the living room stood Dr. Botkin, Demidova, the tall Trupp, the short and stocky Kharitonov, and me, the youngest and the last. Once we had assumed our positions, the obednitsa – a liturgy without communion – began, but here I should take care to add that there was one more person present: Yurovsky. In a complete affront to rank and etiquette, the komendant took great care to stand right up there at the front.
Severely tested as they were, the Romanovs were not simply more pious than ever, they were more grave and serious. The last time they had been allowed a religious service, the Empress and Tatyana had sung along with the priest. Even Nikolai Aleksandrovich had sung, his bass voice lively and vibrant as he had intoned “Our Father.” This time, however, none of them sang along, not even the Empress with her beautiful contralto, and when Father Deacon chanted instead of read “Who Resteth with Saints,” the entire family dropped to their knees. Standing behind them, the rest of us, from Botkin on down to me, immediately followed their example.
Afterward we lined up according to rank to kiss the holy cross that Father Deacon held in hand. Nikolai Aleksandrovich went first, but he hesitated, which even I, way at the end, took note of. Peering around, I tried to see why the Tsar seemed to be taking such a long time with Father Storozhev, to whom he was offering his thanks. And then I understood, the Emperor wanted to pull his note from his pocket and ask Father Storozhev to deliver it to those loyal to him. But this he could not do, for Komendant Yurovsky had so positioned himself to oversee and overhear everything.
And so this, unfortunately, was how the last note fell into my young hands.
15
The fifteenth, a Monday, was a cool, damp morning that slowly bloomed into a beautiful day. By noon all of Yekaterinburg was bathed in lovely summer sunshine. Other than that, there was nothing remarkable about the start of the day, nothing to make us suspicious. It was only after lunch, when four charwomen from the labor union were admitted to clean the floors, that events took a serious turn. These women began washing the floors in the Tsar’s bedchamber, and Yurovsky stood near them to make sure there was absolutely no conversation between them and the young grand duchesses, who were helping move the furniture and talking gaily amongst themselves. Laughing, the girls were. While this was taking place, the Tsar and Tsaritsa relocated to the living room, where Aleksandra rested on the couch and Nikolai sat in a chair in the far corner, a novel propped in his lap.
By word of Trupp, I was beckoned from the kitchen to the Tsar, who in a quiet voice, asked, “Leonka, was there no sign of Sister Antonina this morning?”
“She did come, Nikolai Aleksandrovich. She and her novice came shortly after breakfast, only they were not allowed to proceed as far as the kitchen. Komendant Yurovsky wouldn’t let them past the guard room, which is where I went to get the foodstuffs. I met them there.”
“And why weren’t they allowed any farther?”
“That wasn’t clear, but Yurovksy asked them a great many questions and looked at everything they carried.”
“I see. And what was it that they brought today?”
“A chetvert of milk, that was all. No eggs and no cream either. The komendant said there was to be no more cream. But… but…”
“But what?”
“He did ask them to bring a great many eggs tomorrow – no less than fifty.”
“Odd. Very odd.” Before continuing, the Tsar glanced across the room to make sure no guards had wandered in. “There was nothing else?”
“Nyet-s.” I whispered, “I checked the cork, but there was nothing.”
“I see.”
I quickly volunteered, “But I am to go to the Soviet cafeteria in an hour’s time. Cook Kharitonov has received permission for me to get more bread.”
“Molodets.” Excellent. “I have something I wish to send out.” And then, exactly according to our short tradition, the Tsar entrusted me with a note folded into a small envelope. “I wanted to pass this to Father Storozhev yesterday, but that, of course, proved impossible.”
I don’t know what the note said, for I never saw the actual words, but I’ve always assumed it was in French, just like the others. More of the contents of this note I cannot say, for it alone has been lost to time, undoubtedly because of my stupidity.
So I took the note from the Tsar and kept it carefully tucked in my underclothing until it was time to leave. In the meantime, I was careful not to do anything to attract attention, and when the others went out into the yard for their afternoon walk, I headed off to fetch six loaves of chyorny khleb – black bread – from the Soviet. By that time the last two of the charwomen, Maria Staradumova and Vassa Dryagina, had completed their tasks and were also on the way out. As I came through the hall and reached the top of the short staircase, I saw them stopped at the front door.
“There is a new policy,” explained Yurovsky, blocking their exit. “From now on, everyone coming into or departing from The House of Special Purpose will have to be thoroughly searched.” The komendant looked up at me. “I’ll get to you, young man, once I’ve finished with these women.”
I started shaking. This couldn’t be. I was to be searched? Panic shot through my body. Gospodi, what if they found the secret note I carried? Then what? Would I be thrown in prison? Shot? What would they do to me, to the Imperial Family? No, I couldn’t let down the Emperor. I couldn’t fail any of them. My task was far too important, too critical, too… I had to retreat, that was the only course. But where? I turned, started back to the kitchen. I could pull the note from my clothing, hide it somewhere in the house, then be on my way, and…
“Leonka!” shouted Yurovsky from the bottom of the stairs. “And just where do you think you’re going? You must be on your way – some of that bread is for us too, you realize!”
There was only one logical explanation, and in a timid voice, I replied, “I was just going to go to the toilet, Comrade Komendant. Since you will be a few minutes with these women, I thought, well, I…I…”
“Fine. Just come right back.”
Needing no other approval, I bolted. I ran from the front to the back hall, and finally into the small water closet with its toilet and wash sink. I all but slammed the door as I shut it and fastened the little eyehook, locking myself in. I turned, scanned the walls, which were covered with all those nasty pictures and words about the Tsar and Tsaritsa. There was, however, no little place to stash the note. No cabinet. No loose plank. What should I do, rip up the envelope and flush it down the drain? Tear it up and eat it?
Oh, if only I’d done one of those!
Instead my eyes fell upon a large pipe above the toilet itself. Convinced th
at I had no other choice, I pulled the note from my clothing, stood on the toilet seat, and tucked the note right back there, right behind the metal pipe. I jumped down and looked up, unable to see a thing. It would be safe there, at least until my return, and I unfastened the lock and pushed the door. Then stopped. Reaching back, I flushed the toilet, and was on my way again, confident I’d covered my tracks.
Before I left the house I was indeed searched, though not as thoroughly as I feared. In fact, had I still been carrying the note the komendant probably wouldn’t have discovered it at all. I did overhear Yurovsky say to one of the charwomen, Maria Staradumova, that a good number of things had been pilfered from the family, which was so very unrevolutionary. Perhaps that was why he was searching everyone. But I doubt it. I think Yurovsky wasn’t looking for little spoons or watches, skirts or leather boots, that kind of thing. No, I think he was looking for Romanov jewels. And I think that was why the Sister Antonina and Novice Marina chose not to come in that morning – they were afraid of being searched. Rather, they just left their goods. Who knows, maybe Sister Antonina was in fact transporting something more than a note, perhaps even a weapon. I have never found an answer to that question.
So I was searched and released without incident. I went directly to the Soviet, where of course I gathered the bread, three loaves for the guards and three for us. It was very tasty, nice and sour, though I knew the Empress wouldn’t eat any, for she felt black bread was much too dense and gave her headaches. Then again, had she consulted Komendant Yurovsky he probably would have gone on at length with his advice. He probably would have stated that her headaches came from malnutrition, which they very well might have since the Empress ate so very little.
Having gotten out of the house undiscovered, I was feeling very smart as I returned. Very clever, indeed. There’d been a terrible crisis, and I, Leonka Sednyov, the kitchen boy, had solved it. The dreaded komendant had been about to discover the Tsar’s secret dealings with his monarchist officers, and I’d saved the day entirely on my own. Yes, indeed. And a very fine officer I myself would make someday, of that I was sure. Once this revolution was over and once the Tsar was back in power again, I imagined that I was destined for great service, great reward, perhaps even great riches. Various members of the nobility, like Prince Orlov for example, had thus been so rewarded for their extraordinary services to their masters.
So I returned to The House of Special Purpose all but whistling. I delivered the three loaves to the guard room, whereupon Yurovsky quickly searched my body once again. Cleared, I proceeded up to the kitchen, where I put three loaves on the maple table. Next I headed directly for the WC, planning to fetch the note from its hiding place and secretly return it to the Tsar, telling him how I’d single-handedly averted disaster. So I went into the small WC, shut the door and dropped the hook into the little eye. I climbed atop the toilet, stuck my hand back there, but when I reached behind the pipe… I found nothing.
Nyet, nothing.
There was absolutely neechevo behind the pipe. I suppose it wasn’t much more than an hour earlier that I had carefully hidden the note back there, but now to my dismay the little envelope had vanished. And so overcome with panic was I that I nearly vomited. I clawed at the walls, searched the floor, looked everywhere, hoping it had merely dropped out and was lying around. In desperation I pulled at the back of the toilet itself, even opened the tank, but there was no trace whatsoever of the Tsar’s note to his loyal officers. My only hope, of course, was that the Tsar himself or someone else from the family had found it.
I hurried out of the water closet, through the kitchen, and into the dining room, where I found the Tsar and Tsaritsa playing a game of bezique.
“Do you realize Doctor Derevenko hasn’t been allowed in once since the new komendant?” she bemoaned as she studied her cards.
“We will keep asking. And asking.”
“Baby’s going to take a bath tonight. Imagine, it’s only his second since Tobolsk.”
“In case you hadn’t heard, the komendant says we bathe too much. We must stop this continual washing, it’s not a good habit, or so he claims,” said the Tsar with amusement. “After all he’s-”
“-a trained medic.”
They both started chuckling.
I cleared my throat.
Nikolai Aleksandrovich turned to me, and exclaimed, “Ah, Leonka, all is well?”
I felt their eyes upon me, both the Tsar’s and the Tsaritsa’s. So hopeful they looked, so yearning for good news. I wanted to cry, I wanted to shout out, for by the simplicity on their royal faces I immediately understood that, no, it wasn’t them who had found and claimed the note! Dear Lord in Heaven!
Seeing my confusion, the Tsar asked, “Your trip to the Soviet for khleb was a success?”
Had there not been a guard by the window I’m sure I would have burst into tears and confessed my stupidity. Had we been alone I’m sure I would have dropped to the floor and admitted how terribly I had failed, blurting that the note most surely had fallen into the hands of the Reds who guarded us. As it was, there was nothing I could say, not only because of the nearby Lett with rifle and hand grenade, but… but… truth be told, because I was far too much of a coward.
My voice shaking, I muttered, “Da-s.”
While the Empress was not a well-educated woman and by no means wise, she was extraordinarily perceptive, and if she called you a friend then she cared for you with her entire being. She knew something was wrong. And seeing me shake, she immediately rose to her feet and pressed her hand to my forehead in a smothering, motherly way.
“Nicky, the boy’s burning up.”
She immediately summoned Dr. Botkin, who pronounced the onslaught of grippe, and as such I was immediately sentenced to the back bedroom, the far corner one. I was covered with blankets, offered tea and broth, both of which I declined. I just lay there, terrified of what I had done, what would happen, and wanting so much to confess and beg forgiveness. Instead I lay there all evening unable to speak. Much to my amazement, however, everything else seemed to proceed with complete normalcy. Aleksei did in fact have his bath, the family retired early, the wind came up, and somewhere in the depth of the night I heard both thunder and the report of artillery.
And I lay there, listening for that elusive whistle and praying, Please, please come tonight. Please come and carry us away this very eve…
By morning it seemed but a dream – or rather a nightmare that passed like the midnight storm – for nothing had changed. I woke cool and calm. First the Empress herself checked on me, feeling again my forehead, and then the doctor did likewise. I was pronounced healthy, surprisingly healthy. Meanwhile, it was noted that Aleksei had come down with a slight cold – caught from me, they speculated – and it was hoped he would recover just as quickly.
This was the sixteenth, of course. July 16. The day thereof. Yet as far as I could tell there were no suspicions, no thoughts or fears of what was to come. At least not by any of them, the family. This I knew because I studied them all day long, trying to figure out who had found this stupid note. I could learn nothing, however, and the time just progressed into another boring day. I suppose it was infinitely better that way, better they didn’t suspect, better they couldn’t conceive of anything as terrible as that which would transpire that very night.
That morning eggs, milk, and thread were again brought from the monastery. Sister Antonina and Novice Marina came early, but I did not see them. Rather, they left the foodstuffs with the guards at the front door. And while a good many eggs they did in fact bring, we received only ten. The evidence of the other eggs – all forty of them – I was to see only later.
Otherwise, for the rest of the day the Empress and Olga, her eldest, madly continued “arranging medicines.” It was late that afternoon too that they completed the long and difficult task of individually wrapping every diamond in cotton wadding and then densely packing and stitching those little bundles between two corsets for the gi
rls to wear. And just in time too. That night, when Yurovsky woke them, the grand duchesses would slip on their corsets, each of which was packed with no less than 10,000 carats. They would get dressed, sure that three hundred officers were charging to their rescue, and Aleksandra would think herself so smart, so clever.
And yet a horrific cloud of doubt must have hovered in the Tsaritsa’s mind…
While Nikolai was a slave to fate, Aleksandra believed in the duality of the prophecies, that what was written in the Bible of ancient times applied as well to her, a fallen queen. In the afternoon while Nikolai was pacing outside in the garden for his thirty minutes, Aleksandra and her second daughter, Tatyana, remained inside reading of the prophets’ gloom, including: “Though thou exalt thyself as the eagle, and though thou set thy nest among the stars, thence will I bring thee down, saith the Lord.”
As for me, I became less worried as the day wore on. As far as I could see, no one in our suite had found the note, nor had Yurovsky or any of the guards apparently discovered it, for there was no recrimination, no horrible scene. Little did I know, however, that the note had in fact been found by the Reds and that the entire day telegrams were flying to and from Moscow demanding that Nikolai be “immediately destroyed.”
16
Lenin denied it all.
During those tumultuous days, those violent days, when the outside world couldn’t tell what happened to Nikolai and Aleksandra, Lenin claimed that the ex-Tsar was safe, that the rumors of their murders were only a provocation and “lie of capitalist press.” But Lenin knew. Of course he did, for on that day, Tuesday July 16, 1918, he authorized not only the execution of Nikolai, but the entire family, including all the girls and the boy. That was what kind of man he was, a cold-blooded murderer. I spit on the bastard’s body, which to this day lies like a pickle in a glass coffin on Moscow’s Red Square. A shrine to a mass murderer, that’s what it is.
The Kitchen Boy Page 15