‘These men have grown fat from sucking the blood of people like us,’ replied a guard. Behind him, other soldiers nodded and pressed forward.
‘This one here –’ the executioner kicked a lifeless body ‘– enjoyed humiliating us. He called us worthless stupid muzhiks. He deserved to die like a dog.’
Bogoleev raised a palm to pacify them. ‘Comrades, you are not like them.’ He pointed to the trembling, ragged men. ‘I hate them as much as you, and, once trialled, they will pay for their arrogance and greed. But for now, we must put emotion aside and maintain discipline.’
The guards grew quiet, as if considering Bogoleev’s words, though some continued to throw hate-filled looks at the remaining prisoners.
‘Guards, escort these prisoners back to the dungeon,’ Bogoleev ordered.
As the men filed past, his eyes fell on a man carried by two others. Stepping forward, he stuck out an arm to stop them. Bogoleev looked into the prisoner’s face. He motioned to one of the guards. ‘This prisoner needs medical attention. Take him to the hospital.’
The guard looked at Alexei with hard eyes. ‘The man is an enemy of the revolution. He deserves to rot in a cell.’
Anger flared in Bogoleev’s chest. ‘If you don’t do as I say, you’ll be replacing him in the prison cell.’ Drawing close to the guard, he smelt the scent of his unwashed skin and the nicotine on his breath. ‘Now, comrade,’ he said coolly. ‘Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, Comrade Commissar.’
The guard motioned for another guard to move Alexei from the line. A stretcher was called and Alexei was lifted onto it.
Bogoleev looked into Alexei’s face. A layer of film clouded Alexei’s eyes and he looked around with incomprehension. As the men lifted the stretcher, Bogoleev grabbed the guard’s arm. ‘I want our best doctors to look after him.’
The guard opened his mouth to object then closed it. ‘Yes, Commissar.’
‘One more thing: I want a guard to be stationed outside his room. No one other than the doctors or nurses must be allowed to see him. Not without my permission.’
The guard nodded. ‘Yes, Commissar.’
Yekaterinburg, July
Buoyed by their rapid success in Petrograd and Moscow, the Bolsheviks began a campaign to enforce their rule over the rest of the country. They were opposed by the White Army, which was fiercely against the Bolshevik revolution. The White Army commanders used the humiliating terms agreed to by the Bolsheviks at Brest-Litovsk to rally support. With Tobolsk, where the royal family was held, threatening to fall into the hands of their enemies, Lenin ordered their evacuation to Yekaterinburg, in central Russia.
On their arrival at Yekaterinburg’s train station, the guards led the Romanovs into two open cars and drove them through the streets at walking pace. Crowds that were packed onto the sidewalks jeered, calling out lewd remarks.
‘Keep your head up, dear,’ Alexandra instructed Tatiana. ‘Don’t let them forget who you are.’
A large peasant with a full beard broke away from the crowd and, eyes blazing with hatred, spat into the car.
‘German whore,’ he hissed.
Alexandra kept her eyes straight ahead, resisting the urge to wipe the saliva off her face. Next to her, Nicholas rested a sympathetic hand on her knee and gave her his handkerchief.
Their cars came to a stop before a nondescript building hidden from the street by tall wooden gates. Red Guards stood watching as the family struggled with their luggage to the foyer.
‘Before we let you move to your rooms,’ a guard said, blocking their way, ‘we need to inspect your baggage.’
‘Whatever for?’ protested Alexandra. ‘You have already taken everything of value.’
Pushing past her, the guard broke the lock on the first trunk and began rifling through the clothes.
‘What exactly are you looking for?’ Nicholas asked.
Opening Alexandra’s trunk, the men pulled out her medical bag, sniffing and sticking their fingers into every vial and ointment.
‘This is an outrage!’ she shouted, close to tears.
‘Shut your mouth!’
Nicholas stepped forward, squaring his shoulders. ‘Sir, I demand you apologise to my wife.’
Rising to his feet, the guard stood over Nicholas. ‘You are not at Tsarskoe any more. You demand and receive nothing. And if I hear you open your mouth again, you will be sentenced to hard labour.’
Turning back to the trunk, the guard gave it a sharp kick, spilling more of its contents over the floor. ‘Take your vile things away.’
Walking behind two guards, the Romanovs made their way to the back of the house, where they were assigned two bedrooms, a toilet they shared with their guards, and a large living room with an arched doorway.
Within a few days, a second wooden fence surrounded the house and more sentries were posted every few metres.
‘You would think this place was a fortress given the number of guards assigned to it,’ Alexandra commented one evening. She was sewing a necklace into the hem of Olga’s skirt. Her own corset had several brooches and rings sewn into its lining. She shifted in her seat to reposition one that dug into her ribs.
‘Should God permit,’ Alexandra told her daughters, ‘this jewellery will see us through in exile.’
On the morning of his fiftieth birthday, Nicholas drew back the curtains to find that his window had been nailed shut.
‘Papa!’ he heard Tatiana scream. Rushing to his daughters’ bedroom, he found them huddled in a corner as a guard whitewashed the windows outside.
Rapping his knuckles on the glass, he demanded angrily. ‘What is the meaning of this?’
The guard shrugged and mouthed, ‘Orders.’
Stricken, Nicholas stood back and watched as the last of the blue sky disappeared behind the white paint.
Refused contact with the outside world, the family remained ignorant of the civil war between the Red and the White armies. Had the Romanovs known, it might have brought them some comfort to learn that the White Army had fought the Reds almost to the perimeters of Yekaterinburg.
Worried that the presence of the royal family might provide extra motivation to the Whites, Lenin gave the orders that sealed their fate.
Waking early, Nicholas climbed out of bed, careful not to disturb his sleeping wife. Walking to the lavatory, he avoided eye contact with the guard posted outside. The man leered and as Nicholas moved past him hissed, ‘Don’t forget to look at the drawings.’
Nicholas ignored the comment. The guards had pasted on the walls pornographic drawings of Alexandra with Rasputin. After the first time he saw them, Nicholas took pains not to let his eyes wander over them a second time.
Later, strolling through the garden with his daughters, he heard artillery fire coming from the direction of the woods. Faces turned to the sound, they listened, trying to judge the distance to the fighting.
‘Who are they shooting at, Papa?’ Tatiana asked.
‘They might be just practising their drills,’ he replied, not wishing to alarm them even as he noticed the guards all held their rifles with white-knuckled grips.
Upon returning inside, Nicholas found Superintendent Yurovsky waiting for him in the family’s living room. Alexandra, who had been sitting at the table, stood stiffly when she saw him.
‘I was arranging the medicine when the superintendent dropped by with a gift for Alexei.’
Nicholas understood that Alexandra’s reference to medicine meant she had been removing jewellery from frayed hems. Rattled by the unexpected visit, her movements were jumpy and agitated, leaving Nicholas to wonder if she had managed to hide what she was doing without rousing suspicion.
‘I brought some eggs for your son.’ The superintendent stepped forward, showing Nicholas the basket of fresh eggs. ‘I heard little Alexei has been unwell and thought these might help increase his strength.’
‘That is kind of you.’ Nicholas’s words came out flat, without gratitude.
‘I’m sure you will decide what’s best for us.’ Nicholas kept his voice even despite the hollow feeling in his stomach.
‘Good day to you.’ The superintendent gave them a small nod. ‘And my apologies for disturbing you unannounced.’ He glanced to where Alexandra kept her basket.
‘Not at all.’ Alexandra smiled thinly.
‘Oh, Nicky, do you suppose the superintendent suspected me?’ Alexandra asked, her words spilling out in a rush as soon as the superintendent was out of earshot.
‘I don’t know, but we must be more vigilant.’ He looked at the archway through which the superintendent had disappeared. ‘I do not trust that man.’
It was well past midnight when the family physician, Dr Botkin, woke the Romanovs.
‘I apologise for disturbing you, Your Highness, but I have just been informed by the superintendent that there has been some more fighting in the town. For your safety they have decided to evacuate the family from the building.’
Thirty minutes later, the Romanovs were washed, dressed and ready to leave. Alexandra and her daughters wore corsets with jewellery sewn into the bodices and carried pillows that had jewels hidden in the stuffing.
Carrying Alexei in his arms, Nicholas led his family down the stairs and out of the house. They crossed the courtyard and entered a long hall that took them to a small basement room.
Finding it empty of furniture, Alexandra turned to the closest guard and asked, ‘May we not even have a chair?’
Two chairs were brought in and Nicholas, still carrying Alexei, sat close to his wife. After a tense wait, during which no one spoke, the doors opened and the superintendent strode in, followed by several guards. A lone light cast a thin circle in the middle of the room. Standing just outside the circle, the superintendent’s features were partially hidden, giving him a menacing air.
‘Nicholas Romanov, in the interest of our glorious revolution,’ he read aloud from a yellow telegram, ‘you and your family have been sentenced to death.’ Lifting his gaze, he looked Nicholas straight in the eye. ‘I have orders to shoot you all.’
‘What?’ Nicholas jumped up. Behind him, Olga and Tatiana screamed and clung to each other. Alexandra hurriedly crossed herself just before the first bullets were fired.
Nicholas was the first to fall, staggering backwards. Behind him, Alexandra, shot through the head, was thrown to the floor, a dark stain spreading like a red halo around her head. The guards, bunched in the doorway, fired wildly into the room, none of them able to get clear shots over one another’s shoulders.
The girls proved harder to kill, with the bullets ricocheting from their bejewelled corsets.
‘Hold your fire!’ the superintendent shouted and the guns fell silent. Drifts of smoke filled the room. Although the screaming had stopped, three of the girls, still breathing, whimpered on the floor.
‘Finish them off,’ Yurovsky ordered.
Moving from one sister to the next, the guards silenced each girl with a bullet to the temple.
Taking small shallow breaths, Alexei’s fingers still clutched at his father’s jacket. The last thing he saw was the barrel of the superintendent’s gun as he fired at close range.
In the still, cool darkness of the early morning, the bodies of the Romanovs were carried on stretchers to a truck waiting at the front of the house.
Holding a bag of jewels stolen from his victims, the superintendent watched the tail-lights fade into the distance. Mopping the sweat from his brow, he joined the group of guards passing a bottle of rum between them.
‘Well, comrades,’ he said, taking a long swallow from the bottle, ‘I think our job here is done.’
46
Petrograd, August 1918
Alexei’s continuous coughing fits tore the air from his lungs, leaving him exhausted. Next to his bed, two candles flickered in the necks of empty bottles. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on steadying his ragged breathing, while his heart drummed irregular beats. His bones and muscles ached. Inhaling, he doubled over as a fresh bout of coughing overcame him. When it finally passed, he straightened and looked around at the bare whitewashed walls.
He had been in hospital for eight weeks recovering from typhus. He spent his days with little to do. Allowed only the Bolshevik-sponsored newspapers, he refused to read them, despising the Soviet glorification in its articles. He tried to think back to the day in the courtyard, but his memory of the events was sketchy and disjointed.
‘You were brought here on the orders of a high-ranking commissar,’ the nurse tending to Alexei told him. ‘The sentry posted outside your door has strict orders as to who is allowed in and out of your room.’
‘And what news of the war?’ Alexei asked.
‘Lenin is promising supplies of food to soldiers who join the Red Army,’ she whispered while pretending to adjust his pillow. ‘He has made Trotsky the new war commissar. Trotsky now makes regular trips to the front in his armoured train, giving long speeches on the importance of victory against the White Army.’
She took Alexei’s pulse. ‘Of course, I’m not familiar with army politics but it seems to me an army confident of victory should not need to go to such lengths to rally the support of its troops.’
Straightening, the nurse smiled sweetly at the sentry hovering a few metres away. A silent Cossack with broad shoulders and dark wavy hair, he might have been handsome if not for the injury that deformed one side of his face.
With each passing day, Alexei’s health improved. As he regained his strength, he was allowed to spend the mornings in the garden. Accompanied by his silent sentry, Alexei’s repeated queries about his family and the length of his stay in hospital went unanswered. Then one day he was told a commissar would be visiting him.
The sun had already begun its descent in the west when the door to his room opened and Bogoleev walked in. Alexei’s initial surprise at seeing him soon turned to suspicion when he noticed the red armband and realised Bogoleev must be the commissar.
‘You are looking much better than the last time I saw you.’ Bogoleev smiled and dropped a copy of Dien, one of the Bolshevik newspapers, on Alexei’s bed. ‘I believe this is the second time I have saved your life.’
Alexei started to speak but Bogoleev stopped him. ‘There’s no need to thank me.’
‘Thank you?’ Alexei snorted. ‘For making me your prisoner?’
‘I thought you might be a little more grateful.’
‘You saved me from your own guards. They were behaving like animals.’
‘What do you expect?’ Bogoleev replied coldly. ‘For three years, the officers treated those men as cannon fodder. They degraded and humiliated them, then packed them off to be slaughtered. Did you expect the men to then turn and bow before them?’
‘You know very well not all officers behaved as you have just described. Besides, what about you? Last time we met, you had been made a captain.’
Bogoleev’s jaw tensed. ‘I had to work twice as hard for every one of my promotions than most officers. More than once, I was passed over in favour of men who turned up their noses at me because my father was a teacher and not a nobleman.’
‘Is that why you joined the Red Guards? To get revenge?’
Bogoleev was silent for a moment. ‘Is that what you think?’
‘So why did you join the Reds?’
‘I heard Lenin speak.’ He said reflectively. ‘His reasoning made sense. Kerensky’s army was in disarray and his provisional army was powerless to turn the country around. Soldiers were leaving the front in droves. It was obvious the war was as good as lost. So yes, I joined the Reds. They need men who can lead, men who are able to develop policies and organise troops. Men like me.’ He walked around Alexei’s bed and leant over him.
‘And men like you.’
Alexei laughed contemptuously. ‘You must be mad. I will never join your army of ruffians.’
Bogoleev straightened. ‘Be careful what you say, Serov. You are no longer in charge.’
‘I’d rather face a firing squad.’
‘That can be arranged,’ Bogoleev said sharply. ‘But what about your family? Are you willing to risk their lives as well?’
Alexei’s mouth went dry. ‘What do you mean?’
‘We know they are living in Uglich.’
‘You wouldn’t dare.’
‘I do whatever is necessary.’
‘What happened to you, Bogoleev? You are not the man I remember.’
Bogoleev stared at Alexei. ‘The war happened,’ he replied coolly. ‘The war left its mark on all of us.’
‘You should have let those hooligans shoot me.’
‘Despite what you think, that’s not what the Red Army is about. We believe in equality between people, regardless of their background. We stand for the people.’
‘You are deluded, Bogoleev. The Red Army is a bunch of thugs. It’s only a matter of time before the White commander crushes you. Trotsky has no military experience and the Allies will never support the Bolsheviks now that they’ve signed the peace treaty with the Germans. The Red Army is doomed.’
‘We have the support of the people.’
‘The Whites have the support of the imperial commanders and the Allied forces.’
‘There are plenty of imperial commanders who have joined us.’
‘Hardly enough to help you win. It’s only a matter of time before the Tsar –’
‘The Tsar is dead,’ Bogoleev said flatly. ‘And so is his family. The Romanovs are no more.’
‘The whole family?’ Alexei looked at Bogoleev in disbelief. ‘Why?’
Bogoleev’s lips pursed into a thin line. ‘It was a necessary step towards the greater good of the revolution.’
‘Surely you don’t believe that.’
‘We are at war.’ Bogoleev’s voice raised an octave. ‘And the Tsar and his family posed a threat. They needed to be –’ he faltered. ‘– removed. There was no other choice.’
The Russian Tapestry Page 27