The Passion of Marie Romanov

by Laura Rose

  I heard murmurs among the guards of two deserters. Why did those two boys flee now? Are they expecting an attack? Or planning one?

  There is an odd electric energy in the air. The frequent lightning winces on and off, and last night’s sliver of sunset that I could perceive through our single window opening was not a natural rose but a queer lime green.

  The heat is oppressive and yet crackling alive with this electric force. Something atmospheric, volcanic will occur…This is the season that meteors strike; lightning ignites forests, mud slides, the earth opens, cracks, black flies feast on flesh…

  I can feel the pulse of it, like a timed bomb in the doomed beat of my heart…Something will happen. Now. Tonight.

  The days, the nights are too long but once they pass, we fear our lives are too short.

  The hours of captivity are endless but oh they will end. We can smell the end in the electricity, the sizzle in the air…the heat lightning, the sound of the shots, coming closer, closer through the forest.

  Inside, the air weighs more heavily each night. I have a sense now, with Dr. Botkin, that we both know a truth we dare not express—that we will die here, all of us. Soon. I must not think of that, at all—I will give way to hysteria. I must maintain hope. We have come through so much.

  Now. The time has come—the knock at the door. We are summoned once more.

  Can I compose myself? Can I ease the sufferings of my sisters, my brother, my parents? Can I offer comfort in the end? Find some sacred solace at that last moment?

  I don’t know. I am too inexperienced to know. I know only that I am nineteen years old, and I am a woman. I made love once, and it was not for pleasure, but to cross the boundary and escape, in some sense, from my prison. I forgive those who torment and who may kill us.

  I may not be rescued but I shall be saved.

  I shall be delivered into the arms of my Lord Jesus Christ. I must look through these blanked white windows, past these walls, this palisade, to the eternal starred heavens, and pray to find peace. I shall dress, and compose myself and escort my sisters, and calm them on this next journey. I must assist my parents and aid my poor little brother, who has been so protected for so long, but now will…

  It is impossible—I see that now. I go willingly, rather than remain here. So, yes, I want to leave this house, by whatever means. There comes a time when fear overwhelms all reason to continue to exist; that fear itself is murderous. My heart hammers, my palms sweat, I tremble continually in my bed, waiting, waiting for what I now feel certain must happen. My gut slides inside me, as I imagine a condemned animal’s does, watching and waiting for the blade. I have reason to remember the small wild rabbits we used to catch—how we wanted to hold them, turn them into pets but always they died in our hands, too scared to survive.

  Only the animal submits once; in their panic they seem to know how to escape their bodies and die fast. For seventy-seven nights, I have lain here, expecting death. I wait for the knock on the door, the signal that they will start…

  There, now, another crack…distant shots, but not so distant as last night’s…They will reach us, but I know now that it will be too late; our captors will have time to…to be sure we are not saved. So, we all wait, in this house for…

  It is the wait that has become intolerable, and I am preparing now for the hereafter and my Lord Jesus Christ and the Holy Mother. This escape is not what I wished but while I cannot say I welcome it, I accept it as an end to a torment worse than any I have known and cannot continue to endure nor watch my beloved family suffer.

  There is no air to breathe in here, no true light nor vista of life outside. The walks have become another form of torture—to breathe the scent of flowers, feel the sun on our faces and know it is only for a few more minutes. Small rations of air, light and aroma and bits of beauty—these serve only to remind us of what we have lost.

  So, no kisses to sign tonight, my love. I am going home, but not as we intended. My kisses tonight, I give to my family. One by one, I have bent over them, and whispered my own goodbye.

  I tiptoed to the big bedroom and saw Mama and Papa, as ever locked in their embrace. Papa’s face was furrowed into a frown, as if he could not escape his fears even in sleep. Mama’s jaw was set, and I could hear her grind her teeth; she is angered and upset, even in her dream.

  Their bedside table holds Mama’s open diary, the box of cards they play each night, bezique. Alexei lies curled below them on his cot, a compress on his knee, Joy at his feet. He looks so young, his baby face restored in sleep. I see him as he looked when he was much younger, his cheeks are relaxed, his lips parted—but as I watch, he moans, without waking, and adjusts himself in the cot. He too does not enjoy an easy rest.

  I want to kiss them all, but I fear waking them. Joy, with his animal instinct, senses me, opens his eyes and sees me, gives a short yelp…but I hush him and retreat. This secret glance at the three—Mama, Papa, Baby—will have to suffice as my private farewell.

  Back in the girls’ room, I stand for a long moment and regard our bedchamber made so pretty with our embroidered scarves and icons mounted on the wall. Our camp beds are pushed close, so we can touch…Our dogs, Ortino and Jemmy, lie comically, their hind legs splayed out, trying to cool themselves against the floor. Ortino, the bulldog, juts his lower jaw, seems to snore. Jemmy is so relaxed also, he doesn’t stir; he rests near Shvybz, as always, and her hand dangles, as if to pat him, one more time. My three sisters lie still as statues in the queer white light that refracts from the street lamps and filters through the whitewashed glass.

  Tatiana, her fine profile is turned toward the blank window; surely, she has the most exquisite face the world has ever seen…Her face has grown even finer in our captivity; she is thinner and her bones more pronounced. Oh, Tatiana must dream, her eyelids move, and her lips seem to twitch, perhaps in prayer.

  How difficult it is to kiss my baby sister. You, Shvybz, are the one I fear for. I will leave this world, a woman—you are still a child, a little girl, the only one of us who perhaps has some spark left, who could find joy even here…That is why…Oh, I must not surrender to these thoughts, but instead vow to place myself between you and whatever harm shall come, and pray you will not suffer more…

  Last, I turn to Olga, who has her back to Tatiana—Olga faces the wall, as she has since she arrived here. Her protuberant forehead catches the illumination of moonlight, making her appear as a marble bust of herself. I wish, just once, she would turn and give me her “old” smile, tell a tale as she used to…I lean over her, brush her forehead, which is oddly cool, with my lips. To my shock, Olga’s eyes open—and I see from her expression that she was not asleep, that she was, like me, all too alert. Her look is more profound than any remark she might utter. I cringe. Her transparent gaze is devoid of hope, and I realize she has waited for the end from the beginning… Her inertia has predicted this…

  I cannot go on. I turn away, tearing my eyes from Olga’s, and kiss my baby sister again, who smiles in her sleep.

  “Marie?” she mumbles. “Masha?” She begins to bolt upright, her hazel eyes, dilating but not truly seeing. “Is something…?” I lie down beside her, to hold her in the old accustomed way.

  “No, my darling,” I whisper. “Everything is fine. Sleep, sleep. I’ll wake you when it’s time. “

  Your Marie…

  July 16, 1918 /July 17, 1918—from the writings of Marie Nikolaevna Romanova, age 19.

  Midnight, in bed with her sister, Anastasia (Shvybz) in the Ipatiev Mansion, Ekaterinburg, during the last night of their lives.

  So much of my story unfolds by moonlight. This is a tale of midnight wakings, and forced marches before dawn. I do not dare undress. I have not undressed for bed, since this all began. I wear my dressing gown, my hair is prepared, and my shoes are set beside me…

  THE CONFESSION OF MIKHAIL LETEMIN

  July 30th, 1918, Statement of the Former Guard at the House of Special Purpose, Mikhail Letemin:<
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  When the White Armies retook Ekaterinburg on July 25, 1918, I was immediately arrested for my role in the imprisonment and death of the former Imperial family. Perhaps because of my age, seventeen, and willingness to cooperate with the inquest into the execution, my life has for the present time been spared, in exchange for my offer to be of assistance.

  August 14, 1918: Testimony of Mikhail Letemin:

  The diary that I stole records the captivity of the former tsar and tsarina and their children and five members of their suite, in a manner I would describe as accurate.

  The family was kept under secure guard from April thirtieth until their end on July sixteenth/seventeenth. I was assigned regular shifts as a guard, part of the group brought in from the Syssert Factory.

  On July fourth, when the new commandant, Yakov Yurovsky, replaced the former commandant, Aveydev, most of the guards were also replaced. Those of us who remained, could guess that there had been a decision of some kind in Moscow as to the fate of the family.

  It did not take long for Yurovsky to inform us: the decision was to kill the family, their servants and the physician. The reason for this was to end all chance of a return to the Romanov monarchy—the dynasty must be definitively destroyed, or it could resume in some manner.

  Yurovsky had the Cheka men at his side—Peter Ermakov played an especially active role in the killing. We were assigned, and two boys, Letts, declined, saying they did not want to kill the girls and the little boy. Yurovsky, to my surprise, let them depart, saying that these two would fail under the pressure of the execution anyway. They took a vow of silence upon pain of death. These two, Anatoly Kudrin and Peter Malakovich, were dismissed. Many of our guards were upset that the former tsar’s children would also be killed.

  “Kill all of them?” several guards said. “Why not only the former tsar, but no women and children?” Yurovsky was firm, and Beloborodov and Goloshchokin also. “This is the decision, from the Ural Soviet and from Moscow Center.”

  We all guessed Lenin himself wished them eradicated, forever, and the Ural Soviet was only too glad to comply. The Romanovs had been a burden, an expense, and a danger to us. It was as you know—you, the White armies, were only a few miles away in the forest. Ekaterinburg was close to falling, and if the city fell to the Whites and the Czechs and they found the Romanov family, any member of it, alive, the dynasty would be restored.

  “Yes, all must die,” Yurovsky said. He made the plan, and carried it out. On the previous day, I accompanied him to purchase as much sulphuric acid as could be obtained in the Urals. As the acid is commonly used for processing platinum, a great industry here, we were able to purchase many large drums.

  I did not want to think of what use there would be for so much sulphuric acid. After buying the acid, it was hard to see the family walk in the garden, the girls so pretty and unmarked, the boy frail and handsome, just thirteen years old, a cripple and ill all his life. Not many of the guards truly wished harm upon the boy or his lovely sisters. The former tsarina had a manner that offended some, but even so, she walked like an old woman, crying out at each step.

  The former tsar, the main enemy of the people, is, was one of the gentlest and politest of men. Everyone said, had we known him under other circumstances, he would have given no offense. He spoke most respectfully to each of us. His face, at fifty, was marked by his recent sorrows. I have never seen such shadows beneath anyone’s eyes. I would say, beyond doubt, this is the saddest man in the world. He could not protect his family, and that is what I believe caused this tragic expression on his face. I heard him say, on the last walk, “One can accept fate, but to have failed those we love is an unhealable wound. It is not what is done to us,” he said, “but what we do, our wrongs and failures that make us wish to die, or in some way obliterate ourselves.”

  My role was as a guard that night. Officially I was to be relieved of my duty before the shooting began, but another guard deserted and I remained in his place. My position was in the inner courtyard, with a clear view of the semicircular window. I could see, if I chose, what occurred below, and it was impossible not to observe the comings and goings that night.

  At about one a.m., the house was still, and all lights had been extinguished. A Fiat truck, used later to transport the corpses, pulled into the courtyard. It was left to idle its engine, in the hope that the roaring engine would muffle the sound of the firing.

  At 1:15 a.m., the shooters, twelve men, crossed my courtyard and descended into the semi-cellar entrance. Within are two rooms—a parlor that had once been intended to serve as an office, and a back storeroom. The men had been ordered to hide in the storeroom, until the appropriate moment when they would enter the parlor chamber and begin shooting at a signal from the commandant Yakov Yurovsky.

  At 1:30 a.m., Yakov Yurovsky crossed the courtyard and ascended the stairs to the upper floor, where the family and their retainers lay sleeping. He knocked on the door. Dr. Botkin slept in the drawing room. The light went on, and I could see their silhouettes —the doctor conferring with the commandant through the white-painted upstairs window. I assume Dr. Botkin was given the order to rouse the others, and instruct them to dress. The ruse was that, because of firing in the nearby woods, they would be safer downstairs.

  They were also told they would be photographed, as a photographic proof was requested to illustrate their continued well-being. It was like watching a terrible play unfold. I could see the windows light, in succession—the daughters’ room, the drawing room, the hall, the parents’ and Alexei’s corner bedroom.

  I imagined them sleepily adjusting to this rude awakening—trying to dress and compose themselves.

  It took them forty minutes to appear—the girls were groomed, their chin-length hair brushed, and their faces scrubbed. They wore, as always, identical clothing— white blouses, with navy skirts, matching shoes. The former tsarina wore a dress as well, and the tsar his usual costume of a khaki military jacket and cap. He carried his son, who was similarly dressed in uniform. The former tsarina held her hand to her lower back, and used a cane. Her servant, the woman called Nyuta, whose name is in reality Demidova, walked behind her, carrying a pillow. The former tsarina walked with obvious discomfort, wincing at each step, clutching her spine.

  They descended the stairs, followed by Dr. Botkin, unmistakable in his spectacles, and the valet, Trupp, and the cook, Kharitonov. The men had dressed but appeared more disheveled than the Romanovs, who I will say had summoned a certain formality even at this surreal hour.

  Of course, there was no turning back, even had they chosen to do so. They walked outside, stood quite near me. I heard the former tsar inhale, and say, “Oh, a chance to breathe the sweet night air.” And indeed, the air was fragrant from the flowers. The temperature was warm, sultry, but a breeze blew just as they passed me, ruffling the girls’ hair and giving a bit of motion to their long skirts.

  They did not appear frightened, only sleepy, dazed. They moved, in fact, like sleepwalkers in a familiar dream. They drifted toward the short descent to the semi-cellar, set into the hill, and I could see them enter, single-file.

  As soon as they were inside the emptied semi-underground parlor, the family and their retainers were obviously asked to position themselves. The tsarina and the tsar stood in the first row. Tsarina Alexandra was seen flinching, holding her back, and apparently requested a chair, or chairs, because one of the boys, the Austrian Rudolph Lacher, whose room was also down there, behind what is now called “the death chamber,” ran out and I heard him say, “The empress wishes to die sitting down.”

  I could see him return with the two chairs, and the tsarina settled upon one chair, and the tsar set his son upon the second, but stood close beside him, as if partially supporting the boy.

  I could see Yurovsky from the back, directing them as to where to stand. He announced that he would photograph them, as proof that they were alive. He indicated the girls should line up against the back row, and Botkin and the
servants, flanking on either side. I could not help but note that the way he arranged them would have been a startling portrait, but its pragmatic motive was also instantly clear—every victim’s chest was exposed. The shooters, all armed with Nagant revolvers, and many with bayonets, had been instructed to aim for the heart, to avoid a heavy flow of blood. It was assumed there would be a hail of bullets and everyone would fall, killed instantly. The room had been chosen for its confining dimension, only twenty-one by twenty-five feet, and the fact that the rear wall was plaster, and should have absorbed the bullets that missed or exited the bodies.

  I edged closer to the window, and looked down. There was something even more horrific about my viewpoint, for surely, it was a downward view of hell such as I have never seen.

  I heard Yurovsky’s pronouncement. He asked all the prisoners to stand. When the empress pulled herself erect, Yurovsky addressed her and the former tsar most directly. He did so, seeming to read from a telegram. “In the view of the fact that your relatives continue their offensive against Soviet Russia, the Presidium of the Ural regional Soviet has decided to sentence you to death.”

  I could see the blank faces of the victims. It was two thirty a.m. They could not comprehend. Nicholas cried out something—I think “Oh, my God!” My own heart was beating so loudly I felt the pulse in my ears, rendering me somewhat hard of hearing—a disability the gunfire would soon aggravate. I watched as in a silent film, but I could see the fear in Nicholas’ eyes. He must have asked for the commandant to repeat the words. Yurovsky repeated in an irritated tone that carried out the window the same message: “Sentence you to death.”

  I am no longer a religious man but I was moved to see Alexandra, the former empress, and her eldest daughter, begin to make the sign of the cross. I heard one girl cry out, “Mama!”

  ***

  Yurovsky was to shoot the tsar himself, but everyone else shared the idea—the glory was in slaying the former “Nicholai The Bloody. None but perhaps Ermakov had the appetite to slay women and children, and faithful servants and a loyal physician.