He slipped the key back into the pocket of his trousers, and parked the books back in front of the lock. He hadn’t been in there since three days before May had died, when he’d brought his wife down for what turned out to be her final visit. Absolutely no one but May and he knew of the vault’s existence, yet Kate, whom he loved so dearly, soon would. Within a short time the contents thereof would be all her responsibility. Misha only prayed that the audiotape he was now making and the sealed letter he’d left with his attorney would be enough to guide her.

In any case, it would soon be out of his control. He’d done everything he could not only during his lifetime, but to control things from the grave.

Sitting down at his desk, Misha took a brief sip of water. With a deep rumble, he cleared his throat. And then he pushed the button on the tape recorder and continued:

“Hi, my sweet Kate. It’s me, your old Dyedushka Misha. I’m back. Is my story making sense? Are you able to follow everything? If there’s anything that doesn’t make sense, don’t forget to check the documents in my dossier, okay, malenkaya?” Little one.

“You know, many people, many times have said to me how much Russians and Americans are alike. We both have such big hearts, we are both so welcoming into our homes, we are both so desperate to be liked. And sure, in these ways we resemble each other. I do not know – perhaps it is because both countries are so vast and hold such a diversity of peoples, but… but the similarities stop there. The truth is that Americans cannot possibly begin to understand the depth of the Russian soul, the Orthodox soul. And this you must to understand. For my story to make sense you must comprehend that every Russian, in his heart of hearts, believes that sin brings suffering, great suffering. That in turn leads to repentance, and it is that very cleansing which eventually delivers one closer unto the feet of God Himself. Do not forget: sin, repentance, holy deliverance. Sin, torment and cleansing, purification. Sin, suffering, forgiveness.

“Clear?

“My passport says I am now an American, but in my heart I know I am and will always be Russkie, and like every other person of my country, I want to judge, I want to blame, I want to point away from myself, and say, There, that is the guilty fool, that person did that to me and my fatherland. He is at fault, not me! It’s true, so very true, we Russians are peasants, mere peasants who will do anything to escape blame and responsibility, for we are still deathly afraid of our master’s whip. But in fact… in fact the dynasty itself exploded for a myriad of stupidly brilliant reasons. Simply, it somehow stumbled upon a perfect, and yet altogether not random, chemical reaction: you take one part decent man but not enlightened ruler, one part heartbroken mother clutching for any way to save her son, two parts inbred dynasty and gossip-obsessed court, one part Great War, and three parts uneducated, worn, and hungry people, and – boom! – what do you get? Revolution, terrible, terrible revolution, of course! Any eedee-ot can see that.

“It amazes me still to this day how quickly the empire fell to pieces. One day the people are kissing the ground upon which the Tsar’s shadow has fallen, the next they are hacking apart his body. Nikolai merely put down his scepter and walked away, and literally overnight a three-hundred-year old dynasty evaporated – poof, gone! – with no one lifting a finger to save it. Ironic that the Soviet Union collapsed just as easily, which proves it was no better, that the cure, kommunizm, was in fact far worse than the disease itself. Now, I can only hope, those days are over, and just maybe that’s true. After all, it took nearly one hundred years for the insanity to fade from France after their revolution.

“So, anyway… where was I? Oh, sure,” he said, leaning forward and checking the tape, which was whirring away. “I must continue my dark story. You must listen while I tell of the terrible things I saw the night the Romanovs were murdered. I have lived with this story every day, every moment of my life, yet never did I want these events to cross my lips. But now, because of recent developments, tell I must. You see, the night the Romanovs were killed, I chased after the truck that was overflowing with troopy – carcasses – as it slowly headed down that dirt road to village Koptyaki.

“But I will get to all of those gruesome details. Now, just listen as I return to the morning of June 26,1918.”

9

It was a Wednesday. The previous day the second note had come so nicely hidden in the cork of that chetvert of milk, and then that afternoon I’d carried out the long reply. We were all quite hopeful, even quite expectant, that Wednesday morning. We’d had no news from the outside for weeks – no letters, no newspapers except an ersatz journal that consisted of three telegrams reprinted on some greasy brown paper – but suddenly there was that candle of hope. Perhaps the world had not forgotten His Majesty after all. Though the morning was hot – “Very hot again, 22½ degrees in the room,” recorded Aleksandra in her diary – we were all quite eager upon rising, thankful to know that someone was apparently working on our behalf. Could it be that God had finally heard the long, sorrowful prayers of Aleksandra and her family? Had she finally got right her arrangements of icons?

I was in the kitchen stuffing the center of the samovar with twigs and pine cones. It was not quite seven-thirty. And the first of the Romanovs to go to the water closet that morning – accompanied by a guard, of course – was again the second daughter, Tatyana Nikolaevna. Our eyes met and said the same things: yes, perhaps today was the day, perhaps by eve we would be free. Her fine lips pursed the smallest of smiles. Carrying a sponge, toothbrush, rubber traveling bowl, and a pressed white linen hand towel, she, with the guard right behind her, passed through the kitchen, past the twenty-three steps, and to the far corner of the house. In the back of my mind I heard the door of the water closet open, close, and knew that the guard was waiting right outside the door while the Grand Duchess was performing her morning ablutions.

Several moments later, however, I heard the door of the water closet thrown open, and then Tatyana Nikolaevna, like a fast moving summer storm, swept back through the kitchen, her eyes cast to the floor. There were bright blooms of red spread across her face – again, so much like her mother whose emotions manifested themselves physically – while behind her came the guard, laughing deeply as he stroked his stringy beard. What untoward actions had he taken? Had he cornered the young woman, tried to kiss her, as one of them had tried to embrace Maria just last week?

I glanced through the hall, into the dining room. I saw nothing, but heard a flurry of low voices, the swishing of dresses. A few moments passed before Nikolai Aleksandrovich himself came storming along the same route. Wearing his army tunic and tall leather boots, of course, he passed through the kitchen, his face grave. Behind him came the same guard, still laughing, still stroking his beard. Although I was all but invisible to both of them, I watched as the ex-Tsar moved with great determination into the water closet. He remained there longer than his daughter. A good deal longer.

I lit the samovar, vented the smoke out the window. I blew on the twigs, made sure the flame was fine and strong. And then I heard Nikolai Aleksandrovich emerge, heard him march my way, his pace steady, controlled, firm. Almost like a robot he passed me by, his face stony and void of expression. Many people have described the Tsar as such, that when bad news was delivered upon him they were surprised by his lack of reaction, lack of emotion. Some great ministers and foreign dignitaries mistook this as a lack of caring and feeling, a weak-willed passivity or deep-seated fatalism. But they were all wrong. Nikolai Aleksandrovich was deeply emotional, extraordinarily caring. And also a firm believer that the Tsar of All the Russias must maintain absolute control – control of every little item on his desk, control of his own calendar and appointments, and above all, supreme among most manly things, control of his personal feelings. All this while deep inside so much was seething, all of which he expressed only to his wife. Yes, a passionate, loving man – which is made clear in the thousands of letters he left behind – but as he moved on by, not an inkling of emotion could I detect on that man’s practiced face. I did notice something, however: his hands. They were blackened, and he was rubbing them together, trying desperately to wipe something away.