And so it was that the Tsar, the Orthodox Tsar, put the squash on the rescue plans not simply because of worries for himself and his close family, not simply for we who served them, but for those thugs who guarded them and were soon to kill them. How could he have been so stupid? Couldn’t Nikolai, didn’t Nikolai, see the tidal wave of blood flooding toward them, toward all of Rossiya?

Oh, as the tragedies of Shakespeare have revealed, the fall of kings is but fodder for the richest of entertainments. The tumble of this Tsar and his consort was the grossest, however, and the conclusion of this story, I regret to foreshadow, was all the worse. In those days as the Imperial Family sat unknowingly waiting for their own executions, the Tsar’s younger brother, that sweet, dashing Grand Duke Mikhail, was taken out into a field and shot like a dog. And the Tsaritsa’s sister, Grand Duchess Yelizaveta? She and a handful of other Romanovs were thrown alive down a mineshaft, with hand grenades and burning brush tossed in atop them. Unfortunately, they lived through it all, singing praise to the Lord, until hunger itself took them days later. This we know to be true, for dirt was found in their stomachs once their bodies were exhumed.

Such were the times, so black, so crazy. Kakoi koshmar… what a nightmare.

12

Lord, forgive me. But first make me suffer. I am the devil’s creation. Torture me and make me cry out for mercy, but make me suffer… for history shows that it was my grave error that precipitated the murder of the Tsar and his family. Yes, my dear granddaughter, Katya, I confess that it was my stupidity, an ignorant decision by a lowly kitchen boy, that gave the Bolsheviki the excuse they had been seeking…

By July 5 the revolution was collapsing in all directions. The Bolsheviki were terrified, for their defeat seemed but days away. The Germans controlled the Ukraine, the English had landed in the north, the Japanese had invaded the Far East, and the American marines were on their way, albeit slowly. Why, even in Moscow itself there was a revolt of the Social Revolutionary Party against Lenin and his depraved cronies. In other words, Lenin and the Bolsheviki were not only cornered, but desperate, which naturally made them more dangerous than ever.

It was a Friday, not hot, not like the days before, but a pleasant thirteen degrees. The rains resumed, which would pose a problem for the night of July 16-17, yet on the fifth things seemed ready to burst with hope and promise. Not only had the vulgar Avdeyev and his crew been replaced by a new komendant and new guards, but Sister Antonina and Novice Marina arrived, their arms laden with a bounty of wondrous supplies. They had not come for days, and suddenly they appeared, smiles beaming upon their faces as they carried in foodstuffs, the likes of which we hadn’t seen for months, not since we’d been carried off from Tobolsk. Instead of just milk and a meager basket of eggs, now there were two chetverts of milk, one large basket containing a chertova dyuzhina – a devil’s dozen – of fresh, warm eggs, not to mention a glass bottle of thick cream, a generous amount of tvorog – farmer’s cheese – and even enough meat for six day’s soup.

“Oi!” I gasped, as I helped the good nun and her novice into our little makeshift kitchen. “Tak mnogo v’syevo!” So much of everything.

Sister Antonina, tiny and round as she was, squinched up her nose like an old hedgehog, and said, “During Avdeyev we brought this much and more every time. But there was a toll, per se.”

“What?”

“Da, da, da. At the outer gate, at the inner gate, as we walked past the guards’ room – they all took as they pleased.”

Novice Marina, her voice small, asserted, “It’s true – they wouldn’t let us pass otherwise.”

“Now that we know the way is clear,” beamed the good sestra, “next time we will bring even more!”

When we walked into the tiny kitchen, cook Kharitonov saw the goods and was beside himself, putting aside his boiled potatoes and immediately bragging about what he would make.

“Maybe even some meat pierogi!”

I placed the larger of the baskets upon the kitchen table and fetched a bowl for the eggs. As I unloaded them, the young Novice Marina stepped forward, clutching dearly one of the chetverts of milk, which she lifted unto my hands. I gazed into her eyes, perceived the most subtle of nods, which sent a rush of excitement up my spine.

And, yes, the tiny pocket cut into the cork did in fact contain a note, the fourth and final one the Tsar was ever to receive. No sooner had Sister Antonina and Novice Marina departed, than big Dr. Botkin appeared in the kitchen doorway. Everyone was hoping for more news from the outside, and he pushed up his gold spectacles and studied me quite eagerly.

“Would you be so kind, Leonka, as to fetch a glass of water for Aleksandra Fyodorovna?” he requested, his dentures oddly clicking as he spoke. “Her eyes are aching, and I have prescribed valerian drops to calm her nerves.”

“Certainly,” I replied.

I did as requested. As before, I removed the cloth covering the crock of water, ladled a glass of fresh, cool water, and set upon my way to the bedchamber. As I traversed the dining room, I fell under the stern eyes of one of the new guards. Did he know? Could he guess? Nyet, that would be impossible. I just had to maintain a certain composure, and I continued through the doorless passage into the girls’ room, finding the three older grand duchesses on their beds reading and Anastasiya on the floor playing with Jimmy, her little King Charlie. Next I proceeded into the corner chamber, that of Nikolai and his consort. The Empress herself was reclined atop her bed, one hand over her closed eyes, while Aleksei sat in his nearby bed, making a chain out of a piece of copper wire. The Tsar was there too seated in a comfortable chair by the window, reading another volume by Saltykov.

“Ah, Leonka, spacibo bolshoye.” Thank you very much, said Nikolai, rising to his feet, at the same time brushing back his mustache with the back of his hand. “Here, let me take that.”

I approached him, handing him the glass of water.

In the most quiet of voices, he asked, “Did Sister Antonina bring something today?”

“Da-s.”

I immediately reached into my shirt, where I had hidden the small folded note. Just at that particular time came frightful coughing from the room of the grand duchesses. We all knew what that meant.

The Tsar whispered, “Bistro.” Quickly.

I heard them now, the heavy steps of a guard marching our way, and I nearly panicked. Finally my fingers found the small, folded paper, and I ripped it from my clothing and stuffed it into the Tsar’s hand.

“Ah, good morning, komendant,” said Nikolai, palming the note to his side and into his pocket. “The heat has finally broken, has it not?”

I turned around, saw the new komendant, Yakov Yurovksy, who just the day before had replaced Avdeyev, the Red pig. This new keeper was a trim man, not too tall. He had thick black hair, a black goatee, nice eyes, small ears, and a distinct, rather unpleasant voice that sounded as if he spoke through his nose.

“Good morning,” said the dark one, so very matter-of-factly, as he held forward a wooden box. “I have here in this wooden casket the items of value that you gave me yesterday.”

Aleksandra, never one to hold her tongue, gazed at him from her bed, and all but hissed, “We gave you nothing. What you have is what you took from us.”

That was yesterday’s incident. Yurovsky had arrived midday, and that very afternoon he and another had gathered the Imperial Family and demanded their personal jewelry “lest it tempt the guards.”