Nikolai took the box and opened it, revealing his gold watch. “Thank you for returning it.”

“I will allow you to keep it in your possession, but for security purposes I suggest you wear it at all times.”

Yurovsky turned and departed, and the Tsar took his watch and fastened it around his left wrist. A beautiful gold watch it was, naturally of the finest quality, and he wore it unto his death, when it was taken as a brilliant souvenir from his dead body.

“Oh, Nicky…” said Aleksandra.

The Tsaritsa felt the pains of the world in her head, her back, and in her legs. And Nikolai helped his beloved back to her bed, where she reclined and stayed for the rest of that day and, actually, almost for the short remainder of her life.

It was about then that our dear Dr. Botkin began his prophetic letter, the famous one found after the night of treachery. He began it at about this time and was still working on the wording all the way to the end. In fact, he was still writing it that night when they were all called down to the cellar.

In retrospect it was clear that the end was rapidly approaching. Dr. Botkin foresaw that. I, on the other hand, never stopped believing that we would be spirited away. Then again, I was but a lad of fourteen, as naive to the depravity of mankind as I am wise today.

And so it is with great sadness that I proceed to Sunday, July 14.

14

A Sunday it was, just two days until the end.

For days we had not been visited by Dr. Derevenko, the Heir’s physician. And for days now the Tsar had been requesting his presence.

“My son needs the attention of our Dr. Derevenko, who possesses a unique electric device. He uses this to massage my son’s legs, you understand, and the results are quite good.”

“And as I’ve told you before,” countered Yurovsky, “this is not permitted.”

Likewise the Tsar had been asking for a religious service, which had not been permitted for quite some time. Then all of a sudden that Sunday, the fourteenth, we were informed at morning inspection that we would be allowed a service to be performed by none other than Father Storozhev himself.

“He and the deacon will be here at ten this morning,” said Yurovsky. “No conversation will be permitted.”

“Understood,” curtly replied the Tsar.

Morning tea and bread were served immediately after the inspection, and the announcement of the religious service caused a great stir at the table, albeit a quiet one, for a guard stood at either end of the dining room. That left us not much to talk about except the weather, and a beautiful summer’s morning it was, the sky having cleared after another night of heavy rain and the temperature now a cool, pleasant twelve degrees. As soon as breakfast was concluded, however, everyone scattered. Kharitonov, Demidova, and I went about cleaning the table and doing the dishes, while Aleksandra and the two younger girls, Maria and Anastasiya, set up a small altar in the drawing room. They cleared the large desk and decorated it quite nicely, spreading one of the Empress’s shawls over it, then arranging their favorite icons, including Saint Feodor’s Mother of God, perhaps the Empress’s most treasured possession. Adding a nice homey touch, Anastasiya placed a few birch branches here and there, for whether of high or low estate Russians are a mystical sort, bound like pagans to the wild nature of their motherland.

At this time the Tsar retired to his bedchamber, presumably to sit with the Heir, perhaps even to read to him. This, however, was not the case. A few minutes later Olga slipped into the room, and it was then that they wrote the final letter to the “Officer.” It had been ten entire days since we’d last heard anything from the outside, ten entire days of waiting for that bloody midnight whistle, and the Tsar wished to inform those on the outside that the conditions within The House of Special Purpose were deteriorating, rapidly so. Of course the Tsar, always cautious, controlled, and particular, was not a quick writer by any means, and it took him a good long while to draft the six or seven lines. Then, of course, Olga had to translate it into the French, so this entire process took all the way up until the service itself.

Shortly after ten the servant Trupp brought the brass censer with burning coals, handing it to me in the kitchen and requesting, “Please deliver this to father, who is in the guard’s room.”

I did as told, carrying the brass censer, suspended as it was by three chains. A rich plume of heavenly smoke billowed out as I walked through the house and to the guard room, where I found Yurovsky and a guard, plus the two from the church, Father Archpresbyter Storozhev and Father Deacon Buimirov. The two religious men were already vested, their gold and red brocade robes flowing to the ground, and Father Storozhev was in conversation with the komendant himself.

“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.