The Secret Wife

by Gill Paul

  Dmitri looked up in surprise. At last an official seemed willing to help. ‘My colleagues and I have formulated many plans but without success. The problem lies in freeing so many at once, including a boy who can no longer walk. And I have counted ten guard posts outside their new accommodation. It would take dozens of heavily armed men simply to get the family out of this town, never mind into safe territory.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Sir Thomas agreed. ‘Let me be clear: the British government will not help in any official capacity. However, I have spoken to some British merchants who regularly trade within this region and take goods back to London, and we have discussed routes that might be used in the event of a rescue. They know ways of getting through the German naval blockade. Perhaps I should put you in touch.’

  ‘You would do that?’ Dmitri was astonished. Sir Thomas’s sympathy was in complete contrast to the cold lack of interest he had encountered at the British embassy in St Petersburg. ‘Why would you trust me?’

  Sir Thomas smiled. ‘I consider myself a reasonable judge of character after many years in this job. You took a risk in identifying yourself to me as a member of the royal escort. I could have called the local soviet and had you arrested. You’ll find they are very militant in this town, so be sure to keep your counsel.’

  An aide brought in a tray of tea and Sir Thomas offered Dmitri a cup. He hadn’t eaten or drunk anything since the previous evening and it warmed his throat, slightly easing the tension in his ribcage.

  ‘You are so close to the house … I wonder if you know of anyone who goes in and out who might be prepared to deliver messages for me?’

  Sir Thomas shook his head slowly. ‘I’m afraid not. Some nuns bring the family eggs and cream once a week, but their deliveries are searched with a fine-tooth comb. And a group of women go in to clean from time to time but they are recruited through the local soviet and I doubt you would find a Romanov sympathiser amongst them. It’s unlikely Father Storozhev, the priest who visits to conduct Orthodox services, would risk falling out with the Bolsheviks. And otherwise, their only visitors are Red Guards. I tried to deliver a note of welcome to the Tsar and Tsarina on their arrival but was rebuffed. I’m sorry.’

  Dmitri was crestfallen. How would he ever arrange a rescue if he could not communicate with Tatiana? How would he cope without their daily correspondence? Already he missed her letters, missed knowing the tiny details of her life. Were they rehearsing another play? How were her bread-making attempts progressing? These were the slender straws at which he had clutched to keep him sane, and without them he felt he was drowning in a vast sea of despair.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Ekaterinburg, Russia, June 1918

  Dmitri found excuses to walk past the Ipatiev House several times a day and gradually he worked out the family’s routine. They were allowed to exercise in the garden for half an hour at eleven in the morning and then again between three and four in the afternoon. One morning when the guards did not appear to be watching, Dmitri pressed his eye to the knothole in the wooden fence and was able to catch a glimpse of the girls playing a game of tennis without a net. Tatiana was wearing a pale grey gown with a crimson-fringed shawl around her shoulders. He longed to call out but did not dare. Despite the fact that the weather had grown warmer, her mother and brother weren’t there. Tsar Nicholas marched briskly up and down the bare yard, lost in thought, but Tatiana rallied her sisters to focus on the game and he could tell she was trying to keep their spirits up.

  Suddenly, some instinct made her turn and look directly at the knothole. She stared hard for a moment and he blinked. Could she see his eye? Might she realise it was him? Dmitri quickly retrieved a scrap of paper from his pocket, scribbled ‘Je t’adore. D.M.’, screwed it into a ball and wedged it in the hole. He walked off, swinging his arms, and ducked down a side street. Half an hour later when he walked back that way he was excited to notice that the paper had gone. Pray God Tatiana had retrieved it rather than a guard.

  He returned that afternoon at four-thirty, after the Romanovs had been ushered indoors following their afternoon exercise, and saw there was a ball of paper in the knothole again. After checking that no one was watching he grabbed it and stuffed it in his pocket. He did not dare open it until he was several streets away. Fingers shaking, he uncrumpled the paper and read, in Tatiana’s distinctive sloping handwriting, the words: ‘All are coping as best they can but I yearn for you with all my heart. A thousand blessings upon you for following us and for giving me strength with your closeness. I adore you now and forever.’

  A sob burst from Dmitri’s chest and he struggled to suppress it. His beautiful, ethereal wife knew he was here and she loved him still. It was like a chink of light in a long, dark tunnel. They must be careful not to overuse the knothole as a method of communication because if they were caught, the guards might punish her and that avenue would be closed to them. He wrote explaining that in the note he left the following morning, and when there was no reply, he guessed she understood.

  Dmitri felt immensely cheered by being able to write to Tatiana. He dropped by to see Sir Thomas Preston again later in the week and mentioned he had a line of communication with the Romanovs.

  ‘Good,’ Sir Thomas nodded. ‘That will be useful. I also have a piece of news that may or may not be of interest. One of my staff knows a farmer, a man named Tolmachev, whose daughter is one of the cleaners at the Ipatiev House. He tells me that Tolmachev is no lover of the Bolsheviks, who have imposed all kinds of nonsensical legislation on farmers. I thought it worth noting.’

  Dmitri was immediately interested. ‘Will you give me directions to his farm?’

  Sir Thomas took a sip of his tea. ‘I think it would be best if my man introduces you. Next week some time. We’ll arrange it.’

  They spoke of the massive changes being imposed on Russian society by the new leadership – the plans for collectivisation of industry, the enhanced workers’ rights – but agreed the immediate effect was that food prices were rising and the poor were struggling more than ever. Sir Thomas asked how Dmitri’s own family were faring and Dmitri felt ashamed as he replied. ‘My father was arrested soon after the Revolution and died in jail last winter. My mother and sisters long for me to visit but I have not … it seemed wrong to leave the Romanovs. My loyalties have been torn.’ He blushed. ‘I could not at any rate have attended my father’s funeral because we were stuck in Tobolsk until the thaw. And now, it feels as though I am more needed here than at home in Lozovotka … If only it were closer. I feel horribly guilty every time I write yet again delaying my visit.’

  Sir Thomas eyed him thoughtfully, then asked: ‘Which one of the grand duchesses are you in love with?’

  Dmitri was so startled, he sloshed tea into his saucer and it dripped onto his trouser leg.

  Sir Thomas laughed. ‘I knew I was right! Go on, which girl?’

  ‘Tatiana,’ Dmitri whispered, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘And she loves me too.’

  ‘So she should, considering the sacrifices you are making for her. Well, I will do all I can to help.’

  Dmitri rode out to Piotr Tolmachev’s farm with a man from the consulate by the name of Henderson. The farmer was working in a wheat field. When he saw them waving he pushed through the tall stalks towards the fence.

  ‘Have you heard the latest orders from Moscow?’ he asked, continuing a conversation he appeared to have been having with Henderson at their previous meeting. ‘I have to hand over all my excess wheat, beyond immediate needs, to a commissariat who will distribute it according to desert. Those doing hard manual labour will get the most, while those who do work that is not physical will scarcely get any. That means the likes of you will go hungry,’ he told Henderson, glancing sideways at Dmitri.

  ‘It sounds completely unworkable,’ Henderson sympathised. He introduced Dmitri and they talked for some time about the new economic system the Bolsheviks planned to impose countrywide, with strict quotas for every commodity.
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  Dmitri had not heard all the details of the new plans and was horrified at how quickly the social structure of the country he loved was being ripped to shreds. Part of him accepted that the aristocracy, of which he had been a part, had no place in the twentieth century. For a privileged family to own the land and all its products by a chance of birth, and for those not so lucky in their parentage to have to work long hours on said land and pay taxes to boot, was a recipe for rebellion. But the alternative the Bolsheviks proposed seemed childishly simplistic. If land were owned communally, how would they make everyone do the same amount of work? Who would make the investment necessary to rebuild and renovate facilities, as his father had done on their estate?

  The farmer’s face was reddened by the elements but his eyes were a clear blue and his hair a short silver-grey thatch. ‘If I could afford it, I would move south to Crimea, which the Bolsheviks have been unable to take,’ he said. ‘My wife’s family comes from there and it’s good farming land. The extra hours of sunlight mean they get two harvests a year rather than our one. In Ekaterinburg we farmers are lucky to break even. I don’t know how I am supposed to find “excess” to give the state.’

  Dmitri bided his time until there was a lull in the conversation, then ventured: ‘I hear your daughter works in the Ipatiev House. Does she tell you anything about the mood of the imperial family? I imagine they must be very fearful.’

  The farmer shook his head. ‘Shocking, isn’t it? If the Bolsheviks have evidence the Tsar and Tsarina were traitors, let them produce it and try them in a court. If not, why can’t they be released to live in exile? Yelena, my daughter, says they are a charming family who are grateful for every little service. She feels sorry for them.’

  ‘Is Yelena here today?’ Dmitri asked, looking around.

  ‘She’s over tending to the pigs.’ He waved an arm in the direction of a shed some hundred yards away.

  They continued talking, but Dmitri kept an eye on the barn until a girl walked out carrying a bucket. He was too far off to tell much about her appearance but she looked tall and slender. She walked in their direction and as she got closer, Dmitri saw that she had shoulder-length brown hair. Suddenly a plan began to take shape in his head. Was it crazy? Could it possibly work? While Henderson and the farmer continued their discussion, he tried to think it through.

  ‘How much money would you need to relocate to Crimea?’ he asked the farmer abruptly, interrupting their conversation.

  Tolmachev was puzzled. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Name a figure,’ Dmitri insisted, and the farmer thought for a moment then came up with the sum of two thousand roubles.

  Dmitri continued: ‘If I give you two thousand roubles, would you consider asking your daughter to help us communicate with the Romanovs? We are trying to get them overseas, and we need someone who has access to the house.’

  The farmer was instantly suspicious. ‘Who are you? How do I know you are not a Bolshevik spy?’

  ‘I can vouch for him,’ Henderson said quietly, and Dmitri gave him a quick nod of thanks.

  ‘Well, I suppose I would consider it. What do you want her to do? Carry letters back and forth?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Dmitri replied. ‘First of all, I need you to find out the days on which she will be working over the coming weeks. Can you do that for me?’

  ‘Two thousand, you say. In cash?’

  ‘In cash.’

  ‘It sounds as though we could work together, my friend.’

  The farmer shook Dmitri’s hand, and Dmitri could see the gleam of hope in his eyes, hope of a way out of an increasingly difficult life. This might work. It must work.

  Dmitri rode back into town to see Thomas Preston. ‘I need to talk to one of your merchants about the safest route out of Russia. Are any based in Ekaterinburg?’

  Preston’s eyes widened. ‘You have a plan?’

  ‘I’m working on it.’

  ‘The best man would be Henry Armistead. Let me give him a call.’ He lifted a telephone receiver and instructed the secretary on the other end to get Armistead on the line, then hung up and continued: ‘Between ourselves, he was part of a plan to rescue the family from Tobolsk. They were going to travel down the River Enisei to the north coast then sail round to Murmansk on a Norwegian Arctic shipping line. The scheme had to be cancelled when they were moved to Ekaterinburg but perhaps he could arrange something similar here if you can get them out of the house.’

  Dmitri spoke urgently. ‘Please ask him to come as soon as he can.’

  The phone rang, the connection having been made, and Sir Thomas spoke to the man on the other end, saying he had an important delivery for the Murmansk route they had spoken of before. There was a pause. ‘Can you make it any sooner?’ he asked. ‘The opportunity could be lost by then … Oh, very well. And you will make the arrangements? Thirteenth of July it is.’

  Dmitri’s spirits fell. That was three weeks away. On the other hand, it gave him time to get the details in place. He had a lot to arrange. When he left the consulate he went to the town’s telegraph office and sent a cable to his mother. APOLOGIES BUT URGENT BUSINESS KEEPS ME AWAY STOP CAN YOU WIRE TWO THOUSAND ROUBLES TO HELP CONCLUDE DEAL STOP HOPE ALL WELL STOP WILL VISIT SOON STOP YOUR SON.

  Next he sent a cable to Malevich: CARGO WILL BE READY IN EKATERINBURG ON 13 JULY STOP COME A WEEK BEFORE WITH TWENTY YELKA STOP.

  Spruce trees – yelka – were the largest and hardiest in the forests where they had fought during the war, and they had sometimes likened the toughest soldiers to them; he was sure Malevich would get the reference.

  His stomach churning with nerves, he rode back to the cottage to think through every last detail. At last he was taking action. It felt as though he had delayed too long already and this would be his last chance.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Lake Akanabee, New York State, September 2016

  As September began, the weather at the lake was hot and sunny but with a fresh breeze. Kitty acquired a deep tan while her brown hair was streaked with blonde. She turned her attention to reconstructing the jetty, buying fresh planks of wood and tearing up the original in order to rebuild from scratch. She had always loved carpentry: the feel of the wood surrendering cleanly to her saw, the pleasure of joints that fitted snugly, the smoothness after sanding. Once the jetty was finished she took a canvas chair out there in the early evenings with a bottle of wine and sat reading the books Vera Quigley had lent her, staying until the light was low and the daytime bird calls were giving way to night prowlers.

  Kitty was soon absorbed in the story of the Romanovs’ life in the early years of the twentieth century, when they were the wealthiest family on the planet. She read of Alexei’s haemophilia and his mother’s growing dependence on Rasputin, the Siberian healer and mystic; then the suspicion that grew around them during the First World War, and the anger at their lavish lifestyles while there was famine across the country, leading to the 1917 Revolution. The book told of the family’s fate in captivity, first at their home in the Alexander Palace in St Petersburg, then at the Governor’s House in Tobolsk, Siberia, and finally at the Ipatiev House in Ekaterinburg, to the east of the Ural Mountains. There was a map on which Kitty could see the mountains running north to south down the centre of Russia like a knobbly spine. She read that conditions gradually worsened for the family as Lenin and Trotsky took control of the western part of the country: their rations were reduced, many of their personal possessions stolen, and the guards treated them with increasing disrespect, forcing them to ring a bell when they wanted to use the lavatory and limiting their time outside in the yard. It was a far cry from the extravagant luxury they had been used to.

  Vera Quigley had promised to send a first batch of her translation within a week, so Kitty went to the vacation park coffeehouse to check her emails. She dismissed the ones from Tom – ‘Kitty, please, I LOVE YOU’, ‘We must talk!’, ‘Are you ever coming back?’ Soon she would be ready to reply to him; just
not quite yet. To concerned friends she sent a quick message saying that she was away for the summer in a place with no wi-fi but would be in touch on her return. As she had hoped, there was an email from Vera with a file attached and she downloaded and opened it. It seemed Vera had translated almost half the diary already, and she wrote that she was so absorbed in the task she kept forgetting to stop and eat. She was now convinced it was a genuine diary written by Grand Duchess Tatiana. Although the Romanovs had always spoken English in private, the Bolshevik guards insisted they spoke only Russian and she guessed that’s why their diaries were in Russian too. She wrote that she felt immensely privileged Kitty had chosen her to translate it.

  The diary began in February 1918 and ran through to July that same year. Kitty glanced at the earliest entries, in which Tatiana wrote about a play called The Bear she and her siblings had been rehearsing, and which they performed for their parents on the evening of the 23rd of February. She sounded like a teenager in places: ‘I couldn’t stop giggling when Olga began reciting Maria’s lines rather than her own. It ruined the dramatic atmosphere somewhat.’ Kitty googled and learned that Tatiana had turned twenty-one while in captivity, so she wasn’t a child. Next she looked up Tatiana on Google images and was startled to find that there were hundreds of pictures of her: wearing a sailor suit on the royal yacht Standart; in formal court dress in 1913; in her nurse’s uniform in 1915. The Romanovs obviously loved photography because there were pictures of them in all kinds of locations, and there were also some rather blurred home movies available online. Kitty watched one that showed the five children parading round a garden in order of height, like the Von Trapps in The Sound of Music, the girls wearing white dresses and wide-brimmed straw hats tied with ribbons.

  Tatiana rarely smiled, Kitty noticed. She seemed more reserved than the others, more regal somehow, and she was easily the most beautiful, with her heart-shaped face, her penetrating gaze and soft cascades of brown hair. It seemed incredible that the diary found at the bottom of her suitcase of family photographs had belonged to this woman. It made Kitty feel there was a connection between them. Who are you? she wondered, gazing at the black and white image of a woman who had died a hundred years earlier.