Meanwhile, cook Kharitonov and I prepared the tea, which was served in the dining room. Black tea, black bread, and a bit of butter. They all sat down – the seven Romanovs, Dr. Botkin, and only reluctantly, only after all the others had taken their seats, Demidova and Trupp. Sure, cook and I brought everything out to the table and sat down as well. That morning we were short just three things, two teaspoons and one butter knife, so the cutlery went around the table. But it went around in silence, for hardly a word was spoken during the meager repast.
Immediately after breakfast Nikolai Aleksandrovich retired with his son to the drawing room, where they sat with Dr. Botkin, who, though much improved, was still weak from his attack of the kidneys. In his beautiful voice, so clear, so resonant, the Tsar read aloud, as was his frequent custom, and that morning he read to his son and his friend, Botkin, the twelfth volume of Saltykov, Poshekhonskaya starina, The Old Days of Poshekhonye. And soon the work of Russia’s richest satirical writer – this one poking fun at the old landed gentry and bureaucrats alike – began to lift the morose cloud, filling the rooms of the Ipatiev House with small, but such significant peals of laughter.
And the womenfolk?
All morning they “arranged things.” Aleksandra, her maid, and four daughters worked more furiously than ever, sewing secretively in near-constant shifts. I suppose given the notes we had already received and the very real possibility that we might at any moment have to flee, it seemed the only wise course. So Aleksandra disappeared into her bedroom, where in the heat of the summer she sewed away. A few minutes later Olga Nikolaevna went to assist her, an hour later Demidova, and so on.
Thus passed that painful morning, each of us in our own way trying to comprehend what lay ahead of us. Never, however, did I imagine so dark an event as would take place. Then again such a thing as a chistka – a cleansing, a liquidation – was a new concept, one that would be played like a black refrain throughout the history of the Soviet Union.
10
It was approaching the noon hour when a great Slava Bogu rose like a Gregorian chant. Yes, we all gave thanks to God when at midday Sister Antonina and Novice Marina came, bringing with them precious foodstuffs, including another priceless chetvert of milk. Cook Kharitonov and I were both in the kitchen when the visitors came, and again it was I, the kitchen boy, who received the goods from the sister.
“Dobryi dyen, my sons.” Good day, said Sister Antonina, her stout little figure draped in black as always.
“Dobryi dyen, sestra,” I replied.
“With pleasure and by the grace of God Himself,” she said, handing me a basket in which were nestled some eggs, “we humbly offer a simple token.”
Kharitonov, who was boiling some water on the little oil stove, wiped his beaded brow, and said, “Ah, it is the good sisters of the world who keep our bellies full.”
“Of course. Our chickens are our pride. And we have such good cows, such fresh grass as well. The novice Marina here,” Sister Antonina said, indicating her shy, young apprentice, “is a very able milkmaid, isn’t that right, dorogaya?”
Marina was dressed not as rigorously in black, for I could see waves of rich brown hair beneath her headpiece, not to mention her ankles at the base of her black frock. And she just stood there, her head bowed, saying nothing. Instead, she merely blushed the color of a summer sunrise as she carefully placed a glass bottle of milk on the wooden table.
“And today,” continued Sister Antonina, “we have not only more milk and such nice fresh eggs for The Little One, but some cheese from our caverns as well.”
“They are greatly appreciated,” I replied.
“This I know.”
I studied the sister’s apple-wrinkled face, which was so darkly and tightly swathed by the black wimple of her order, and saw that her cheeks and nose were red and swollen with the heat of the day. Tiny droplets of moisture glistened on the surface of what little of her skin was showing, and my eyes traveled to her eyes, linking us in silent communication. Her long gaze, punctuated by one double blink, telegraphed all that could not be said.
Suddenly a guard appeared in the doorway, gun over his right shoulder, grenade on his belt. It was not the blond guard, but the beardless one with dark hair.
“It is not permitted to visit with the detainees!” he snapped, his voice surprisingly deep and gruff.
Sister Antonina turned on him with a practiced and extraordinarily effective weapon of her own, a grandmotherly smile. “Of course, my son.”
“The komendant orders you to leave.”
“Da, da, da. We’re just going.”
“Now!”
“I understand, my son.” Sister Antonina then leaned forward and kissed me on each cheek, whispering in the faintest of angel voices, “Tell them to be ready as soon as tonight.”
Yes, those were the very words she planted in my ear, which to this day have lived within my being like an ear worm, a refrain that sings over and over, and from which I cannot escape. The good sister followed after the lad, and I expected the novice to simply and silently patter after them both. Instead, however, Novice Marina, her head slightly bowed as always, stepped quickly toward me and, much to my surprise, reached to kiss me as well. Wondering what it meant, I stood there, quite surprised to feel her young, fresh lips upon first my one cheek, then the other. To further startle me, she reached for my hand and clasped her soft fingers around mine. Only in that moment did I understand the reasons for her affection, because in the slightest, most subtle of moves she transferred a folded envelope from her palm to mine.
“Do svidanya,” I muttered.
As she hurried off, I slipped my hand into my pants, depositing the folded envelope into the secret darkness of my pocket. Going about my business, I reached for the butter yellow ceramic bowl in which cook always made the blini the Heir so dearly loved. And into this bowl, its glaze all crackled, I placed the brown eggs of the monastery chickens. I stacked them slowly, neatly, one fragile oval shell atop the other. Glancing first over my right, then my left shoulder, I discerned no guards in the corridor, nor any lurking in the dining room. My eyes met cook’s, and he gave me a slow, knowing nod as he went about his business of preparing macaroni for Aleksandra Fyodorovna.
I asked, “Will you prepare some of the eggs for Aleksei Nikolaevich’s midday meal?”
“I think certainly.”
I lifted the glass bottle of milk, finding it indeed as fresh and warm as a newborn. I checked the doorways once again, and pulled out the cork. As before, there was a tiny slit cut into the stopper, and I quickly pulled out the small note that was hidden there. I started to-
“Leonka,” called a deep voice from the doorway.
I jumped, nearly spilled the entire bottle of milk, and did in fact drop the cork to the floor. As quickly as I could, I crammed the note into my pocket.
“Sh-to?” What?
I turned to see the Tsar’s faithful footman, Trupp – Aleksei Yegorovich Trupp – standing in the doorway. He was an old man by then, somewhere over sixty, and had wiry gray hair and a healthy paunch. I think that he’d served not only during all of Tsar Nikolai’s twenty-three year reign, but had also waited upon Nikolai’s father, Tsar Aleksander III. A life without a tsar was simply impossible for Trupp, who had gladly shared the royal family’s year-and-a-half imprisonment.
“Leonka,” began the manservant once again, “if the nuns have brought more fresh milk, Yevgeny Sergeevich requests that you be so kind as to bring him a glass… to, ah, ah, soothe his stomach, of course.”
“Certainly.”
Trupp withdrew himself, which went quite against the worn-out protocol of the Imperial Household. Then again, these were extraordinary times and everything had changed. In previous times, however, a boy of my low status would never have been allowed to carry a mere glass or a simple plate to the dinner table or anywhere else within the royal apartments. Absolutely not. Back then, back in those days at Tsarskoye, everyone had a position and a pur
pose, and I would have remained entirely within the confines of the kitchen, which was in a separate building and attached to the Aleksander Palace only by tunnel. Any food that was brought to Their Highnesses or guests was done so by footmen like Trupp, who usually transported any nourishment with great haste, running through the long tunnel and down the long, straight halls of the palace. Upon entering the private rooms, however, one had to be quiet, for Aleksandra Fyodorovna hated the clatter of dishes, not to mention kitchenly smells, the likes of which now perfumed our daily existence.
But these were different days indeed. And I was no fool. It was my presence, not a glass of milk, that was requested.
I took one of the thin glasses, poured some thick, rich milk. And then I recorked the glass bottle and glanced once at cook, who nodded at me ever so slightly. I proceeded through the hallway where I slept, into the dining room where Anastasiya Nikolaevna still sat with her drawing tablet – this was the route, this was my course. The youngest of the daughters looked up at me only briefly, her face blank. She was learning quickly the language of mistrust, of course, for there was a guard standing in the far corner, a tall fellow with dark hair and a huge bushy mustache. And so I continued to the other end of the dining room, to the left, and into the long drawing room.
The three of them – Tsar, Tsarevich, and doctor – were in the alcove at the far end. This was where Botkin slept, next to the large wooden desk in the alcove. He was reclined there, while the Tsar sat alongside in a comfortable wooden chair and the Heir remained in the wheeling chaise. Nikolai Aleksandrovich continued the pretense of reading aloud as I circled the large potted palm, but then he stopped as I delivered the glass to Botkin.
“The sestra has just brought milk from the monastery, Yevgeny Sergeevich. It’s still warm – she said it’s fresh from the cow this morning.”
“Spacibo, molodoi chelovek.” Thank you, young man, said the doctor, accepting the glass.
I turned to the Tsar, hesitated. Nikolai Aleksandrovich eyed the drawing room, then laid those magnificent eyes upon me. With a single nod, he bade me forward. I stabbed my hand into my pocket and snatched out the folded piece of paper and the envelope too.
“The paper was in the cork,” I whispered. “And the other, the envelope, was given me by Novice Marina.”
Nikolai Aleksandrovich looked at them both, and spying the handwriting on the envelope, muttered with a smile, “Ah, a letter from Anya.”
He was referring, of course, to the Tsaritsa’s only companion, her blindly faithful friend, Anna Vyrubova, the Cow, as the Empress referred to her whenever she was out of favor, which happened from time to time. But a loyal friend this Anya was. Persecuted too, for the entire country thought she not only worked hand in hand with Rasputin, but that the Empress, the mad monk, and Anya herself formed a poisonous camarilla bent on the destruction of Holy Mother Russia. For this Vyrubova was dragged from the Aleksander Palace and thrown into one prison after another, from the pits of the Fortress of Peter and Paul to Krondstadt itself. It was a miracle she survived at all – the starvation, the beatings, the filth, and the scourge. But she did survive; somehow she escaped an appointment with her own execution, went into hiding for several years, and then eventually fled across the ice floes to Finland, where she became a nun and lived all the way until 1964. And it is to Anna Vyrubova’s credit that she was one of the few who worked secretly and continuously to save the Imperial Family, sending hundreds of thousands of rubles to secret agents in Siberia who, in the end, did little but pocket the fortune.
I leaned closer to the Tsar and quickly whispered, “Sister Antonina also said this, she said: ‘tell them to be ready as soon as tonight.’ ”
How do I describe Nikolai Aleksandrovich’s response? Was he stunned? Surprised? Excited? His eyes opened wider, remaining fixed on me as it sunk in, as he realized that their rescue could come as early as the day’s end.
All he said was a deep, single word. “Yasno.” All is clear.
I turned, retreating from the drawing room and my duties, and headed back into the kitchen, where I assisted cook Kharitonov in the preparation of our simple meals. Lunch was soon served, servants and royals sharing the same table.
And the third note, the one that I found like its predecessors, in the cork of the bottle? It reads:
Do not worry about the fifty or so men who are in a little house across from your windows – they will not be dangerous when it comes time to act. Say something more precise about your komendant to make the beginning easier for us. It is impossible to tell you now if we can take all your people; we hope so, but in any case they will not be with you after your departure from the house, except the doctor. Are taking steps for Doctor D. Hoping before Sunday to indicate the detailed plan of the operation. As of now it is like this: once the signal comes, you close and barricade with furniture the door that separates you from the guards, who will be blocked and terror-stricken inside the house. With a rope especially made for that purpose, you climb out through the window – we will be waiting for you at the bottom. The rest is not difficult; there are many means of transportation and the hiding place is as good as ever. The big question is getting The Little One down: is it possible? Answer after thinking carefully. In any case, the father, the mother, and the son come down first; the girls, and then the doctor, follow them. Answer if this is possible in your opinion, and whether you can make the appropriate rope, because to have the rope brought to you is very difficult at this time.
An Officer
This “Doctor D” to whom they refer – that was Dr. Vladimir Nikolaevich Derevenko who had been treating the Heir.
The Tsar often joked that their prison life was really more like one long trip across the ocean, each new day being identical to the previous. But not that one. A great stir in our routine had taken place and after the midday meal I heard many low voices and whispered discussions. Sure, they were trying to decide what to do, how to handle this, and what exactly it meant, this possibility of an imminent escape. At about two the entire household went down the twenty-three steps to take the fresh air; that is, we all went out with the exception of Dr. Botkin, Aleksandra Fyodorovna, and her eldest daughter, Olga, who remained with her mother to “arrange medicines.” And there in the little garden, that scruffy yard, we were allowed to walk for two entire hours on account of the stifling heat. Paced in circles, that was what we did, particularly the Tsar, who never stopped moving. Sometimes he appeared animated and excited, while sometimes he looked worried and anxious. I think he was pondering, trying to foresee the events of the next few hours and days, though who could have guessed what the Bolsheviki had in store?
And the envelope that Novice Marina slipped from her palm to mine?
Truth be told, I never saw its contents, and unfortunately the letter no longer remains, or at least it has not surfaced from the bowels of the Soviet archives. I imagine Aleksandra ripped it up and flushed it, something along those lines, but it was most definitely from this Anna Vyrubova, the much assoiled friend. She was accused of many terrible things, but in the end of ends she was merely a simple, exuberant soul devoted to her friends, the sovereigns, and their well-being. True, she must have been a natural schemer, and an excellent one at that, otherwise how did she do it, how did she get all those letters to the imperial ones and all that money to the secret agents? Actually, it has never been clarified, for writing from the safety of Finland in 1923 all that Mademoiselle Vyrubova confessed was:
Even now, and at this distance from Russia, I cannot divulge the names of those brave and devoted ones who smuggled the letters and parcels to and from the house… and got them to me and to the small group of faithful men and women in St. Petersburg. The two chiefly concerned, a man and a woman, of course lived in constant peril of discovery and death.
Though I was never to read the smuggled letter, I did see its effects, and exuberant effects they were. Gathered around the tea table that afternoon, the Romanovs ate their slices of bread
and drank their black tea and surreptitiously passed the note from father to mother to daughter to sister… and so on… each of them not glancing at the words, but quickly holding the envelope to his or her nose and drinking in its scent. A marvel it was to them, something like a drug, something like a beacon that led back to the brightness of the dear past. I, who had driven the Heir in his chaise into the room, saw it all, saw their faces light up with shock and pleasure.
“Here, Leonka,” Aleksei Nikolaevich whispered to me, handing me the envelope at the very end of the line, “smell this.”
I held the paper to my nose, deeply inhaled, and… and my head bloomed like a flower, so rich, so sweet that… that I couldn’t help but sneeze like a horse. They all burst into laughter, every member of the Imperial Family and those few of us who were left of their fifteen thousand servants.
“Boodtye z’dorovy, Leonka.” Be healthy, blessed Nikolai Aleksandrovich.
One by one the others mumbled a similar blessing, while I wiped my nose and quickly handed back the note to Aleksei, who tucked it hidden by his side there in the wheeling chair.
Day passed into evening, and supper was served at eight. After the meal, the Tsar read aloud to Botkin, while Aleksandra wrote furiously on a pad, and Tatyana, Olga, and Nyuta pretended to darn some undergarments, but really “arranged.” Eventually too Nikolai laid aside his book and took pen to paper writing not his diary, but a note, or more specifically a reply. Da, da. The following day when I carried out the reply to the third note I also carried out two replies to Mademoiselle Vyrubova’s letter. Sure, both the Tsar and Tsaritsa wrote back, notes that still exist by the way, for rather than destroying them, the sentimental cow carried them all the way out of Russia, whereupon they eventually made their way to the preserves of Yale University in America.
To his friend Anya, the Tsar wrote:
The Kitchen Boy Page 11
