The Kitchen Boy

by Robert Alexander

  “Nyet-s.”

  “Neither have we.” Brushing his mustache with the back of his right hand, Nikolai stood in nervous thought. “Still, we must be prepared. After all, we can hear the fighting getting closer and closer. The town is sure to fall any day now.”

  “We can only hope.”

  “Wake the others and tell them to be calm but ready for anything,” ordered the Tsar.

  “Trupp is already up. I’ll wake Demidova and Kharitonov.”

  Botkin moved toward the other rooms off the dining room, where the Tsaritsa’s maid and cook slept. The Tsar, meanwhile, retreated to the room of his daughters, where all four of them sat up in their cots, the colored glass chandelier now ablaze overhead. Aleksandra, wearing a white linen nightgown, stood in the doorway of her bedroom, and even Aleksei stood there, balanced on one foot and leaning against the doorjamb.

  “What is it, Nicky?” asked Aleksandra, her brow wrinkled with anxiety.

  “Komendant Yurovsky has ordered us to get dressed and move downstairs. Apparently there’s some sort of unrest in town.”

  Aleksandra audibly gasped and pressed a hand to her chest. “What do you think, could it-”

  “I don’t know the full story, but he says it’s for our own safety. He claims it’s to be only for a short while and that we’re not to bring anything with us.”

  “Oh, Nicky, God has heard our prayers and they’re coming! I just know it, they’re coming for us!”

  At this the girls began to move about and mumble with excitement, the vision of three hundred officers on horseback looming in their virginal minds. Nikolai, however, understood that the situation, whatever it was, was most precarious, and he turned and checked the dining room. No one was there.

  “We can’t let on to a thing,” he commanded his small tribe. “We can’t let them know our hopes. We just have to be alert and ready for any situation. And we all have to look out for one another. Understood?”

  “Da, Papa,” softly replied the children in near unison.

  “The girls should wear everything, shouldn’t they, Nicky?” pressed Aleksandra.

  He thought for a moment, and answered, “Everything.”

  Of course they all knew what that meant. If the family was about to be rescued, they had to carry with them not funds for the Tsar to restore himself to power, but means for them to live. So the girls knew they should wear their diamond-packed corsets, which were not only awkward and uncomfortable, but difficult to put on and lace up. It would take quite some time.

  Meanwhile, at the other end of the house Yurovsky paced about, complaining, “These Romanovs! They bathe so much, they read so much, they ask so many questions – and it takes them so long just to get dressed!”

  Of course it did. The girls had never worn the corsets before and they were having trouble not only getting them on, but making them as inconspicuous as possible beneath their clothing.

  “Do as well as you can, girls,” instructed Aleksandra, her voice hushed, as she helped her daughters. “We can’t let any of the guards suspect. And don’t forget, we may have to move quickly.”

  Of similar heft was Aleksandra’s corset. But that was not all she wore. Nyet, nyet, nyet. When it came to the Empress of Rossiya, she also wore a plate of fine gold weighing more than two pounds that was bent like a bracelet.

  “Here, my love, let me help,” said Nikolai as he slipped the plate up her thin arm, then pulled down the long sleeve of her dress.

  “Does it show?” she whispered.

  “Not at all.”

  Around the Empress’s waist Demidova then fastened the large belt into which Aleksandra herself had stitched her ropes of beloved pearls, some the size of a robin’s egg.

  “Is that comfortable, Madame?” asked the maid.

  “Just fine.” Turning to her husband and son, Aleksandra said, “Don’t forget your hats.”

  “Of course not,” replied the Tsar.

  Adjusting his own cap, Aleksei grinned, thrilled with the charade. “How do I look, Papa?”

  “Perfect. Like a brave soldier.”

  Father and son wore their simple army clothes – coarse wool pants, field shirts, worn boots, and of course their forage caps, into which had been sewn those diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and sapphires that were too big for the girls’ corsets. The remaining oversized gems – including a 70-carat diamond and 90-carat emerald – Aleksandra and her daughters had stitched into three traveling pillows, two of which she distributed to her daughters, one to Demidova.

  “If they ask about the pillows,” instructed the Empress, “tell them these are simply for our comfort while we wait.”

  When he saw his wife reach for her favorite icon, Nikolai said, “Sunny, my treasure, we’re not to bring anything.”

  “But what about Saint Feodor’s? I can’t possibly go anywhere without it.”

  “Trust me, if fortune shines upon us and we leave this very night, I’ll send someone back for it.”

  She hesitated, then replied, “Certainly, my love. You always know what’s best.”

  “Papa, what about Jimmy?” begged Anastasiya of her tiny King Charlie. “Joy’s outside and can take care of himself, but we can’t leave Jimmy behind! If we do one of the guards will step on him, I just know it!”

  “All right, but carry him snugly in your arms.”

  As if he were bestowing Easter blessings upon them all, the Tsar went from child to child, kissing them each. He ended with his wife, taking her into his arms, holding her tightly, and kissing her softly. Were their prayers about to be answered? Was their rescue at hand?

  “We’re all together, which is the most important thing. Everything’s going to be all right,” he assured her and the others. “Whatever happens, just remain calm. God will watch over us.”

  “As will Our Friend,” said Aleksandra, referring to her Rasputin.

  With the Tsar pushing his son in the wheeling chaise, the Imperial Family emerged from their bedchambers. It had taken them nearly an hour to get ready; it was nearly two in the morning. Full of excitement, full of hope, the Romanovs now proceeded into the drawing room, where Botkin, Trupp, Demidova, and Kharitonov were eagerly waiting.

  This time the Tsar addressed everyone, saying, “Our fate is in God’s hands, in whom we place all trust.”

  Nikolai gave Botkin the nod, and the doctor went to the outer door and called out that they were ready. The door immediately opened, and Yurovsky, appearing infinitely serene, beckoned them forward.

  “Follow me. We’ll proceed down the rear stairs and into one of the cellar rooms.”

  Somewhat earlier, perhaps about the time that the electric bells were sounded, I myself had climbed from my bed, for sleep could not possess me. I was much too afraid. Even though Yurovsky had said I was to join my Uncle Vanya, there’d been no sign of him, and I wanted to go back to them, the Romanovs, the only family I had in these parts. So when I saw that the four other guards in my room of the Popov House had drunk themselves into deep sleep, I got up. I slipped on my jacket and carefully, quietly went outside. The rains of the previous days had stopped, and the night sky was clear and dark. I didn’t know what or where I intended to do or go, but when I looked across the alley I could see the house blazing with electric light. Of course I knew which rooms were which, and I immediately saw the painted windows of the family’s rooms glowing brighter than ever. I instantly understood that they had been roused for some reason, and my first thought was that the officers had indeed come to their rescue. Gospodi, Dear Lord, what joy! What happiness! I rushed up the alley, my happiness tempered only by the worry that I might be left behind.

  Or was I all wrong?

  Scurrying up the muddy alley toward the square, I suddenly saw a guard at the corner of the tall palisade. Recognizing him as part of the regular Red guard, I dipped behind a tree and into a cloak of darkness. A moment later the guard disappeared, and I scurried forward. It was in such secret fashion that I made it all the way up the al
ley and eventually onto the square. I hid behind a small Orthodox shrine, and while I could see the windows all glowing with light, I could discern nothing odd. There were no officers on horseback, no Cossacks whooping and hollering. Looking up at the roof, I could see a lone guard behind a machine gun. Everything appeared completely normal, which in turn led me to believe that if the rescue attempt hadn’t already taken place, it was about to be launched.

  Which is when I heard it. Not much at first, but it was a sound that grew by the moment. No, this was not the sound of three hundred officers on horseback galloping to the rescue of Batyushka, the Dear Father. It was the sound of a motor. At first I wondered if it was an airplane, but then I realized it was in fact an automobile or motor lorry, in itself a rarity in Yekaterinburg, particularly at that time of night. Finally I saw it, a single, bulky motor lorry emerging from one of the side streets and heading right across the square toward the house. In the dim northern night I recognized that the back of it was covered with a canvas roof. Could there be soldiers back there, a dozen or two sharpshooters? As the vehicle approached, I hunkered down behind the shrine and saw that it was a Fiat. And as it passed I realized the rear of the truck was empty. Unable to suppress my curiosity I chased after the lorry as it drove directly up to the house.

  When the vehicle stopped at the large, wooden gates, the driver leaned out and called, “Troobochist.” Chimney sweep.

  With this code word the gates were thrown open, and as the lorry rumbled forward I scurried along the far side of it, following it down the short hill and around the back of the house. When the clumsy vehicle pulled to a stop, I scurried off, taking shelter alongside one of the sheds.

  Crouched in the darkness, I watched as several guards approached the Fiat truck. Words were spoken, so deep and cluttered that I could not understand a thing. And then all was silent. I saw several other guards move about, but little else. Twenty minutes passed, perhaps more, and I wondered what in the name of the devil I should do. I was stuck in my hiding place, too terrified to move for fear of being caught, for wouldn’t they shoot me if they found me?

  I finally heard movement from within the house, the sound of many feet on wooden steps, and I pushed myself as deep as I could into the shadows of that small shed. Da, da, da, that was a group of people descending those twenty-three steps, the twenty-three wooden steps that led from the main floor down the back of the house and to the scruffy garden. We had descended that staircase so many times, once in the morning and once again in the afternoon, and always gladly, for that was the route to fresh air and a walk outside. But not that night. Frightened, my eyes scanned the courtyard that was filled with a couple of wooden sheds and the big, silent truck. I heard them before I saw them – all the men with their boots and the women with their heels clattering.

  Finally a side door was pushed open. First came Yurovsky. Then came the Tsar, wearing of course those worn, dark brown leather boots of his. They’d obviously left the wheeling chaise upstairs, and in his arms Nikolai Aleksandrovich effortlessly carried his beloved son and my friend, Aleksei. Both of them, father and son, were dressed alike in simple army hats and clothing. Next came Aleksandra Fyodorovna, wearing a long dark skirt and long-sleeved, light blouse, her long, thick hair put up on her head. She looked so old that night. So tired. Yet in the shadows of that night I thought I saw a glimmer of hope smooth her brow as she glanced around, perhaps looking for someone or something.

  Next came the girls, Olga, Tatyana, Maria, and Anastasiya, all of them dressed in identical dark skirts and light blouses, all of them with nothing on their heads and of course no wraps on their shoulders. Rather than appearing exhausted, they seemed lively and eager. I saw that both Tatyana and Maria carried small pillows, and that Anastasiya cradled her treasured dog, Jimmy, who was so ominously quiet. Following them came Dr. Botkin, Demidova, who also clutched a pillow, valet Trupp, and cook Kharitonov. No one spoke. No one protested or sobbed. What did they think? What had they been told?

  From my hiding place I watched as the line of Romanovs and the last of their faithful calmly and quietly followed Yurovsky along the back of the house. Aleksandra, who suffered off and on from sciatica, limped slightly, but she kept up, certainly spurred on by her ever-present faith. They were midway toward the other end of the house when I saw my favorite, Maria Nikolaevna, gazing up at the sky. I turned my attention upward as well, peered through the leaves at the dark heavens above, whereupon my eyes landed on a handful of stars. When my attention fell back to earth, I saw that Maria was no longer staring at the heavens, but gazing directly at me. She saw me there in the bushes, and for an instant that I can never forget our eyes embraced. Recognizing me but not daring to betray my presence, Maria Nikolaevna even cast me a small smile.

  “This way,” called Yurovsky, leading them into the far door.

  Thus the group of eleven calmly disappeared into that mouth of death, proceeding back into the cellar and to a rear chamber from which there would be no escape. Losing sight of them, I scurried around, darting like a spy from shed to bush to tree to bush. And there, through a large open window covered with a heavy metal grating I not only saw all of them in that cellar room, but heard them as well. It was not that large of a space, not really, and held not a stick of furniture. The walls were covered in striped yellow wallpaper, the rear door to the storeroom appeared locked, and a single electric bulb hung from the low ceiling.

  “There have been various rumors in the capitalist press as to your safety,” began Yurovsky, spinning his lies with such great ease. “Because of this, we would like to take your photograph to reassure people in Moscow. Would you be so kind as to line up against the wall?”

  That was all the komendant did, all he needed to say, to get this unsuspecting group to line up in a nice, easy firing line. Clearly pleased with himself, Yurovsky turned to beckon his executioners. At that moment, however, Aleksandra Fyodorovna, ever herself, clawed out at him.

  “What, there isn’t even a chair?” said the Tsaritsa with the last imperious comment of her life. “One isn’t even allowed to sit down?”

  Smiling to himself, Yurovsky hesitated but a moment, then left without replying, gently shutting the double doors behind him. I crept along, spied the komendant in the next room and through the open doorway heard him bark at a soldier.

  “Apparently the Empress wishes to die sitting down,” he said with a stout laugh. “Fetch me two chairs.”

  What did Yurovsky mean? What was he up to? Panic crawling up my throat, I moved back and peered through the grated window at the Romanovs. Should I shout out? Scream a warning?

  One of the two doors was kicked open, and Yurovsky entered, smiling to himself as he delivered two chairs. Taking one of the pillows for supposed comfort, Aleksandra Fyodorovna sat in one chair near the window, while the other was positioned to her right for Aleksei. The Tsar carefully lowered his son onto this chair, and then the other members of the Imperial Family, photographed so many thousands of times, automatically assumed positions as though for an official portrait. Behind the Empress, yet more toward the middle of the room, stood the four daughters. Close by their side was Demidova, faithfully clutching her pillow as if it were a treasure, while behind Aleksei stood Botkin, Trupp, and Kharitonov. The Tsar himself stood between mother and son.

  Once again, Yurovksy stepped out of the room, pulling shut the doors behind him. And then came the longest, oddest silence in which my heart began to beat ever so fast. Inside the chamber, not one of the Romanovs spoke. Aleksandra Fyodorovna did turn and gaze out one of the windows, searching, I’m sure, for those officers. About then Tatyana came over and placed her hand on her mother’s shoulder, which Aleksandra took and reassuringly kissed.

  Suddenly the lorry in the courtyard fired up its engine, its noisy motor roaring in the night. All at once, Yurovsky returned, throwing open the double doors into the small cellar room. He quickly moved in and ten henchmen, brandishing Nagant revolvers, awkwardly piled through the
small opening behind him. Except for one, they were all the new guards, the so-called Letts. Crowded to the side as if an afterthought, I recognized one of the former guards, the young one with the blondish beard.

  Calm and self-assured, the komendant unfolded a piece of paper, and boldly proclaimed, “In view of the news that your relatives both inside the country and from abroad have attempted to free you, the Ural Executive Committee has decided to execute you by-”

  The Tsar cut in, his voice loud and desperate, “Shto? Shto?” What? What?

  Rather surprised at being interrupted, Yurovsky cleared his throat and started over: “In view of the news that your relatives both inside the country and from abroad have attempted to free you, the Ural Executive Committee has decided to execute you by firing squad.”

  Horrified, Aleksandra Fyodorovna threw her right hand up, desperate to make her sign to her God. Olga, the eldest daughter, likewise attempted a plea to a greater mercy.

  “Papa!” screamed Anastasiya, clutching her dog, Jimmy, against her chest.

  His voice shaking, Nikolai turned slightly, muttering, “Forgive them Father, they know not what-”

  Eleven people lined up in a small room as though for a photograph. Eleven assassins piled into a narrow doorway. The shooting began in nearly the same instant, and Nikolai krovavyi, the bloody, caught the first hail. All at once the blast of those eleven revolvers struck and lifted the Tsar off the ground, hurling him back through the air. His head exploded, showering his daughters with a coarse spray of his blood and brains. An instant later, Aleksandra, the Bolsheviki’s hated German bitch, took a handful of bullets in the face and mouth, the force of which threw her back as well, her cross-making hand flailing upward, her chair hurling back, her feet flying overhead as she tumbled ass over head into infinity.

  “Aim for the heart!” shouted Yurovsky.

  A horrible wail of confusion rose in the room. In complete terror, the daughters ran about, screaming, begging, and shrieking. Botkin shouted and pleaded. Demidova wailed. Trupp and Kharitonov sobbed. Only poor Aleksei, stranded as he was, remained in place, clutching his eyes shut, grabbing at the sides of his chair as bullets whizzed all about him. The gunshots started coming faster, more desperate, but remarkably no one else fell. I heard the twinging of ricochets, saw sunlike sparks burst as bullets bounced off those corsets, so thick with jewels that they had inadvertently been made… bulletproof. Protected as they were by all those invincible carats, the girls were not granted a quick death. Rather it appeared as if God Himself were shielding them, and a great cry arose, not from the horrified victims, but their executioners, so sure were they of the divineness of these White princesses. Terrified, the guards started pumping the bullets faster, more desperately.