Murder and Revolution

by Evelyn Weiss

  The professor answers him. “This continental divide is odd, I agree. For myself, I felt I was leaving Europe when I departed St Petersburg. And our destination, Yekaterinburg, is closer to China than to any place we would think of as European.”

  Rufus’s face changes: an idea has occurred to him.

  “We have no guards with us. Could we bribe the railway staff to let us stay on the train after Yekaterinburg? This train goes all the way to the Sea of Japan, doesn’t it? We could escape from Russia.”

  Axelson smiles at the naivety of Rufus’s idea.

  “I would wager a million rubles, Mr du Pavey, that armed Red Guards will board this train at Yekaterinburg and make sure that the three of us get off.”

  “But we are unguarded now! What’s to stop us pulling the emergency cord, and when the train halts, simply escaping?”

  This time, the professor guffaws loudly. “The Bolsheviks know there is no need to guard us! Have you looked out of the windows at this landscape? If we got off this train, where would we escape to?”

  The endless trees whiz past the window, and Rufus nods ruefully. “Yes. I see.”

  “Indeed, Mr du Pavey. There is nothing, nothing at all, except uninhabited forest. It extends around us for hundreds of miles in every direction. Our captors know that they need not bother to guard us on this train journey. Because if we escape into this wilderness, we will surely die.”

  The train carries on, and the woods continue relentlessly without any sign of human habitation. It’s late morning by the time the trees finally thin out and give way to cultivated fields. Then, a scatter of wooden houses are followed by the usual signs of a Russian town: the spires and onion domes of churches and monasteries. The train slows to a halt alongside a deserted platform.

  As the professor predicted, two guards with barely-concealed pistols open the door of our carriage, and bid us to disembark. As we step out of our carriage, we find ourselves in railway station that looks like a scene from Alice in Wonderland. The sharply sloping roofs are patterned with bright red and white diamond-shaped tiles like a chessboard, topped here and there with fanciful pointed towers. Our guards gesture to us, and we walk out through an archway.

  We step into the dazzling sunlight of a large town square. The wide paved space, with here and there statues and beds of flowers, is dappled light and dark, with sunshine and cloud-shadows. There are only a few people about. We walk out into the middle of the square, uncertain of what is to happen.

  I look up. We stand under a immense sky of puffed clouds. They are like balls of cotton wool, hundreds of them, receding in the blue towards a far, unseen horizon. I hear again the professor’s words – “if we escape into this wilderness, we will surely die.” I sense the endless wastes of Siberia surrounding this lonely city. We might as well be on an island in an ocean.

  I suddenly notice a solitary man in uniform, standing like one of the statues. Our guards signal to him, and he steps towards us. They salute him, then turn to us. “We are now handing you over to Commandant Yakov Yurovsky of the Ural Soviet Executive Committee.”

  In the July sunlight, the man’s eyes are like gray flints. An untidy goatee beard and mustache merge together, hiding his mouth. He hardly speaks as he greets us, shaking the professor’s hand, then Rufus’s; he bows to me. Then as he straightens up, he says “I am Commandant of the Ipatiev House.”

  Axelson asks the question that’s in all our minds. “Is this Ipatiev House where we are to stay?”

  Yurovsky seems oddly cagey as he answers the simple question. “No, you will not stay there. Have you not been told why you have been brought to Yekaterinburg?”

  The professor can’t hide a little impatience. “I was sent a letter, by Mr Lenin himself. But I have been told absolutely nothing about why I am here in this city. Neither have Miss Frocester or Mr du Pavey. So, Commandant, you will have to explain everything to us.”

  “I need not explain, because I will show you. Come with me.”

  We follow our new companion away from the square and the main buildings of the town. After two blocks, he points to a down-at-heel detached wooden house. Its paint is peeling, and there are cracks in some of the windows. But it’s surrounded by a wide garden of mature trees, and it looks quaintly attractive. Above the door someone has nailed a crudely lettered sign “People’s Hotel”. Yurovsky points to it. “That is your accommodation. Your luggage will have already been taken there by the Red Guards.”

  His face is expressionless, but I smile at him. “May we go to our rooms now, Commandant Yurovsky?”

  “No. There is other business first.”

  We carry on following him. If it were not for Yurovsky’s somber presence, it would be a pleasant stroll. We are among wide, quiet, leafy streets. Behind white-painted picket fences are the flower-filled gardens of well-to-do town houses. Carved wooden porches look out on well-tended lawns, and birds are singing in the gardens. I feel I’ve passed through a magic veil, and stepped out into the suburbs of some prosperous Connecticut town. I tell myself “This isn’t real, Agnes. Home is six thousand miles away.”

  One of the big houses doesn’t fit the pattern. It’s a white-painted mansion with arched upper windows, but the lower parts are invisible. Unlike the low fences and tidy green hedges of all the other houses, a crude palisade of wooden stakes, six feet high, surrounds and hides it. The palisade looks like a miniature of some frontier fort in the Wild West. We walk towards it.

  Yurovsky leads us to a gate in the fence, and calls out to a guard inside. Bolts are drawn, and I hear the click of a padlock opening. Moments later, a guard with a rifle pulls the gate open, and we step into a small courtyard in the shadow of the palisade. From here, a wide, green garden slopes down, so steeply that there is an extra lower floor on the far side of the house, at the level of the garden. I can see that the fence completely surrounds the garden. The outside world is invisible.

  Yurovsky talks quietly to the guard who opened the gate, then turns to us.

  “I will leave you for a moment with Comrade Medvedev. I have some business indoors.”

  The guard’s face is blank, his eyes hard and dull. He shows no interest in us; he is peering round the garden, as if he is looking out for intruders. Rufus can’t keep quiet any longer: he speaks in English.

  “Professor, what the bloody hell is going on?”

  The guard turns like an automaton, staring at Rufus. I see his fingers straying to the trigger of the rifle. The professor smiles gently.

  “I apologise for my friend. He is a little, ah – nervous. Of course, our party will all speak in Russian, because we have absolutely nothing to hide. We will wait, quietly, for Commandant Yurovsky to return.”

  The man grunts, and we stand and wait in silence. It’s a warm day, but it’s cool in the shadow of the high fence. I feel a little shiver. Time passes; I look at the fence, and at the gardens, which are bright and cheerful in the summer sunshine. High in the sky above us, there must be a strong wind: the puffy clouds roll through the blue, shifting and changing every moment. Now and then, I steal a glance at our grim-faced guard.

  I feel there is something strange about this house. Then I notice that the glass in every single window is covered in white paint.

  Yurovsky reappears. As before, his eyes are like stones as he speaks to us. “Come in here.” He leads through a door into the house, and we enter a small, dingy room that must be his office. His desk is piled with a chaotic disarray of papers. He takes a telegram from among them, and hands it to the professor. Rufus and I stand behind Axelson’s shoulders, and we all read.

  To Commandant Yurovksy

  Ural Soviet Executive Committee

  Professor Axelson and his assistants will shortly be transferred to Yekaterinburg as per our previous communication and you must meet them at the station Stop

  Axelson is to conduct the hypnotic interview of Alexandra Feodorovna Romanov at the Ipatiev House of Special Purpose at the earliest possible opportu
nity Stop Aim of hypnosis is to establish her orders to shoot unarmed protesters in St Petersburg in February 1917 Stop Long live the Revolution Stop

  Axelson takes a deep breath, then looks at Yurovsky in disbelief.

  “You want me to conduct a hypnotic interview of the Tsarina?”

  “There is no Tsarina any more. You are asked to interview Mrs Alexandra Romanov, who formerly called herself the Tsarina of Russia.”

  “And this House of Special Purpose – is that here, this Ipatiev House? When will she be arriving?”

  “She isn’t arriving. She is already here. Every member of the former imperial family is living here, at this house.”

  Two days have passed. Rufus and I have been given strict instructions by Yurovsky not to step outside our accommodation at the “People’s Hotel”, and not to talk to anyone except the hotel staff. But there seem to be no other guests staying at the hotel anyway. Of course, I’ve tried talking to the maids, the waiter and the chef. They are cheerful and helpful when I ask questions about our rooms and our food. But when I try to broaden the conversation, every one of them becomes silent, watchful and anxious.

  On the first day, Rufus and I sat where I’m sitting now, on chairs at a small table in the garden. I spent the day reading, and now and then trying to chat to him, but he was unusually silent. Today, Rufus has taken to his bed: at midday, I called through the door of his room, and suggested he have lunch with me, but he didn’t reply. So I knocked on his door and, hearing no answer, I turned the handle and looked in on him. He was snoring, under a blanket, and the room stank of alcohol.

  It’s now late afternoon, and I’m sitting in the hotel garden, listening to the birds and awaiting the professor’s return. I can see the guard who is always there, standing at the little gate that leads onto the street.

  Axelson has been away from the hotel throughout daylight hours on both days. Despite the “earliest possible opportunity” mentioned in the telegram, he told us last night that he was immersed in long discussions with Yurovsky – who in his turn has had long discussions with the Tsarina.

  I look up, and the professor appears at the garden gate. He seems tired; his eyes are heavy and lined with anxiety. He comes over to me and sits in the other chair.

  “This absurd assignment – I am so very uneasy about it…”

  He glances around. No-one appears to be in earshot.

  “I think I have established, Miss Agnes, what is behind the Bolsheviks’ proposal that I hypnotize the Tsarina.”

  He pauses, and frowns again, before resuming. “The Ipatiev House, although large, is not of course on anything like the scale of accommodation that the imperial family is accustomed to. Even compared to their previous exile home in Tobolsk, it is small and lacking in luxury. The Tsarina has complained repeatedly about the facilities at the new house. She seems to forget that she and her family are entirely at the mercy of their captors.”

  “I guess she is used to having the best of everything. Old habits die hard.”

  “Whatever is in the Tsarina’s mind, the Bolsheviks have spotted it, and hope to use it as an opportunity to trap her. They have proposed a hypnotic session with her, in exchange for improvements in living conditions at the house.”

  “How is that a trap?”

  “Ideally, the Bolsheviks would like to put the Tsarina and her husband on trial, for crimes against the Russian people. A ‘show trial’, that would prove them guilty of citizens’ blood.”

  “Why both of them? Wasn’t it Nicholas’s orders to shoot at the crowd?”

  “Nicholas was away with the Army at the front line when the rioting occurred, although he was in touch with news from St Petersburg. The Tsarina, on the other hand, was effectively acting as a regent. Because she is German by birth, people like to blame her for all Russia’s troubles.

  But unfortunately for the Bolsheviks, there is a lack of evidence about both the Tsar and Tsarina. Many decisions, such as exactly how much force to use in suppressing the demonstrations, were delegated to subordinates. Even the Tsarina’s direct orders were passed through long chains of command. For example, consider the machine guns that you and I saw above the Nevsky Prospect. It seems that they were placed there by order of military commanders, and the Tsar and Tsarina knew nothing about them. In fact, my own suspicion is that it was General Aristarkhov who decided to deploy the machine guns.”

  “So there’s no evidence to prove that either the Tsar or Tsarina ordered the shooting of protesters?”

  “That’s right. So the Bolsheviks would struggle to put them on trial. But, Yurovsky confided to me that Lenin and some of the other leading Bolsheviks put great faith in hypnosis. And they have heard of my successes with the shell-shock patients at St Petersburg and Helsinki – even though, of course, that is a completely different technique.

  Lenin’s belief in my Hypnotic-Forensic Method has led the Bolsheviks to the hare-brained idea of me obtaining, through hypnosis, some kind of ‘confession’ to the St Petersburg shootings, from either the Tsar or his wife.”

  “Professor, you can’t do that!”

  “I understand what you are saying, Miss Agnes. But the three of us have all been brought to Yekaterinburg so that I can conduct this hypnotic session. If I do as the Bolsheviks wish, then you, I and Mr du Pavey may finally be allowed to leave Russia. But equally, I know in my heart that if I refuse, it will mean captivity for us all – or worse. So, I am going to undertake a Hypnotic-Forensic session, if the Tsarina agrees.”

  “It’s morally wrong, Professor. You’ll be complicit in trying to trap her.”

  “No. I’m only willing to conduct the hypnosis because I don’t think she will confess as they hope she will. She won’t admit to authorizing any violence against the crowds, because she didn’t authorize it. I think she simply left all the details of how to deal with the February Revolution protests to her advisers. Commanders like Aristarkhov took all the key decisions. I feel sure that’s what she’ll tell me, under hypnosis.”

  “If you think so, Professor. But it’s a risky game.”

  “I know, Miss Agnes. I’m aware of the pitfalls. But please believe me when I tell you this: we have no other choice.”

  21 The little prince

  It’s our second visit to the Ipatiev House. For some reason, Rufus is not allowed to accompany the professor, but I am. My suspicion is that our hotel staff have informed Yurovsky of Rufus’s drunken habits.

  After we’ve passed through the palisade and the courtyard, Yurovsky meets us and leads us into the interior of the house. We enter a dark, stuffy room where guards are billeted. Although it’s midday, several lie on their bunks, looking bored: they stare blankly at us, without seeming to care who we are. Then we reach the foot of a narrow staircase.

  “The former imperial family live on the upper storey. I have spoken to Mrs Romanov about the hypnotic session. She has agreed to the hypnosis – on condition that neither I nor any of my men are present.”

  Axelson looks at the stairs. “So we go up there without you?”

  “Exactly. Call out, once your session is finished. One of the guards will hear you and will bring me to the foot of these stairs to meet you. And, as we agreed, you will keep full notes, won’t you?”

  “Miss Agnes will act as my note-taker. I have complete trust in her abilities.” The professor turns to me, gesturing me to climb the stairs. “You go first, Miss Agnes.”

  I notice each creak of the uncarpeted wooden stairs. Then I reach the top, and a pretty blonde girl smiles at me.

  “Hello. I’m Anastasia.”

  “Your Highness…”

  “Don’t bother with any of that nonsense! My sisters call me Shvibzik – the imp. Because I’m cheeky.”

  The professor smiles, like a father. “You seem in good spirits. This accommodation – it is not what you are used to.”

  “When we were little, we slept on hard beds. Cold baths every morning! Mother and Father had the idea it would help us to g
row up into better people. So we don’t need luxury. This house is fine, although I wish they hadn’t painted over the windows.”

  She glances around in the gloomy light. “They did that the other day, because I was looking out of the windows. That man Yurovsky said I was looking out for people who are coming to rescue us. But I don’t want to be rescued, and be a Grand Duchess again. I’d rather go to America. I could be in the movies!”

  Axelson nods gently in response; I sense his compassion for this innocent, trapped girl. But she is all smiles.

  “Come and meet my sisters!”

  We look along the landing: three other young women are coming out of a doorway. They are all about my age, and they smile warmly at me and introduce themselves: Olga, Tatiana, Maria.

  I realise that I had some imaginary picture of stuck-up haughtiness, and I was completely wrong. They are ordinary, friendly young women. They all welcome Axelson too. All are dressed in simple white cotton blouses and long dark skirts. Olga, the eldest, with chestnut hair and a broad, open face, smiles expectantly at the professor.

  “So you’re the famous hypnotist! We are hoping you can help poor Alexei.”

  “I hope I can help you all.” Axelson seems a little bemused by their remark. “May I be introduced to your mother?”

  “Of course.” Indeed, a door is already opening. The gaunt, lined face and tired eyes of the woman who had ruled the Russian Empire appears.

  “Professor Axelson.” Alexandra speaks slowly, and her gestures are deliberate and theatrical. She holds the back of her hand out, her wrist angled downwards for the professor to kiss it. He kneels, and I curtsey. The girls smile, and Anastasia laughs.

  “Mother, when we leave Russia, we will have to forget all this bowing and scraping. We’re not royal, not any more.”

  I look at them all. “Where will you go?”

  Tatiana answers me. “As soon as the Bolsheviks permit it, we will sail from St Petersburg to Sweden. Then to England, to Father’s cousin, King George. They say we can live on the Isle of Wight, which we once sailed to on our yacht.”