by Evelyn Weiss
The professor meets her eyes. “You are a courageous young woman, Tatiana. I understand your frustration. But you can still be useful – even here and now. Do what you can for your brother. Does your family take walks in the Ipatiev House garden?”
“‘Walks’ is an overstatement. The garden is very small. But yes, we all go out, twice a day, to get some fresh air and sunlight.”
“Then ask your mother to allow Alexei out with you. Let him run and play in the sunshine, as much as he can.”
“Thank you – both of you.”
I look at her. “The professor has helped Alexei… I’ve not done much! But, I do have one question.”
Axelson looks at me quizzically. Tatiana replies “Of course – ask me anything.”
“Have you or your sisters ever been to Tri Tsarevny? I mean, did you maybe go there as children, long ago, before Alexei was born?”
“No, never. We’d never even heard of the place, until I got a letter from Alexei saying that he and Mother were staying there.”
Five days have passed; five days of total inactivity and frustrated boredom at our hotel. Professor Axelson is the only one who has been out: he has visited the Ipatiev House on two further occasions.
After the first of those visits, he came back with a puzzled, disturbed air. “I went to see Yurovsky. I told him a pack of lies, of course. I said the hypnosis of the Tsarina had gone well, but it had been merely an initial session. I asked him if I might be permitted additonal visits and hypnotic sessions with the imperial family.”
“Did he agree?”
“He didn’t even answer my question. Nor did he ask to see the notes of the first hypnotic session, which surprised me greatly. Instead, he looked at me and simply said ‘I’m too busy to see you, Professor’. That was it. And then, instead of asking me to leave his office, he stared into space, as if in a trance.”
“What did you do?”
“As a psychologist, I found it an interesting phenomenon. I sat and watched him. After about twenty minutes, he noticed I was still sitting there. Only then did he ask that I leave the Ipatiev House.”
“So what is going on?”
“I watched Yurovsky, in his trance-like state. He was actually fully conscious the whole time. The only way I can describe how he looked was this: he looked like a condemned prisoner in his cell. He looked indifferent to anything around him, including me and my requests. As if a death sentence had been passed on him.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I. You, I and Mr du Pavey were brought to Yekaterinburg because the Bolshevik leaders, Lenin included, decided that this hypnosis was of the utmost importance. Yurovsky himself, of course, is still under the impression that it was the Tsarina, not Alexei, that I hypnotized. He expects that in due course I will produce a report for him, which the Bolsheviks hope to use as evidence against her. But now, Yurovsky is acting as if my report on the Tsarina is not even worth talking about. Something else, something unwelcome, is occupying his thoughts entirely.”
Like what?”
“I think his orders have changed. For some reason, the Bolsheviks think it is no longer important to get a confession from the Tsarina. They have some new plan. But I have no idea what it is.”
That happened two days ago. Yesterday, the professor went back to the Ipatiev House, but this time the guards would not let him enter. We are in limbo, and none of us know what to do. Today has just been the usual frustrating routine of breakfast, a day sitting in the garden, and dinner. Like every other day, the hotel staff watch us at all times.
In the evening, I go up to my bedroom. But in the upstairs corridor, I see Axelson going to his room. There’s no one else about.
“Professor – these staff are everywhere in the hotel, observing what we do and say. But I think they are all downstairs now. You and I haven’t yet had a chance to talk openly about what Alexei said under your hypnosis.”
“It’s terrible for him, Miss Agnes. To have made such a grim discovery, aged only eleven. But now, if he can talk about it with his family…”
“I agree, of course. But do you think it sheds any light on the Håkansson case?”
“You showed me Alexei’s letter to Dr Jansons. In terms of actual evidence, his hypnotized account of events on the day of the murder seems to add little to that letter… except, I have a feeling of something, nagging away at me. But I don’t know what it is, Miss Agnes.”
“Alexer never mentioned Mr Bukin while he was hypnotized.”
“Yes – but on the question of whether Bukin had opportunity to kill Svea, neither Alexei’s letter nor his hypnotized testimony help us. After finding Svea’s body, Alexei ran back to the main Dacha. The boy was probably away from his room for no more than ten minutes. His letter fits with that. It says that Bukin came up to his room several minutes after the gun was heard.”
“When we saw Mr Bukin in Moscow, he said he was with the Tsarina when the shot was fired.”
“Bukin claims to have an alibi, involving the Tsarina. But I haven’t yet had opportunity to hear that account of events from her, because I’ve not seen her again. I would very much like to talk to the Tsarina again, if I was given the chance. Which brings us back to Yurovsky.”
“Yes, I suppose so… maybe the hypnosis hasn’t helped the case, Professor.”
“As I say, I feel there is some clue, hidden deeply in the words that Alexei spoke during the session. But whatever it is, we can’t see it – yet.”
I say goodnight and go into my room, but I can’t sleep. I toss and turn, then I look at the clock: it’s just gone midnight. I hear a knock at my door.
I open it, and Rufus steps in.
“I recall you coming to my hotel room once before, long ago, Rufus.”
He smiles ruefully. His eyes, I notice, are less bloodshot, and the smell of alcohol has gone.
“I remember that too, Agnes – with great embarrassment. But now, I’m here to show you something. Look out of the window.”
My window looks down on the garden. I peer outside, then ask him.
“So? It all looks the same as usual to me.”
“No, no, don’t you see? Look at the gate.”
I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be looking for. I look out again, but Rufus has to tell me.
“He’s not there. Our guard has gone.”
We go straight to Axelson’s room and tell him. Rufus is emphatic. “This is our chance. If we can creep out of the hotel without being seen, we’re free.”
“We are not free at all, Mr du Pavey. Even if we were to go and catch the first train from Yekaterinburg station – which probably won’t depart until morning – then it would be easy for the Red Guards to find us. The train would simply be stopped at Perm, and we’ll be arrested.”
“What do you suggest, then, Prof?”
“I think that we should take this opportunity to go and speak again to Yurovsky.”
“Why on earth?...”
“Because things may have changed. Guarding us is no longer a priority for Yurovsky; nor are the hypnosis sessions. That may mean we can leave. But it’s better to have that properly authorized, rather than sneaking off in the night.”
“And what if Yurovsky won’t see us again? He’s snubbed you already.”
“If that happens, we can consider options. For example, we could ask the guards at the Ipatiev House for a note, to the effect that Yurovsky is unwilling to see us. Then if we did board a train in the morning, and were later stopped, we could at least show them the note. It would make our behaviour look more reasonable.”
“Nothing’s reasonable any more.”
But Rufus agrees to Axelson’s plan. The three of us leave the hotel, and walk through the quiet streets.
I’m surprised when we approach the Ipatiev House. It’s two o’clock in the morning, but although partly blocked by the painted windows, light is shining out from every upstairs room. A large, industrial-looking lorry is parked just outs
ide the gate: an odd sight for this suburban neighborhood. I whisper “What’s going on?” but the professor simply shakes his head and puts his finger to his lips.
“Leave this to me, Miss Agnes.”
He goes to the gate and knocks. We’re taken aback when it opens immediately. I’m surprised too: I recognise the man who, until an hour ago, was guarding our hotel gate. He stares at us open-mouthed, but he doesn’t speak. Then I hear a voice calling from the courtyard: it’s Yurovsky.
“What the hell is going on out there? Deal with it quickly, man!”
The guard stares at us blankly. I realise that he is pointing a rifle straight at me. The professor speaks to him, calmly but firmly.
“We are pleased that you no longer feel the need to guard our hotel. And the hypnotic sessions are finished. So, we consider that we are free to leave Yekaterinburg. Could you obtain a note from your Commandant to that effect? We can wait here at the gate while you get the note.”
The man stutters at us. “No. No waiting is allowed. Not tonight.”
Axelson sighs in annoyance. “The lights are all on in the house: clearly, everyone is awake. You have a lorry parked here, for some reason. And I’ve just heard Commandant Yurovsky’s voice. All I need is the note –”
Along the street, I see a light switching on in one of the upper windows of a nearby house, and figures appear at the window. People are looking out to see what’s happening. The guard notices the onlookers, and his face turns white, as if with panic. After a few moments of hesitation, he clicks the catch of his gun, and manages a few words.
“All of you – come inside.”
Staring at the rifle, we obey. The man leads us through the yard and into the house, and then through into the guards’ sleeping quarters that we saw before. He points at a door.
“In there, all of you!”
We all go inside. The door shuts, and I hear a key turn in the lock. It’s a tiny storeroom. It is on the side of the house against the road, so it is practically underground: a cell with just one iron-barred window, which opens onto a narrow sunken trench a few feet square, bounded by a brick wall rising to the level of the road. Above that, we can make out, in the dark, the foot of the palisade fence.
We have no idea what is happening. But Rufus is alert: he puts his finger to his lips and speaks quietly.
“Listen.”
We can hear a hum of voices. Most of them are female. Axelson nods at Rufus, looking perplexed.
“It’s the imperial family – all of them. It sounds as if they are in another of these ground-floor rooms, all together.”
Then Yurovsky’s voice cuts through the silence. “All members of the Romanov family, and servants! Your transport will be here shortly. Please wait a few minutes more.”
I hear Alexandra’s voice. “Could you get a chair for Alexei? We’ve been standing and waiting for nearly half an hour. He’s not been feeling well today, and he’s very tired.”
“Very well.” Then I hear someone just outside our door: the clunk of wood. It’s Yurovsky, and he’s clumsily picking up a chair. I hear him speaking to one of the guards.
“You – do something useful. Take that chair into the cellar. If the boy wants to sit in a chair, then let’s give him a chair to sit in, while we shoot him.”
I look at our locked door; a blank rectangle of solid wood. I’m pushing at it; Axelson holds me back.
The noise of gunshots shatters the night. It echoes into our room, again and again. Hot tears run down my cheeks, and the professor’s hand is over my mouth, to stop me screaming. Repeatedly, I hear the banging of guns, mixed with shouts and squeals of agony.
Then Yurovsky shouts. “Out of the room! There’s too much gunsmoke, we can’t see a thing!”
There’s a clatter outside our door. But the screams from the other cellar go on. One word is called out again and again. “Mother!”
Yurovsky and his men have come out of the cellar: I can hear them, right outside our door. His voice is husky, as if choked with smoke.
“Nicholas and Alexandra are dead. But all the children are still alive! Hell, men, that was useless.”
There’s a one-second pause: it feels like my whole lifetime.
A thickset voice speaks, as if talking between its teeth. “God, that was hard work! And now we’ll have to kill that professor and the others too, the three we locked in the store-room.”
A slurred voice, like that of a drunk in a bar, bursts out. “For Christ’s sake, don’t complain! I enjoyed shooting those parasites –”
Yurovsky’s voice silences the others. “You’re a useless drunkard, Ermakov! And, you missed with every single shot. But as to those prisoners in the storeroom – as it happens, orders came through anyway, a few minutes ago, to dispose of them. So those three have made our work easier, by coming to the Ipatiev House tonight.”
I heard the slurred voice laughing. “Ha ha, those fools! They’ve come here to be killed!”
But Yurovsky interrupts. “Shut up. We need to get back in the cellar now, and do the children.”
One shaken voice replies. “Sir, we can’t see to aim the guns in that cellar. The smoke…”
“We’ll all go back in – now. Don’t shoot, it will just make more smoke. Use the bayonets.”
I hear the sound of boots again. The screams are still going on, but there are also girls’ voices. I can hear the words of their prayers.
A different voice speaks.
“I may be a bit of a waster at times. But while you two are listening to those horrors, I’ve done this.”
The professor and I look round. Rufus is standing, holding the whole metal frame of our window in front of him. He’s wrenched it out of its concrete surround.
“It was totally rusted. Come on.”
I squeeze through the window, followed by the professor, then finally Rufus maneuvers his large shoulders through the gap. It’s a tight fit, but in a moment he’s standing beside us. We’re in the narrow trench between the cellar window and ground level. Rufus links his hands, holding them out in front of me like a stirrup.
“Step on my hands, then onto my shoulder, and you should be able to climb up.”
In seconds, all three of us stand on a narrow strip of grass between the house and the palisade. In front of us is a gap in the fence: the gate we came in by. It’s wide open. We don’t wonder why: we just run out into the street. A few moments later, the palisade is just a black wall behind us in the gloom. Above it, the white, fully-lit house rises like a sepulchre.
“Quick!” Rufus’s hands grip my shoulders, and he pulls me behind the shadow of a tree trunk. The silhouetted figures of guards are coming out of the gate of the house.
The figures form an odd H-shape. So far, my stunned mind hasn’t actually processed what we heard inside the house. But now, I can see what’s going on. The uprights of the H are two guards. Slung between them is the pathetic body of a little boy. The men fling their burden into the back of the lorry. Then I hear a voice from the garden.
“I’ve got all the clothes off one of the girls. She’s got jewels sewn into her underwear.”
The drunken voice we heard before interrupts the speaker. “You selfish bastard, Medvedev. Let me look. I want to see all these bitches naked.”
Yurovsky barks at them. “Ermakov, you idiot, back off! And Medvedev – don’t undress any of the bodies here. We’ll strip them all at the disposal site. Then we can search them for any valuables. But for now, just get them all into the lorry, quickly and quietly.”
I feel the professor’s hand, holding mine tight to try to give me comfort, and I hear his low voice. “There’s nothing we can do, nothing at all, Miss Agnes.”
Rufus whispers. “So – they were planning to kill us as well.”
“The Bolsheviks want there to be no witnesses to the last days of the Romanov family. But as yet, those guards don’t know we’ve escaped.”
Rufus points. “Look – they are all going into the house a
gain, to get another body. Now’s our chance. Run.”
23 Out of the frying pan
There is light in the sky: dawn must be only an hour away. There’s no-one in the street behind us, and we hear no voices, no footsteps. But we know Yurovsky’s men will discover our escape within minutes. I gasp out loud.
“Perhaps we can hide, professor? Will anyone let us into their house?”
“I doubt it, Miss Agnes.” The professor puffs his words as we run. “Everyone in this city is terrified of the Red Guards, and anyone who sheltered us would be shot along with us. But anyway, there are no houses along this street.”
It’s true. We’re now two blocks away from the Ipatiev House, and we are no longer among homes and gardens: this street is walled with brick-built warehouses. All we can do is run, straight ahead, hoping for a few more minutes of life.
The street opens out, and I see the last thing I expected. In front of us is a city park, scattered with trees. Ahead, beyond a stone balustrade, a wide lake reflects the moonlight.
“Look!” Rufus utters a hoarse whisper.
To our left, there’s a promenade along the side of the lake, and buildings among the trees of the park. One is a café, another a tobacconist’s kiosk, all shuttered for the night. They look so quiet, so benignly innocent and civilized, after what we’ve just witnessed.
And in the distance there’s another, larger building, jutting out over the waters of the lake. It’s a boathouse.
“Yes.” Axelson nods decisively.
We climb down the side of the boathouse. It’s built on top of the struts and joists of a wooden jetty standing in the water. The moonlight helps: we clamber among the wooden frame, underneath the floor of the boathouse, which grazes out heads. There’s maybe three feet of clearance: the water is touching our feet. We wedge ourselves among the struts, and wait.
One minute later, I hear voices, and the glow of lanterns. “Where in God’s name are they? Are you sure they came this way?”
