Murder and Revolution

by Evelyn Weiss

  “Ah – I’m not totally sure, sir. I thought they did, but –”

  “Search the boathouse, then we will have to get back. The clean-up at the house will take hours.”

  I see the boots of a man descending: he places his feet on the wooden beam next to my head. His knees start to bend: he’s trying to crouch down to look underneath the boathouse.

  “Kabanov! Get back here, quickly. Obviously, they didn’t come this way.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The boots disappear, but the talking continues. The voices are hoarse with anxiety: they know that witnesses to their crime have escaped.

  “Yurovsky’s going to kill us for letting those three get away.”

  “We’re damned anyway. Did you hear those girls praying, asking God to take their souls to heaven? The Almighty will kill us and send us to hell for what we did tonight.”

  “There is no God, you fool.”

  Another minute passes: the voices and the footsteps die away, and I breathe.

  The professor looks warily around. “So far, so good, as you would say in English. But the problem remains of how we escape from Yekaterinburg. Even if we were to get out of the city, there is a thousand miles of wilderness in every direction. The only option is the train.”

  As light dawns, the hopelessness of our position becomes all too clear. We peer out from our hiding-place and look across the lake in the early morning light. We can see several guards patrolling on the far side of the water. And now and then, we hear the voices of others above us. At one point in the morning, they even come inside the upper part of the boathouse: the planks creak above our heads, and we hear them talking.

  “How far away are the Czechoslovak Legion, Ivan?”

  “Some say the Czechs are just a day or two’s journey away from us. They are one of the most feared regiments of the White Army. Everyone says they are better armed than us – and better trained. Perhaps the city will be bombarded by artillery.”

  Their conversation continues gloomily. It’s clear that Yekaterinburg is about to become a battleground.

  The day passes with agonising slowness. I’m shocked numb by the events of last night, but my mind can’t face up to those thoughts. Instead, what I feel is the physical discomfort of our position among the wooden struts. I end up taking my shoes off and sitting with my feet in the water, because it is slightly less painful.

  We alternate attempts to rest in our cramped postures with whispered conversations, all of which involve how we might get to the railway station and onto a train without being detected. But we all know that guards will be looking out for us at the station, checking anyone boarding a train. All our ideas of escape are completely futile. Tonight, we will have to do something, but we have no idea what.

  In the middle of the afternoon, Rufus shifts about restlessly. He groans out loud. “I’m sure you two are more comfortable than I am.”

  “Shut up!” hisses Axelson.

  Rufus ignores him, and clambers across the beams to try to find a better spot. After a minute of so in his new position, he calls softly to us.

  “Come here, and look.”

  He points down. Under the middle of the boathouse, and covered in a tarpaulin, is a small, low boat. It’s barely more than a large canoe. The professor peers down at it.

  “It must have been a pleasure-boat, for use on the lake.”

  Rufus whispers. “We can escape in it.”

  “The professor shakes his head. “No. You two have been confined at the hotel, but I have had my visits to see Yurovsky. So I took the opportunity to find out about the layout of this city. This lake is in fact part of the Iset River – and, the railway station is located upstream from here. The water looks smooth, but the current is actually very strong. There is no way we could row up the river to the station.”

  “I’m not suggesting we row, Prof. I’m suggesting we get in the boat, untie it, and let the current carry us.”

  “That’s a thought! – but a very improbable one. This lake is created by a dam, the Plotinka, that was built to power the industries in Yekaterinburg. The lake water flows out of the lake through arched tunnels in the top of the dam, and then down a high weir. A boat like that wouldn’t survive a fall down the weir. And if by a miracle we were to escape, then I have no idea where this river goes.”

  I look at Rufus, then at the professor, and say the first thing that comes into my head. “None of us have any better ideas.”

  Rufus continues. “If we waited until midnight – we might not be noticed.”

  The professor sighs. “If we’re not spotted and shot, then the likeliest outcome is that we will drown. And if by a miracle we survive the weir and the river, we will starve to death in the Siberian forests.”

  “The alternative is to be shot – with total certainty.”

  The weather is our friend. It’s a moonless night. We feel our way in the gloom, down through the beams and joists to the boat. We reach out and gingerly peel away the tarpaulin. The boat sways under my feet as I step down, so slowly, avoiding any noise of my shoes on the floor of the hull. I feel long poles, laid along the line of the keel: they must be oars.

  The professor is a shadowy silhouette against the gloom: he’s untying the boat. Then Rufus and the professor pull the tarpaulin back into place to the cover the top of the boat, to hide us. We start to slide out into the lake, away from the boathouse. We all peer out from under the edge of the tarpaulin.

  Ahead, I see the outline of a huge church, towering against the inky sky. Below it, I can make out a slight glint of ruffled water. I must be looking through the arches of the tunnels, out onto the crest of the weir beyond. But I barely glance ahead, because we are all looking intently into the darkness of the lake shore. The willows and alder trees of the park sweep down to the water, and we can make out nothing, really: but we are alert for any sign of movement, any clue that guards or soldiers are in the park, looking for us.

  All is still and quiet. We slide smoothly through the water in near-total blackness.

  The boat’s hull shudders, just slightly. We’re being pulled into the stronger current in the middle of the lake. Ahead of us now the arches of the Plotinka are growing closer, the water is faster, the suction can be felt, accelerating us moment by moment in the dark stream. We can see nothing except the outline of the tunnels, but the sensation of speed and movement increases every second.

  Suddenly, I’m struck blind: pitch-darkness means we’re under an arch of the dam. The tunnel causes turbulence: the boat sways and slithers across the stream: I hear roaring, rising to a crescendo in my ears. Then a odd, floating sensation. We shoot like a bullet out over the weir.

  The boat tumbles in space, landing with a crash in a chaos of waves: water sprays everywhere, the hull swings over as if to capsize. Then we’re jolted back the other way, and for a moment the boat levels, then sways again. We’re like a fragment of wood thrown in the torrent, flung this way and that. My head bangs the side of the boat, then I’m thrown up in the air, bouncing back downwards off the tarpaulin like an inverted trampoline. Someone kicks me savagely in the stomach: I can’t tell who. All three of us are flung about like tossed chaff. There’s no food in my stomach, but bile fills my mouth. But the next jolt is, thankfully, less violent.

  “By Jove, we’ve survived!”

  “It seems so, Mr du Pavey. I’m feeling around the hull of the boat: it is good news. Very little water has got in, and the planking seems intact. The boat isn’t seriously damaged. I was wrong, and you were right.”

  Thankfully, the turmoil of the river is lessening every second. A minute passes, and each of us feels for the side of the boat; we can look out again from under the tarpaulin. We see around us that the Iset River is still fast-flowing, but the cataracts are behind us. We’re passing the foundries and factories that line the banks below the weir. I can see no guards, none at all. Have we escaped?

  Ahead of us, in the darkness on the bank of the river, is a sin
gle light. We’re still travelling at speed, and after a few moments I see what the light is: a lamp above the door of a late-night bar. Four figures are coming slowly and unsteadily out of the doorway; they’ve clearly had a lot to drink. Two of them are Red Guards; each has the slender figure of a woman draped around him. Rufus whispers to me.

  “They won’t see us; they’ve got something far better on their minds.”

  But one of the women is looking in our direction. She’s saying something to the man she’s with; he glances reluctantly towards us, while his hand slides down her back. She’s talking to him, and pointing at us. Now he’s listening and nodding, and she starts speaking to the other couple. Suddenly, all four figures are staring at us. The tarpaulin-covered boat, coasting along in the river like a toy yacht, must make an odd sight, especially at this time of night. But then one of the men seems to lose interest; he bends his head and kisses the woman he’s holding. They all stop watching us.

  “Thank God that sex is more interesting than boats!”

  The professor remains serious. “Mr du Pavey, we can’t assume they won’t report what they’ve seen.”

  “The four of them have more urgent business first… And by the morning, they’ll have forgotten what they saw.”

  At last, the river is calmer: still fast-flowing but smooth. It’s hurrying us away from Yekaterinburg: away, at last, from those sounds that I heard in the cellars of the Ipatiev House. Sounds I will never forget. I have the worst headache of my life: the random bumps against the woodwork of the boat, I suppose.

  But despite all that has happened, the image in my mind is those two couples outside the bar. I’ve never even kissed a man… what on earth would it be like? And I think about those girls, their journey through life cut short, like a brutal joke. Olga, Tatiana, Maria, Anastasia. Royalty with jewels and palaces – but with young women’s hopes, fears and dreams, just like me. All cut off in a frenzy of terror and agony, by callous men, performing methodical butchery with guns and bayonets.

  My mind drifts, as if delirious. Two unknown women outside a seedy bar are alive, experiencing being alive, being wanted, if only for one evening. And those four girls at the Ipatiev House are not. Were Olga, Tatiana, Maria or Anastasia ever kissed, did they ever feel the excitement of romance, before their lives were taken away from them?

  But through all these random pictures in my bruised brain, I keep coming back to a single image that seems carved in my mind. Something that might have ended in a kiss, but didn’t. A skating waltz under the stars, dancing in the protective arms of a strong, kind man.

  24 At the Stone Gates

  We’ve been drifting along through the night. After we saw the two couples at the bar, the last buildings of Yekaterinburg quickly gave way to a thick cloak of trees on both sides of the river. At that point we stopped watching, and we rested, enjoying the chance to lie down after our cramped day underneath the boathouse. The hull isn’t comfortable, but it feels like a feather bed after the boathouse.

  I hear the professor’s voice. “It’s getting light. I feel sure the Red Guards will know of our escape from the city, and will be looking for this boat. One of us, at least, must watch out for people on the river banks.” The professor’s hand lifts the tarpaulin, and I see his anxious face, silhouetted under its edge: his eyes scan the river and the shore.

  Rufus’ voice comes from the bottom of the boat. “There’s nothing but trees out there. Besides, what would we do if we did see anyone on the shore?”

  “If we see someone, we will know by their behavior whether our escape has been detected.”

  “A good point. But what’s our plan, anyway?”

  “This boat was your idea, Mr du Pavey. I could say: what is your plan?”

  “Stop bickering, both of you.”

  They’re both silenced, and I carry on. “Professor – I think Rufus is simply wondering what we are going to do when this boat goes aground. And Rufus, please – we need to work together.”

  “Well what do you think, then, Agnes? What on earth should we do?”

  “I agree with the professor, we need to watch the shore. But what happens next – I haven’t a clue.”

  Axelson’s voice has calmed. “My suggestion is this. These forests are certain death: they are so huge, we will doubtless starve if we try to track our way through them. So if the boat goes aground at any point, we push it off again into the river.”

  “Fair point, but…”

  The professor continues; I can tell that his ponderous explanation is annoying Rufus. “This river is flowing east, so it must be part of the Ob-Irtysh basin that drains much of central Asia – Siberia and parts of China and Mongolia. Ultimately, the Ob River flows into the Arctic Ocean.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “Now, at some time – and it may be several days – we will come across a town. Siberia is not entirely uninhabited; there are mining towns, and trading posts for timber and fur trappers. Those towns tend to be on the major rivers. Once we reach a town, we should try to get ashore. Then, there are three possibilities.”

  The boat rocks gently, the endless trees continue, as the professor explains further.

  “We know that the Czechoslovak Legion, and other Tsarist supporters – what the Red Guards are calling the ‘White Army’ – are not far from this area. So it is possible that the first town we arrive at along this river may be occupied by military forces friendly to us. Or, the second possibility, which is quite likely: that a town in these remote areas may have no connection to either side. In that case too, the local people may be willing to help us.”

  Rufus looks narrowly at Axelson. “And what’s the third possibility?”

  “The third possibility is that the next town along this river is held by the Bolsheviks. If that is so, then I feel sure that they will have had information about us, and will be watching for our boat. I have no idea what we should do if that is the case. We will simply have to deal with the situation that arises.”

  Rufus is quiet. The professor has described the situation comprehensively: there is nothing to argue about.

  The sun is low in the sky behind us, an orange ball above the trees. The day has been uneventful. At three o’clock, according to the professor’s watch, we saw a solitary fisherman’s camp in a small clearing. He saw our boat, but appeared uninterested. “A good sign” Axelson said. But the wilderness continues: it seems infinite. I’m resigned to another night on this boat. The hull rocks, echoing the growling of hunger in my stomach.

  It rocks again, stronger this time. I hear Axelson’s voice.

  “Rapids!”

  We all look out. But there is nothing to see. The river is wide at this point; over a hundred yards across. The water is like glass, with only tiny gentle ripples here and there. I look at Axelson.

  “Really? It looks as smooth as a millpond.”

  “I’ve seen this sort of thing before, Miss Agnes, on similar rivers in Canada. These undulations on the surface appear smooth, but they mean that rough water is coming.”

  We drift along exactly as before. I peer ahead at the eastern horizon, the endless treetops lit by the low beams of the setting sun far to the west behind us. The ground to our east is rising to a high, hilly plateau. Like everywhere else, the plateau is cloaked in trees, but directly ahead of us there is a darkened slot, as if someone has taken a knife and cut a sharp line through the woods. The boat starts to tremble, pulled by unseen currents; I can sense the speed.

  I see a boulder the size of a church, splitting the river in two; we coast round the side of it, swaying and bobbing. The ground on either side of us is rising now: low rocky bluffs give way to sheer cliffs, with towers and spires of rock carved into bizarre shapes. Ahead of us, the river is narrowing, forced through the deep slot of a canyon. Axelson shouts.

  “Get the oars out! Not for paddling – for pushing us away from rocks!”

  Rufus and I pull the oars out from the bottom of the boat, and push back the tar
paulin. We’re in foaming white water; the boat bounces along on top of the froth. The canyon walls tower above us, rising vertically from the waves; here and there the water swirls into the mouths of caves.

  And then, it eases. The bouncing is less, the waves are smaller. Soon, the river is calm, but the trench-like rock walls continue. We float peacefully round a bend, and we see ahead of us huge, sharp edges of rock sloping diagonally down into the water. One enormous ridge, crested with rocky spikes like the spiny back of a dinosaur, seems to block our way entirely. Then we see that a massive natural arch cuts right through the ridge. The river flows smoothly through the arch, the calm water reflecting the scene like a mirror.

  “Like the flying buttress of a great cathedral.” Professor Axelson, his worries forgotten for a moment, is admiring the strange rock formation.

  The boat drifts quietly under the arch. The last rays of the setting sun feel warm on our backs, and illuminate a small beach on the shoreline in front of us. We bob gently towards the sand, running aground almost imperceptibly. For the moment, our journey is over. I have no idea what lies ahead.

  We were too exhausted to push the boat back into the river current last night, and decided to rest. Using the tarpaulin as a blanket, we slept on the little beach, its fine pale sand reminding me of the distant sea.

  I wake suddenly: it’s a cold dawn, and I feel faint with hunger. I look out from the tarpaulin, and see the professor standing on the beach.

  “I have seen two things of interest, Miss Agnes.”

  I go over to him. He is pointing down onto the sand; the object in front of us is the last thing in the whole world that I expected to see. It’s a small leaflet, and I’ve seen copies of it before. It shows the Tsar and King George of England standing bravely together, facing a German soldier and a bomb-wielding Communist.

  “How odd, Professor! Those leaflets are Tsarist propaganda. Do you remember, there was a stack of them in Mr Bukin’s office? They were produced by the Anglo-Russian Bureau. Rufus was involved in writing them. Did he bring that leaflet with us in the boat?”