A summer night in Siberia only comes with great hesitation. And that late June day was no different, for the evening passed ever so slowly. There was a brief but heavy evening shower that rode across town, a gust of cool wind, and a clear dusk that never wanted to give up the day.
That far north and that close to the summer solstice, it didn’t fall dark until shortly after eleven, yet the Imperial Family retired well before that, which was odd. Shortly after nine the Heir Tsarevich was the first to bed, followed somewhat later by the girls. Often Nikolai would sit up reading in the drawing room, or Botkin and he would play draughts, the checkered black and red board opened upon the tea table, while Aleksandra would sit at the nearby large desk, laying patience. But not that night. By ten they were making their way to bed. I was thus quietly instructed as well.
All evening long there had been much discussion, to which I was not privy, but which I could imagine. Simply: was it possible that the rescue attempt would come as early as tonight? Yes, and on the sly we were all advised to be ready to flee, for the Romanovs were determined not to abandon us, the last of their faithful. It was, of course, most gentlemanly, most old worldly, of Nikolai to decide on this course, but it certainly wasn’t practical. Seven posed a cumbersome enough problem, let alone twelve. Nevertheless, the decision came down the ranks, from Nikolai to Botkin to Trupp to Kharitonov to me.
“Sleep fully dressed,” cook whispered to me. “Be ready at any moment.”
“You mean, I should wear everything to bed?” I replied as I made my bed in the small hall between the kitchen and the dining room.
“Everything.”
“Even my shoes?”
This threw him, and he thought for a long moment. Cook Kharitonov was a master at making a meal out of nothing – wild mushrooms folded into a blanket of blini, leftover rice and cabbage tucked into the warm, doughy heart of pierogi – but a strategist of deceit he was not. For a long somber moment he pondered my question before answering.
“Nyet, that would surely attract the guards’ attention.”
“Then I’ll just have them nearby.”
“Good. But if anything starts, we’re supposed to run to their room and help barricade the door.”
“Sure.”
The electric light was extinguished, and I settled into one of the most uncomfortable, anxious nights of my life. Sure, it had cooled somewhat, but I was completely clothed down to my socks. Within moments I was broiling. I started tossing and turning, and grew all the hotter. I dared not cast aside my blanket, however, lest one of the guards make a sudden check. My mind began to spin, and so did Kharitonov’s, I could tell, for on the other side of the tiny room the large man tossed and rolled as much as I.
So how would it happen? Would a band of loyal Cossacks ride into town, hooping and hollering, screaming and shooting into the sky? Would monarchist officers appear out of the woodwork and slit the throats of the Red Guards, one by one? I tried to imagine the scenario, if our secret rescuers would first take out the machine gun positioned on the roof, next storm the house, or if they would first attack the Popov House across the alley way, killing all the reinforcements. Then again, maybe an airplane would appear out of nowhere and the pilot would lean out, take careful aim, and let drop a bomb on the Popov House, blowing all the Bolsheviki to bits. A surprise from the air like that might be best, particularly since The House of Special Purpose had been rigged with an electric warning bell to summon all the guards.
Whichever way it happened, I was sure there would be much blood, and I pictured myself the hero, leading the grand duchesses out the window and down a rope of bed linens. On the other hand, the window might be too dangerous, for it overlooked the side yard and the Popov House. So… so I might have to lead the girls down those twenty-three steps and to some waiting horses or a motor vehicle of escape. I might even get a gun, I might even have to kill one of the Reds. And I imagined the Romanovs and me escaping with our lives – perhaps I’d be wounded, but not terribly so – and then the Tsar would make me a count or a prince or something. Sure. All night I stirred with the possibilities. All night I imagined killing someone. And all night I heard the handful of guards posted in the cellar directly below, heard their shouts, their laughter, their drunken bouts. Each time I thought it was the beginning of the end and my heart was fully roused, making it impossible to get any rest.
None of us slept. Or slept little. Once I heard a distant dog howl to the moon. Or was it a wolf who’d ventured as close as the city dam? Eventually Kharitonov began to snore and the guards below fell into complete silence, while outside the night slowly returned to the dead. I had no idea what time it was – only the landed gentry and the aristocracy carried watches – but it must have been close to two or three before my eyes fell shut.
While I later learned from a book that the Romanovs had all slept fully clothed and fully bejeweled that night, I have often wondered what they were thinking when darkness finally came. The girls, the boy, their parents – did they lie in their beds and pray for salvation? Did they smile at the thought of what might soon come their way? Did they weep with anxiety? I’m sure that Aleksandra, always plush with anxiety, spent the whole of the night worrying about her babies, her husband. If an escape attempt was made, would the guards pounce first and foremost on their hated Nikolashka, killing him dead? If the family fled in a mad rush, would The Little One bump a knee or an arm, thereby plunging himself into nightmarish pain and even death? Playing through every scenario from successful escape to hellish failure, the Empress recorded in her diary how sleep was not of interest.
Colossal heat tho’ rained a little… I went early to bed, but slept only 3 hours, as they made so much noise outside.
To this day I imagine the Romanovs lying there sleepless as they drank in every step, cough, word, bark, and stir of wind. I’m quite sure they tossed all night long, wondering, hoping, fearing. And a horrible night it was, followed by a long, horrible, hot day, which was in turn followed by another terrible night of heated worry, for on the twenty-seventh she recorded:
8:00 Supper. 23 degrees in the room. Scarcely slept.
Perhaps it was Aleksandra’s bitter dealings with the aristocracy of Sankt-Peterburg that made her paranoid – high society thought her much too prim and constantly mocked her – but she was quite correct not to write all in her diary. In the old days, everything that could be used against her certainly had been. Consequently, she understood the dangers of writing a diary that was too specific. She had to be most careful, and for this reason it had become not so much a personal account, but a logbook of day-to-day events. Hence she recorded her work with her pounds and pounds of diamonds as “arranged medicines,” and her mention of scarcely sleeping, of so much noise outside, refers to those nights when we all waited for the rescue that did not come.
At the same time, Nikolai Aleksandrovich proved himself not as savvy as his wife:
27 June. Thursday. Our dear Maria turned 19 years old. The same tropical weather held, 26 degrees in the shade and 24 degrees in the rooms; one can hardly stand it! We spent an anxious night and sat up dressed.
All this was because we had received two letters in the last few days, one after the other, in wh. we were told that we should get ready to be abducted by some sort of people loyal to us! The days passed and nothing happened, but the waiting and uncertainty were quite torturous.
But why? Why in the name of God would he have recorded such things for the Bolsheviki to find and read? Was Nikolai Aleksandrovich so naive? That… that stupid? Or was he simply too much of a gentleman, too much an aristocrat of the Old World, too much of a tsar to even imagine that such a personal intrusion and affront was even possible?
So there we were, the morning of the twenty-seventh. The day was sunny and hot – twenty-two degrees by early morning – but there was no summer brightness from any of us. Nyet, we’d just woken from fitful dreams of hope and were still groggy with disappointment. For better or worse, our emancipation had not been attempted during the depth of the night and the waiting was, as Nikolai wrote, torturous. Whatever was to come, we all clearly understood it was the beginning of the end. Of course Nikolai and Aleksandra wanted their family to be rescued and carried to safety, but when they were faced with that very possibility they realized how utterly foolish and dangerous such a rescue would be. And when it didn’t take place in those first few days, Nikolai could see the darkness rumbling toward them, so much so that within a week or so he stopped writing his diary altogether, the very diary he’d faithfully written every day since boyhood.
We gathered under a gloomy cloud for our morning inspection and ate our bread and drank our morning tea with few words, but all of that was shoved aside for Maria’s birthday celebration at eleven. The Tsar insisted, for both as a good father and a good soldier he was concerned about the morale of his little troop. Seeing how heavy our hearts were, he recognized that our spirits needed attention. Hence he issued a decree, beckoning Romanov and servant alike to wish the Sovereign’s number-three daughter everything sweet and beautiful.
“A tea table in the late morning… how unusual,” said Aleksandra Fyodorovna, surveying the spread before her in the drawing room.
“And why not?” pressed a beaming Maria, her eyes as big as saucers.
“That’s right, why not?” seconded the Tsar. “After all, there’s been a revolution.”
“Oh, believe me, I know that.” Aleksandra shook her head in bemusement. “Just imagine, everyone else used to have such interesting afternoon teas, but not us. We always had the same tea with the same breads, served on the same china, presented by the same footman. And it all happened precisely at the same time everyday. Why, I don’t think anything had changed since Catherine the Great.”
“No, I think you’re quite right, my dear,” replied the Tsar. “The palace ran on tradition alone.”
Demidova, who stood next to me, volunteered, “I quite remember, Madame, when you tried to change a few things.”
“I do too. Only too well, as a matter of fact. And wasn’t that a disaster?”
“Wasn’t it though!”
Later that day Demidova went on and on about all this, explaining that before the war the Tsar’s tea, like everything else, had been an amazingly regimented thing: the doors opened at five, the Tsar came in, buttered a piece of bread, and drank two glasses of tea, not one more, not one less. On the other hand, Demidova had heard from other maids that the teas of the nobility had been infinitely more creative and extravagant, for it had been all the vogue to have a minimum of six different cakes at the tea table – chocolate, nut, berry, meringue, and so on.
Now looking down at the large knot-shaped sweet bread on the table, the Empress smiled in delight, and asked, “Tell me, cook, where on earth did you get such a beautiful krendel? Did the good sisters bring it?”
“Nyet-s, madame. I made it.”
“Really?”
“Look!” exclaimed Anastasiya. “It even has raisins.”
Aleksandra smiled. “You’re a magician, Vanya. How on earth did you make it in such a small kitchen and how on earth did you come up with all the ingredients?”
Kharitonov humbly bowed his head, and said, “Leonka and I, well, we make do. We make do.”
The truth of the matter was that while we had scrounged up a few raisins over the past few weeks, the krendel was missing cardamom as well as candied orange peel, items that had vanished from the markets months ago. Nevertheless, the entire household recognized the creation as quite a feat, particularly because it was made of the precious white flour we’d brought from Tobolsk and had carefully hidden in trunks and walls and even the back of the piano, all this lest it fall into the hands of the guards. However, the recent spat of fresh eggs and milk, not to mention a bit of vanille secretly brought by Sister Antonina last week, was more than Kharitonov could creatively resist. For days he’d been looking for an excuse, finally seizing upon Maria’s birthday. Making do without an oven, the master of improvisation had cooked the sweet bread atop the oil stove just this morning, baking it between two iron pans that he had carefully cupped together.
Following the Tsar’s lead, we rose to our feet, held hands, and bowed our heads as he intoned, “Gracious Lord, look down upon our dearest Maria with all of Your infinite kindness and wisdom. We beseech Thee to bestow upon Maria good health, long life, and great happiness.”
“What about a husband, Papa?” interjected Anastasiya. “She wants to get married, you know, and have scores of children!”
“Anya, don’t interrupt your father,” chided her mother.
“But it’s true, she wants to get -!”
“Anya!”
Nikolai Aleksandrovich crossed himself. “Hear our prayers, O Lord, and in these trying days protect our cherished daughter. Ah-min.”
All of us, even the one guard who stood in the doorway, likewise followed the Tsar’s example, crossing ourselves and muttering a solemn chorus of, “Ah-min.”
Nikolai embraced his daughter, wishing her birthday greetings, followed by Aleksandra, who made the sign of the cross over Maria and kissed her as well.
Usually birthdays were observed at a luncheon with many distinguished guests, a lavish table of much food, entertainments, and great gifting, for Russians are among the most generous sort, particularly when it comes to their children, whom they love to spoil and do so endlessly. In earlier times a young girl of the nobility would be showered with sable hats and coats and muffs, pearl necklaces and diamond earrings and so on and so forth. And even though such a celebration was impossible that summer day, hardly anyone seemed to notice.
The Empress poured the tea by her own hand, an event once seen as a great compliment to a guest but was now commonplace. Since the fine china was long gone, Aleksandra filled tall, thin glasses perched in metal standards with handles. There was no lemon, no cream. The cunning Empress, however, had secretly managed to preserve a few cubes of sugar, and that morning we were all issued one. I followed Aleksei’s lead, pinching the cube between my front teeth as I sipped the tea, something that caught his mother’s glare, to be sure, for it was a peasant’s habit, something Aleksei had seen one of the guards do.
The krendel was cut and served. And then the gifting began.
Olga presented a novel in French, Tatyana a bookmark that she had painted with her own hand, Aleksei a rock he had polished like a sultan’s jewel. A tablet of drawing papers came from Botkin, hand-knit stockings from Demidova, and a small bunch of flowers from Trupp. The baked delight, of course, was the gift from cook and me. And after all of us had made our presentations came the finale, several packages from Maria’s parents.
“Here, my love,” said Aleksandra. “Open this first.”
The young woman did, finding enclosed a religious title, Complete Yearly Cycle of Brief Homilies for Each Day of the Year. Maria opened the volume, silently cherished the inscription, and then read it aloud.
“To Our Dear Darling Daughter from Your Very Own Loving Parents, Mama & Papa +, 27 June 1918.” She folded the book shut, and leaned forward and kissed her mother. “Spacibo, Mama. Ya ochen tebya lubloo.” Thank you, Mama. I love you very much.
“And what about me?” asked her father.
“Papa, of course!” she said, jumping up and planting a kiss upon his bearded cheek.
Nikolai embraced Maria, kissed her, and held forth a small box. “Here, my child. You must have something beautiful too, you know, otherwise good fortune will not follow you in the year to come.”
“Oi!”
It was this gift that Maria had been waiting all morning to receive, for she was not simply a Romanov, not simply a Grand Duchess, but most importantly a young woman, who was well schooled enough to know how these things worked, that the prettiest gift always came last. And while what Maria found was no Romanov treasure, it was most certainly a thing of beauty, particularly during such dark days of imprisonment. The other daughters crowded around, and Maria lifted out a fine gold bracelet from which hung a simple charm of love carved from green stone.
“Oi, kakaya krasota!” Oh, what beauty, exclaimed Maria.
“Do you like it?” asked her father.
“I love it and I shall never, ever take it off!”
Maria jumped up and kissed first her father, then her mother, who fastened the bracelet on Maria’s left wrist.
We all finished our sweet treat and single glass of tea. Conversation dissipated, and we servants, knowing our places, retreated. Only Dr. Botkin remained with the family in the withdrawing room, and soon we heard the sounds of the piano. It was a little program, first featuring the voice of Anastasiya as well as the Empress, whose contralto was so beautiful that she might have pursued a career in singing had she not been of such high estate. That was followed by the older pair, Olga and Tatyana, who played fourhand a beautiful piece, so sweet, so melodic, that it washed away any ill purpose from that house. Hearing the flow of the keys, the gush of the tune, I froze in the kitchen, gazed out the window, and thought for a few brief moments that maybe everything would be fine. Da, da, even the guards momentarily lost their anger, their burning zeal, for I noticed a few of them pause in their random patrol and gaze off in uncomplicated thought. All at once, and only that once, did things within The House of Special Purpose seem at peace.
But there were important duties to be done, namely there were “medicines” to be dealt with. And looming in everyone’s mind was the essence of time, as promising as it was threatening. In short, the celebration of Her Greatness Grand Duchess Maria Nikolaevna’s nineteenth birthday soon concluded and the feminine hands of the house resumed their deceitful needlework. By noon the rooms took on the air of a sweatshop, albeit a secret one.
Meanwhile, I wheeled about the Heir Aleksei, driving him from room to room. We played troika for hours, finding everything of interest when in fact there was nothing. Given our common age we were able to see things others could not, however, and as such the route around the dining room table became a troika track, the large potted palm in the drawing room became an oasis in the Sahara, and later the dogs, Jimmy and Joy, chasing and barking after us, were transformed into rabid wolves. Truth be told, we occupied ourselves for hours with a talent I have long since lost.
During all of this the Tsar negotiated a victory of sorts. Claiming that the hall where Kharitonov and I slept was insufferably hot, he successfully petitioned and received permission for the two of us to move to the other side of the house – to a room initially occupied by the Heir Tsarevich, who had since moved into his parents’ room. While this small room was notably cooler than our little hallway, our comfort was not the Tsar’s motive.
“It won’t do to have me and all the women on this side of the house,” whispered Nikolai Aleksandrovich with a wink as we carted our few possessions to our new chamber.
Sure, the Tsar needed all the muscle he could gather. And while I assumed that we were preparing for a fight or battle, we were instead retreating. After lunch the Tsar quietly pulled me aside.
“Hide these envelopes as you did before, molodoi chelovek,” young man, instructed the Tsar with a soft smile. “One is a reply, the other contains letters to be carried on to Sankt-Peterburg. Deliver them as you did before and you will have served us well.”
So that was what I did. I hid the two envelopes in my undergarments, and when I went to the Soviet for more food from the cafeteria, I stopped briefly at the Church of the Ascension. Meanwhile, the Empress remained indoors with her oldest daughter, Olga, the two of them madly stitching their corsets, and the Tsar and others descended into the rear yard where they paced in the tropical heat of the Siberian summer. And I… I went out, delivering the envelopes to Father Storozhev. One contained letters to their dear Anna Vyrubova, while the other contained the reply to the loyal officers, in which I much later learned the Tsar tried to call off the liberation attempt:
We do not want to, nor can we, escape, We can only be carried off by force, just as it was force that was used to carry us from Tobolsk. Thus, do not count on any active help from us. The komendant has many aides; they change often and have become worried. They guard our imprisonment and our lives conscientiously and some are kind to us. We do not want them to suffer because of us, nor you for us; in the name of God, avoid bloodshed above all. Find out about them yourself. Coming down from the window without a ladder is completely impossible. Even once we are down, we are still in great danger because of the open window of the komendant’s bedroom and the machine gun downstairs, where one enters from the inner courtyard. If you watch us, you can always come save us in case of real and imminent danger. We are completely unaware of what is going on outside, for we receive no newspapers. Since we have been allowed to open the window, surveillance has increased, and we are forbidden even to stick our heads out at the risk of getting shot in the face.
And so it was that the Tsar, the Orthodox Tsar, put the squash on the rescue plans not simply because of worries for himself and his close family, not simply for we who served them, but for those thugs who guarded them and were soon to kill them. How could he have been so stupid? Couldn’t Nikolai, didn’t Nikolai, see the tidal wave of blood flooding toward them, toward all of Rossiya?
Oh, as the tragedies of Shakespeare have revealed, the fall of kings is but fodder for the richest of entertainments. The tumble of this Tsar and his consort was the grossest, however, and the conclusion of this story, I regret to foreshadow, was all the worse. In those days as the Imperial Family sat unknowingly waiting for their own executions, the Tsar’s younger brother, that sweet, dashing Grand Duke Mikhail, was taken out into a field and shot like a dog. And the Tsaritsa’s sister, Grand Duchess Yelizaveta? She and a handful of other Romanovs were thrown alive down a mineshaft, with hand grenades and burning brush tossed in atop them. Unfortunately, they lived through it all, singing praise to the Lord, until hunger itself took them days later. This we know to be true, for dirt was found in their stomachs once their bodies were exhumed.
Such were the times, so black, so crazy. Kakoi koshmar… what a nightmare.