Robert Alexander - The Kitchen Boy

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 offby force, just as it was force that was used to carry us from Tobolsk. Thus, do not count on any active helpfrom 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 ofreal 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.

Lord, forgive me. But first make me suffer. I am the devil’s creation. Torture me and make me cry out for mercy, but make me suffer… for history shows that it was my grave error that precipitated the murder of the Tsar and his family. Yes, my dear granddaughter, Katya, I confess that it was my stupidity, an ignorant decision by a lowly kitchen boy, that gave the Bolsheviki the excuse they had been seeking…

By July 5 the revolution was collapsing in all directions. The Bolsheviki were terrified, for their defeat seemed but days away. The Germans controlled the Ukraine, the English had landed in the north, the Japanese had invaded the Far East, and the American marines were on their way, albeit slowly. Why, even in Moscow itself there was a revolt of the Social Revolutionary Party against Lenin and his depraved cronies. In other words, Lenin and the Bolsheviki were not only cornered, but desperate, which naturally made them more dangerous than ever.

It was a Friday, not hot, not like the days before, but a pleasant thirteen degrees. The rains resumed, which would pose a problem for the night of July 16-17, yet on the fifth things seemed ready to burst with hope and promise. Not only had the vulgar Avdeyev and his crew been replaced by a new komendant and new guards, but Sister Antonina and Novice Marina arrived, their arms laden with a bounty of wondrous supplies. They had not come for days, and suddenly they appeared, smiles beaming upon their faces as they carried in foodstuffs, the likes of which we hadn’t seen for months, not since we’d been carried off from Tobolsk. Instead of just milk and a meager basket of eggs, now there were two chetverts of milk, one large basket containing a chertova dyuzhina – a devil’s dozen – of fresh, warm eggs, not to mention a glass bottle of thick cream, a generous amount of tvorog – farmer’s cheese – and even enough meat for six day’s soup.

“Oi!” I gasped, as I helped the good nun and her novice into our little makeshift kitchen. “Tak mnogo v’syevo!” So much of everything.

Sister Antonina, tiny and round as she was, squinched up her nose like an old hedgehog, and said, “During Avdeyev we brought this much and more every time. But there was a toll, per se.”

“What?”

“Da, da, da. At the outer gate, at the inner gate, as we walked past the guards’ room – they all took as they pleased.”

Novice Marina, her voice small, asserted, “It’s true – they wouldn’t let us pass otherwise.”

“Now that we know the way is clear,” beamed the good sestra , “next time we will bring even more!”

When we walked into the tiny kitchen, cook Kharitonov saw the goods and was beside himself, putting aside his boiled potatoes and immediately bragging about what he would make.

“Maybe even some meat pierogi!”

I placed the larger of the baskets upon the kitchen table and fetched a bowl for the eggs. As I unloaded them, the young Novice Marina stepped forward, clutching dearly one of the chetverts of milk, which she lifted unto my hands. I gazed into her eyes, perceived the most subtle of nods, which sent a rush of excitement up my spine.

And, yes, the tiny pocket cut into the cork did in fact contain a note, the fourth and final one the Tsar was ever to receive. No sooner had Sister Antonina and Novice Marina departed, than big Dr. Botkin appeared in the kitchen doorway. Everyone was hoping for more news from the outside, and he pushed up his gold spectacles and studied me quite eagerly.