Robert Alexander - The Kitchen Boy

“Well, are all of your people present?” asked Yurovsky.

The Tsar nodded toward those at the front of the room. “Yes, all.”

The Tsaritsa, wearing the same dark blue cotton dress she’d worn for weeks, was seated next to the Heir, who was in the wheeling chaise and wearing a jacket with a sailor’s collar. The older daughters stood nearby; all four girls had changed and now were dressed nearly identically in dark skirts and simple white jackets, the same simple jackets that usually hung at the foot of their cots.

The Tsar took his place at the head of the family. On the edge of the living room stood Dr. Botkin, Demidova, the tall Trupp, the short and stocky Kharitonov, and me, the youngest and the last. Once we had assumed our positions, the obednitsa – a liturgy without communion – began, but here I should take care to add that there was one more person present: Yurovsky. In a complete affront to rank and etiquette, the komendant took great care to stand right up there at the front.

Severely tested as they were, the Romanovs were not simply more pious than ever, they were more grave and serious. The last time they had been allowed a religious service, the Empress and Tatyana had sung along with the priest. Even Nikolai Aleksandrovich had sung, his bass voice lively and vibrant as he had intoned “Our Father.” This time, however, none of them sang along, not even the Empress with her beautiful contralto, and when Father Deacon chanted instead of read “Who Resteth with Saints,” the entire family dropped to their knees. Standing behind them, the rest of us, from Botkin on down to me, immediately followed their example.

Afterward we lined up according to rank to kiss the holy cross that Father Deacon held in hand. Nikolai Aleksandrovich went first, but he hesitated, which even I, way at the end, took note of. Peering around, I tried to see why the Tsar seemed to be taking such a long time with Father Storozhev, to whom he was offering his thanks. And then I understood, the Emperor wanted to pull his note from his pocket and ask Father Storozhev to deliver it to those loyal to him. But this he could not do, for Komendant Yurovsky had so positioned himself to oversee and overhear everything .

And so this, unfortunately, was how the last note fell into my young hands.

The fifteenth, a Monday, was a cool, damp morning that slowly bloomed into a beautiful day. By noon all of Yekaterinburg was bathed in lovely summer sunshine. Other than that, there was nothing remarkable about the start of the day, nothing to make us suspicious. It was only after lunch, when four charwomen from the labor union were admitted to clean the floors, that events took a serious turn. These women began washing the floors in the Tsar’s bedchamber, and Yurovsky stood near them to make sure there was absolutely no conversation between them and the young grand duchesses, who were helping move the furniture and talking gaily amongst themselves. Laughing, the girls were. While this was taking place, the Tsar and Tsaritsa relocated to the living room, where Aleksandra rested on the couch and Nikolai sat in a chair in the far corner, a novel propped in his lap.

By word of Trupp, I was beckoned from the kitchen to the Tsar, who in a quiet voice, asked, “Leonka, was there no sign of Sister Antonina this morning?”

“She did come, Nikolai Aleksandrovich. She and her novice came shortly after breakfast, only they were not allowed to proceed as far as the kitchen. Komendant Yurovsky wouldn’t let them past the guard room, which is where I went to get the foodstuffs. I met them there.”

“And why weren’t they allowed any farther?”

“That wasn’t clear, but Yurovksy asked them a great many questions and looked at everything they carried.”

“I see. And what was it that they brought today?”

“A chetvert of milk, that was all. No eggs and no cream either. The komendant said there was to be no more cream. But… but…”

“But what?”

“He did ask them to bring a great many eggs tomorrow – no less than fifty.”

“Odd. Very odd.” Before continuing, the Tsar glanced across the room to make sure no guards had wandered in. “There was nothing else?”

“Nyet-s.” I whispered, “I checked the cork, but there was nothing.”

“I see.”

I quickly volunteered, “But I am to go to the Soviet cafeteria in an hour’s time. Cook Kharitonov has received permission for me to get more bread.”

“Molodets.” Excellent. “I have something I wish to send out.” And then, exactly according to our short tradition, the Tsar entrusted me with a note folded into a small envelope. “I wanted to pass this to Father Storozhev yesterday, but that, of course, proved impossible.”

I don’t know what the note said, for I never saw the actual words, but I’ve always assumed it was in French, just like the others. More of the contents of this note I cannot say, for it alone has been lost to time, undoubtedly because of my stupidity.

So I took the note from the Tsar and kept it carefully tucked in my underclothing until it was time to leave. In the meantime, I was careful not to do anything to attract attention, and when the others went out into the yard for their afternoon walk, I headed off to fetch six loaves of chyorny khleb – black bread – from the Soviet. By that time the last two of the charwomen, Maria Staradumova and Vassa Dryagina, had completed their tasks and were also on the way out. As I came through the hall and reached the top of the short staircase, I saw them stopped at the front door.

“There is a new policy,” explained Yurovsky, blocking their exit. “From now on, everyone coming into or departing from The House of Special Purpose will have to be thoroughly searched.” The komendant looked up at me. “I’ll get to you, young man, once I’ve finished with these women.”

I started shaking. This couldn’t be. I was to be searched? Panic shot through my body. Gospodi , what if they found the secret note I carried? Then what? Would I be thrown in prison? Shot? What would they do to me, to the Imperial Family? No, I couldn’t let down the Emperor. I couldn’t fail any of them. My task was far too important, too critical, too… I had to retreat, that was the only course. But where? I turned, started back to the kitchen. I could pull the note from my clothing, hide it somewhere in the house, then be on my way, and…

“Leonka!” shouted Yurovsky from the bottom of the stairs. “And just where do you think you’re going? You must be on your way – some of that bread is for us too, you realize!”

There was only one logical explanation, and in a timid voice, I replied, “I was just going to go to the toilet, Comrade Komendant. Since you will be a few minutes with these women, I thought, well, I…I…”

“Fine. Just come right back.”

Needing no other approval, I bolted. I ran from the front to the back hall, and finally into the small water closet with its toilet and wash sink. I all but slammed the door as I shut it and fastened the little eyehook, locking myself in. I turned, scanned the walls, which were covered with all those nasty pictures and words about the Tsar and Tsaritsa. There was, however, no little place to stash the note. No cabinet. No loose plank. What should I do, rip up the envelope and flush it down the drain? Tear it up and eat it?

Oh, if only I’d done one of those!

Instead my eyes fell upon a large pipe above the toilet itself. Convinced that I had no other choice, I pulled the note from my clothing, stood on the toilet seat, and tucked the note right back there, right behind the metal pipe. I jumped down and looked up, unable to see a thing. It would be safe there, at least until my return, and I unfastened the lock and pushed the door. Then stopped. Reaching back, I flushed the toilet, and was on my way again, confident I’d covered my tracks.