The Kitchen Boy (18 page)

When the vehicle stopped at the large, wooden gates, the driver leaned out and called, “
Troobochist
.” Chimney sweep.

With this code word the gates were thrown open, and as the lorry rumbled forward I scurried along the far side of it, following it down the short hill and around the back of the house. When the clumsy vehicle pulled to a stop, I scurried off, taking shelter alongside one of the sheds.

Crouched in the darkness, I watched as several guards approached the Fiat truck. Words were spoken, so deep and cluttered that I could not understand a thing. And then all was silent. I saw several other guards move about, but little else. Twenty minutes passed, perhaps more, and I wondered what in the name of the devil I should do. I was stuck in my hiding place, too terrified to move for fear of being caught, for wouldn’t they shoot me if they found me?

I finally heard movement from within the house, the sound of many feet on wooden steps, and I pushed myself as deep as I could into the shadows of that small shed.
Da, da, da
, that was a group of people descending those twenty-three steps, the twenty-three wooden steps that led from the main floor down the back of the house and to the scruffy garden. We had descended that staircase so many times, once in the morning and once again in the afternoon, and always gladly, for that was the route to fresh air and a walk outside. But not that night. Frightened, my eyes scanned the courtyard that was filled with a couple of wooden sheds and the big, silent truck. I heard them before I saw them – all the men with their boots and the women with their heels clattering.

Finally a side door was pushed open. First came Yurovsky. Then came the Tsar, wearing of course those worn, dark brown leather boots of his. They’d obviously left the wheeling chaise upstairs, and in his arms Nikolai Aleksandrovich effortlessly carried his beloved son and my friend, Aleksei. Both of them, father and son, were dressed alike in simple army hats and clothing. Next came Aleksandra Fyodorovna, wearing a long dark skirt and long-sleeved, light blouse, her long, thick hair put up on her head. She looked so old that night. So tired. Yet in the shadows of that night I thought I saw a glimmer of hope smooth her brow as she glanced around, perhaps looking for someone or something.

Next came the girls, Olga, Tatyana, Maria, and Anastasiya, all of them dressed in identical dark skirts and light blouses, all of them with nothing on their heads and of course no wraps on their shoulders. Rather than appearing exhausted, they seemed lively and eager. I saw that both Tatyana and Maria carried small pillows, and that Anastasiya cradled her treasured dog, Jimmy, who was so ominously quiet. Following them came Dr. Botkin, Demidova, who also clutched a pillow, valet Trupp, and cook Kharitonov. No one spoke. No one protested or sobbed. What did they think? What had they been told?

From my hiding place I watched as the line of Romanovs and the last of their faithful calmly and quietly followed Yurovsky along the back of the house. Aleksandra, who suffered off and on from sciatica, limped slightly, but she kept up, certainly spurred on by her ever-present faith. They were midway toward the other end of the house when I saw my favorite, Maria Nikolaevna, gazing up at the sky. I turned my attention upward as well, peered through the leaves at the dark heavens above, whereupon my eyes landed on a handful of stars. When my attention fell back to earth, I saw that Maria was no longer staring at the heavens, but gazing directly at me. She saw me there in the bushes, and for an instant that I can never forget our eyes embraced. Recognizing me but not daring to betray my presence, Maria Nikolaevna even cast me a small smile.

“This way,” called Yurovsky, leading them into the far door.

Thus the group of eleven calmly disappeared into that mouth of death, proceeding back into the cellar and to a rear chamber from which there would be no escape. Losing sight of them, I scurried around, darting like a spy from shed to bush to tree to bush. And there, through a large open window covered with a heavy metal grating I not only saw all of them in that cellar room, but heard them as well. It was not that large of a space, not really, and held not a stick of furniture. The walls were covered in striped yellow wallpaper, the rear door to the storeroom appeared locked, and a single electric bulb hung from the low ceiling.

“There have been various rumors in the capitalist press as to your safety,” began Yurovsky, spinning his lies with such great ease. “Because of this, we would like to take your photograph to reassure people in Moscow. Would you be so kind as to line up against the wall?”

That was all the
komendant
did, all he needed to say, to get this unsuspecting group to line up in a nice, easy firing line. Clearly pleased with himself, Yurovsky turned to beckon his executioners. At that moment, however, Aleksandra Fyodorovna, ever herself, clawed out at him.

“What, there isn’t even a chair?” said the Tsaritsa with the last imperious comment of her life. “One isn’t even allowed to sit down?”

Smiling to himself, Yurovsky hesitated but a moment, then left without replying, gently shutting the double doors behind him. I crept along, spied the
komendant
in the next room and through the open doorway heard him bark at a soldier.

“Apparently the Empress wishes to die sitting down,” he said with a stout laugh. “Fetch me two chairs.”

What did Yurovsky mean? What was he up to? Panic crawling up my throat, I moved back and peered through the grated window at the Romanovs. Should I shout out? Scream a warning?

One of the two doors was kicked open, and Yurovsky entered, smiling to himself as he delivered two chairs. Taking one of the pillows for supposed comfort, Aleksandra Fyodorovna sat in one chair near the window, while the other was positioned to her right for Aleksei. The Tsar carefully lowered his son onto this chair, and then the other members of the Imperial Family, photographed so many thousands of times, automatically assumed positions as though for an official portrait. Behind the Empress, yet more toward the middle of the room, stood the four daughters. Close by their side was Demidova, faithfully clutching her pillow as if it were a treasure, while behind Aleksei stood Botkin, Trupp, and Kharitonov. The Tsar himself stood between mother and son.

Once again, Yurovksy stepped out of the room, pulling shut the doors behind him. And then came the longest, oddest silence in which my heart began to beat ever so fast. Inside the chamber, not one of the Romanovs spoke. Aleksandra Fyodorovna did turn and gaze out one of the windows, searching, I’m sure, for those officers. About then Tatyana came over and placed her hand on her mother’s shoulder, which Aleksandra took and reassuringly kissed.

Suddenly the lorry in the courtyard fired up its engine, its noisy motor roaring in the night. All at once, Yurovsky returned, throwing open the double doors into the small cellar room. He quickly moved in and ten henchmen, brandishing Nagant revolvers, awkwardly piled through the small opening behind him. Except for one, they were all the new guards, the so-called Letts. Crowded to the side as if an afterthought, I recognized one of the former guards, the young one with the blondish beard.

Calm and self-assured, the
komendant
unfolded a piece of paper, and boldly proclaimed, “In view of the news that your relatives both inside the country and from abroad have attempted to free you, the Ural Executive Committee has decided to execute you by-”

The Tsar cut in, his voice loud and desperate, “
Shto? Shto
?” What? What?

Rather surprised at being interrupted, Yurovsky cleared his throat and started over: “In view of the news that your relatives both inside the country and from abroad have attempted to free you, the Ural Executive Committee has decided to execute you by firing squad.”

Horrified, Aleksandra Fyodorovna threw her right hand up, desperate to make her sign to her God. Olga, the eldest daughter, likewise attempted a plea to a greater mercy.

“Papa!” screamed Anastasiya, clutching her dog, Jimmy, against her chest.

His voice shaking, Nikolai turned slightly, muttering, “Forgive them Father, they know not what-”

Eleven people lined up in a small room as though for a photograph. Eleven assassins piled into a narrow doorway. The shooting began in nearly the same instant, and Nikolai
krovavyi
, the bloody, caught the first hail. All at once the blast of those eleven revolvers struck and lifted the Tsar off the ground, hurling him back through the air. His head exploded, showering his daughters with a coarse spray of his blood and brains. An instant later, Aleksandra, the
Bolsheviki’s
hated German bitch, took a handful of bullets in the face and mouth, the force of which threw her back as well, her cross-making hand flailing upward, her chair hurling back, her feet flying overhead as she tumbled ass over head into infinity.

“Aim for the heart!” shouted Yurovsky.

A horrible wail of confusion rose in the room. In complete terror, the daughters ran about, screaming, begging, and shrieking. Botkin shouted and pleaded. Demidova wailed. Trupp and Kharitonov sobbed. Only poor Aleksei, stranded as he was, remained in place, clutching his eyes shut, grabbing at the sides of his chair as bullets whizzed all about him. The gunshots started coming faster, more desperate, but remarkably no one else fell. I heard the twinging of ricochets, saw sunlike sparks burst as bullets bounced off those corsets, so thick with jewels that they had inadvertently been made… bulletproof. Protected as they were by all those invincible carats, the girls were not granted a quick death. Rather it appeared as if God Himself were shielding them, and a great cry arose, not from the horrified victims, but their executioners, so sure were they of the divineness of these White princesses. Terrified, the guards started pumping the bullets faster, more desperately.

Finally big Dr. Botkin tumbled, a bear of a man who dropped to his knees and fell face first into death. I saw Olga running to the side, clasping her ears. Suddenly her neck was ripped wide in a streak of crimson, and she too dove into the beyond. Trupp, Kharitonov – they went next, paying in blood for their faithful service. As they fell, a devilish fog began to fill the room and cloud it with confusion, for all the modern smokeless bullets had been used up during the war. And then Aleksei tumbled from his meager wooden throne.

“Mama! Papa!” rose the shrieks of those girls.

I saw Anastasiya bending her head, shielding her Jimmy, shrieking hell and devil. I saw Maria run back and forth, then fall against the wall. And I saw Demidova holding that priceless pillow up like armor. And too I saw Tatyana’s face and neck and arms blister with death.

Within moments, the entire room filled with smoke from the bullets. Yet still it went on, the shots slapping and hurling, biting and ripping. I heard the deep voices of the guards coughing and shouting, gagging and yelling, as they stirred up this black stew of pandemonium. And though the guards could no longer see their targets, it went on. And on.

Eleven men firing eleven guns for a minute is a lifetime. Upward of ten minutes is an eternity. But it took that long and longer to cut down those eleven victims. Eventually, the bullets began to slow and the smoke began to lift. Several of the men, vomiting and coughing on the acrid smoke, retreated into the hallway.

The clouds of death parted, revealing Yurovsky as he walked above the dead. Waving his hand back and forth in front of his face, the
komendant
peered down through the dimmest of light at the young Heir. It was then that I saw Aleksei, still moving, still treading life, still moaning and writhing as he clutched his father by the sleeve. Lowering his gun, Yurovsky placed the barrel on Aleksei’s temple and blasted, once, twice. He and the guards, who had fetched rifles from the hallway, moved on through the room, discovering that even after all the shooting three of the sisters and Botkin were still alive, convulsing as they choked on their own blood. Approaching Tatyana, a dark-bearded guard raised his rifle and bayonet over her and plunged at her heart. Despite all his brutal virility, however, the dull blade bounced off her, and the young princess twisted and contorted in semiconscious pain. Confused and dismayed, the guard straddled her, clutched his rifle in both hands, and plunged again. And again met with no success. Unable to puncture her chest and clearly terrified by her immortality, the man whipped out a knife and quickly slit her throat, finally finding proof positive in her butchered neck that she was not the daughter of a demigod.

Suddenly a woman’s voice screamed out, “Thank God!” It was Demidova. “God has saved me!”

I caught sight of the Tsaritsa’s maid, who’d apparently only fainted and was now pushing herself from the floor, smeared with the blood of her masters. No sooner had she risen back to life, however, than a herd of men were upon her, and she fell once again and for all, screaming, screaming, screaming so horribly as she grabbed at the dull, rusty bayonets that punctured her full round body no less than thirty times.

For a brief moment there was silence and peace, which in turn was broken by a pathetic whimper and an animal-like cry. One of the guards went over to Anastasiya and plunged her throat with his bayonet. Miraculously, however, the cry grew but louder until suddenly the girl’s tiny pet wiggled and squirmed from beneath the child’s carved body. Seeing the little dog, now soaking crimson, try to scramble away, its back legs broken, the guard raised one of his heavy boots… and smashed little Jimmy’s head.

All in all, it took twenty minutes before silence graced the basement chamber of The House of Special Purpose.

Hidden in the bushes, I stared off at the black sky, seeing nothing, neither star nor moon, but seeing again that which I had just witnessed: those twenty minutes. Hearing them too.
Da, da, da
, hearing their screams. Ever since, for eight decades now, I have daily seen this cinema of horror in my mind’s eye, and I watch it from this angle, from that, and nearly go insane.

I find myself so angry. Angry at all the tsars of my Rossiya for driving my homeland down the dead-end path of autocracy. Angry at the
Bolsheviki
for not realizing that
kommunizm
is naught but a gorgeous dream that can never be. Angry at Aleksandra for being a supreme mother not to her country but her invalid son. Angry at Nikolai for not signing that one piece of paper that would have averted all. Sure, Russia in its own clumsy, inevitable way was stumbling toward a constitutional monarchy, and because Nikolai could not see this, because he could not sign a simple paper granting a ministry appointed not by him but by his parliament, he and his family as well as about forty million others were slaughtered.

The thick, acrid smoke had yet to clear before the henchmen were upon their victims, Red vultures picking at the Imperial Family as if they were carrion. While Yurovsky was going from body to body, verifying pulses and the sort, two of the guards were in the hall, still vomiting not because of the gore but because of the foul smoke from those old-fashioned bullets. The rest of the guards forgot every bit of their ideology and searched pockets and wrists and necks for trinkets and treasures. Greed was their strongest urge, and these henchmen fed furiously upon their victims. They wanted more for themselves, and so they feasted upon those they had killed for possessing too much. Only Yurovsky stood as the pillar of the ideal revolutionary, and he flushed with disdain upon seeing the joyful looting.

He shouted, “You are to take nothing! Nothing! Now I want half of you to go upstairs and gather all the sheets you can, and I want the other half to go out to the shed and gather the shafts from the troikas.” When he saw hesitation among them, Yurovsky raised his gun. “Go!”

For a long moment, none of the guards left. Realizing he was losing control, Yurovsky took aim at one of the men.

“Leave!”

One by one, the assassins departed. Shaken by the disobedience, Yurovsky stood there, pistol raised as he guarded his royal kill. And because of this challenge, he never finished verifying the dead, specifically Anastasiya, Kharitonov, and Maria. Minutes later his men returned, and according to Yurovsky’s directions the sheets were suspended between the harnessing shafts and the bodies loaded up. With the noisy engine of the motor lorry masking the commotion, the Romanovs and their small retinue were then carted out one by one and heaved into the back of the vehicle.

The entire time I sat there, hidden in the darkness, watching, seeing with my own two eyes, and yet not believing. Not a tear did I shed, not even then. Not a whimper did I cry. Somehow fear steeled me, protected me, for had I started crying I would have been pulled from my hiding place and killed as well.

Once the last of the bodies was heaped upon the pile in the back of the truck, the biggest of the guards pulled himself onto the truck. He scrambled over the dead, pawed at them like a mad dog, and laughing, reached into a pile of Romanovs. He threw aside an arm, tugged at a bloody dress, and seized upon a fleshy prize. A moment later he leapt up and held out his cupped hand as if it were full of gold.

“Now that I have touched the Empress’s pussy I can die in peace!” he laughed and shrieked.

His joy was a call to chaos, and his comrades hooted with fiendish delight. All at once the lot of them climbed and clambered aboard, once again pulling at boots and necklaces, eyeglasses and especially watches, which Russians have always sought as a souvenir of death. Though they failed to discover the fortune of diamonds hidden in the royal corsets, the guards clambered over the carcasses of their history, desperately pawing for riches of any kind.

Suddenly Yurovsky charged out of the house, cocked his gun, and shouted, “The next man who takes anything gets a bullet in the head! Drop everything you’ve taken and get back inside – now!”

The frenzy came to an immediate but uncomfortable pause, followed by grumbling and some reluctant movement.

“I’ll be checking each and every one of you, and should I find that you’ve taken anything – anything! – you’ll be executed immediately!”

All of a sudden things began to fall. A bracelet. An amulet. Dr. Botkin’s glasses. One of the traveling pillows. The guards dropped them back onto the bodies, and these things landed with soft plops upon the still-warm flesh. From where I hid, I sensed the bodies shifting as the guards clambered over them. The next moment I saw an arm slip out from beneath the canvas top, the gold watch on that arm sparkling in the night.

The guards did as they were told. All it took was terror to whip them into control, of course, and this team of executioners leaped to the ground and hurried inside. Thereupon big buckets of sawdust were carted into the cellar room. Brooms too. And mops. They had to obliterate all signs of the crime. The Whites would take the city any day, and the Reds couldn’t leave any trace of the bodies or even the murders; all along the greatest danger to their cause had not been the possibility of Nikolai being restored to the throne – neither Red nor White wanted that – but the very real possibility of the Whites seizing the dead Tsar and his family and resurrecting them as martyrs to their cause. But of course there could be no martyrs if there were no bodies.

While all of this cleaning up was going on, I stared at the dead arm swinging back and forth, the gold watch on that arm ticking this way and that against the side of the Fiat lorry. As if mesmerized by Rasputin himself, I was drawn out of the darkness, and I inched forward. They say that a Russian cannot believe with his eyes what he cannot touch with his hand, and against my own will I was drawn forward. Without even thinking, I reached out. I reached out and clutched the arm of
Batyushka
, the Dear Father. I held onto his muscular arm for but a moment. And then I pulled at his watch. When my hands came away, not only did I clutch something as brilliant as the sun, but my fingers were sticky red with his death.

Minutes later, after great confusion, the motor lorry finally made its departure. Once again I trotted after it, hiding in the vehicle’s night shadow as it passed through the gates. Of course I should have fled, but that never occurred to me. Not once. I should have taken off across the square, but somewhere I understood that the end of the tale had not yet come. And so like a pathetic dog I trotted after my dead master as the lorry moved through the dark, muddy streets of Yekaterinburg.

Da, da, da,
like a faithful dog I chased after that motor truck that was overflowing with all those
troopy
, those bodies. With a driver, a single guard, and Yurovsky seated up front, the vehicle proceeded so very slowly that I had no trouble keeping up, and when it drove all the way around the far side of the race track, I took the shortcut and actually had to wait for it to pass. When it headed northward on the dirt lane to the village Koptyaki, I trotted after it. Usually it was only carts and wagons that moved along here, peasants bringing their fish or game to sell in town. But not tonight… not tonight…

I had no idea of its destination, but I ran after the motor lorry, and the vehicle barely creaked along, certainly not faster than a cart itself. A few versts from town one of the wheels sank into a deep hole, then rose quickly out of it, hit a stone, and the whole back of the lorry bounced violently. That very instant a black heap of something was thrown from the rear of the truck, landing with a near silent thud on the dirt road. At first I couldn’t imagine, but then it bolted through me, seized my heart.
Gospodi
, Dear Lord, one of the bodies had been hurled from the lorry onto the ground.

I froze in horror, then bolted forward, hurried to this sack of death lying so still in the rutted road to Koptyaki.
Da, da
, it was a body. That much was clear. And not Dr. Botkin. And not one of the ladies. No, it was the Heir Tsarevich Aleksei Nikolaevich. A rag doll of a body… that was all that was left. He was the mirror of me, this boy was. We were about the same height, the same age, and there he lay, twisted and crumpled, his military tunic torn, his face so… so…

Gospodi,
Dear Lord, when I knelt to him I saw the side of his head all black and shattered. His right ear was gone, blasted away by the two bullets that Yurovsky had fired point blank into the side of his head.
Da, da,
the bullets had pierced the skull, not blowing it apart, really, but surely exploding through his brains and out the other side. But his face…itwas…

My stomach turned, slithered like a snake up the back of my throat. I turned away, then immediately looked back. Yes, it was him, there was no doubt, even though it was almost impossible to tell, for they had slashed his face with bayonets, beaten it with rifle butts. Mother of God, this boy, who had so yearned to play
shahmaty
, well, there was nothing left to gaze at but slaughtered meat and bone hanging, dripping, into the earth of Siberia, so… so mutilated was he.

I couldn’t move. I stared down at this grossly killed boy, the Heir to the throne of Russia, and the blackest of terrors filled my every pore. I wanted to die. I wanted someone to blow my own brains out, to blast this sight from my mind, but then… then the truck started picking up speed, started moving quicker. And all of a sudden another one fell out. I looked up the road and saw another body tumble from the back of the truck. It just… just fell like a sack of wheat onto the road.

I didn’t know what to do. Once again I looked down to the Heir, saw his perforated body, knew that the future of Russia was dead beyond a doubt, and then I gazed up the road at the next dark pile that was yet another Romanov. I started moving, started running to the second body. The truck, oblivious, rumbled on into the madness of the night. Unbelievably, the second body moved and quivered and… and I wanted to scream out, to beg to God. It was the third child, Grand Duchess Maria who by some miracle was not only still alive, but trying to get up. She hadn’t fallen from the truck but thrown herself, and when I reached her she was trying to push herself to her knees. Her long, dark skirt was torn, grossly soiled, her light blouse ripped and stained, but she wasn’t crying. No, she had quite literally risen from the dead and she was as stunned as a newborn, shocked, even horrified, to find herself here on this earth.

Hearing my quick steps, Maria shook with fear. This most beautiful of girls, this protected princess, opened her mouth to scream. I saw that she was going to howl to the sky and moon and back, and I charged forward. As quickly as I could, I threw my hand over her mouth, gagged her fear, kept it bottled up inside the poor thing.

“Eto ya!”
It’s me, I hissed into her ear.
“Eto ya!”

I gently lowered her back to the road, and Grand Duchess Maria fell weak and silent beneath my youthful power. She attempted to struggle but then, gazing up at me with those rich eyes, fell still.

“Leonka…” she gasped, clutching my arm.

Like the sternest of schoolmasters, I ordered, “Keep quiet or they’ll come after us both!”

She understood, of course. At the same time I saw her eyes strain after the lorry that was carting away her family.

“Papa… Mama…” she moaned, her body now falling flaccid in my arms.

Only as I held her did I realize how badly she was bleeding. I didn’t know if it was a bayonet wound or if a bullet had grazed her temple, but she was bleeding most profusely from the side of her head, from just above her ear. I touched her temple, sensed a long, deep wound, and then tore a swath of material from her skirt, which I wrapped around her head. Fearful that the truck would turn around and come back, I tried to help her get up.

“We’ve got to get off the road and into the woods,” I said.

But when she moved, she clutched her side and cried out, “I can’t!”

The bullets meant to kill her had instead struck her diamond-studded corset, the force of which had broken a number of her ribs. She started gasping for air, and as I held her, I saw she was bleeding terribly from her left leg as well. Raising her skirt, I saw two wounds in her left thigh, one on the front, the other the back. A bullet had apparently gone through her leg, perhaps shattering the bone. As she leaned upon me, I tore more of her skirt, then tied that strip around the top of her leg, tightening the tourniquet to stem the blood. I glanced way down the road, saw the vague, dark shape of the lorry slowing. Or had it stopped? Panic seized my throat. Had they discovered that not one but two of the Romanovs had fallen from the back of the vehicle? Were the Reds about to return and hunt us out? I had to get Maria Nikolaevna off the road and hide her in the woods. Somehow I found this strength. She was a big girl, and I turned around, pulled her up on my back. It was then, as I half-dragged her off the road, that she saw the other body.

“Aleksei…”

There was no way to soften the truth, not on that night, and I said, “
Ew-bili
.” They killed him.

I kept moving, carrying the Grand Duchess into the woods, which were not really that thick. Behind a clump of bushes I found a pine, and there I placed Maria, lowering her to the sandy ground and then propping her up against the tree.

“My brother,” she begged.

“Ew-bili,”
I repeated.

I wondered if we shouldn’t just leave him for the guards to find. A decoy. And she understood this, the Grand Duchess did, for she saw the hesitation on my face.

“Bring him to me.”

In all the time that I’d spent in The House of Special Purpose I’d never heard any of the Royal Family issue a command, particularly none of the children. Yet Grand Duchess Maria Nikolaevna so ordered me. Dead or alive, she would not abandon her brother. And so wasting no time, I darted through the wood and back onto the road. I glanced into the distance and sure enough, there was the truck, stopped or perhaps stuck. There was little time, and so I grabbed Aleksei by the shoulders and pulled the boy out of the road and into the pine wood, leaving a swerving tail of blood behind. Reaching the trees, I stopped and took off my light jacket, which I in turn draped over the boy’s mutilated head. I then dragged him on, all the way to Maria, whereupon I laid him by her side. She immediately took his hand, then started to pull away my jacket.