the Romanov Prophecy (2004) (5 page)

And he had.

Toppling the weak provisional government ten months back in what the guards proudly called the October Revolution.

Why was his cousin the kaiser doing this to him? Did he hate him that much? Was winning the World War important enough to sacrifice a ruling dynasty?

Apparently so.

Just two months after seizing power, to no one’s surprise, Lenin signed a cease-fire with the Germans, and Russia abandoned the Great War, leaving the Allies without an eastern front to occupy the advancing Germans. Britain, France, and the United States could not be happy. He understood the dangerous game Lenin was playing. Promising the people peace to gain their confidence, but needing to delay its implementation in order to placate the Allies, while at the same time not offending his real ally, the kaiser. The Treaty of Brest-Litovsk, signed five months back, was nothing short of devastating. Germany gained a quarter of Russia’s territory and nearly a third of its people. That action, he’d been told, had generated great resentment. The talk among the guards was that all of the Bolshevik enemies had finally coalesced under a unified White banner, chosen in startling contrast to the communist Red flag. A mass of recruits had already gravitated to the Whites. Peasants particularly were drawn, since land was still denied them.

A civil war now raged.

White versus Red.

And he was merely Citizen Romanov, prisoner of the Red Bolsheviks.

Ruler of no one.

He and his family had first been held in the Alexander Palace at Tsarskoe Selo, not far from Petrograd. Then they were moved west to Tobolsk, in central Russia, a river town full of whitewashed churches and log cabins. The people there had been openly loyal, showing great respect to their fallen tsar and his family. They’d daily gathered in large numbers outside the confinement house, removing their hats and crossing themselves. Hardly a day went by without a delivery of cakes, candles, and icons. The guards themselves, members of the honored Rifle Regiment, had been friendly and had taken the time to talk and play cards. They’d been allowed books and newspapers, even correspondence. The food had been excellent and every comfort was shown them.

All in all, not a bad prison.

Then, seventy-eight days ago, another move.

This time here, to Yekaterinburg, on the eastern slope of the Ural Mountains, deep in the heart of Mother Russia where Bolsheviks dominated. Ten thousand Red Army troops wandered the streets. The local population was bitterly opposed to anything tsarist. The house of a wealthy merchant, a man named Ipatiev, had been commandeered and converted into a makeshift prison. The House of Special Purpose, Nicholas had heard it called. A high wooden fence had been erected, the glass in all the windows smeared with lime and iron-barred, none to be opened on pain of being shot. All the doors had been removed from the bedrooms and lavatories. He’d been forced to listen while his family was jeered with insults, compelled to view without comment lewd pictures of his wife and Rasputin scrawled on the walls. Yesterday he’d almost come to blows with one of the impertinent bastards. The guard had written on his daughters’ bedroom wall:
OUR RUSSIAN TSAR CALLED NICK. PULLED OFF HIS THRONE BY HIS PRICK.

Enough of that, he thought.

“What time is it?” he finally asked the guard standing over him.

“Two
AM.
”

“What is wrong?”

“It is necessary that your family be moved. The White Army is approaching the city. An attack is imminent. It would be dangerous to be in the upper rooms, if there was shooting in the streets.”

The words excited Nicholas. He’d heard the guards’ whispers. The White Army had stormed across Siberia, taking town after town, regaining territory from the Reds. Over the past few days the rumble of artillery could be heard in the distance. That sound had given him hope. Perhaps his generals were finally coming and things would be put right again.

“Rise and dress,” the guard said.

The man withdrew and Nicholas roused his wife. His son, Alexie, slept in a bed on the far side of the modest bedroom.

He and Alexie quietly dressed in their military field shirts, trousers, boots, and forage caps, while Alexandra withdrew to their daughters’ room. Unfortunately, Alexie could not walk. Yet another hemophilic hemorrhage two days before had crippled him, so Nicholas gently carried the thin thirteen-year-old into the hall.

His four daughters appeared.

Each was dressed in a plain black skirt and white blouse, their mother following, limping with her cane. His precious Sunshine was barely able to walk anymore—sciatica from her childhood had progressively worsened. The almost constant worry she endured for Alexie had destroyed her health, graying her once chestnut hair and fading the loving glow in eyes that had captivated him since the first day they’d met as teenagers. Her breath seemed to come quick, many times in painful gasps, her lips occasionally turning blue. She complained about her heart and back, but he wondered if the afflictions were real or just side effects of the unutterable grief she experienced, wondering if today was the day death would snatch her son.

“What is this, Papa?” Olga asked.

She was twenty-two, his firstborn. Thoughtful and intelligent, she was in many ways like her mother, occasionally brooding and sulky.

“Perhaps our salvation,” he mouthed.

A look of excitement crept across her pretty face. Her sister Tatiana, one year her junior, and Maria, two years younger, came close, carrying pillows. Tatiana was tall and stately, the leader of the girls—Governess, they all called her—and she was her mother’s favorite. Maria was pretty and gentle—eyes like saucers—and flirtatious. Her desire was to marry a Russian soldier and have twenty children. His two middle daughters had heard what he said.

He motioned for silence.

Anastasia, seventeen, lingered with her mother, carrying King Charles, the cocker spaniel their jailers had allowed her to retain. She was short and plump with the reputation of a rebel—
a monkey for jokes,
her sisters would say—but her deep blue eyes were charming and he’d never been able to resist them.

The remaining four captives quickly joined them.

Dr. Botkin, Alexie’s physician. Trupp, Nicholas’s valet. Demidova, Alexandra’s maid. And Kharitonov, the cook. Demidova likewise clutched a pillow, but Nicholas knew this one was special. Sewn deep within its feathers was a box containing jewels, and Demidova’s task was never to allow the pillow from her sight. Alexandra and the girls likewise harbored treasure, their corsets concealing diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and ropes of pearl.

Alexandra limped close and asked him, “Do you know what’s happening?”

“The Whites are nearby.”

Her tired face showed wonderment. “Could this be?”

“This way, please,” a familiar voice said from the stairway.

Nicholas turned and faced Yurovsky.

The man had arrived twelve days before with a squad from the Bolshevik Secret Police, replacing the previous commandant and his undisciplined factory-worker guards. At first the change seemed positive, but Nicholas quickly determined that these new men were professionals. Perhaps even Magyars, prisoners of war from the Austro-Hungarian army, hired by the Bolsheviks for jobs native Russians abhorred. Yurovsky was their leader. A dark man with black hair, black beard, and an unhurried way in his manner and speech. He gave orders calmly and expected them to be obeyed.
Ox Command
was the name with which they’d christened him, and Nicholas had quickly concluded that this demon enjoyed oppressing people.

“We must hurry,” Yurovsky said. “Time is short.”

Nicholas signaled for quiet and the entourage followed a wooden staircase down to the ground floor. Alexie slept soundly on his shoulder. Anastasia released the dog, which scurried away.

They were led outside, across a courtyard, to a semi-basement room with one arched window. Dingy striped wallpaper covered the plaster walls. There was no furniture.

“Wait here for the cars to arrive,” Yurovsky said.

“Where are we going?” Nicholas asked.

“Away,” was all their jailer said.

“No chairs?” Alexandra said. “May we not sit?”

Yurovsky shrugged and instructed one of his men. Two chairs appeared. Alexandra took one, Maria positioning the pillow she held behind her mother’s back. Nicholas sat Alexie in the other. Tatiana placed her pillow behind her brother and made the boy comfortable. Demidova continued to clutch her pillow close with crossed arms.

More artillery rumbled in the distance. The sound brought Nicholas hope.

Yurovsky said, “It is necessary that we photograph you. There are people who believe you have already escaped. So I need you to stand here.”

Yurovsky positioned everyone. When he finished, the daughters stood behind their seated mother, Nicholas stood beside Alexie, the four non–family members behind him. Over the course of sixteen months they’d been ordered to do many strange things. This one, being awakened in the middle of the night for a picture and then being whisked away, was no exception. When Yurovsky left the room and closed the door, no one said a word.

A moment later the door reopened.

But no photographer with a tripod camera entered. Instead, eleven armed men paraded in. Yurovsky came last. The Russian’s right hand was stuffed into his trouser pocket. He was holding a sheet of paper in the other.

He started reading.

“In view of the fact that your relatives are continuing their attack on the Soviet Russia, the Ural Executive Committee has decided to execute you.”

Nicholas was having trouble hearing. A vehicle engine was revving outside, loud and clamorous. Strange. He looked at his family, then faced Yurovsky and said, “What? What?”

The Russian’s expression never broke. He simply repeated the declaration in the same monotone. Then his right hand came from his pocket.

Nicholas saw the gun.

A Colt pistol.

The barrel approached his head.

SIX

A weak feeling always came to Lord’s stomach when he read about that night. He tried to imagine what it must have been like when the shooting started. The terror they must have felt. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do but die horribly.

He’d been drawn back to the event because of what he’d found in the Protective Papers. He’d stumbled onto the note ten days back, scrawled on a plain brittle sheet in outdated Russian script, the black ink barely legible. It was inside a crimson leather bag that had been sewn shut. A label on the outside indicated:
ACQUIRED JULY 10, 1925. NOT TO BE OPENED UNTIL JANUARY 1, 1950.
It was impossible to determine if that instruction had been heeded.

He reached into his briefcase and found the copy he’d carefully translated. The date at the top read April 10, 1922:

He and Artemy Bely both believed the document was penned in Lenin’s own hand. It wouldn’t be unusual. The communists had preserved thousands of Lenin’s writings. But this particular document had not been found where it should have been. Instead, Lord had located it among papers repatriated from the Nazis after World War II. Hitler’s invading armies had stolen not only Russian art, but also archival material by the tons. Document depositories in Leningrad, Stalingrad, Kiev, and Moscow were stripped clean. Only after the war, when Stalin sent his Extraordinary Commission to reclaim the country’s heritage, had many of these caches found their way back to the Motherland.

There was, though, one other relevant paper within the crimson leather bag. A single sheet of parchment with a frilly border of flowers and leaves. The handwriting was in English, the script distinctly feminine:

October 28, 1916.

Dear beloved Soul of my Soul, my own Wee One, Sweet Angel, oh, me loves you so, always together, night and day, I feel what you are going through and your poor heart. God have mercy, give you strength and wisdom. He won’t forsake you. He will help, recompense this mad suffering and end this separation at such a time when one needs being together.

Our Friend has just left. He saved Baby once again. Oh merciful Jesus thank the Lord we have him. The pain was immense, my heart torn apart from witnessing, but Baby now sleeps peacefully. I am assured that tomorrow he will be well.