The Kitchen Boy

away, with slogans like, “Crush the Crowns of the Tsar, Tear Apart the Old World,” “Death to the Blood Drinker,” “To Hell with Kapitalizm,” “Crush International Imperialism.” All these did the Romanovs see in the water closet. Day after day, whenever they went to relieve themselves, they were surrounded with this hatred. I have no idea what they thought, what they felt, as they – father, mother, son, and daughters – went into that small chamber one after the other and sat there alone and half-naked as the hatred bore down upon them from all sides. And yet, the Romanovs suffered well. Not a protest did they make, not a word did they complain. They read their Bibles, they chanted their prayers, they bowed to their icons.

Yet that morning there was still a chance of rescue. And a chance meant hope. No, Nikolai did not want to be rescued from that special house and restored to the brilliancy of the Romanov throne, of this I am absolutely certain. If so many of his peoples felt locked in the chains of poverty, then he felt entrapped by the riches of the dynasty, which is to say that peasant and Tsar alike were liberated by the revolution. Yes, many have said, and I do believe it to be true, that Nikolai bloomed after his abdication.

The call of nature ruled all, of course, and one by one all of the Romanovs visited the water closet by eight of that morning, that is to say within the thirty minutes left before our inspection. Not a word of protest did they make, however – at least not outwardly, not that could be heard by any of their guards, or even us, their small retinue, consisting of Dr. Botkin, the maid, Demidova, the footman Trupp, the cook, Kharitonov, and me, the kitchen boy. I watched all the rest of them – the Empress, the Heir Tsarevich, and the other three daughters – as they passed through the kitchen to the facilities, escorted, as they all were, by a guard. To generalize, if they appeared full of trepidation as they headed for the toilet room, then they seemed shocked upon their return. In all that I’ve learned, the thing that surprised Nikolai and Aleksandra the most about his abdication, the one aspect that crushed their hearts, was definitely not the loss of power and wealth, but the realization of how widely hated they were. And by this I mean not by the court, but the narod – the masses – whose emotions were so deeply stirred by the centuries of inequity and darkly spiced by the poisonous propaganda of the Bolsheviki.

So the inspection that morning was a somber affair. The only visible sign of stress among the family were Aleksandra’s eyes, which were swollen red, and her pale skin, which was all blotchy. But while she was deeply disturbed that morning, perhaps deathly afraid, she would not betray herself, she would not allow her captors that victory not simply over her persona, but most importantly over her faith in the greater glory of Bog. God. She knew as well that she had to be strong for her children, the children whom she had always tried to raise properly so that they would not folly in their wealth and exulted status. To them she wrote:

Learn to make others happy, think of yourself last of all. Be gentle and kind, never rough nor rude… Show a loving heart. Above all, learn to love God with all the force of your soul and He will be near you… Your old Mama

Standing according to our rank, from Tsar to Tsaritsa, Heir to grand duchesses, then all the way from doctor, maid, and down to me, the lowest of all, that morning inspection was the most somber of any to take place in The House of Special Purpose. We stood in the dining room, in front of the large fireplace, all of us seething with rage and fear, but none of us saying a word, because we took our every cue from the Emperor and Empress. When they crossed themselves during a church service, so did we. When they dropped to their knees and bowed their foreheads to the floor, so did we. And that morning, during that inspection, both Nikolai and Aleksandra stood ramrod straight, their lips pinched tight like a champagne cork holding all within lest all explode. And so did we.

“Noo… noo…” Well… well… mumbled Avdeyev, looking us up and down.

Big and heavy was he, his hair a mess, his face unshaved. Actually his eyes were red as well, though certainly not from crying. Nyet, we knew there had been much drinking last night, for there’d been so much shouting, so much hooting and singing. And that was surely when the drawings had been made on the walls of the water closet.

“So…” began Avdeyev, his voice all coy, obviously fishing for some kind of reaction to the drawing and the ditty, “any questions, any problems?”

“Nyet-s, Aleksander Dimitrievich,” respectfully replied the Tsar.

Avdeyev stared long and hard into Nikolai Aleksandrovich’s face. One of the guards across the room openly laughed, and Avdeyev’s bloated lips swelled into a puffy, purple smile.

“Neechevo?” Nothing? “Really? No questions of any sort?”

I glanced over, saw the Tsar’s face bloom crimson, noted his chin begin to quiver. Was this it? Had the Tsar reached the end? Could he, would he, burst with this last teeny bit of needling? And if so, if he fell, what did that mean for the rest of us? What hope would there be?

“Nyet-s, voprosov nikakix.” No, there are no questions, tersely said the Tsar, holding his head as well as his voice steady, good soldier that he was.

Avdeyev shrugged and turned away, saying, “Very well, then go ahead and have your morning tea.”

Groaning and rubbing his head, the komendant lumbered off, making his way back to the main guard room on this level, where, I imagine, he laid back down and went to sleep for a good long while.

Meanwhile, cook Kharitonov and I prepared the tea, which was served in the dining room. Black tea, black bread, and a bit of butter. They all sat down – the seven Romanovs, Dr. Botkin, and only reluctantly, only after all the others had taken their seats, Demidova and Trupp. Sure, cook and I brought everything out to the table and sat down as well. That morning we were short just three things, two teaspoons and one butter knife, so the cutlery went around the table. But it went around in silence, for hardly a word was spoken during the meager repast.

Immediately after breakfast Nikolai Aleksandrovich retired with his son to the drawing room, where they sat with Dr. Botkin, who, though much improved, was still weak from his attack of the kidneys. In his beautiful voice, so clear, so resonant, the Tsar read aloud, as was his frequent custom, and that morning he read to his son and his friend, Botkin, the twelfth volume of Saltykov, Poshekhonskaya starina, The Old Days of Poshekhonye. And soon the work of Russia’s richest satirical writer – this one poking fun at the old landed gentry and bureaucrats alike – began to lift the morose cloud, filling the rooms of the Ipatiev House with small, but such significant peals of laughter.

And the womenfolk?

All morning they “arranged things.” Aleksandra, her maid, and four daughters worked more furiously than ever, sewing secretively in near-constant shifts. I suppose given the notes we had already received and the very real possibility that we might at any moment have to flee, it seemed the only wise course. So Aleksandra disappeared into her bedroom, where in the heat of the summer she sewed away. A few minutes later Olga Nikolaevna went to assist her, an hour later Demidova, and so on.

Thus passed that painful morning, each of us in our own way trying to comprehend what lay ahead of us. Never, however, did I imagine so dark an event as would take place. Then again such a thing as a chistka – a cleansing, a liquidation – was a new concept, one that would be played like a black refrain throughout the history of the Soviet Union.

10

It was approaching the noon hour when a great Slava Bogu rose like a Gregorian chant. Yes, we all gave thanks to God when at midday Sister Antonina and Novice Marina came, bringing with them precious foodstuffs, including another priceless chetvert of milk. Cook Kharitonov and I were both in the kitchen when the visitors came, and again it was I, the kitchen boy, who received the goods from the sister.

“Dobryi dyen, my sons.” Good day, said Sister Antonina, her stout little figure draped in black as always.