The Kitchen Boy

the others. “Whatever happens, just remain calm. God will watch over us.”

“As will Our Friend,” said Aleksandra, referring to her Rasputin.

With the Tsar pushing his son in the wheeling chaise, the Imperial Family emerged from their bedchambers. It had taken them nearly an hour to get ready; it was nearly two in the morning. Full of excitement, full of hope, the Romanovs now proceeded into the drawing room, where Botkin, Trupp, Demidova, and Kharitonov were eagerly waiting.

This time the Tsar addressed everyone, saying, “Our fate is in God’s hands, in whom we place all trust.”

Nikolai gave Botkin the nod, and the doctor went to the outer door and called out that they were ready. The door immediately opened, and Yurovsky, appearing infinitely serene, beckoned them forward.

“Follow me. We’ll proceed down the rear stairs and into one of the cellar rooms.”

Somewhat earlier, perhaps about the time that the electric bells were sounded, I myself had climbed from my bed, for sleep could not possess me. I was much too afraid. Even though Yurovsky had said I was to join my Uncle Vanya, there’d been no sign of him, and I wanted to go back to them, the Romanovs, the only family I had in these parts. So when I saw that the four other guards in my room of the Popov House had drunk themselves into deep sleep, I got up. I slipped on my jacket and carefully, quietly went outside. The rains of the previous days had stopped, and the night sky was clear and dark. I didn’t know what or where I intended to do or go, but when I looked across the alley I could see the house blazing with electric light. Of course I knew which rooms were which, and I immediately saw the painted windows of the family’s rooms glowing brighter than ever. I instantly understood that they had been roused for some reason, and my first thought was that the officers had indeed come to their rescue. Gospodi, Dear Lord, what joy! What happiness! I rushed up the alley, my happiness tempered only by the worry that I might be left behind.

Or was I all wrong?

Scurrying up the muddy alley toward the square, I suddenly saw a guard at the corner of the tall palisade. Recognizing him as part of the regular Red guard, I dipped behind a tree and into a cloak of darkness. A moment later the guard disappeared, and I scurried forward. It was in such secret fashion that I made it all the way up the alley and eventually onto the square. I hid behind a small Orthodox shrine, and while I could see the windows all glowing with light, I could discern nothing odd. There were no officers on horseback, no Cossacks whooping and hollering. Looking up at the roof, I could see a lone guard behind a machine gun. Everything appeared completely normal, which in turn led me to believe that if the rescue attempt hadn’t already taken place, it was about to be launched.

Which is when I heard it. Not much at first, but it was a sound that grew by the moment. No, this was not the sound of three hundred officers on horseback galloping to the rescue of Batyushka, the Dear Father. It was the sound of a motor. At first I wondered if it was an airplane, but then I realized it was in fact an automobile or motor lorry, in itself a rarity in Yekaterinburg, particularly at that time of night. Finally I saw it, a single, bulky motor lorry emerging from one of the side streets and heading right across the square toward the house. In the dim northern night I recognized that the back of it was covered with a canvas roof. Could there be soldiers back there, a dozen or two sharpshooters? As the vehicle approached, I hunkered down behind the shrine and saw that it was a Fiat. And as it passed I realized the rear of the truck was empty. Unable to suppress my curiosity I chased after the lorry as it drove directly up to the house.

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