The Kitchen Boy (7 page)

While the Empress was trimming his hair, my duty was to entertain the Tsarevich, and as such we were playing troika. He sat in the wheeled chaise, and I pushed, obeying his every command.

“Off into the woods – faster!” ordered Aleksei Nikolaevich.

“Alyosha!” beckoned his father. “Alyosha, I want you two to be careful. Am I clear?”

“Of course, Papa.”

As I slowed the vehicle of Aleksei’s imaginary escape, one of the girls appeared, the front of her frock all dusted white.

“Look at me, look at your Nasten’ka!” proclaimed Anastasiya Nikolaevna.

“What ever have you gotten into,
dorogaya
?” asked her father, entirely amused.

“Cook Kharitonov is teaching us how to bake bread.”

“Really?” said her mother, unable to hide her surprise.

“Yes, he showed us how to knead it, and it’s rising right now. I’m sure it’s going to be delicious.”

Nikolai Aleksandrovich smiled and said, “I have no doubt about that. Pretty soon you girls will know how to do everything in the kitchen.”

“I love you all and kiss you a thousand times!” she said with her usual flare as she spun and hurried off.

Aleksandra Fyodorovna smiled after her, and said, “In spite of everything, they’re growing up.”

“I suppose they are,” agreed her husband.

“I do hope Anya keeps growing, though. Her legs are too short, her waist is too thick.”

“That’s the least of our worries.”

“Yes, of course…”

Again the Heir ordered me off into the woods, and I turned the troika and started our pursuit of wild Siberian tigers and bears. Suddenly, however, a real monster appeared in the form of a guard, who blocked our route into the living room. He was tall, big-shouldered, had a long greasy mustache, and he wore a filthy tunic and rumpled, baggy pants. From his shoulder hung a long rifle with a rusty bayonet on the end, and hanging from his belt, of course, was a hand grenade.

“Get back,” he ordered.

I halted the chair and looked from the guard to the Tsar, then back to the guard.

“The women are here,” said the guard, his voice as deep as it was abrupt. “You must return to your rooms. They will wash the floors.”

“But can’t you see I’m cutting my husband’s hair?” protested Aleksandra Fyodorovna, glaring imperiously at him.

“By order of the
komendant
all of you must return to the far room.”

“Just five more minutes,” she said, not as question, not as a request, but as a statement of fact.

“Now!”

“But-”

Nikolai Aleksandrovich, brushing off his shoulders as he rose from his chair, calmly said, “Actually, Alix, I think you’re finished. If you take any more off I’ll be bald.”

I watched as she looked momentarily into the soft eyes of her husband, then, her eyes burning, turned her attention on the guard. Her lips trembled as if she wanted to lash out at him, her skin got all blotchy and red. And then in one quick swoop, the Empress threw her cutting shears on the dinner table, gathered up her long skirt, and stormed out of the dining room.

“You must forgive my wife – she slept poorly last night,” said Nikolai Aleksandrovich, starting after. “Come, Alyosha. Let’s get out of here so the charwomen can clean.”

I followed after my master, pushing the wheeling chaise and Heir out of the dining room, into the girls’ room, to the left, and into their bedchamber, where Aleksandra Fyodorovna stood, her face bowed into both hands. Weeping quietly, she shook, and I witnessed the Tsar go up and embrace her from behind. In the flash of a second, she spun around, throwing herself into his arms.

“There, there, my Sunshine,” he said, kissing the top of her head.

“Forgive me, Nicky. Forgive me, please, my darling. I know my greatest sin is my irritability. You know how hot-tempered I am. I want to be a better woman, and I try, I really do. For long periods I am really patient, and then out breaks my bad temper. It is not so difficult to bear great trials, but these little buzzing mosquitoes are so trying.”

“Of course they are, my dearest.”

“I long to warm and comfort others – you know I do – but I don’t feel drawn to those around me here. I am cold toward them, and this too is wrong of me.”

“All that matters is that we seven are together and safe.”

“Yes, yes, of course, my love. You’re right. Always right. Oh, how I love you, my treasure, my life. What bliss you have given me.” She sighed, pressed her cheek against his, and keeping her voice low, said, “But where is the sister today? Why didn’t she come with another letter? Oh, Nicky, I’m so scared. We will hear more, won’t we? Promise we will!”

“I swear with my heart, all my heart.”

I stood silent and still behind the wheeling chaise, and both Aleksei and I, as if staring upon a silent film, didn’t flinch, only stared on as the Tsar whispered something in her ear, and she half laughed and half cried, her polished nails digging into his muscular back. A few moments later I heard the rustle of clothing and turned to the open doorway. All four grand duchesses, their hands and long skirts powdered with flour for the first time in their lives, were looking upon their parents as well.

Hearing them, the Tsar turned, his face reddening. “Well, so, all of us are here, are we?”

Tatyana Nikolaevna, the second daughter and the most responsible of them all, softly said by way of explanation, “The floors are to be cleaned.”

“So they are,” replied her father as he tugged at his collar. “
Gospodi
,” dear Lord, “but it’s hot in here, isn’t it, children? So… who’d like to play a game of bezique?”

Thus, for the next two hours, we passed the time playing a type of pinochle, not just the seven Romanovs and me in the bedchamber, but Dr. Botkin, Demidova, and the footman, Trupp, all of us day by day compressing into one unit. Only cook Kharitonov was allowed to carry on as before, and his meager cooking filled the whole of the closed-up house with its smells. Potatoes, beetroot, and more compote. That was the lunch we later took at one o’clock, though by that time it was so stuffy, the heat so intense, that no one much felt like eating. Really, it was broiling in there, not a movement of air. On the street it was thirty degrees, so God only knew how hot it was inside.

The Reds had evicted the Ipatiev family with barely any notice, and after lunch the Emperor found one of Mr. Ipatiev’s own books,
Sea Stories
by Belamor, which the engineer had left behind as he fled. Choosing a passage, the Tsar read aloud to his son until close to two-thirty when we were allowed into the garden for an entire hour on account of the intensity of the heat. All of us went out, including the Empress. As innocent, as unsuspecting as they would be on the night of July 16-17, the Romanovs descended those twenty-three steps, passed out the door, and into that untidy little garden. Dr. Botkin and Trupp managed the rolling chaise, and Nikolai Aleksandrovich himself carried his son down the steps. I followed the girls who followed their father as he paced a circle, while the Heir and his mother took refuge from the fearful heat beneath the branches of a lilac bush.

There was nothing to cling to in our lives but our regimen, and at four-thirty, just as punctual as ever, I helped serve tea in the drawing room, where all seven Romanovs and Dr. Botkin were gathered. Cook Kharitonov sliced some of the fresh bread, which was still hot, and I carried it out on a plate along with a bit of butter, handed it to Demidova, who in turn placed it on the tea table. This produced no end of delight for the grand duchesses, who were quite proud of their creation. It wasn’t white bread, the preferred sort of the nobility, for both Aleksandra and Kharitonov had been carefully hoarding what little white flour we had for Aleksei, thinking it more healthy, more digestible. Rather these princesses had made real Russian
chyorny khleb
, black bread that was dark and earthy and so deliciously sour. An endless stream of questions and comments and praise followed.

I was just returning to the kitchen when the door burst open and six unknown men stomped into the room, led by none other than the
komendant
himself. A flash of unspoken terror shot through us all: Had Sister Antonina been found out? Was the rescue plot so quickly dashed?

His voice trembling like a schoolboy’s, Nikolai Aleksandrovich quickly pushed himself to his feet, and said, “Good afternoon, gentlemen. May I-”

Avdeyev looked in Nikolashka’s direction, and muttered, “
S’yad
!” Sit!

“But-”

“Sit down and be quiet!”

Good soldier that he was, the Tsar sank back down, and all of us watched in terror as this group of thugs moved from the drawing room, into the dining room, and then proceeded into the bedchambers. Maria Nikolaevna and I, peering through the open doorways, watched and tried to discern what they were saying, but of course it was impossible. Their voices were low and deep, a lot of grumbling went on. For what purpose had they come? I looked over at the Tsaritsa, who was clutching the Tsar’s hand, her eyes clenched shut in fright. Would they search the rooms, tear apart their things in search of evidence against them? Might the “medicines” be discovered?

But then… then…

The group of men was going from one whitewashed window to the next, and I whispered to Maria, “It looks like they’re checking out which windows can be opened.”

“They must be from the regional soviet.”

And so it became evident that they were in fact a soviet – a council, a committee – that had been formed to decide which, if any, windows might be unglued. For more than twenty minutes these Reds went from room to room, from window to window, discussing all this with the utmost intensity. They must have been terribly afraid of anarchists or conspirators – that is, worried that one group might take a shot at the Tsar through that open window, or fearful that another bunch might try to rescue their monarch via an opening. Finally, in the end they seemed to agree not to agree. Perhaps they had a report to make. Perhaps they were afraid of answering with their lives. In any case, this group of six men emerged from the bedchambers, staring at the Imperial Family as if they were circus freaks.

As they headed out, Nikolai Aleksandrovich rose again to his feet, pleading yet once more, “We would be most obliged for a single window to be opened. You can see for yourselves not only how hot it is in here, but how unhealthy it is. Please, I ask you to consider the health of my wife and children, all of whom are suffering.”

Komendant Avdeyev glared at his Nikolashka.

And the Tsar continued, saying, “On another matter, we would also be happy to be given any work. For example, we would appreciate the opportunity to clear the garden in the rear, which is quite a mess. I myself would greatly like to saw more wood – to cut and stack it.”

“At this point, nothing of that sort is permitted,” snapped Avdeyev as he and the others departed.

Depressed, forlorn, the Romanovs melted back into the heat, which could only be described as colossal. The family sipped at their tea and nibbled at the bread, which only minutes earlier had provided such joy, such pride, but was now only so much of nothing. After a few minutes Nikolai Aleksandrovich began to read aloud to his son, while Aleksandra Fyodorovna took out some cards and began to lay patience. Two of the girls played dominoes, but of course not for money, which Aleksandra, with her grandmother’s tight Victorian morals, would never allow.

Very little happened during the rest of the day, at least not until Vladimir Nikolaevich – Dr. Derevenko – came to check on the health of the Heir. By that time of day, nearly six, I was back in the kitchen helping Kharitonov with the preparations for the meager dinner that would be served at eight. Cutlets and leftover macaroni tart. It was Demidova herself, her face forlorn, who came into the kitchen.

“Vladimir Nikolaevich has arrived.” She tried not to say it, but could not restrain herself from whispering, “
Neechevo
.” Nothing.

So there was no news, no reply to our reply. Sure, even the Tsaritsa’s maid knew we were awaiting more news from the outside, for that was how the Tsar and Tsaritsa handled this. No one was excluded, which was very democratic of them.

“Leonka, the doctor requests hot water,” said Demidova.

“Da-s,”
I replied.

A few minutes later, bearing a bowl of hot water, I walked into the bedchamber and found not just the doctor, but also Komendant Avdeyev himself seated at the foot of the Heir’s bed.

“Ah, thank you, Leonka,” said Vladimir Nikolaevich.

The doctor, who’d been using his special device to electrify Aleksei’s knee – and thereby stimulate circulation – placed the mechanism and tangle of wires aside. He then beckoned me forward.

“Come here, boy.”

And so I stepped toward him and held the bowl as he dipped in a cloth and wrung it out. For the next ten minutes, I didn’t move as the doctor applied warm compresses to the boy’s left arm. And during that entire time, Avdeyev just sat there, yawning, scratching his nose, not doing anything but making it impossible for the Emperor or Empress to pose a single question to Derevenko. Most disturbing, though, was that the doctor simply went about his usual business without any pretense that he knew something was going on. Not one of us spoke during his treatment of the Heir, and fifteen minutes later Vladimir Nikolaevich simply packed up his medical kit and departed without so much as raising an eyebrow. Or our hopes, for that matter.

Shortly before dinner the girls washed their parents’ pocket handkerchiefs. And later, after dinner, all of us gathered in the drawing room and listened to Nikolai Aleksandrovich read aloud. The heat and the lack of air continued to be intense, and I went to bed soon after Aleksei Nikolaevich. Sometime toward midnight a huge storm came upon us, the wind ferocious, the rain strong. The first crashes of lightning and thunder woke me, and then I lay awake for a long time, listening to the heavy drops beat against the metal roof of The House of Special Purpose.

Thus ended our first long day of waiting, which seemed extraordinarily calm in comparison to the next.