The Last Romanov (22 page)

Purishkevich squeezes his hands into a narrow opening between two sheets of ice, scraping his skin. Blood worms its way into the ice. They all come down to help him, anchor their hands between the ice plates and push with all their might, forcing the ice farther apart, refusing to let go, well aware that they might lose their fingers when all is done.

They look down at the fissure they've created in the thick ice.

They slide the body to the edge and squeeze it through the crevice.

It will take three days for the body to be discovered.

An autopsy will reveal that the lungs are filled with water.

In the end, Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin did not die from poison or from bullet wounds.

He drowned.

There is mutiny in Petrograd. Red banners flutter on rooftops and balconies. The roar of trucks and thump of artillery are constant. Large frenzied crowds populate the city, oblivious to giant-sized posters warning them to keep off the streets. Fists raised, red armbands flashing, they shout: “Down with the German woman! Down with the war!”

The Emperor scrambles to send reinforcements to the capital. But his diminished army, having suffered heavy military setbacks, is demoralized and useless. The Petrograd garrison, too, is unsuitable to fight back the sea of protesters. Sixty thousand of the Tsar's most loyal soldiers have joined the revolution. The elite Volisky Regiment and the legendary Regiment of Guards, founded by Peter the Great, refuse to follow orders. The entire country seems to be in flames: the Ministry of Interior, police headquarters, military buildings, even the Fortress of Peter and Paul with its arsenal of heavy artillery.

The events of Bloody Sunday twelve years ago ignited a series of revolutions that exploded into an irrepressible tidal force. Now, the entire country is a boiling pot of dissent. The Duma and the Petrograd Soviet of Workers' and Soldiers' Deputies have formed a provisional government, demanded the Emperor's voluntary abdication in favor of his son, with Grand Duke Michael Alexandrovich as regent.

The provisional government decided to sacrifice Nicholas II in order to save the Romanov dynasty.

The Emperor signed the documents that would pass the throne to his twelve-year-old son.

After bidding his troops farewell at Mogilev, the Tsar boarded a train that brought him to Tsarskoe Selo, where his wife and children are at the mercy of the provisional government and under house arrest in the Alexander Palace.

He buries his face in his wife's lap. His sobs can be heard across the palace corridors, in the rooms of the valets, by the aides-de-camp, and in the park, where revolutionary guards keep watch under the windows.

“Did you hear, Sunny? Did you hear what happened?”

She squeezes his icy hand, holds it up to her cheek. “You did the right thing, Nicky. You made the right decision. My poor dear, all alone out there. You showed such courage. You will become the proud papa of a Tsar one day.”

Nicholas lifts his head from Alexandra's lap and directs his bloodshot eyes her way. “Sunny, I don't think you heard everything.”

She dries his cheeks with the hem of her skirt. “So many rumors, Nicky! I don't know what to believe.”

His face is bleached of color as he struggles to recount the recent events, to justify them to his wife. “Listen to me, Sunny. After I signed the papers, abdicating in favor of Alexei, I had six long hours to think. I summoned Dr. Fedorov. We had a conversation. He reminded me that there was no cure for hemophilia. That Alexei will always be subject to internal bleedings. He won't be able to ride horses, travel long distances, do anything that would stress his joints. Never grow to be a strong, healthy leader.”

“Oh, Nicky! What do the doctors know? A cure will be found. Our son will become strong. He will rule our country.”

“That's what I thought, Sunny. But Dr. Fedorov convinced me that the danger of exile loomed, and not to the Crimea.”

“No, Nicky! It will never come to that. Our people love us. They'll fight for us. The riots are temporary. I promise you. We are not leaving our homeland!”

“But if it does happen, Alyosha's upbringing and fragile health would be left to strangers. He won't survive. I had to think like a father. I was certain you would agree. So, a few hours after signing my abdication, I drew a different manifesto. I named Michael Alexandrovich as our Tsar. He is in the prime of his life, trained with a view to his possible succession.”

Alexandra lifts herself to her feet, goes to the window. Her stiff back is turned to her husband as she struggles to collect her emotions. At last, she turns to him, her face aching, her voice low. “But it must be temporary, Nicky. Michael will abdicate when Alexei comes of age.”

Nicholas holds his head in his hands. “This is not the end, Sunny. I sent a telegram to Michael in Gatchina. Explained why I took this step. Congratulated him. He immediately left for the capital. But rather than being welcomed, he faced fierce opposition. I suggested he meet with ministers of the provincial government to find a solution. But he was told that his life was in danger. Our people don't want us, Sunny. They don't want the Romanovs. They want a republic. Michael abdicated too.”

“No!” Alexandra's head is tilted like a broken question mark. “Misha wouldn't do that.”

“He did, Sunny.”

She pushes papers and writing paraphernalia off her desk, lifts the imperial basket of jeweled lilies of the valley. Gold. Diamonds. Pearls. Worthless rubbish! She drops it on the table. A pearl gets detached from the basket and rolls onto the carpet. They might as well have this too, the heartless fools who are robbing her of everything dear.

Nicholas is squeezing his temples. “I'm sorry, Sunny. I didn't think separation from our son would be an option.”

“Of course not, Nicky. And I want you to know that, whatever happens, whatever our future holds, you are far dearer to me as husband and father of our children than as a ruler.”

The doors fly open and a revolutionary guard marches in, his boots leaving muddy imprints on the silk carpet.

Grand Duke Michael Alexandrovich appears at the threshold. The buttons of his military jacket are open at the collar. The medal of the Cross of St. George, the one he always displayed with great pride, is missing. He strides to his brother, embraces him. They hold each other, their eyes locked, all their emotions encompassed in their gazes.

A smoking cigarette dangles from the mouth of the guard at the door, standing watch over the brothers.

Alexandra pretends to look out the window. Her core is twisting with grief and fear. The absence of facts frightens her most. Where will they be tomorrow? The day after? How is it possible for their world to have collapsed with such speed?

A few fat raindrops land on the windowsill. A bird of paradise is huddled among the dappled leaves outside. Coarse laughter can be heard from somewhere by the gate.

Nicholas holds his younger brother at arm's length, unable to bear his haggard look, the deep pain on his young face, the silence that speaks more than any word.

Michael touches Nicholas's arm as if to hold onto him just a bit longer. He tugs at a button on his brother's coat. “Where will
you
go?”

“Our fate is in God's hands.”

The Empress crosses the room and comes to Michael, crushing him against her chest, resting her wet cheek on his shoulder. She counts the seconds by the frantic beat of his heart.

He wipes her tears with his handkerchief. His forced smile is sad. “You'll have time to travel now. Enjoy the children. Nicky might even care for his teeth.”Alexei runs in, his spaniel yelping at his feet.

Darya follows behind. “My apologies, Your Majesties. Alyosha wanted to say hello to Grand Duke Michael Alexandrovich.”

“Come give your uncle a kiss, big boy,” the grand duke says, then hugs the boy, kisses him on his forehead.

“But why are you crying, uncle?”

“Politics, big boy. Nothing to trouble yourself about.”

“Is it because papa abdicated and I'm becoming Tsar?”

“No, not at all, big boy. I'm sure you'll make a great Tsar,” Michael replies. Then he adds, “I don't know what to say. Everything happened so fast.”

In the span of one horrific day his brother passed succession to his son as prescribed by law, and for a few hours the twelve-year-old Alexei became the autocrat of all the Russias. Then he, too, passed the throne to Michael Alexandrovich, who became Emperor for an hour before he was forced to renounce the already crumbling throne. The country was left at the mercy of the provisional government that is itself in disarray.

“We are all in a state of shock, big boy. It will be a long time before you become Tsar. We'll see what happens. What the future brings.”

There is a heavy stillness in the room, the pungent taste of unspoken words. The biting odor of gunpowder makes its way from the windows. Grand Duke Michael raises Alexei's hands and plants a kiss on the back of each. “Be well, Your Majesty, take good care of yourself.”

Michael turns on his heels and nearly runs out the door.

The medicinal smell of camphor and alcohol levitates inside the Alexander Palace. The sweet, tangy odor of the poultice Darya prepares from dried lemons, ground cloves, honey, turmeric paste, essence of chamomile, and sour oranges permeates the children's quarters.

Olga, Tatiana, and Alexei have all come down with the measles. Maria is delirious. She has developed pneumonia on top of measles, and Darya is rubbing the poultice to her chest.

Outside, in place of the imperial Cossacks, sentries march back and forth at the palace gates, their antimonarchist cries replacing the honking of swans and the trilling of birds of paradise.

Drunken laughter and pops of gunfire can be heard inside the palace corridors, where revolutionaries amble about in muddy red boots, march unannounced into bedrooms, and spew obscenities at the few servants who remain in the palace.

All telephone lines but the one into the guardroom have been disconnected, and the commandant rarely permits the Imperial Family to use that telephone. When they do, they must communicate in Russian, not French or English, and in the presence of a guard. All incoming and outgoing letters must remain unsealed. Food brought into the palace is inspected by dirty fingers, sampled, and the best is confiscated by the revolutionaries.

Only a handful of the Imperial Family's supporters—two of the Empress's friends, Count Benckendorff and his wife, two ladies-in-waiting, the children's two tutors, and Doctor Botkin—having refused immunity, remain in the palace.

A cup of warm passionflower and tincture of hawthorn in hand, Darya shuts the door behind her and walks across the corridor to Alexei's room.

“Where have you been, Darya,” he asks. “Why can't we take the ponies out? When will the guards leave? What are they shooting at out there?”

She sits at the edge of his bed, takes his hand in hers. “I don't know how long they're going to be here, Loves. Not long, I hope. Before you know it, everything will go back like it was before.”

How is she to tell a thirteen-year-old boy that members of the New Revolutionary Council of the village of Tsarskoe Selo are hunting the beloved family of deer the grand duchesses had tamed and fed for years? Or that Derevenko, the sailor and attendant who for ten years had been following the boy on his outings to make sure he does not have an accident, had fled at the first sign of trouble?

Darya hands Alexei the cup of elixir. “Here, Loves, it will help you to fall asleep.”

She walks to the window, gazes out. Lost in thought, she twirls her wedding band around her finger, takes it out, toys with its opal stones, circling her forefinger around each smooth dome. It has become a habit of hers to glance out one door or another, one window or another, expecting Avram to amble through the gates with his feline stride and lopsided grin, expecting him to appear as unexpectedly as he disappeared eight months ago. Was it unexpected, his leaving as he had? Perhaps not. He had loved her far longer than any other man would have patience to do. As for her, she can still feel the bounce of his pulse when she held his wrist, count the thump of life in his veins. “I'm waiting for you,” she mumbles, her voice hardly audible.

She gasps, clutching the windowsill, bending out to take a better look.

A gang of rebels in makeshift uniforms clamber up the steel turrets surrounding the grounds.

“Stop them!” she calls out to the palace guards. “They've no business here!”

The disheveled, unorganized guards glance up, offer her an indifferent smile.

Why, Darya wants to shout, did the imperial Cossacks turn their backs on their Emperor? Where was their devotion? Their vow to serve their monarch?

The rebels jump down into the park, come scrambling around the circular driveway. They skip around like possessed monkeys, raising their fists and shouting antimonarchist slogans.

“Shame on you!” Darya calls back. “Go away!”

“Come down from your throne, woman!” they yell. “Come down for a good fuck!” They grab their crotches, double over with laughter.

The young leader of the intruders keeps pushing away the mane of curly hair flopping over his face. His large brown eyes seek Darya with a mixture of reverence and curiosity. He cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, “By orders of the Soviet, we are here to take the Romanovs to the Fortress of Peter and Paul.”

Darya steps back and shuts the windows.

Alexei has fallen asleep, his bed scattered with the collection of his miniatures.

She runs out and takes the steps down to Count Benckendorff, grand marshal of the court and the man in charge of the Tsar's safety.

“Sir, at least fifty men broke into the grounds. They want to take the Tsar away. Do something, please.”

“I am trying, my dear. Trying very hard,” he replies, his eye misting behind his monocle. “It is anarchy, I'm afraid. Go back to the children. Say nothing to the Imperial Couple.”

Count Benckendorff straightens the lapels of his jacket, tugs at his handlebar mustache, passes a palm over his bald head. Every day a different group of self-proclaimed revolutionaries descends on the Alexander Palace. Men who are not answerable to a higher authority, free to abuse their newfound power, men who refuse to leave unless their unreasonable requests are met.

He steps outside, marching toward the young leader. “Gentlemen, it is unacceptable and unnecessary to intrude upon the family like this. I beseech you to leave immediately.”

“Good day!” The leader raises his hand in a semblance of a salute. “Where is his Imperial…I mean…Romanov?”

“In the palace. The provisional government has him under strict house arrest. You have my word that he is not going anywhere. That small fenced-off area out there is the only open space he is allowed to walk around. He poses no danger. Kindly leave.”

The leader wipes sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “It has been concluded that an inspection must be conducted. Right away!”

“An inspection?” Count Benckendorff asks, a muscle jumping in his left cheek. “Of what?”

“Of the deposed Romanov.”

“To what purpose?”

“That is
our
business!”

Despite the cutting cold, Benckendorff's face breaks into a sweat. He turns on his heels and enters the palace that was once fragrant with lilac but now smells of the letters and satin-bound diaries the Tsarina destroyed in the fireplace.

Count Benckendorff steps into the study. Nicholas is sitting behind his writing desk, his head of graying hair in his hands. A thin film of dust covers the desktop. Benckendorff draws a painful breath and quietly shuts the door behind him. He clicks his boots and salutes formally.

The Tsar raises his head. He is haggard. Dark circles frame his eyes. “No need for such formalities,” he says with a sad smile.

Benckendorff holds on to his formal posture. “Your Majesty, another group of rebels has broken into the palace. They will not leave unless an inspection is conducted. I await your orders.”

“An inspection?” Nicholas's eyes dart around the room. “Of what?”

“They want to inspect Your Majesty. Brute curiosity, I suspect. I apologize.”

“A dethroned Tsar on display like some circus curiosity. Somewhat humorous, don't you agree? But you are not to blame, my dear man. It was my decision to abdicate, and I shall comply with their demand. Tell them I will be down in fifteen minutes.”

His eyes burning, Benckendorff leaves the room to order the few remaining officers left in charge of the Tsar to post themselves along the corridor walls so as to buffer him from further insult.

Fifteen minutes pass and Nicholas Alexandrovich Romanov appears at the top of the stairs.

Hands clasped behind his back, he descends the stairs with the calculated precision of a commander in chief. The silent hallway is brightly lit, the odor of sweat and fear stinging. He paces the hall in front of the young revolutionary and his men, back and forth, back and forth, taking great care to slow his steps. He takes solace in the conviction that he is suffering this humiliation for the sake of protecting his family.

He comes to an abrupt stop in front of the leader and raises his eyes to meet the man's. “Why, my friend? What have I done?”

The young leader clears his throat, coughs twice. He is a common man with no political aspirations, a man at the mercy of his empty stomach. But now, face to face with the dignified Nicholas, he wants nothing more than to pray for the Emperor's health, to fall on his knees, and to ask forgiveness from the once omnipotent Tsar, who receives his authority from God.

The leader steps back, clicks his boots. He is about to salute the Tsar but thinks better of it. He turns to his men, his voice loud, cracking at the seams. “Citizen Romanov is not going anywhere!” he announces.