The House of Special Purpose

1918

IT WAS A MOMENT I had never conceived of in my imagination. I, Georgy Daniilovich Jachmenev, the son of a serf, a nothing, a nobody, crouched in a thicket in the darkness of a freezing-cold Yekaterinburg night, holding in my arms the woman I loved, the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nicolaevna Romanova, the youngest daughter of His Imperial Majesty, the Emperor Tsar Nicholas II and the Tsaritsa, Alexandra Fedorovna Romanova. How had I got here? What extraordinary fate had taken me from the log huts of Kashin into the embrace of one of God’s anointed? I swallowed nervously, my stomach performing revolutions of its own within my body as I tried to understand what had happened.

In the distance, the lights of the Ipatiev house were being turned on and off and I could hear the conflicting sounds of angry shouting and manic laughter emerging from within. Narrowing my eyes, I saw the Bolshevik leader standing in an upstairs window, opening it, leaning out and stretching his neck in an almost obscene manner to observe the panorama from left to right, before shivering in the cold, closing it once again, and disappearing from sight.

‘Anastasia,’ I whispered, forcefully pulling her a few inches away from my body so that I could observe her better; she had spent the last few minutes pressed painfully against my chest, as if she was trying to burrow her way through to my very heart and find a hiding place within. ‘Anastasia, my love, what has happened? I heard the gunfire. Who was shooting? Was it the Bolsheviks? The Tsar? Speak to me! Is anyone injured?’

She spoke not a word, but continued to stare at me as if I was not a man at all, but a figure from a nightmare that would dissolve into a thousand fragments at any moment. It was as if she did not recognize me, she who had spoken of love to me, promised a lifetime’s devotion. I reached for her hands, and as I took them in my own it was all that I could do not to release them again in fright. They could not have been colder had she been destined for the grave. At that very moment, her composure left her and she began to shake violently, allowing a deep guttural sound of tortured breathing to emerge from the back of her throat, the threat of a great scream to come. ‘Anastasia,’ I repeated, growing alarmed by her extraordinary behaviour. ‘It is me. It is your Georgy. Tell me what has happened. Who was shooting? Where is your father? And your family? What has happened to them?’ No response. ‘Anastasia!’

I began to experience the sensation of horror which succeeds the recognition of a slaughter. As a boy, I had been present while villagers in Kashin had suffered and died, their bodies wasted by starvation or disease. Since joining the Leib Guard, I had witnessed men being led to their deaths, some staunch, some terrified, but never had I observed as much contained shock as that which lay before me in the trembling body of my beloved. It was clear that she had witnessed something so terrible that her mind could not yet process the fact of it, but in my youth and innocence, I knew not how best to attend to her.

The sound of voices emerging from the house grew ever louder and I pulled us both deeper into the cover of the woodland. Although I was sure that we could not be seen where we lay, I grew concerned that Anastasia might suddenly return to her senses and expose us; I wished that I had a weapon of my own, should one be required.

Three Bolsheviks stepped out from the tall red doors at the front of the house, lighting cigarettes, speaking in low voices. I saw the glow of matches being struck over and over and wondered whether they were nervous too or whether the breeze was extinguishing the flames before they could take. I was too far away to hear their conversation, but after a few moments one of them, the tallest one, let out a cry of anguish and I heard these words break the tranquillity of the night:

But if it is discovered that she has—

Nothing more. Eight simple words that I have pondered many times over the course of my life.

I narrowed my eyes, attempting to decipher the expressions of these men, whether they were cheerful, excited, nervous, penitent, traumatized, murderous, but it was too difficult. I glanced down at Anastasia, who was clutching me painfully tight; she looked up at the same moment, caught my eye, and a look of such terror crossed her face that I feared that whatever had taken place inside that cursed house had made her lose her reason. She opened her mouth, drawing in a deep breath, and, fearful that she would begin to scream and betray us both to the soldiers, I placed my hand across her mouth, as I had with her older sister two nights earlier, and held it there, every fibre of my being revolting against such an offence, until finally I felt her body slump against my own and her eyes look away, as if she had the lost the will to fight any longer.

‘Forgive me, my darling,’ I whispered into her ear. ‘Forgive my brutality. But please don’t be afraid. They are out there, but I will protect us both. I will take care of you. You must remain silent though, my love. If we are discovered, they will come for us. We must stay here until the soldiers return inside.’

The moon emerged from behind a cloud and for a moment I saw Anastasia’s face bathed in a pale glow. She appeared almost serene now, calm and tranquil, the way I had always imagined in my fantasies that she would appear in the stillness of the night. How many times had I dreamt of turning in my bed to find her there, sitting up to watch her as she slept, the only thing of beauty I had known in my nineteen years? How often had I awoken in a sweat, shamed, as her image dissolved from my dreams? But this serenity was in such conflict with our situation that it scared me. It was as if she had lost her mind. I feared that at any moment she might cry or scream or laugh or run through the woods, tearing at her clothes, if I was foolish enough to release her.

And so I held her tightly against me and, youthful as I was, indiscreet as I was, lustful as I was, I could not help but take pleasure in the sensation of her body pressed so close against my own. I thought, I could have her now, and loathed myself for my perversion. We were faced with a terrifying situation, where discovery could mean extinction, and my primary emotions were base and animal. I disgusted myself. But still, I did not let her go.

I watched through the trees, waiting for the soldiers to leave.

And still, I did not let her go.

The only thing I knew for certain was that we had to get away from there. What had been intended as a romantic tryst between two young lovers had been replaced by something else entirely, and if my alarm was less physically manifest than hers, it was no less real. I had anticipated Anastasia slipping into my arms filled with laughter, the same warm, giddy, affectionate creature whom I had fallen in love with in exalted surroundings, her radiance only slightly diminished by the time spent in Yekaterinburg. Instead, a traumatized mute had been my reward, and the sound of gunshots was the music that rang in my ears. Something terrible had occurred within the Ipatiev house, that much was obvious, but somehow Anastasia had escaped it. If we were to be discovered, I believed we would not survive until the morning.

Although the night was dark and cold, my instinct was that we should make our way westward without delay and seek relief from the elements in a barn or coal-house, if such a place could be found. I bundled Anastasia to her feet – she seemed unwilling still to loosen her grip on me – and took her chin in my left hand, turning her face upwards so that our eyes would connect. I stared at her, attempting to draw her absolutely into my gaze and confidence, and only when I felt that she was alert and listening to me did I speak again.

‘Anastasia,’ I said quietly, my voice filled with purpose, ‘I do not know what has taken place tonight and this is not the moment to share confidences. Whatever has happened cannot be undone. But you must tell me one thing. Just one thing, my love. Can you do that?’ She continued to stare and gave no signal to me that she understood my words; I took it on faith that there was a part of her brain that remained sentient and responsive. ‘You must tell me this,’ I continued. ‘I want to take us away from here, to leave this place entirely, right now, not to send you back to your family. Anastasia, is this the right thing to do? Am I right to take you away from here?’

Such a stillness existed between us at that moment that I did not dare to breathe. I was gripping her forearms between my hands, pressing so tightly against her skin that at any other moment she might have cried out in protest at the pain of it, but she did nothing now. I watched her face, desperate for any sign of an answer, and then – such relief! – an almost imperceptible nod of her head, a slight turning westward as if to indicate that yes, we should make our way in that direction. It allowed me to hope that the true Anastasia was present within this strange countenance somewhere, although the effort of making the tiny signal was too much for her and she slumped against my chest once again. My mind was resolved.

‘We begin now,’ I told her. ‘Before the sun comes up. You must find the strength to walk with me.’

I have thought of that moment on many occasions throughout my life, and picture myself bending down to lift her from the ground and carry her not to safety, but in the direction of safety. This, perhaps, would have been the heroic gesture, the detail which would have made a fitting portrait or dramatic moment. But life is not poetry. Anastasia was a young girl of little weight, but how can I express the cruelty of the atmosphere, the impertinent froideur of the air, which bit at any exposed parts of our bodies in a manner reminiscent of the Empress’s loathsome puppy. It was as if the blood had stopped moving beneath the skin and turned to ice. We had to walk, we had to keep moving, if only to ensure that our circulation was maintained.

I was wearing my greatcoat, and three layers of clothing beneath it, so removed this outer layer and wrapped it around Anastasia’s shoulders, buttoning it at the front as we began to walk. I focussed completely on maintaining a rhythm as I pulled the two of us along. We did not speak to each other and I became hypnotized by the sound of my footsteps, all the time maintaining a consistent pace so that we might not lose our momentum.

Throughout this, I remained alert for the sound of the Bolsheviks behind us. Something had taken place inside the house that night, something terrible. I knew not what, but my mind reeled with possibilities. The worst was unthinkable, a crime against God himself. But if that which I dared not put into words had indeed taken place, then surely Anastasia and I were not the only two people running away from Yekaterinburg; there would be soldiers following us – following her – desperate to bring her back. And if they found us… I dared not think of it and quickened our pace.

To my surprise, Anastasia did not appear to be finding this march in any way difficult. Indeed, not only did she match my consistent strides, at times she outpaced me, as if she was, despite her silence, even more eager than I to put as much distance between herself and her former prison as possible. Her stamina was beyond human that night; I believe I could have suggested that we walk all the way to St Petersburg and she would have agreed and never sought rest.

Eventually, however, after two, maybe three hours, I knew that we had to stop. My body was protesting with every step. We had a great distance to travel and needed to rally our energy. The sun would be coming up soon and I did not want us to remain where we might be seen, although to my surprise there did not seem to be any sign at all that we were being followed. I spotted a small animal-hut about half a mile ahead, and determined that we would break our march there and sleep.

It smelled terrible inside, but it was empty, the walls were solid, and there was enough straw on the floor for us to rest in reasonable comfort.

‘We will sleep here, my love,’ I said. Anastasia nodded and lay down without protest, staring up at the roof, that same haunted, hollow look in her eyes. ‘You do not need to tell me anything,’ I added, ignoring the fact that she had spoken only one word, my name, since we had met that night and showed no sign of wanting to tell me what had taken place. ‘Not yet. Just sleep, that is all. You need to sleep.’

Again the small nod, but on this occasion I felt her fingers close around mine a little more tightly, as if she wanted to acknowledge what I was saying. I lay beside her, wrapping my body around hers for warmth, and knew that sleep would overtake me in seconds. I tried to stay awake to watch over her, but looking at her eyes as they stared up at the roof of our hut hypnotized my spirit and my exhaustion quickly got the better of me.

It was three days before Anastasia spoke again.

The morning after we awoke we were fortunate enough to secure transport on a wagon heading in the direction of Izhevsk; the journey took an entire day, but the farmer who granted us carriage sought no more than a few kopecks for his kindness and offered us bread and water along the way, which we accepted gratefully, for neither of us had eaten since the previous afternoon. We slept fitfully in the rear of the vehicle, stretched out flat on the wooden slats, but every bump in the road jolted us back to consciousness with a start and I prayed that this torture would end soon. Every time Anastasia awoke, I noticed how it took her a moment to recollect where she was and what had brought her to this place. Her face would appear relaxed and untroubled for the briefest of seconds and then it would cloud over, a sudden eclipse of her brilliance, and her eyes would shut firmly once again, as if she was willing sleep – or worse – to take her. Our driver made no conversation and did not recognize the princess of the Imperial line who sat silently behind him, her back to his. I was grateful for his silence, as I did not think that I could bear to feign friendliness or sociability in the circumstances in which we found ourselves.

At Izhevsk, we stopped and ate at a small café before making our way to the train station, which was much busier than I had expected, a fact that pleased me, as it meant that we could blend into the crowd without difficulty. I was concerned that there would be soldiers waiting at the entry-ways, watching out for us, looking out for her, but nothing out of the usual appeared to be taking place. Anastasia kept her head bowed at all times, and covered her blonde hair with a dark hood, so that she looked like any other farmer’s daughter who passed us by. I still had most of the roubles I had found the previous afternoon and made a reckless decision to spend almost twice as much as necessary in order to secure us a private compartment on board the train. I purchased two tickets to Minsk, a journey of over a thousand miles. I could think of nowhere further for us to go. From Minsk, I knew not where we might travel next.

There are curious moments of joy in life, unexpected pleasures, and one such instant occurred as we pulled away from the station. The guard blew his piercing whistle, a series of cries to urge any final passengers on board was heard, and then the steam began to rise as the railway buffers cranked into gear. A few moments later, the train was accelerating to a decent speed, heading westwards, and I looked across at Anastasia, whose face was a sudden picture of relief. I leaned over and took her hand in mine. She appeared surprised by the unexpected intimacy, as if she had forgotten that I had even boarded the train alongside her, but then she looked at me and smiled. I had not seen that smile in eighteen months, and I returned it gratefully. Her smile filled me with hope that she would soon return to her former self.

‘Are you cold, my darling?’ I asked, reaching up and taking a thin blanket from an overhead shelf. ‘Why not place this across your legs? It will keep the chill away.’

She accepted the blanket gratefully and turned her head to look through the window at the stark countryside passing us by. The land. The crops. The moujiks. The revolutionaries. A moment later, she turned to look at me again and I held my breath in anticipation. Her lips parted. She swallowed carefully. She opened her mouth to speak. I saw her throat rise gently in her pale neck as the signal passed from brain to tongue to talk, but just as she was about to summon words for the first time, the compartment door opened violently and I turned my head in fright, relieved to see the conductor standing there.

‘Your tickets, sir?’ he asked, and before reaching for them I glanced at Anastasia, who had turned away from us both. She was looking out of the window again, clutching the neck of my greatcoat around her chin, and trembling. I reached across, unsure where to touch her.

‘Dusha,’ I whispered, before being interrupted.

‘Your tickets, sir,’ repeated the conductor, more insistently this time. I turned and glared at him, my face expressing such sudden fury that he took a half-step backwards and looked at me nervously. He opened his mouth to say something more but thought better of it, remaining silent as I slowly removed the tickets from my pocket and handed them across.

‘You’re travelling to Minsk?’ he said a few moments later, as he examined them carefully.

‘That’s right.’

‘You must change at Moscow,’ he replied. ‘There will be a separate train for the final leg of the journey.’

‘I’m aware of that,’ I said, wanting him to leave us alone. Perhaps I had not intimidated him quite as much as I thought, however, because rather than hand the tickets back to me and leave us in peace, he held on to them, hostages to his curiosity, and stared across at Anastasia.

‘Is she quite well?’ he asked me a moment later.

‘She’s fine.’

‘She seems troubled.’

‘She’s fine,’ I repeated without hesitation. ‘My tickets are in order?’

‘Madam?’ he said, ignoring my question. ‘Madam, you are travelling with this gentleman?’ Anastasia said nothing, but continued to stare out of the window, refusing even to acknowledge the conductor’s presence. ‘Madam,’ he continued in a harsher tone. ‘Madam, I asked you a question.’

What felt like a very long few moments followed and then, as if no greater insult had ever been sent her way, Anastasia turned her head and stared coldly at him.

‘Madam, can you confirm that you are travelling with this gentleman?’

‘But of course she’s travelling with me, you fool,’ I snapped. ‘Why else would we be seated together? Why else would I have both our tickets in my pocket?’

‘Sir, the young lady seems troubled,’ he replied. ‘I wish to satisfy myself that she has not been brought here under duress.’

‘Under duress?’ I said, laughing in his face. ‘Why, you must be mad! She is simply tired, that is all. We have been travelling for—’

Before I could finish my sentence, Anastasia had reached across to me and laid her hand against my arm. I looked at her in surprise and watched as she took it away again and, no longer trembling, stared at the conductor defiantly. I turned to look at him and could see that he was taken aback by two things: her sudden composure and her dignified beauty.

‘I have not been kidnapped, if that is what you are implying,’ she said, her voice croaking a little as she spoke in reaction to how long it had been out of use.

‘I apologize, madam,’ he replied, looking a little embarrassed. ‘I didn’t mean to suggest that you had. You looked uncomfortable, that was all.’

‘It’s an uncomfortable train,’ she said. ‘I wonder that your People’s Government does not invest some of its money in improvements. It has enough of it, does it not?’

I held my breath, unsure of the politics of such a remark. We had no idea who the conductor was, after all, who he answered to, where his allegiances lay. Anastasia, who was accustomed to answering to no man save her father, had clearly rediscovered her own inner strength through his insolence. Silence filled the compartment for a few moments – I was unsure whether the conductor would challenge us further and felt concerned that if he did, we would come off the worse for it – but finally, he handed the tickets back to me and looked away.

‘There is a dining car at the end of the train if you are hungry,’ he said gruffly. ‘The next stop is Nizhniy Novgorod. Have a pleasant journey.’

I nodded in reply and he took a final look at the two of us – Anastasia was still staring at him, daring him to challenge her further – before turning away, closing the compartment door and leaving us alone together. I let an enormous sigh escape my body, feeling my chest collapse in tension before me, and then looked across at Anastasia, who was smiling weakly at me.

‘You have found your voice,’ I said.

She nodded a little. ‘Georgy,’ she whispered, her voice filled with sorrow.

I took her hand in mine.

‘You must tell me,’ I insisted, betraying no note of urgency in my tone, but rather kindness and sympathy. ‘You must tell me what happened.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I will tell you. And only you. But first, you must tell me something.’

‘Anything.’

‘Do you love me?’

‘But of course!’

‘You will never leave me?’

‘Only death could separate me from you, my darling.’

Her face fell at these words and I knew that I had chosen badly. I held her hands tightly in mine and urged her once again to tell me, to tell me all. To tell me everything that had happened at the Ipatiev house.

The guards did not treat us as if we were prisoners. In fact, they permitted us to wander the grounds at will, even to take long walks in the surrounding countryside on the understanding that we would return to the house afterwards. Of course, we obeyed them. There was nowhere for us to go, after all. We would not have been able to conceal ourselves in any town or village in Russia. They said that we were safe in Yekaterinburg, that they were protecting us, hiding our location from a country filled with people who hated us. They said that there were people who wanted us dead.

They were friendly, too, which always surprised me. They spoke to us as if they did not control our lives. They acted as if we were free to stay or go and never questioned any of us when we went outside, but the guns on their backs told a different story. I wondered whether the day would come when I would walk to that door and they would raise a hand to stop me.

Marie told me that you had come for me. I couldn’t believe it at first. It was like a miracle. She swore that it was true, that she had seen you and spoken with you, and I was almost out of my mind with happiness, but Mother wouldn’t let me leave the house, insisting that I stay and continue with my lessons. Of course, I couldn’t tell her why I wanted to go. She would never have permitted me to leave again if I had. The idea that you were so close made me happy, though, especially when Marie said that you would come again that night. I could hardly wait, Georgy.

When it was dark I slipped downstairs. I could hear the guards talking together in one of the parlours on the ground floor. It seemed curious to me that they were gathered together like that, as one of them was nearly always stationed by the door. The grounds were empty, but I walked slowly. I was frightened that the sound of my shoes on the gravel would alert someone to my absence. It’s strange to think of it, Georgy, but my concern was not the guards discovering where I was going, but Father or Mother learning who I was going towards.

I crouched down as I passed the window of the parlour and something made me hesitate for a moment. They sounded as if they were arguing. I tried to listen and one voice was raised above the others and they all stopped to listen to what it had to say. I thought nothing more of it and walked quickly towards the gates with only you on my mind. I longed to be in your arms. I even imagined, I dreamed that you would take me away from Yekaterinburg, that you would reveal our love to my father and that he would embrace us both and call you his son, and that everything we had been, we would be again. Perhaps Marie was right. She said I was foolish to think that we could ever be together.

By the time I reached the gate, I realized how cold I was. My heart told me to run on, to find you, that your arms would warm me soon enough, but my head said to go back to the house and bring a coat. There was one hanging in the hallway by the door – Tatiana’s, I think, she would not miss it. I walked back and noticed that the room where the guards had been talking was empty now. I thought this strange and hesitated, wondering whether my desire for the coat would lead to my discovery. I expected that some of the soldiers would emerge from the door at any moment and stand outside as they smoked. But no one appeared. I didn’t want them to, Georgy, and yet it disturbed me that they did not.

A moment later, I heard the heavy thud of boots on the stairs, many boots, and I ran quickly through the front door and around to the side of the house, crouching low beneath a window. A light went on above my head and a crowd of people entered the room. I could hear my father’s voice asking what was happening and one of them replied that it was no longer safe in Yekaterinburg, that in order to protect our family it was imperative that we be transported somewhere else immediately.

‘But where?’ asked my mother. ‘Can it not wait until the morning?’

‘Please wait here,’ he replied, and then all those heavy boots left the room once again and only my family remained within.

By now, I was torn between duty and love. If they were to be transported to a different city, then surely I should be with them. But you, Georgy, you were waiting for me. You were so close. Perhaps I could see you once more and tell you where we were going, and then you would follow us and find a way to save me. I was trying to think what to do for the best when I heard a soldier enter the room again and ask a question I could not hear, and my father replied, ‘I do not know. I have not seen her this evening.’ I guessed that they were talking about me, that the soldiers were looking for me, but I stayed where I was and after a few moments the room went silent again.

Finally, I stood up. The window was high, so only that part of my face above my mouth would have been visible to anyone on the inside. I looked at the room that I had seen on so many occasions in the past. It had always been bare, but now there were two chairs by the wall. Father was sitting in one of them, with Alexei on his knee. My brother was half asleep and dozing in his arms. Mother was seated beside them, looking anxious, her fingers twirling the long row of pearls around her neck. Olga, Tatiana and Marie were standing behind them and I felt guilty that I was not there too. A moment later, perhaps sensing the intensity of my gaze, Marie glanced towards the window, saw me, and said my name.

‘Anastasia.’

Father and Mother turned to look in my direction and my eyes met theirs for only a moment. Mother looked shocked, as if she could not believe that I was outside, but Father… he shot me a look of fierce intensity, his eyes strong and determined. He lifted his hand, Georgy. He held the palm out flat, telling me to stay exactly where I was. It felt like an order, a Tsar’s command. I opened my mouth to try to say something, but before any words could come the door of the room was flung open and my family turned quickly to look at their captors.

The soldiers were standing together in a row and no one spoke for a moment. Then their leader removed a piece of paper from his pocket. He said that he was sorry but our family could not be saved, and before I could even comprehend the meaning of his words, he pulled a gun from his pocket and shot my father in the head. He shot the Tsar, Georgy. My mother blessed herself, my sisters screamed and turned to hug each other, but they had no time to speak or to panic, for every soldier drew a gun at that moment and slaughtered them. They shot them like animals. They killed them. And I watched. I watched as they fell. I watched as they bled and as they died.

And then I turned.

And I ran.

I remember nothing other than wanting to reach the trees, to leave the house behind, and I focussed on the copse, where I knew you would be waiting for me. And as I ran I tripped over something and fell. I fell and I landed in your arms.

I found you. You were waiting for me.

And the rest… the rest, Georgy, you know.

It was almost two days before we arrived, exhausted, in Minsk. We stood in the train station, staring at the timetable and the list of destinations, dreading having to spend more time in a railway carriage but knowing that we had no alternative. We could not stay in Russia. It would never be safe for us there.

‘Where shall we go?’ Anastasia asked me as we looked at the list of cities to which we could make connections. Rome, Madrid, Vienna, Geneva. Copenhagen, perhaps, where her grandfather was king.

‘Anywhere you like, Anastasia,’ I replied. ‘Anywhere you feel safe.’

She pointed at one city and I nodded, liking the romance of it. ‘To Paris, then,’ I announced.

‘Georgy,’ she said, taking my arm urgently. ‘There is just one thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘My name. You must not call me by it any more. We cannot risk detection. They won’t be looking for you, no one knew of our relationship except Marie and she…’ She hesitated, composed herself and continued. ‘You cannot call me Anastasia from this day.’

‘Of course,’ I said, nodding my head in agreement. ‘But what shall I call you, then? I cannot think of any better name than your own.’

She bowed her head for a moment and considered it. When she looked up, it was as if she had become a different person entirely, a young woman embarking on a new life for which she had no expectations.

‘Call me Zoya,’ she said quietly. ‘It means life.’