The Kitchen Boy: A Novel of the Last Tsar

7

Such a kind man was Nikolai II. So sweet. So tender. And gentle. He loved nothing more than his family and his country. He hated disagreements, either within his vast, squabbling house or among his ministers, both great and small, or anywhere else, for that matter, within his enormous realm. That was the Tsar I knew then, and the Tsar I’ve since grown to know in my books. Bloodshed was not at all what he wanted… and yet any fool would admit that that was his legacy. When Batyushka, the Dear Father, departed this world, he left behind a vast sea of blood, his own, his family’s, his country’s. Up until the ironfisted, totalitarian rule of the Red tsars – the kommunisty, who made the terrible Ivan look like a choir boy – his reign was one of the most violent in all the history of Russia. One must not forget that it was during the reign of Nicholas II that two disastrous wars, two bitter revolutions, and countless pogroms befell Holy Mother Russia. And though Tsar Nikolai wanted nothing more than to avoid violence, though many of the disasters were not of his doing, virtually all of them were his fault because he was Tsar, Russian Tsar, absolute Tsar, Orthodox Tsar. When you look back through the decades, it now seems utterly obvious that there was no way it could be done, no way an autocrat could rule so vast a country, at least not without complete terror and oppression. Why, during his arrest the former Tsar read the anti-Semitic, Protocols of the Elders of Zion, which he found “very timely reading matter.” He never learned, however, that the book was an entire fabrication, composed by his own tsarist secret police, whose duty it was to maintain order for their master, but who instead incited the hate and riots that toppled him. So in the end this is how Nikolai II must be viewed: a very caring man of moderate abilities who, although utterly devoted to his country, was unable to transform the unworkable autocratic system thrust upon him. Period. That simple.

You know, Tsar Nikolai and Comrade Lenin were like two great trains running toward each other at a colossal speed. The closer they came, the faster they went. They were traveling, however, on two entirely different sets of tracks, and so they should have passed by each other. They should have missed completely and zoomed on, racing toward their remarkable but very different destinations and goals. And yet… yet they collided head on with a great, terrible force, killing millions upon millions around them. And do you know why these two trains that were on two different sets of tracks collided so terribly? Because it was their fate, their destiny. And not just theirs alone, but all of Russia’s.

Forgive me. It’s true. I wander. I wander in my heart and my thoughts. Such is the curse of any emigrant, to abandon one’s home and never find another, to always flounder in a sea of remorse. Your dear grandmother handled it much better than I, but then again she was a far superior person in so many ways.

Well, then, fate marched on…

Later that day the Romanovs had a real obednitsa, a liturgy without communion, their first in three months. Aleksandra arranged a small altar all by herself, draping one of her shawls on a table, setting out her images – her treasured icons – and then surrounding them with birch tree branches. It was lovely in its simplicity. And she and the daughters sang quite nicely. Father Storozhev in fact came, and while we all wondered if he might bring a note or news of some kind, there was nothing. Nor could there have been, because the priest was escorted in by Komendant Avdeyev, who never left his side.

And then?

Well, later in the day the girls darned various linens with Nyuta, then helped their mother arrange their “medicines,” for this was an ongoing affair, their hiding of the last of their jewels. While the two suitcases of larger gems had been secretly left with the nuns in Tobolsk, you only have to peruse the last pages of Aleksandra’s diary to see evidence of their clandestine stitching of the smaller diamonds. “Arranged things all day, tatted.” “Tatyana sowed my j.” “Arranged medicines with Yevgeny Sergeevich.” “Arranged things, tatted, heart enlarged.” “Arranged things.” “Arranged things, tatted, read.”

Finally, on the morning of July 16, slightly more than twelve hours before they were all slaughtered, the long, secret task was complete. In the final journal entry of her life – the very one where she mentions how I was taken away – Aleksandra simply noted, “Olga & I arranged our medicines.” You see, it took the careful hands of all six women – the Tsaritsa, the four grand duchesses, as well as the maid – weeks to finish with the 42,000 carats, and doing so with precious little time to spare. As if they had sensed the hour of death was upon them, by noon of that day all the jewels were wrapped in cotton wadding, then packed and stitched ever so tightly into the double corsets of those beautiful girls, which of course proved such a horrible mistake.

The Tsar spent the rest of the day reading, pacing, and smoking at the open window. Later he had a sitting bath – I, myself, brought him hot water from the kitchen. Later yet he played bridge with his girls and bezique with Yevgeny Sergeevich. And thus, shortly after ten, concluded the twenty-third, a day which ended much more quietly than it had begun.

Did I say it was a Sunday?

I shall pass quickly over the twenty-fourth, which was fraught with tension only insomuch as nothing happened. Yevgeny Sergeevich remained in bed the entire day, as did the Empress, complaining yet again of an enlarged heart and aching eyes. Later, actually, she moved nearby the open window, where she read and played cards with Maria Nikolaevna. About this time, toward one o’clock, the rest of us were allowed into the garden. There we paced for forty minutes. The heat was tropical. Outside, in the full of sun, the temperature rose to thirty-seven and a half degrees, while inside the thick walls of the Ipatiev House it climbed only to a warm twenty-one and a half. Otherwise, we waited and hoped, but once again Sister Antonina and her novice failed to appear. I couldn’t help but think that either the nun had been discovered, or the supposed friends of the Tsar and his family had lost their nerve and abandoned us. Although no one else spoke of such doubts, I am sure everyone else felt them, for anxiety hung in the air like thick fog.

Tuesday, the twenty-fifth, began as the other recent days, warm and monotonous. Yevgeny Sergeevich was feeling better from his attack of the kidneys, but he remained in bed nevertheless. After breakfast I wheeled about the Heir, room to room, as was my usual morning duty. We were just passing from the main parlor back into the dining room when both Aleksei Nikolaevich and I heard voices from beyond the double closed doors. The guard room lay there, and I could hear deep, distrustful voices of the men and a single, small one that was full of morning brightness.

Unable to contain his excitement, the Heir twisted in the wheeling chaise, looked up at me, and whispered, “That’s Sister Antonina.”

“Da-s!”

I turned the chair around, aiming it toward the double doors, and the Heir clasped his hands in his lap and eagerly bent forward. I half-expected Jim – the huge Negro from America who’d been a fixture at the Aleksander Palace right up until the first days of the revolution – to swing open the door with his usual great pomp. Instead, however, one of the guards shoved open the door with his foot.

“Pyat minut.” Five minutes, one of them ordered. “No more.”

“Of course, my son.”

Draped from head to foot in folds of black, the sister entered, her head bowed slightly as she tried to conceal a smile. She carried an open, woven basket, in which were nestled brown eggs, a good ten of them, and immediately behind her trailed Novice Marina, who clutched two chetvert of milk in her arms.

Upon seeing the Heir, both women stopped still, crossed themselves, and the sister, her head bowed, said, “Dobroye ootre, Aleksei Nikolaevich.” Good morning.

Until recently, Aleksei had always been greeted so reverently, and he thought nothing of it. With a great deal of enthusiasm and curiosity, he looked upon them and nodded to the basket.

“I see you’ve brought me more eggs.”

Sister Antonina, her eyes fixed firmly on the ground before her young master, gave a polite, “Da-s.”

“And milk? Did you bring-”

I heard not a sound from behind, for his worn, brown boots moved with great stealth. Before I knew it, Nikolai Aleksandrovich stepped in, scooted me aside, and took hold of the wheeling chaise. In a single, gentle movement, the Tsar spun it and the Heir around.

“We must not interrupt their work, Alyosha,” said father to son.

“But-”

“We’ll let Leonka deal with the food. After all, he is the cook’s assistant. Now, how about a game of dominoes?”

Only after the Tsar and Tsarevich disappeared into the dining room and beyond did Sister Antonina and the Novice Marina raise their eyes and heads. Looking upon me with a proud, beaming smile, the sister stepped forward and kissed me peasant style, that is to say, three times on my cheeks. As she embraced me so warmly, I glanced over her shoulder, and saw that Marina was looking on, staring at me as if I were some kind of godly hero.

At the tail end of the third kiss, Sister Antonina whispered into my ear, “Molodets.” Excellent.

The diminutive sister was musty with the unmistakable perfume of Orthodoxy, so smoky and sweet, and I pulled back, took the basket from her hand. “Here, allow me.”

And so it was that the sister and novice followed me out of the parlor, through the dining room, back around, and into the little makeshift kitchen. Cook Kharitonov stood at the counter peeling potatoes, and he eyed us over his shoulder.

“Again we have brought you the freshest of eggs,” began Sister Antonina, “as well as milk still warm from the cow. Marina herself helped with the milking.”

With that, the young girl stepped forward, handing me one glass bottle in particular and placing the other on the table. She looked at me, blushing as her eyes caught on mine.

“We will be back as soon as possible,” said Sister Antonina.

I handed the novice the bottle they’d previously brought, now empty, of course, and escorted them through the dining room and into the parlor. Sister Antonina rapped once on the doors, one of which was opened, and the two women disappeared.

While Kharitonov, potato in hand, kept a seemingly loose eye on the door for a guard, I pulled the stopper from the very bottle Marina had placed in my hands. And that was where the second note from the officer was found, the note that to this day lies with the others in the arkhivy of the Russian Federation in Moscow. Later that summer, in an attempt to hide their crimes, the Bolsheviki frantically took all such documents – diaries, photo albums, letters, as well as the secret rescue notes – upon their evacuation of Yekaterinburg.

But back then, on the twenty-fifth, the morning thereof, hope seemed to be burning bright yet again. All of the Romanovs likewise supposed that there was a note in that milk bottle, and they were eager to know its contents. Within moments of the departure of the sister and her novice, the Tsaritsa’s maid was at the door of the kitchen.

“Would you be so kind,” said Demidova, “as to fulfill Aleksandra Fyodorovna’s request for a glass of water?”

“Certainly,” replied cook Kharitonov.

Of course, I was the one to fulfill the so-called request, because such trivial tasks always fell upon me, little Leonka. And so, clutching the folded note in my hand, I went to the crock of water that we always kept on the wooden counter. I gently pulled off the cloth covering the top and ladled a glass. And then turning to Demidova, I handed her the water. As I did so I slipped the note from my palm into hers. She smiled, her head bobbed in appreciation, and she quickly stuffed the note up the long sleeve of her dress. Immediately she turned to go, but just as quickly Kharitonov spoke out.

“Would you be so kind as to tell the others,” said the cook, gazing deep into Demidova’s eyes, “that only soup and vermicelli will be served at lunch? There will be no meat until dinner – the komendant himself told me that Leonka will not be allowed to go to the Soviet for more cutlets until three.”

“I see.”

Actually what she said was “yasno,” which has a very rich meaning in Russian because, of course, Russian is a much richer, not to mention more beautiful, tongue than English, which is so hard-sounding and so rigid in its complex rules. Yasno doesn’t simply mean “I see,” nor does it simply mean, “It’s clear,” or “I understand.” Nyet, nyet, that single word says something infinitely more profound. What it implies is that one understands not simply the meaning of the word, but also what lies beneath the surface yet cannot be spoken. It lays out, the true, complex dynamics of a situation. In other words, Demidova understood not the day’s menu – for that was not the message at all – but that she needed to convey to the Tsar and Tsaritsa that if they wanted to reply to this note, they needed to have that reply finished by three so I could take it when I went out for meat.

So the note was delivered to the Tsar and his anxious Empress. At the time I was not privy to its contents, nor to the discussions within the family thereof. I don’t know what Nikolai and Aleksandra talked of. Oh sure, I glimpsed the words of the note when I took it out of the bottle stopper, but this one was in French too. I could not make out a word. Translated, however, the June 25, 1918, note sent to the Romanovs reads thus:

With the help of God and your sangfroid, we hope to succeed without taking any risk. One of your windows must be unglued so that you can open it at the right time. Indicate which window, please.

The fact that the little Tsarevich cannot walk complicates matters, but we have taken that into account, and I don’t think it will be too great an inconvenience. Write if you need two people to carry him in their arms or if one of you can take care of that. If you know the exact time in advance, is it possible to make sure the little one will be asleep for one or two hours before the escape?

The doctor must give his opinion, but in case of need we can provide something for that.

Do not worry: no attempt will be made without being absolutely sure of the result.

Before God, before history, and before our conscience, we give you this solemn promise.

An Officer

Although at that time I didn’t know what was said specifically in the second letter, it soon became apparent that our rescuers were progressing with their plan and circling ever closer toward our salvation. Sure, I perceived this because the entire Imperial Family took on an air of near gaiety, a lighter tone such that was otherwise seen only when the Heir was in good health and spirits. And just as I was not witness to the Tsar reading the note, nor was I witness to him replying to it. I assumed then, as I still do to this day, that they commenced a reply almost at once, because for the rest of the morning, while I busied myself helping Kharitonov, all the Romanovs were busy with their books and their diaries and their letters. Da, da, they wrote a good many letters from their captivity to Nikolai’s mama, the dowager or as she was referred to, the older empress, who was under house arrest in the Crimea, as well as letters to Aleksandra’s sister, Grand Duchess Ella, the nun, who was under arrest not far away in Alapayevsk, and to their friends like Anna Vyrubova and the such. That was how things appeared for the rest of the morning, business as usual. They went to great lengths to make it appear so. Several of the children even studied too, including Olga Nikolaevna, who at one point took her writing tablet, a French novel, and her French-Russian dictionary to her father for his assistance.

“Papa, I’m having trouble with this translation. Would you help me?”

“With pleasure, dochka moya.” My little daughter.

It seemed so natural that the Tsar would help his daughter with French. Nikolai, of course, spoke beautiful, proper Russian, and very nice English and French. But never German. No, I never heard him or his bride speak the language of her native land.

So Nikolai and his eldest daughter disappeared into his bedchamber ostensibly to study her French novel but surely to compose a speedy reply to the officer’s note. Aleksandra was there too. Having returned to bed after the morning inspection because her head ached, she sat propped up, stitching away on her “medicines” as they composed their response, which was complete by one, when luncheon was served. This I know, because as the Tsar came into the dining room he sought me out, resting his hand on my shoulder, which he squeezed in a kindly, most fatherly manner.

“Leonka, would you be so kind as to assist me after the meal?” To distract attention, he quickly added, “I would like to move my writing table in order to take better advantage of the evening sunlight.”

“Da-s,” I replied with a slight bow of my head.

We were all present for the meal, including Aleksandra Fyodorovna, whose head had cleared, not because of a decrease in barometric pressure but most likely because of the uplifting news. As always we shared the same table, master and servant, and we all did our best to ignore rank.

Well, our midday meal was indeed a thin cabbage soup, followed by a second course of vermicelli sprinkled with dillweed. And after we had eaten and Demidova and I had cleared the table, I immediately went to the Tsar’s bedchamber, finding it occupied by both my master and mistress.

“How may I assist you, Nikolai Aleksandrovich?” I asked, standing in the doorway with my hands folded before me.

“Ah, Leonka. Excellent.” He gazed at me with those remarkable eyes, then winked, which gave my heart a start. “I just realized this morning that the evening light would be much better for writing if I situated my table a bit to the left. After all, the electric lamps have not been so reliable as of late.”

No, they most definitely hadn’t. Not only was the power supply from the city dam most unreliable, so was the wiring of the house itself. Just last week several electricians had spent two whole days trying to correct the problem.

From the cushioned chair where she sat, needle in hand, Aleksandra Fyodorovna said in a distinctly loud voice, “Leonka, I have a small present for the father who gave us the obednitsa yesterday.” She held up a small handkerchief on which she was stitching the twice transversed cross of Russian Orthodoxy. “I wonder if you would be so kind as to drop it by the church the next time you go for food?”

“With pleasure, Madame. I am to go this afternoon.”

“How convenient. I shall be finished within the half hour.”

The Tsar glanced toward the door, saw no guard, then reached for a book on his table. He flipped through the pages, coming to the very note the sister had brought earlier, and withdrew it.

“Hide this well on your body, young man. Our response is written on the same note,” he said, his voice low. “Do it now, place it in your undergarments.”

I did as ordered, opening my clothes and hiding the note on my body. As I buttoned up my pants, I looked up.

“You know what to do?” he asked.

Speaking words that the Yekaterinburg Soviet had strictly forbidden, I replied in a hushed voice, “Da-s, Vashe Velichestvo.” Yes, Your Greatness.

The Tsar and I then played out the charade of moving the writing table, a fine piece of polished wooden furniture with a green leather top. And then I retreated. Toward two-thirty they all went out into the garden, including Yevgeny Sergeevich, who was greatly improved. They all went out except the Empress and one of her daughters, the second, Tatyana Nikolaevna. They remained indoors, where they conducted their spiritual readings, Daniel 16 to the end, as well as Hosea 1-5. This I know because the Empress herself told me, whispering that she would be praying for me.

And so it was that after I helped the Tsar’s footman, Trupp, carry the wheeling chaise down into the garden, and after the Tsar himself carried down his fourteen-year old son, I returned to the kitchen. Shortly thereafter, I was escorted out of the locked rooms, past the guards, through the double palisades, and out the gates into the square of the Church of the Ascension. It never occurred to me to run, to flee, not then, nor any other time. I don’t know why, but somewhere in my heart I felt my place was in there, with them, in that house that was so full of evil intent.

Well, that afternoon I again fulfilled my task. I encountered no problems. As instructed, I stopped by the church and delivered the handkerchief embroidered by the Empress herself. And I handed over the note dictated by the Emperor and handwritten by his daughter, Olga Nikolaevna. I gave it to Father Storozhev, and it reads:

The second window from the corner facing the square has been opened for 2 days – day and night. The seventh and eighth windows facing the square next to the main entrance are always open. The room is occupied by the komendant and his aides, who are also the inside guards – up to 13 at least – armed with rifles, revolvers, and bombs. None of the doors have keys (except ours). The komendant or his aides come into our room whenever they want. The one who is on duty does the outside rounds twice every hour of the night, and we hear him chatting with the sentry beneath our windows. There is a machine gun on the balcony and another downstairs in case of alarm. If there are others, we do not know about them. Do not forget that we have the doctor, a maid, two men, and a little boy who is a cook with us. It would be ignoble of us (although they do not want to inconvenience us) to leave them alone after they have followed us voluntarily into exile. The doctor has been in bed for three days with kidney trouble, but he is getting better. We are constantly awaiting the return of our men, Ivan Sednyov and Klementy Nagorny, young and robust, who have been shut up in the city for a month – we do not know where or why. In their absence, the little one is carried by his father in order to move about the rooms or go into the garden. Our surgeon, Derevenko, who comes almost daily at 5:00 to see the little one, lives in the city; do not forget. We never see him alone. The guards are in a little house across from our five windows on the other side of the street, 50 men. The only things that we still have are in crates in the shed in the interior courtyard. We are especially worried about A.F no.9, a small black crate, and a large black crate no. 13 N.A. with his old letters and diaries. Naturally the bedrooms are filled with crates, beds and things, all at the mercy of the thieves who surround us. All the keys and, separately, no. 9 are with the komendant, who has behaved well enough toward us. In any case, warn us if you can, and answer if you can also bring our people. In front of the entrance, there is always an automobile. There are bells at each sentry post, in the komendant’s room, and some wires also go to the guardhouse and elsewhere. If our other people remain, can we be sure that nothing will happen to them??? Doctor B. begs you not to think about him and the other men, so that the task will not be more difficult. Count on the seven of us and the woman. May God help you; you can count on our sangfroid.

And here I must pause in my story…