The Kitchen Boy: A Novel of the Last Tsar

8

Misha pushed the stop button on his tape recorder, listened as the little machine clicked to a halt, and then sat back in his leather desk chair. The old man took a deep breath, held it, and finally exhaled. From this vantage – Lake Forest, Illinois – and this time – August 1998 – it was all going fine, wasn’t it? He was telling the story just as he should, right?

Oh, how he wished May were here. She would know. His wife who always had a word on her tongue would tell him whether or not he was saying too much, too little, or if he was getting it just right. Bozhe moi, my God, how he couldn’t wait until this life was over.

He pushed back his chair, grabbed ahold of the edge of his desk, hesitated, and pushed himself to his feet. Then he just stood there. Everything used to be so automatic, now he had to think about every little step. He started to move his left leg, but then a bolt of pain stabbed his bad knee. Wincing, he leaned on the desk with one hand, hesitated, tried again. It was always like this, at first walking seemed impossible, but after the first few steps he seemed to be able to walk out of it. And so he proceeded.

He’d always been amazed that the slaughtered bodies of the Romanovs had remained hidden for so many, many years, and in fact he had often wondered if they’d ever be found, particularly within his own lifetime. And it wasn’t until July 11, 1991, the day after Boris Yeltsin’s inauguration, that a squadron of detectives, colonels, epidemiologists, and forensic experts headed out of Yekaterinburg toward the village Koptyaki. It was there, behind a fence, underneath a tent, and in the glare of all these lights, that the herd of Russian officials pulled more than a thousand smashed and crushed bones out of the mud. Even then they weren’t sure what they found. Seeking the truth but lacking DNA technology, the Russian scientists developed a sophisticated technique of computerized superimposition, whereby their mathematicians matched photos of the Romanovs to the skulls they found. And that was how, Misha had read, they determined that skull number four – the very one that contained a desiccated brain shriveled to the size of a pear – was none other than Tsar Nikolai. Skull number seven, meanwhile, proved the easiest to identify because of its extensive and beautiful dental work. It was that of the Empress Aleksandra.

Ach, thought Misha, crossing the broad living room, as the saying goes, There exists no secret that will not be revealed. And those broken and bizarrely crushed bones found in that shallow grave quickly told the story that the deaths had not only been violent, but grossly brutal, which was absolutely correct because of course Misha had seen it all with his own eyes. The most shocking thing the Russian specialists discovered, however, was what they didn’t find: the bodies of both the Heir Tsarevich Aleksei and Grand Duchess Maria. And so that was his job, Misha’s. Now it was up to him to tell why the bodies of two Romanovs were still missing. His story, his truth, was what he would leave behind and it would be, he was certain, the definitive truth that would stand for decades if not centuries.

So sad, thought Misha as he hobbled along, so terribly sad. Not just the murder of the Imperial Family, but that the hatred of the Russian Revolution proved so barbaric and violent. Slava Bogu, thanks to God, that at least the Romanovs had finally been laid to rest in an Orthodox service just last month in Sankt-Peterburg. Misha had procured a videotape of the funeral, and May and he had watched it over and over, all of which filled them both with a sense of peace. And then a mere three weeks after the funeral in Peterburg, May herself had died, content with the knowledge that the revolution that had burned across their homeland was done and over.

With a heaviness that had hung from his heart since that night so long ago, Misha went about his business. He visited the downstairs powder room just off the central hall, and then briefly headed into the kitchen, where he poured himself a glass of water. Carrying the glass, he returned via the butler’s pantry, a narrow room filled with stacks of fine china and rows of crystal glasses. As he pushed open the swinging door into the dining room and gazed upon the massive mahogany table, he was reminded of all the fancy dinner parties they’d hosted. Here had dined not only the crème de la crème of Midwestern aristocracy – the Wrigleys, Walgreens, Swifts, Cranes, Maytags, and so many more – but also such international luminaries as Walt Disney, Ella Fitzgerald, Katharine Hepburn, and even the Prince of Wales. But it had all been a lie. He’d convinced all of Chicago society that he’d not only bought an immense amount of stock for practically nothing at the very bottom of the Depression, but that he’d been one of the first investors in IBM, buying what would become a fortune in stock for just pennies. So that everyone would think him of good breeding, Misha himself had planted the rumor that his parents were minor aristorcrats who had been horrendously slaughtered by the Bolsheviki. And then Misha moved into a new life in America, going through the motions of great happiness, buying this huge house, playing golf at the exclusive Onwentsia Club, and throwing extravagant parties. Yet it had all meant nothing, nothing! No, everything that he saw was in the context of how ugly, how cruel, was this world and its human race. Try as he wanted, Misha could barely love even his own boy, that which his own seed created. He made an effort, sometimes with success, to care for his Peter, but every time he gazed into his face he saw but one thing: his own reflection. Absolutely, mused Misha, as he moved through the room. In his own child he saw living proof that he had survived, and it was almost more than he could bear, for Misha had never been able to escape from the belief that it should have been him who was shot in the basement chamber, it should have been him dead on that road to village Koptyaki.

His head hung low, his shuffle slow, Misha crossed into the living room, muttering as he so often had, “Lord forgive me. But first make me suffer. I am the devil’s creation. Torture me and make me cry out for mercy, but make me suffer…”

Entering his office, he paused and admired the wall of books on his Nikolai and Aleksandra, some three hundred volumes altogether. His will stipulated that these should be donated to Yale for their-

Misha’s eyes suddenly caught a magazine wedged between two books. Oh, my dear God, he thought, his heart jumping in pace, didn’t I get rid of that? Apparently not. He placed the water glass on the edge of his desk, then pulled down a worn and well-read issue of Esquire magazine that had appeared five years ago. He flipped it open to a dog-eared page, and even though Misha had read and reread the piece, he couldn’t stop himself from once again studying the article entitled, “What Really Happened That Dark Night?” Nothing before had ever come so close to the truth. Nothing had ever scared him so much, and his eyes flew threw the entire lengthy piece, scanning every paragraph, until he came to the last few.

Although unlikely, one or possibly two of Nicholas and Alexandra’s children could have survived that horrible night of July 16-17, 1918. Between the time of the execution and their nefarious burial miles away, anything could have happened. Many suspect a guard discovered that one of the girls was alive and pulled her from the truck as it passed down that dark, dirt road to the Four Brothers Mine. After all, while the bodies of five Romanovs have recently been found and identified, the bodies of two of the children, Alexei and Maria, are still missing. Where are they? What happened to them? Yurovsky, the commandant in charge of the execution, later claimed to have burned them and scattered their remains, but this, say scientists, is doubtful, for it is impossible to completely cremate a body over an open fire.

The theories abound, of course. Some say that Maria was later spotted on a train headed for China. Others, including survivors from a nearby monastery, claim she wandered Siberia until her death in 1973.

While it is extremely unlikely that Alexei, a hemophiliac, could have survived the brutal events that took place in the basement of the Ipatiev House, one of the more interesting hypotheses is that he simply wasn’t there at all. Rather, a handful of people believe that he switched places with the kitchen boy, Leonid Sednyov, who was about his age and height. Disguised, Alexei was then, they say, spirited out of the house just hours before his family was murdered. If the young Sednyov was killed in his place, if Alexei did in fact survive, if he did in fact go on to live to the age of 17, was he, as Rasputin had predicted, completely cured? And if so, how long did he live and where? Was he, as some suspect, the mysterious hermit monk sometimes spotted lurking in the forest outside Yekaterinburg? Perhaps.

Then again, we’ll never know.

Misha slammed shut the magazine. He had to get rid of it. Sure, his granddaughter Kate might find a copy on her own, but he sure as the devil wasn’t going to leave one right here in his office for her to discover. He’d been a fool to keep it here this long. And with that, Misha folded the magazine in half and threw it in his leather-embossed trash can. He’d been so thorough, tried to be so complete, and yet… yet…

He found himself leaning against his wall of cherished books. These volumes, which included everything from the Tsar and Tsaritsa’s last diaries to the letters of Queen Victoria, were like friends to him. Individually each one contained a snippet of the truth, while their knowledge combined did contain the greater part.

And it flashed through his mind: just a look. Sure, and rather like an addict his hands started shaking. Just one quick look.

Pulling a brass key from his pocket, he moved a few feet to the side and yanked out two books in particular, revealing a lock. He was just about to insert the key and unlock his vault when he caught himself. No, he thought. Not yet. If I go into that small chamber I’ll be swept away by memories and I’ll never finish the tape. And finish I must.

He slipped the key back into the pocket of his trousers, and parked the books back in front of the lock. He hadn’t been in there since three days before May had died, when he’d brought his wife down for what turned out to be her final visit. Absolutely no one but May and he knew of the vault’s existence, yet Kate, whom he loved so dearly, soon would. Within a short time the contents thereof would be all her responsibility. Misha only prayed that the audiotape he was now making and the sealed letter he’d left with his attorney would be enough to guide her.

In any case, it would soon be out of his control. He’d done everything he could not only during his lifetime, but to control things from the grave.

Sitting down at his desk, Misha took a brief sip of water. With a deep rumble, he cleared his throat. And then he pushed the button on the tape recorder and continued:

“Hi, my sweet Kate. It’s me, your old Dyedushka Misha. I’m back. Is my story making sense? Are you able to follow everything? If there’s anything that doesn’t make sense, don’t forget to check the documents in my dossier, okay, malenkaya?” Little one.

“You know, many people, many times have said to me how much Russians and Americans are alike. We both have such big hearts, we are both so welcoming into our homes, we are both so desperate to be liked. And sure, in these ways we resemble each other. I do not know – perhaps it is because both countries are so vast and hold such a diversity of peoples, but… but the similarities stop there. The truth is that Americans cannot possibly begin to understand the depth of the Russian soul, the Orthodox soul. And this you must to understand. For my story to make sense you must comprehend that every Russian, in his heart of hearts, believes that sin brings suffering, great suffering. That in turn leads to repentance, and it is that very cleansing which eventually delivers one closer unto the feet of God Himself. Do not forget: sin, repentance, holy deliverance. Sin, torment and cleansing, purification. Sin, suffering, forgiveness.

“Clear?

“My passport says I am now an American, but in my heart I know I am and will always be Russkie, and like every other person of my country, I want to judge, I want to blame, I want to point away from myself, and say, There, that is the guilty fool, that person did that to me and my fatherland. He is at fault, not me! It’s true, so very true, we Russians are peasants, mere peasants who will do anything to escape blame and responsibility, for we are still deathly afraid of our master’s whip. But in fact… in fact the dynasty itself exploded for a myriad of stupidly brilliant reasons. Simply, it somehow stumbled upon a perfect, and yet altogether not random, chemical reaction: you take one part decent man but not enlightened ruler, one part heartbroken mother clutching for any way to save her son, two parts inbred dynasty and gossip-obsessed court, one part Great War, and three parts uneducated, worn, and hungry people, and – boom! – what do you get? Revolution, terrible, terrible revolution, of course! Any eedee-ot can see that.

“It amazes me still to this day how quickly the empire fell to pieces. One day the people are kissing the ground upon which the Tsar’s shadow has fallen, the next they are hacking apart his body. Nikolai merely put down his scepter and walked away, and literally overnight a three-hundred-year old dynasty evaporated – poof, gone! – with no one lifting a finger to save it. Ironic that the Soviet Union collapsed just as easily, which proves it was no better, that the cure, kommunizm, was in fact far worse than the disease itself. Now, I can only hope, those days are over, and just maybe that’s true. After all, it took nearly one hundred years for the insanity to fade from France after their revolution.

“So, anyway… where was I? Oh, sure,” he said, leaning forward and checking the tape, which was whirring away. “I must continue my dark story. You must listen while I tell of the terrible things I saw the night the Romanovs were murdered. I have lived with this story every day, every moment of my life, yet never did I want these events to cross my lips. But now, because of recent developments, tell I must. You see, the night the Romanovs were killed, I chased after the truck that was overflowing with troopy – carcasses – as it slowly headed down that dirt road to village Koptyaki.

“But I will get to all of those gruesome details. Now, just listen as I return to the morning of June 26,1918.”