The Romanov Prophecy

SIX

A weak feeling always came to Lord's stomach when he read about that night. He tried to imagine what it must have been like when the shooting started. The terror they must have felt. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do but die horribly.

He'd been drawn back to the event because of what he'd found in the Protective Papers. He'd stumbled onto the note ten days back, scrawled on a plain brittle sheet in outdated Russian script, the black ink barely legible. It was inside a crimson leather bag that had been sewn shut. A label on the outside indicated: ACQUIRED JULY 10, 1925. NOT TO BE OPENED UNTIL JANUARY 1, 1950. It was impossible to determine if that instruction had been heeded.

He reached into his briefcase and found the copy he'd carefully translated. The date at the top read April 10, 1922:

The situation with Yurovsky is troubling. I do not believe the reports filed from Yekaterinburg were accurate and the information concerning Felix Yussoupov corroborates that. It is unfortunate the White Guardsman you persuaded to talk was not more forthcoming. Perhaps too much pain can be counterproductive. The mention of Kolya Maks is interesting. I have heard this name before. The village of Starodug has likewise been noted by two other similarly persuaded White Guardsmen. There is something occurring, of that I am certain, but I fear my body will not endure for me to learn what. I greatly worry about the future of all our endeavors after I am gone. Stalin is frightening. There is a rigidness about him that insulates all emotion from his decision making. If the leadership of our new nation falls to him, I fear the dream may die.

I wonder if one or more of the imperials may have escaped Yekaterinburg. It certainly appears that way. Comrade Yussoupov apparently believes so. Perhaps he thinks he can offer the next generation a reprieve. Perhaps the tsarina was not as foolish as we all believed. Maybe the starets's ramblings have more meaning than we first thought. Over the past few weeks, thinking of the Romanovs, I have found myself recalling the words of an old Russian poem: The knights are dust and their good swords rust. Their souls are with the saints we trust.

He and Artemy Bely both believed the document was penned in Lenin's own hand. It wouldn't be unusual. The communists had preserved thousands of Lenin's writings. But this particular document had not been found where it should have been. Instead, Lord had located it among papers repatriated from the Nazis after World War II. Hitler's invading armies had stolen not only Russian art, but also archival material by the tons. Document depositories in Leningrad, Stalingrad, Kiev, and Moscow were stripped clean. Only after the war, when Stalin sent his Extraordinary Commission to reclaim the country's heritage, had many of these caches found their way back to the Motherland.

There was, though, one other relevant paper within the crimson leather bag. A single sheet of parchment with a frilly border of flowers and leaves. The handwriting was in English, the script distinctly feminine:

October 28, 1916.

Dear beloved Soul of my Soul, my own Wee One, Sweet Angel, oh, me loves you so, always together, night and day, I feel what you are going through and your poor heart. God have mercy, give you strength and wisdom. He won't forsake you. He will help, recompense this mad suffering and end this separation at such a time when one needs being together.

Our Friend has just left. He saved Baby once again. Oh merciful Jesus thank the Lord we have him. The pain was immense, my heart torn apart from witnessing, but Baby now sleeps peacefully. I am assured that tomorrow he will be well.

Such sunny weather, no clouds. That means, trust and hope, yet all is pitch black around, but God is above all; we know not His way, nor how He will help, but He will hark unto all prayers. Our Friend is most insistent on that.

I must tell you that just before he left our Friend went into a strange convulsion. I was most frightened thinking he may be ill. What would Baby do without him. He fell to the floor and began muttering about leaving this world before the new year and seeing masses of corpses, several grand dukes and hundreds of counts. The Neva will be all red with blood, he said. His words terrified me.

Looking toward heaven, he told me that if he be murdered by boyars their hands will remain soiled by blood for twenty-five years. They will leave Russia. Brother will rise against brother, they will kill each other in hate, and there will be no nobles in the country. Most disturbing, he said that if one of our relatives carries out his murder, none of our family will live more than two years. We will all be killed by the Russian people.

He made me rise and immediately write this down. Then he said not to despair. There would be salvation. The one with the most guilt will see the error of his way. He will assure that the blood of our body resurrects itself. His rantings bordered on nonsense and I wondered, for the first time, if the stench of alcohol upon him had affected his brain. He kept saying that only a raven and an eagle can succeed where all fail and that the innocence of beasts will guard and lead the way, being the final arbitor of success. He said God will provide a way to be sure of righteousness. Most troubling was his statement that twelve must die before the resurrection can be complete.

I tried to question him but he went silent, insisting that I write the prophecy down exactly and convey the vision to you. He talked as if something might happen to us, but I assured him that Papa has the country well in hand. He was not comforted and his words troubled me all night. Oh my precious one, I hold you tight in my arms and will never let anyone touch your shining soul. I kiss, kiss, kiss and bless you and you always understand. I hope you come to me soon.

Your Wify

Lord knew that the writer was Alexandra, the last tsarina of Russia. She had kept a diary for decades. So had her husband, Nicholas, and both journals subsequently provided an unprecedented look into the royal court. Nearly seven hundred of their letters were found in Yekaterinburg after the execution. He'd read other diary excerpts and most of the letters. Several recent books had published them verbatim. He knew the reference to "our Friend" was their way of describing Rasputin, since both Alexandra and Nicholas thought their letters were being scrutinized by others. Unfortunately, their unfettered confidence in Rasputin was not shared by anyone else.

"So deep in thought," a voice said in Russian.

He glanced up.

An older man stood on the opposite side of the table. He was fair-skinned with pale blue eyes, a thin chest, and freckled wrists. His head was half bald and graying fuzz dusted the sallow skin on his neck from ear to ear. He wore steel-rimmed glasses and a bow tie. Lord immediately recalled that he'd seen the man poring through the records, one of several individuals who seemed to be working as hard as he was.

"Actually, I was back in 1916 for an instant. Reading this stuff is like time travel," Lord said in Russian.

The older man smiled. Lord estimated his age to be nearing, if not more than, sixty.

"I quite agree. It is one of the reasons I like coming here. A reminder of something that once was."

He instantly warmed to the congenial manner and stood from the table. "I'm Miles Lord."

"I know who you are."

A wave of suspicion swept over him and his gaze unconsciously darted around the room.

His visitor seemed to sense the fear. "I assure you, Mr. Lord, I am no threat. Just a tired historian looking for a little conversation with someone of similar interests."

He relaxed. "How do you know me?"

The man smiled. "You are not a favorite of the women who staff this depository. They resent being ordered about by an American-"

"And a black?"

The man smiled. "Unfortunately, this country is not progressively minded on the issue of race. We are a fair-skinned nation. But your commission credentials cannot be ignored."

"And who are you?"

"Semyon Pashenko, professor of history, Moscow State University." The older man offered his hand and Lord accepted. "Where is the other gentleman who accompanied you in days past? A lawyer, I believe. We talked for a few moments among the stacks."

He debated whether to lie, but decided the truth would be better. "He was killed this morning on Nikolskaya Prospekt. In a shooting."

Shock filled the older man's face. "I saw something on the television about that earlier. So terrible." He shook his head. "This country will be the ruin of itself if something is not done soon."

Lord sat and offered a seat.

"Were you involved?" Pashenko asked, settling into a chair.

"I was there." He decided to keep the rest of what happened to himself.

Pashenko shook his head. "That sort of display says nothing for who or what we are. Westerners, like yourself, must think us barbarians."

"Not at all. Every nation goes through periods like this. We had our own during the western expansion and in the nineteen twenties and thirties."

"But I believe our situation is more than merely growing pains."

"The past few years have been difficult for Russia. It was hard enough when there was a government. Yeltsin and Putin tried to keep order. But now, with little semblance of authority, it's nothing short of anarchy."

Pashenko nodded. "Unfortunately, this is nothing new for our nation."

"Are you an academician?"

"A historian. I have devoted my life to the study of our beloved Mother Rus."

He grinned at the ancient term. "I would imagine there hasn't been much use for your specialty in some time."

"Regretfully. The communists had their own version of history."

He recalled something he'd read once. Russia is a country with an unpredictable past. "Did you teach, then?"

"For thirty years. I saw them all. Stalin, Khrushchev, Brezhnev. Each one inflicted his own peculiar damage. It is sinful what happened. But even now, we find it hard to let go. People still line up each day to walk past Lenin's body." Pashenko lowered his voice. "A butcher, revered as a saint. Did you notice the flowers around his statue out front." He shook his head. "Disgusting."

Lord decided to be careful with his words. Though this was the postcommunist era, soon to be new tsarist era, he was still an American working under credentials granted by a shaky Russian government. "Something tells me that if tanks rolled through Red Square tomorrow, everyone who works in this archive would be there to cheer them on."

"They are no better than street beggars," Pashenko said. "They enjoyed privilege, kept the leaders' secrets, and in return received a choice apartment, some extra bread, a few more days off in summer. You must work and earn what you get, is that not what America stands for?"

Lord didn't answer. Instead, he asked, "What do you think of the Tsarist Commission?"

"I voted yes. How could a tsar do any worse?"

He'd found that attitude quite prevalent.

"It is unusual to find an American able to speak our language so well."

He shrugged. "You have a fascinating country."

"Have you always had an interest?"

"Since childhood. I started reading about Peter the Great and Ivan the Terrible."

"And now you are a part of our Tsarist Commission. About to make history." Pashenko motioned to the sheets on the table. "Those are quite old. Do they come from the Protective Papers?"

"I found both a couple of weeks ago."

"I recognize the script. Alexandra herself penned that one. She wrote all her letters and diaries in English. The Russians hated her because she was born a German princess. I always thought that an unfair criticism. Alexandra was a most misunderstood woman."

He offered the sheet, deciding that this Russian's brain might be worth picking. Pashenko read the letter, then said when he finished, "She was colorful in her prose, but this is mild. She and Nicholas wrote many romantic letters."

"It's sad handling them. I feel like an intruder. I was reading earlier about the execution. Yurovsky must have been one devil of a man."

"Yurovsky's son said that his father always regretted his involvement. But who knows? For twenty years after he gave lectures to Bolshevik groups about the murders, proud of what he did."

He handed Pashenko the note penned by Lenin. "Take a look at this."

The Russian read the page slowly, then said, "Definitely Lenin. I am familiar with his writing style, too. Curious."

"My thought exactly."

Pashenko's eyes lit up. "Surely you do not believe those stories that two of the royal family survived the execution at Yekaterinburg?"

He shrugged. "To this day the bodies of Alexie and Anastasia have never been found. Now this."

Pashenko grinned. "Americans really are conspiratorialists. A plot into everything."

"It's my job at the moment."

"You must support Stefan Baklanov's claim, correct?"

He was a little surprised and wondered about his transparency.

Pashenko motioned to the surroundings. "The women, again, Mr. Lord. They know all. Your document inquiries are recorded and, believe me, they pay attention. Have you met our so-called Heir Apparent?"

He shook his head. "But the man I work for has."

"Baklanov is no better fit to rule than Mikhail Romanov was four hundred years ago. Too weak. Unlike poor Mikhail, who had his father to make decisions for him, Baklanov will be on his own, and many would revel in his failure."

This Russian academician had a point. From all he'd read about Baklanov, the man seemed more concerned with a return of tsarist prestige than with actually governing the nation.

"May I make a suggestion, Mr. Lord?"

"Certainly."

"Have you been to the archives in St. Petersburg?"

He shook his head.

"A look there might be productive. They house many of Lenin's writings. Most of the tsar and tsarina's diaries and letters are stored there, too." He pointed to the sheets. "It might help discover the meaning of what you have found."

The suggestion seemed a good one. "Thank you, I just might do that." He glanced at his watch. "If you'll excuse me, I have more to read before this place closes. But I enjoyed talking. I'll be around for a few more days. Maybe we can chat again."

"I, too, will be in and out. If you don't mind, I think I might just sit here a little while. May I read those two sheets again?"

"Of course."

Ten minutes later when he returned, the writings by Alexandra and Lenin lay on the table, but Semyon Pashenko was gone.