The White Russian

55

S now swirled around the entrance to the house in Millionnaya Street. The light above its door cast thin slivers of light into the night. Ruzsky had to knock three times before there was an answer.

As Peter opened the door, Ruzsky was swept into the hall by a gust of air that scattered snow halfway up the stairs.

“It’s a terrible night,” Peter told him.

“Is my brother here?”

“I believe so, yes sir.”

Ruzsky removed his sheepskin hat and overcoat, dusted off the snow, and handed them to the young servant. He began to climb the stairs.

The upper part of the house was in darkness.

Ruzsky moved slowly through the shadows. He tried the room on the first floor where Ingrid and his brother were officially quartered, but it was empty.

He checked all the other bedrooms on the same level, including his father’s, but there was no sign of anyone.

He returned to the center of the landing. “Dmitri?” He walked up the stairs to the second floor. “Dmitri?”

He moved to the wooden steps that led to the attic, and began to climb them.

“Dmitri?”

He checked his own room-now Michael’s-but it was empty, as was the one opposite. Ruzsky glanced at the soldier at the end of Ilusha’s bed and the elephant on the shelf above it.

As he emerged, he sensed movement and spun around. Peter was at the bottom of the stairs. “Your brother has just gone out, sir. He said you would know where to find him. ‘Where this began,’ he said.” The servant held up a small key. “He asked me to give you this.”

Downstairs, Ruzsky walked to the far wall of his father’s study, took down the painting, and slipped the key into the lock of the safe.

Alongside his mother’s jewelry, he found large bundles of banknotes, some in rubles, some sterling, some United States dollars. At the back of the safe was an envelope marked with the imperial seal and his father’s name and the instruction By hand.

Ruzsky returned to the desk and opened the envelope. He pulled out a thin sheaf of papers. Wrapped around them was a note with the imperial eagle at its head.

Nikolasha, I enclose just some of what they have to offer. Vasilyev says he has been unable to recover the rest and may not be able to do so before the weekend. The possibility of their publication then is still, therefore, significant. I feel that we must do as he suggests; perhaps not all of the gold reserves, but a significant proportion should be moved to the vault out here. He will need you to sign the order. We are considering all other options, but His Majesty will not consider recalling any further battalions.

Vasilyev says the movement of the gold should begin before this information is broadcast in the city. The atmosphere here alternates between panic and denial, so I suggest, my old friend, that we act upon our own initiative -S.

Inside was a series of neat, handwritten notes that each began with the same instruction in the left-hand corner: For immediate transfer.

December 2, 1916. Povroskoe from Tsarskoe Selo for Novy. You have not written anything. I have missed you terribly. Come soon. Pray for Nicholas. Kisses -Darling.

Ruzsky put the first down on the desk. Povroskoe was a remote village in the Russian interior. It had been home to the peasant priest Grigory Rasputin, who also went by the name Novy. Tsarskoe Selo meant the Alexander Palace and, by implication, the Empress.

They were messages for transcription by the telegraph office from the Empress of the Russias to a peasant priest.

April 9, 1916. Povroskoe from Tsarskoe Selo for Novy. I am with you with all my heart, all my thoughts. Pray for me and Nicholas on the bright day. Love and kisses -Darling.

Ruzsky stared at the neat, careful hand.

He turned to the last note. This was an actual telegram, complete with the stamp of the Povroskoe office.

December 7, 1914. From Petrograd for Novy. Today, I shall be back in eight days. I sacrifice my husband and my heart to you. Pray and bless. Love and kisses -Darling.

Ruzsky sat back in his father’s chair.

He understood all too well the tension he had seen in Shulgin’s face. The rule of the Romanovs could not possibly survive the publication of such material.

He put the documents back into the safe, locked it, and put the key in his pocket.

Lights from the upper floors of the Winter Palace blazed defiantly into the gloom as Ruzsky stared out at the frozen Neva.

He saw a dark figure in the center of the ice.

He hesitated for only a moment, before stepping out and walking purposefully toward his brother, blocking his old fear from his mind. The marine police had placed no warning flags here, or none that he could see.

Dmitri wore a long, dark blue regimental overcoat and a sheepskin hat. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets.

They stared at each other through the falling snow.

“Don’t try to stop me, Sandro.”

Ruzsky did not respond.

“Father is dead. You are absolved of your responsibilities.”

“It’s not about responsibility. It’s about love.”

The word hung between them. Dmitri’s expression softened. He took off his hat. “Did you open the safe?”

“Yes.”

“You understand, then?”

“I do now.” Ruzsky wiped the snow from his eyes and face.

Dmitri lowered his head. He stared at his hat, flakes gathering upon his hair. Ruzsky thought he looked handsome in the darkness, and young-something like the boy he remembered.

“I could have warned him,” Dmitri said, a terrible guilt etched into his face just as it had been in Maria’s last night. “I knew they planned to steal the gold. I knew they had to trick Father to do it.”

“How could you know what threats they would make?” Ruzsky answered. “Or how far Vasilyev would go?”

Ruzsky could not take his eyes from his brother. He felt not anger, but an overpowering compassion. What he saw in Dmitri’s eyes now was a more confused and tortured version of what he had seen in Maria’s the previous night; it was a swirling mixture of love, loss, and regret. But it was guilt, above all, that swam to the surface. He had put his love of Maria and his desire to become the man he thought she wanted him to be above everything. Dmitri had watched his father walking into a trap and done nothing to prevent it closing around him, and it was tearing him apart.

Ruzsky thought of his brother’s fear on the evening of Ilusha’s death as they awaited the summons to their father’s study. He thought of the way they had held each other for comfort and strength. “Dmitri,” he said quietly, “let us go home.”

“I know how they must have threatened him,” Dmitri answered. “I know what happened at that meeting. Father wanted to countermand the order and cancel the movement of the gold and I know how Vasilyev threatened him. You saw the way Father looked at Michael. You know what was in his mind every time he even glanced in his direction.”

“Michael is not Ilya.”

“But which one of us can look at him without-”

“That’s not his fault.”

“It’s no one’s fault, Sandro! It never was.” Dmitri stared at the ice by his feet. “But Father would have moved every mountain in Russia before he’d have let anyone hurt a hair on the boy’s head. He wasn’t going to lose him twice.” His voice quivered with emotion. “I didn’t know what they would do. How could I have guessed?”

Ruzsky did not answer.

“Do you understand why, Sandro?”

“Do I understand?”

“Do you understand why?” Dmitri was pleading with him. “She makes me feel as if I have come home at last. But the past hangs heavily upon her, and, in that one way, I can soothe her pain.”

“I understand.”

“I’m not a coward.”

“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” Ruzsky said sympathetically.

“She needs me. In this, at least, she needs me.”

“Did she ask you to kill them?”

“Once I knew what had happened, she did not need to.”

“She told you what happened to her father?”

“What I am doing is only just, Sandro.”

“She has told you each name? She has informed you on each occasion where they can be found?”

“She is entitled to justice. She will not find it in any other way.”

“The couple on the ice were expecting you. The American and the girl, Ella. You had met them before?”

“Maria hated the American almost as much as Borodin. She was sure the pair planned the murder of her father together. She convinced him the girl Ella was an informer for the city police and the army and that their plan here was in danger of being discovered. He led the girl out onto the ice. He was expecting her to be dispatched by an assassin on the far side, in the shadows of the fortress-that’s what he’d been told. Maria begged me not to harm the girl, but I could hardly have left a living witness.”

“But you left your footsteps. Those last three paces onto the embankment were designed to taunt me.”

Dmitri stared at him. “Not a taunt, Sandro. I knew you would find me.”

“That’s why you didn’t go to the Strelka,” Ruzsky said, almost to himself. “You left the ice to go home.” He looked at his brother. “If he was here, Father would beg you to stop.”

“But he’s not. He’s dead and that house is an empty shell, full of ghosts at every turn. I’ve had enough of ghosts. If I survive, we will leave Russia, begin again…”

“He would still beg you-”

“He would do no such thing. I was never you, Sandro. I was never Ilusha. I was the son he didn’t understand, I was the one for whom he could never conceal his disdain.”

“Dmitri-”

“Though you will deny it, it is true. But he can’t reach me now. I have found a purpose that I have long searched for.”

“Then it is I who must beg you,” Ruzsky said. “And I plead with you on my knees.”

Dmitri looked at him, his anger melting into sorrow and regret. “I’m sorry, Sandro. This is all I have to give her.”

“I cannot lose you.” Ruzsky’s voice quivered with emotion. “Don’t you see that?” He took a pace toward his brother.

“I understand.” Dmitri shook his head, as if to rid himself of his dilemma. “I understand, Sandro, but I must go.”

“Dmitri, I beg you…”

“Don’t try to stop me.”

“In God’s name…” Ruzsky’s cry was taken by the wind.

“Stay there, Sandro!” He turned away and began to run. For several moments Ruzsky watched him go, his tall figure receding into the darkness.

“Dmitri!”

Ruzsky lunged forward, lost his footing, and crashed straight through the ice into the darkness below. The cold was savage, expelling the air from his lungs.

He bobbed up against a solid wall. He gasped, but sucked in only water and began to choke.

Ruzsky kicked down, searching for some sign of light, blood roaring in his ears.

For a moment, these strange and brutal surroundings were familiar. He recognized this place. He remembered once before welcoming its oblivion.

But in his mind’s eye, Ruzsky could see his brother walking across the ice to his fate. He could not let him die alone. He began to kick, his lungs stretched, the cold numbing every fiber of his being.

He saw ripples on the surface of the water.

Lungs exploding, he pushed upward until he burst through the hole.

A hand grasped for his.

A man stooped over him and it took Ruzsky a few moments to recognize who it was. “Pavel?” he asked.

“Be quiet,” the voice hissed. “Save your energy.”