the Romanov Prophecy (2004) (22 page)

He bent close. “Little One.”

The boy opened his eyes.

“Make no sound. I must carry you to the truck. Understand?”

A slight nod.

“Any sound or movement and they will skewer you.”

He rolled the boy in the sheet and shoulder-carried both Alexie and Anastasia outside. He hoped the grand duchess did not awaken from her sleep. He also hoped no one checked for a pulse. Outside he discovered the men were far more interested in what they were finding on the bodies. Watches, rings, bracelets, cigarette cases, and jewels.

“I repeat,” Yurovsky said. “All to be returned or you will be shot. There was a watch downstairs that is now gone. I am going back for the last body. When I return, it should be here.”

No one doubted what would happen if it wasn’t, and one of the Latvians removed the watch from his pocket and tossed it into the pile with the other booty.

Yurovsky returned with the last body. It was slung onto the back of the truck. The commandant carried a forage cap in his hands.

“The tsar’s,” he said, stuffing it onto one of the killer’s head. “It fits.”

The others laughed.

“They died hard,” one of the Latvians said.

Yurovsky stared into the truck bed. “It is not easy to kill people.”

A tarpaulin was spread over the bodies in the truck bed, sheets stretched underneath to soak up the blood. Yurovsky selected four men to accompany the truck, then stepped to the cab and climbed inside. The rest of the execution squad started to disperse to their assigned posts. Maks was not one of those selected to go and he approached the open passenger’s-side window.

“Comrade Yurovsky. Might I come along? I would like to help finish.”

Yurovsky angled his short neck. He was so dark in the night. Black beard. Black hair. Black leather jacket. All Maks could discern were the whites of his eyes through a chilling stare.

“Why not? Climb in with the others.”

The truck motored out of the Ipatiev house through open gates. One of the other men noted the time out loud: three
AM.
They would have to hurry. Two bottles of vodka were produced and passed around among the men in the bed with the bodies. Maks took only shallow swigs.

He’d been sent to Yekaterinburg to lay the groundwork for an escape. There were generals in the tsar’s former command who took their oath to the Crown seriously. There’d been rumors for months that the fate of the imperial family was sealed. But only in the last day had Maks learned what that meant.

His gaze drifted to the body pile under the tarp. He’d laid the boy and his sister on top, just under their mother. He wondered if the tsarevich recognized his face. Perhaps that was what had kept him quiet.

The truck passed the racetrack on the outskirts of town. It rolled past swamps, pits, and abandoned mines. Beyond the Upper Isetsk factory and across the railroad tracks the route entered dense forest. A couple more miles and another set of railroad tracks interfered. The only structures anywhere were the booths manned by railway watchmen, who were all asleep at this hour.

Maks could feel the roadway turn to mud. The truck slid as tires grabbed slippery earth. The rear wheels bogged in a quagmire, spinning freely, and the driver tried in vain to free the transport. Steam started billowing from the hood. The driver shut down the overheating engine and Yurovsky climbed from the cab, pointed to the darkened railway booth they’d just passed, and told the driver, “Go wake the attendant and get some water.” He turned toward the truck bed. “Find some lumber to help the tires get out of this shit. I am going to walk ahead and look for Ermakov and his crew.”

Two of the men had already passed out drunk. Two more jumped from the bed and disappeared into the darkness. Maks feigned drunkenness and remained still in the bed. He watched as the driver trudged back to the railway booth and banged on the door. A lamp flickered inside and the door opened. Maks could hear the driver telling the watchman they needed water. There was more arguing and Maks heard the guardsmen, who’d moved off into the night, call out that they had located lumber.

It would have to be now.

He crawled toward the tarp and slowly peeled it back. A coppery stench turned his stomach. He rolled the tsarina’s sheeted body over and grasped the bundle with the tsarevich.

“It is I, Little One. Be still and quiet.”

The boy murmured something Maks could not understand.

He carried the bundle from the bed and deposited it in the woods a few meters off the road.

“Do not move,” he whispered.

He quickly scampered back and cupped the bundle holding Anastasia. He gently laid her on the ground and replaced the tarp. He cradled her in his arms and deposited her in the woods beside her brother. He loosened the wrap around each child and checked the girl’s pulse. Faint, but there.

Alexie looked at him.

“I know this is horrible. But you must stay here. Watch over your sister. Do not move. I will come back. When, I don’t know. Understand?”

The boy nodded.

“You remember me, don’t you?”

Alexie nodded again.

“Then trust me, Little One.”

The boy hugged him with a desperate grasp that tugged at his heart.

“Sleep, for now. I will return.”

Maks hustled back to the truck and climbed into the bed, taking up his prone position beside the other two men still passed out. He heard footsteps approaching through the darkness. He moaned and started to sit up.

“Get up, Kolya. We need your help,” one of the men said as they approached. “We found lumber at the watch station.”

He jumped down and helped the other two as they started laying boards across the muddy road. The driver returned with a pail of water for the engine.

Yurovsky appeared a few minutes later. “Ermakov’s people are just ahead.”

The truck recranked with some effort and the boards provided the traction needed. Less than half a mile later they encountered a group of men waiting with torches. From their shouts it was obvious most were drunk. Maks recognized Peter Ermakov standing in the headlight beam. Yurovsky had only been ordered to carry out the sentence. The body disposal was Comrade Ermakov’s responsibility. He was a worker at the Upper Isetsk plant who loved to kill so much that everyone called him Comrade Mauser.

Somebody yelled, “Why didn’t you bring them to us alive?”

Maks knew what Ermakov had probably promised the men.
Be good Soviets and do as you are told and I will let you have your way with the women while Papa Tsar watches.
The possibility of carnal lust on four virgins was surely enough of an incentive to get them to make the necessary preparations.

A crowd gathered at the rear of the truck facing the tarpaulin, torches crackling in the night. One of them yanked the cover away.

“Shit, that stinks,” somebody hollered.

“The stench of royalty,” another said.

“Move the bodies off into the carts,” Yurovsky ordered.

Somebody grumbled about not wanting to touch the filthy things, and Ermakov hopped onto the bed. “Get these damn corpses off the truck. We have only a couple of hours until dawn and there is much to do.”

Maks realized that Ermakov was not a man to challenge. The men started hauling bloodied bundles and dropping them into
droshkies.
There were only four of the wooden carts and he hoped no one counted corpses. Only Yurovsky would know the exact number, but his commander moved off with Ermakov ahead of the truck. The rest of the men who’d come from the Ipatiev house were too drunk or too tired to care about whether there were nine or eleven bodies.

The sheets were removed as each corpse was tossed into a
droshkie.
Maks watched as some of the men started going through the pockets in the bloodied clothing. One of the men from the execution squad told the crowd about the finds made earlier.

Yurovsky appeared and a shot rang out. “There’ll be none of that. We will strip them at the burial site. But anything found is to be handed over or you will be shot on the spot.”

No one argued.

With only four carts, the decision was made that the truck should drive as far as it could with the remaining bodies, with the carts following. Maks sat on the edge of the truck bed and watched the carts roll behind as the vehicle inched forward. He knew they would have to stop at some point, leave the road, and hike into the woods. He’d heard earlier that a burial site in one of the abandoned mine shafts had been chosen. The Four Brothers, somebody called the location.

Twenty minutes passed as the truck rocked forward. Then the tires slid to a stop and Yurovsky leaped out of the cab. He walked back to where Ermakov was leading a cart. The commandant grabbed Ermakov and jammed a pistol into the man’s neck.

“This is fucking shit,” Yurovsky said. “The man in the truck says he can’t locate the trail back to the mine. You were all just here yesterday. Now, no memory? You’re hoping I’ll tire and leave you with the bodies so they can be robbed. That will not happen. Either find the trail or I’ll kill you. The Ural Committee will support me, I assure you.”

Two from the execution squad sprang to their feet and the bolts of their rifles cocked in the night. Maks followed suit.

“All right, Comrade,” Ermakov calmly said. “There is no need for violence. I will personally lead the way.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

Lord saw tears in Vassily Maks’s eyes. He wondered how many times the events had played out in the old man’s mind.

“My father served in Nicholas’ guard. He was assigned to Tsarskoe Selo, the Alexander Palace where the imperial family lived. The children knew his face. Especially Alexie.”

“How did he come to be in Yekaterinburg?” Akilina asked.

“He was approached by Felix Yussoupov. Men were needed to infiltrate Yekaterinburg. Palace guards were favored by the Bolsheviks. They were showpieces the propagandists used to legitimatize the revolution—how Nicholas’s most trusted men turned on him. Many did turn, weak souls scared for their hides, but a few were recruited as spies, like my father. He knew many of the revolution leaders, and they were glad to have him as part of the movement. It was simply luck he arrived at Yekaterinburg in time. Even more luck that Yurovsky selected him as part of the execution squad.”

They were sitting at the kitchen table, having finished their lunch.

“Your father sounds like a brave man,” Lord said.

“Enormously so. He took an oath to the tsar and lived that oath until the end.”

Lord wanted to know about Alexie and Anastasia. “Did they survive?” he asked. “What happened?”

The old man’s lips curled into a thin smile. “Something wonderful. But first, something awful.”

The convoy moved on into the forest. The road was little more than a rough trail cut through mud, the going slow. When the truck became stuck between two trees, Yurovsky decided to abandon the vehicle and proceed on to the mine using the
droshkies.
The remaining bodies from the truck were loaded onto stretchers fashioned from the tarpaulin. The Four Brothers mine was no more than a hundred paces away and Maks helped carry the stretcher containing the corpse of the tsar.

“Lay them out on the ground,” Yurovsky ordered when they arrived at the clearing.

“I thought I was in charge,” Ermakov said.

“You were,” the commandant made clear.

A fire was started. Each corpse was undressed, the clothing burned. With thirty or so drunken men, the scene was chaotic. But Maks was grateful for the confusion since it helped mask the loss of two victims.

“Diamonds,” one of the men screamed.

The word drew the others.

“Kolya. Come with me,” Yurovsky said, shouldering his way through the crowd.

The men were packed around a female corpse. One of Ermakov’s men had discovered another corset filled with jewels. Yurovsky grabbed the diamond out of the man’s hand, a Colt pistol gripped in his other.

“There’ll be no looting. First man who does dies. Kill me and the committee guarantees retribution. Now do as I say and undress the bodies. Leave anything you find with me.”

“For you to keep?” a voice asked.

“It is not mine nor yours, but the state’s. I intend to turn all this over to the Ural Committee. Those are my orders.”

“Fuck you, Jew,” a voice said.

In the flickering light, Maks saw anger flash in Yurovsky’s eyes. He knew enough about this sullen man to know that he didn’t like being reminded of his heritage. His father was a glazier, his mother a seamstress, ten children between them. He’d grown up poor and hard, becoming a loyal party man after the failed 1905 revolution. He’d been banished to Yekaterinburg for revolutionary activity, but after the February revolt of the previous year, he’d been elected to the Ural Committee, and every day since he’d worked diligently for the party. He was no longer a Jew. He was a loyal communist. A man who took orders and could be depended upon to execute them precisely.