the Romanov Prophecy (2004) Read online

  The staff archivists were leftovers from the Soviet regime, part of the party hierarchy who had once enjoyed benefits not available to ordinary Muscovites. Though the party was gone, a cadre of loyal elderly women remained, many of whom, Lord believed, firmly wished for a return to totalitarian order. The lack of help was why he'd requested Artemy Bely's assistance, and he'd accomplished more in the past few days than in the weeks before.

  Only a few idlers milled among the metal shelves. Most of the records, particularly those on Lenin, had once been locked away behind steel doors in underground vaults. Yeltsin had ended that secrecy and ordered everything moved aboveground, opening the building to academicians and journalists.

  But not entirely.

  A large section remained closed--the so-called Protective Papers--similar to what a TOP SECRET stamp did to any Freedom of Information request back home. Lord's Tsarist Commission credentials, however, overrode any supposed former state secrets. His pass, arranged by Hayes, was authority from the government to look wherever he desired, including through the Protective Papers.

  He sat down at his reserved table and forced his mind to concentrate on the pages spread before him. His job was to bolster Stefan Baklanov's claim to the Russian throne. Baklanov, a Romanov by birth, was the leading contender for selection by the Tsarist Commission. He was also heavily entrenched with Western businesses, many of which were Pridgen & Woodworth clients, so Hayes had sent Lord into the archives to make sure there was nothing that might impugn Baklanov's claim to power. The last thing anyone needed was for there to have been a state investigation, or implications Baklanov's family had been German sympathizers during World War II--anything that might cause the people to doubt his commitment to them or to Russia.

  Lord's assignment had led him to the last Romanov to occupy the Russian throne--Nicholas II--and what happened in Siberia on July 16, 1918. He'd read many published accounts and several unpublished ones during the past few weeks. All were, at best, contradictory. It took a detailed study of each report, culling out obvious falsehoods and combining facts, to glean any useful information. His growing notes now formed a cumulative narrative of that fateful night in Russian history.

  Nicholas rustled from a sound sleep. A soldier stood over him. It wasn't often over the course of the past few months that he'd been able to actually sleep, and he resented the intrusion. But there was little he could do. He'd once been the Tsar of All Russia, Nicholas II, the embodiment of the Almighty on Earth. But a year ago last March he'd been forced to do the unthinkable for a divine monarch--abdicate in the face of violence. The provisional government that followed him was mainly liberals from the Duma and a coalition of radical socialists. It was to be a caretaker body until a constituent assembly could be elected, but the Germans had allowed Lenin to cross their territory and reenter Russia, hoping he'd wreak political havoc.

  And he had.

  Toppling the weak provisional government ten months back in what the guards proudly called the October Revolution.

  Why was his cousin the kaiser doing this to him? Did he hate him that much? Was winning the World War important enough to sacrifice a ruling dynasty?

  Apparently so.

  Just two months after seizing power, to no one's surprise, Lenin signed a cease-fire with the Germans, and Russia abandoned the Great War, leaving the Allies without an eastern front to occupy the advancing Germans. Britain, France, and the United States could not be happy. He understood the dangerous game Lenin was playing. Promising the people peace to gain their confidence, but needing to delay its implementation in order to placate the Allies, while at the same time not offending his real ally, the kaiser. The Treaty of Brest-Litovsk, signed five months back, was nothing short of devastating. Germany gained a quarter of Russia's territory and nearly a third of its people. That action, he'd been told, had generated great resentment. The talk among the guards was that all of the Bolshevik enemies had finally coalesced under a unified White banner, chosen in startling contrast to the communist Red flag. A mass of recruits had already gravitated to the Whites. Peasants particularly were drawn, since land was still denied them.

  A civil war now raged.

  White versus Red.

  And he was merely Citizen Romanov, prisoner of the Red Bolsheviks.

  Ruler of no one.

  He and his family had first been held in the Alexander Palace at Tsarskoe Selo, not far from Petrograd. Then they were moved west to Tobolsk, in central Russia, a river town full of whitewashed churches and log cabins. The people there had been openly loyal, showing great respect to their fallen tsar and his family. They'd daily gathered in large numbers outside the confinement house, removing their hats and crossing themselves. Hardly a day went by without a delivery of cakes, candles, and icons. The guards themselves, members of the honored Rifle Regiment, had been friendly and had taken the time to talk and play cards. They'd been allowed books and newspapers, even correspondence. The food had been excellent and every comfort was shown them.

  All in all, not a bad prison.

  Then, seventy-eight days ago, another move.

  This time here, to Yekaterinburg, on the eastern slope of the Ural Mountains, deep in the heart of Mother Russia where Bolsheviks dominated. Ten thousand Red Army troops wandered the streets. The local population was bitterly opposed to anything tsarist. The house of a wealthy merchant, a man named Ipatiev, had been commandeered and converted into a makeshift prison. The House of Special Purpose, Nicholas had heard it called. A high wooden fence had been erected, the glass in all the windows smeared with lime and iron-barred, none to be opened on pain of being shot. All the doors had been removed from the bedrooms and lavatories. He'd been forced to listen while his family was jeered with insults, compelled to view without comment lewd pictures of his wife and Rasputin scrawled on the walls. Yesterday he'd almost come to blows with one of the impertinent bastards. The guard had written on his daughters' bedroom wall: OUR RUSSIAN TSAR CALLED NICK. PULLED OFF HIS THRONE BY HIS PRICK.

  Enough of that, he thought.

  "What time is it?" he finally asked the guard standing over him.

  "Two AM."

  "What is wrong?"

  "It is necessary that your family be moved. The White Army is approaching the city. An attack is imminent. It would be dangerous to be in the upper rooms, if there was shooting in the streets."

  The words excited Nicholas. He'd heard the guards' whispers. The White Army had stormed across Siberia, taking town after town, regaining territory from the Reds. Over the past few days the rumble of artillery could be heard in the distance. That sound had given him hope. Perhaps his generals were finally coming and things would be put right again.

  "Rise and dress," the guard said.

  The man withdrew and Nicholas roused his wife. His son, Alexie, slept in a bed on the far side of the modest bedroom.

  He and Alexie quietly dressed in their military field shirts, trousers, boots, and forage caps, while Alexandra withdrew to their daughters' room. Unfortunately, Alexie could not walk. Yet another hemophilic hemorrhage two days before had crippled him, so Nicholas gently carried the thin thirteen-year-old into the hall.

  His four daughters appeared.

  Each was dressed in a plain black skirt and white blouse, their mother following, limping with her cane. His precious Sunshine was barely able to walk anymore--sciatica from her childhood had progressively worsened. The almost constant worry she endured for Alexie had destroyed her health, graying her once chestnut hair and fading the loving glow in eyes that had captivated him since the first day they'd met as teenagers. Her breath seemed to come quick, many times in painful gasps, her lips occasionally turning blue. She complained about her heart and back, but he wondered if the afflictions were real or just side effects of the unutterable grief she experienced, wondering if today was the day death would snatch her son.

  "What is this, Papa?" Olga asked.

  She was twenty-two, his firstborn. Thoughtful and int
elligent, she was in many ways like her mother, occasionally brooding and sulky.

  "Perhaps our salvation," he mouthed.

  A look of excitement crept across her pretty face. Her sister Tatiana, one year her junior, and Maria, two years younger, came close, carrying pillows. Tatiana was tall and stately, the leader of the girls--Governess, they all called her--and she was her mother's favorite. Maria was pretty and gentle--eyes like saucers--and flirtatious. Her desire was to marry a Russian soldier and have twenty children. His two middle daughters had heard what he said.

  He motioned for silence.

  Anastasia, seventeen, lingered with her mother, carrying King Charles, the cocker spaniel their jailers had allowed her to retain. She was short and plump with the reputation of a rebel--a monkey for jokes, her sisters would say--but her deep blue eyes were charming and he'd never been able to resist them.

  The remaining four captives quickly joined them.

  Dr. Botkin, Alexie's physician. Trupp, Nicholas's valet. Demidova, Alexandra's maid. And Kharitonov, the cook. Demidova likewise clutched a pillow, but Nicholas knew this one was special. Sewn deep within its feathers was a box containing jewels, and Demidova's task was never to allow the pillow from her sight. Alexandra and the girls likewise harbored treasure, their corsets concealing diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and ropes of pearl.

  Alexandra limped close and asked him, "Do you know what's happening?"

  "The Whites are nearby."

  Her tired face showed wonderment. "Could this be?"

  "This way, please," a familiar voice said from the stairway.

  Nicholas turned and faced Yurovsky.

  The man had arrived twelve days before with a squad from the Bolshevik Secret Police, replacing the previous commandant and his undisciplined factory-worker guards. At first the change seemed positive, but Nicholas quickly determined that these new men were professionals. Perhaps even Magyars, prisoners of war from the Austro-Hungarian army, hired by the Bolsheviks for jobs native Russians abhorred. Yurovsky was their leader. A dark man with black hair, black beard, and an unhurried way in his manner and speech. He gave orders calmly and expected them to be obeyed. Ox Command was the name with which they'd christened him, and Nicholas had quickly concluded that this demon enjoyed oppressing people.

  "We must hurry," Yurovsky said. "Time is short."

  Nicholas signaled for quiet and the entourage followed a wooden staircase down to the ground floor. Alexie slept soundly on his shoulder. Anastasia released the dog, which scurried away.

  They were led outside, across a courtyard, to a semi-basement room with one arched window. Dingy striped wallpaper covered the plaster walls. There was no furniture.

  "Wait here for the cars to arrive," Yurovsky said.

  "Where are we going?" Nicholas asked.

  "Away," was all their jailer said.

  "No chairs?" Alexandra said. "May we not sit?"

  Yurovsky shrugged and instructed one of his men. Two chairs appeared. Alexandra took one, Maria positioning the pillow she held behind her mother's back. Nicholas sat Alexie in the other. Tatiana placed her pillow behind her brother and made the boy comfortable. Demidova continued to clutch her pillow close with crossed arms.

  More artillery rumbled in the distance. The sound brought Nicholas hope.

  Yurovsky said, "It is necessary that we photograph you. There are people who believe you have already escaped. So I need you to stand here."

  Yurovsky positioned everyone. When he finished, the daughters stood behind their seated mother, Nicholas stood beside Alexie, the four non-family members behind him. Over the course of sixteen months they'd been ordered to do many strange things. This one, being awakened in the middle of the night for a picture and then being whisked away, was no exception. When Yurovsky left the room and closed the door, no one said a word.

  A moment later the door reopened.

  But no photographer with a tripod camera entered. Instead, eleven armed men paraded in. Yurovsky came last. The Russian's right hand was stuffed into his trouser pocket. He was holding a sheet of paper in the other.

  He started reading.

  "In view of the fact that your relatives are continuing their attack on the Soviet Russia, the Ural Executive Committee has decided to execute you."

  Nicholas was having trouble hearing. A vehicle engine was revving outside, loud and clamorous. Strange. He looked at his family, then faced Yurovsky and said, "What? What?"

  The Russian's expression never broke. He simply repeated the declaration in the same monotone. Then his right hand came from his pocket.

  Nicholas saw the gun.

  A Colt pistol.

  The barrel approached his head.

  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.