the Romanov Prophecy (2004) (21 page)

“In tsarist times they called the village
mir.
Peace. A good description since few ever left their village. It was their world. A place for peace.”

Outside, the factory smog of Starodug was gone, replaced with verdant trees, green hills, and hay fields that she imagined in summer were alive with meadowlarks.

Lord parked the car in front of the cabin.

The man who answered the door was short and sturdy with reddish brown hair and a face round and flush like a beet. He was, Akilina estimated, close to seventy, but moved with surprising agility. He studied them with scrutinizing eyes that she thought akin to those of a border guard, then invited them inside.

The cabin was spacious with a single bedroom, kitchen, and a cozy den. The furniture was a mismatched decor of necessity and practicality. The floors were wide planks, sanded smooth, their varnish nearly gone. There were no electric lights. All the rooms were lit by smoky oil lamps and a fireplace.

“I am Vassily Maks. Kolya was my father.”

They were seated at a kitchen table. A wood-burning stove was warming a pot of
lapsha—
the homemade noodles Akilina had always loved. The scent of roasted meat was strong, lamb if she wasn’t mistaken, tempered by the musty smell of cheap tobacco. One corner of the room was devoted to an icon surrounded by candles. Her grandmother had maintained a holy corner until the day she disappeared.

“I prepared lunch,” Maks said. “I hope you’re hungry.”

“A meal would be welcome,” Lord said. “It smells good.”

“Cooking is one of the few pleasures I have left to enjoy.” Maks stood and moved toward the stove. He stirred the simmering pot of noodles, his back to them. “My nephew said you had something to say.”

Lord seemed to understand. “He that endureth to the end shall be saved.”

The old man tabled the spoon, then sat back down. “I never believed I would hear those words. I thought them a figment of my father’s imagination. And to be spoken by a man of color.” Maks turned to Akilina. “Your name means ‘eagle,’ child.”

“So I’m told.”

“You are a lovely creature.”

She smiled.

“I hope this quest does not endanger that beauty.”

“How would it?” she asked.

The old man rubbed his bulbous nose. “When my father informed me of the duty expected, he warned that perhaps it might cost my life one day. I never took him seriously . . . until this moment.”

“What is it you know?” Lord asked.

The old man let out a breath. “I think about what happened often. My father told me I would, but I didn’t believe him. I can almost see them being awakened in the middle of night and hustled downstairs. They think the White Army is about to overrun the town and free them. Yurovsky, the mad Jew, tells them an evacuation is necessary, but first a photo needs to be taken for Moscow, to prove them alive and well. He tells everyone where to stand. But there is to be no photo. Instead, men with guns come into the room and the tsar is told that he and his family are to be executed. Then, Yurovsky points his gun.”

The old man paused and shook his head.

“Let me prepare our lunch. Then I will tell you all about what happened in Yekaterinburg that July night.”

Yurovsky fired the Colt pistol and the head of Nicholas II, Tsar of All Russia, exploded in a shower of blood. The tsar fell back toward his son. Alexandra had just started to make the sign of the cross when the other gunmen opened fire. Bullets raked the tsarina and toppled her from the chair. Yurovsky had specifically assigned a victim for each gunman and instructed that the shots be to the heart to minimize bleeding. But Nicholas’s body erupted in a fury of impacts as the other eleven executioners decided to take aim at their once divine ruler.

The shooters were arrayed in rows of three. The second and third rows were firing over the shoulders of the first, so close that many on the first row were being burned by hot exhaust. Kolya Maks stood in the first row, his neck singed twice. He’d been instructed to shoot Olga, the oldest daughter, but could not bring himself to do it. He’d been sent to Yekaterinburg to orchestrate the family’s escape, arriving three days earlier, but events had accelerated at lightning pace.

The guards had been called into Yurovsky’s office earlier. The commandant had told them, “Today, we are going to be killing the entire family and the doctor and servants living with them. Warn the detachment not to be alarmed if they hear shots.” Eleven men, including Maks, were selected. It had been a stroke of luck that Maks was chosen, but he’d come highly recommended from the Ural Soviet—a man who could be trusted to follow orders—and apparently Yurovsky was in need of loyalty.

Two Latvians immediately spoke up and said they would not shoot women. Maks had been impressed that such brutal men possessed a conscience. Yurovsky did not object to their refusal and replaced them with two more who eagerly stepped forward and expressed no reservations. The final regiment included six Latvians and five Russians, plus Yurovsky. Hardened men with the names of Nikulin, Ermakov, two Medvedevs, and Pavel. Names Kolya Maks would forever recall.

A truck was parked outside, its engine revved to cover the gunfire, which came in a fusillade. The smoke from the barrels clothed the scene in a thick, eerie fog. It was becoming difficult to see, to tell who was shooting whom. Maks reasoned that several hours of hard drinking had dulled senses to the point that no one other than himself, and perhaps Yurovsky, was sober. Few would remember the details, only that they fired at anything that moved. He’d been careful with his alcohol consumption, knowing his head had to stay clear.

Maks watched Olga’s body crumple after a bullet to the head. The shooters were aiming at each victim’s heart, but something strange was happening. The bullets simply ricocheted off the women’s chests and darted around the room like hail. One of the Latvians muttered that God was protecting them. Another wondered aloud if all this was wise.

Maks watched as Grand Duchesses Tatiana and Marie tried to cower in one corner, their arms raised for protection. Bullets raked their young bodies, some bouncing off, others penetrating. Two men broke formation and moved close, shooting both girls in the head.

The valet, the cook, and the doctor were all shot where they stood, their bodies dropping like targets at an arcade. The maid was the crazy one. She flailed wildly around the room, screaming, shielding herself with a pillow. Several of the shooters adjusted and fired into the pillow. The bullets careered away. It was frightening. What protection did these people possess? The maid’s head finally succumbed to a clean shot and her screams halted.

“Stop firing,” Yurovsky yelled.

The room went silent.

“The shots will be heard from the street. Finish them off with bayonets.”

The shooters tossed their revolvers aside and grabbed their American Winchester rifles, moving into the room.

Somehow, the maid had survived the shot to the head. She bolted upright and started picking her way over the bleeding corpses, softly wailing. Two Latvians moved toward her and thrust their daggers into the pillow she still clutched. The blades were dull and did not penetrate. She grabbed one of the bayonets and started shrieking. The men moved toward her. One crashed his rifle butt down on her head. The pitiful moan that came reminded Maks of a wounded animal. More rifle butts went down and her moans stopped. Men jabbed their bayonets into the body as if exorcizing a demon, too many thrusts for Maks to count.

Maks moved toward the tsar. Thick rivulets of blood rushed over the field shirt and trousers. The others were concentrating their bayonets on the maid and one of the grand duchesses. Acrid smoke filled the air and stifled his breath. Yurovsky was examining the tsarina.

Maks bent down and rolled Nicholas to one side. The tsarevich was underneath, dressed in the same military field shirt, trousers, boots, and forage cap he’d seen the boy wear many times. Just like his father. He knew they enjoyed dressing alike.

The boy opened his eyes. The look was one of terror. Maks immediately clamped a hand over the boy’s mouth. He then brought a finger to his lips.

“Stay still. Be dead,” he mouthed.

The boy’s eyes closed.

Maks stood and aimed his pistol down at the floor just beside the boy’s head and fired. The bullet ripped into the planking and Alexie jarred. Maks fired again on the other side and hoped no one noticed the body jerk, but everyone seemed consumed with the surrounding carnage. Eleven victims, twelve executioners, the space tight, time short.

“Was the tsarevich still alive?” Yurovsky asked through the smoke.

“Not anymore,” Maks said.

The answer seemed to satisfy the commandant.

Maks rolled the bloodied body of Nicholas II back on top of the boy. He looked up as one of the Latvians moved toward the youngest daughter, Anastasia. She’d fallen in the initial volley and lay prostrate on the floor amid a thickening sea of blood. The girl was moaning, and Maks wondered if some of the bullets had found their mark. The Latvian was raising his rifle butt to finish the job when Maks stopped him.

“Let me,” he mouthed. “I have not had the pleasure.”

A smile curled on the other man’s face and he backed away. Maks stared down at the girl. Her chest heaved from labored breath, blood streamed off her dress, but it was hard to tell if it was hers or from her sister’s body nearby.

May God forgive him.

He brought the rifle butt down onto the girl’s head. He angled it for a glance, enough to pound her into unconsciousness, but hopefully not enough to kill her.

“I’ll finish her,” Maks said, reversing the rifle to prepare the bayonet.

Luckily, the Latvian moved to another corpse without an argument.

“Stop,” Yurovsky yelled.

The room went eerily quiet. No more flesh being serrated with blades. No more gunshots. No more moans. Just twelve men standing in thick smoke, the overhead electric lamp like the sun in a storm.

“Open the doors and let the smoke disperse,” Yurovsky said. “We can’t see a damn thing. Then check for pulses and report.”

Maks moved straight to Anastasia. There was a pulse, faint and light. “Grand Duchess Anastasia. Dead,” he called out.

Other guards reported more deaths. Maks moved to the tsarevich and rolled Nicholas over. He felt the boy’s pulse. Beating strong. He wondered if he’d even been hit. “Tsarevich. Dead.”

“Good fucking riddance,” one of the Latvians said.

“We must remove these corpses quickly,” Yurovsky said. “This room has to be cleaned before morning.” The commandant faced one of the Russians. “Go get some sheets from upstairs.” He turned back. “Start laying the bodies out straight.”

Maks watched as a Latvian grabbed one of the grand duchesses. Exactly which was hard to tell.

“Look,” the man cried.

Everyone’s attention went to the bloodied young woman. Maks moved close with the others. Yurovsky came over. A glistening diamond shone through the ripped corset. The commandant bent down and fingered the stone. He then grabbed one of the bayonets and opened an incision in the corset, sliding the garment free from the dead torso. More jewels tinkered down, splattering the blood on the floor.

“The stones shielded them,” Yurovsky said. “Bloody bastards sewed them into their clothes.”

Some of the other men realized the fortune that lay around them and started for the women.

“No,” Yurovsky shouted. “Later. But anything found is to be turned over to me. It belongs to the state. Anyone keeping even a button will be shot. Clear?”

No one said a word.

The man arrived with sheets. Maks knew that Yurovsky was in a hurry to get the bodies away from the house. He’d made that clear earlier. Dawn was only a few hours away and the White Army was just outside town, approaching fast.

The tsar’s body was wrapped first and carried out to the waiting truck.

One of the grand duchesses was tossed on a stretcher. Suddenly, the girl bolted upright and started to scream. Horror gripped everyone. It almost seemed like heaven was working against them. The doors and windows of the house were now open, so there could be no more gunshots. Yurovsky palmed one of the rifles and thrust the blade into the girl’s chest. The blade barely penetrated. He quickly reversed the rifle and slammed the butt into her head. Maks heard the skull crack. Yurovsky then jammed the blade deep into the girl’s neck and twisted. There was gurgling and wrenching, blood spouted, then all movement stopped.

“Get these witches out of here,” Yurovsky muttered. “They are possessed.”

Maks moved to Anastasia and wrapped her in one of the sheets. A commotion came from the hall. Another of the grand duchesses had come back to life, and Maks glanced out to see men descend upon her with rifle butts and knives. He used the distraction to move to the tsarevich, still lying in the blood of his parents.