Prologue – Part 1
16 July, 1918
“Wake up, Nastenka. Wake up.”
Anastasia opened her eyes. Maria was there, standing over her. “What is it, Masha?”
“We’re being gathered together.”
“Gathered together?”
“Dr. Botkin says we’re to get dressed and be downstairs at once.”
Anastasia lifted up her head, watching her sister as she made her way towards her wardrobe. The former grand duchess mused for a moment how her and her older sister, though paired together, seemed so different. Anastasia, the smaller one people used to compare to a squirrel, and Marie, the older, brawnier one whom people compared to their grandfather. Outside, a weird whirring sound could be heard, and Anastasia pondered for a moment what it was. So much had been happening in Yekaterinburg ever since they arrived that her wonder meant much more than a young woman’s confusion. There had been a riot not too recently, and Marie had overheard from the ever increasingly nervous guards that their fellow Bolsheviks were in retreat, with the enemy advancing on the city. Just earlier that day, one guard had said something about a “Czech Legion” being within eight days’ journey.
“What’s that noise?” Anastasia asked.
For a moment, Maria looked annoyed, but her face soon softened. Without a protest, and still in her nightgown, she stepped over to the window and peeked out. “There’s a truck running outside the house. I don’t know why.”
“Doesn’t that seem peculiar?”
“I don’t know, maybe it’s what will be taking us. Get dressed, Nastenka.”
Anastasia got out of bed, but paused when a thought came to her. “Are you hiding your…?”
“Of course I am!”
“Are you certain you don’t want to give any to your future husbands as they escort us?”
Maria’s usually pale cheeks turned visibly flushed. “Hush! You’re so mean.”
Anastasia giggled, then went to get dressed. Like Maria, she took the jewels they had smuggled from their homes, shortly after their arrest, and fastened them onto her corset. The large jewels and metallic pieces felt heavy, and in her mind Anastasia compared it with armor. She thought of those paintings of brave Russian knights from the days of old, or those medieval characters shown on the war posters. It was a silly notion, of course. Putting her imagination aside, her dress was slipped over her body, and the two sisters helped one another complete the finishing touches.
They stepped outside, and some of the guards who had been positioned at the house were there. Anastasia had grown to greatly dislike them, even if Maria had managed to win some of them over. Whether or not any of them were kind, they were still Bolsheviks, and haters of her family – that was all she had to know. They were even worse than the guards that had formerly cared for them, back when the Russian government had been content enough with her father abdicating the throne. These Bolsheviks, however? They seemed to have an underlying hatred of them. They would even draw crude things on the fence outside, just to make them blush. They would laugh loudly in the evening and talk coarsely to anyone, even mother.
Even now, they motioned down the hall, without a word or even a glance to make eye contact, forgoing the respect the girls deserved not only as former royals, but as women. Anastasia and Maria continued towards the stairway, finding their mother and father already moving down the steps. Nicholas stood dressed, and Alexandria held the arms of their younger brother, Prince Alexei, to help him stand. The young, former heir to the throne was yawning terribly as he walked, and he looked like he needed more strength to lift his eyelids than his feet. The older sisters, Tatiana and Olga, were not too far behind mother and father. All the daughters, Anastasia noted, had chosen to wear white blouses and dark skirts. A strange, providential coincidence. Her old friend, Rasputin, would have mused that it was probably the working of the Holy Spirit’s energies upon the whole family. How she missed him at times like this…
“What’s happening, father?” Olga was asking. Her brows were furrowed in worry. “Where are they taking us?”
Tatiana ran a hand down her sister’s arm. “Olga, be at peace.”
Nikolai, however, did respond. “I suspect we shall be moved soon.”
“Speak only in Russian!” blurted a Bolshevik behind them.
Anastasia turned and glared at the guard. “Papa
was speaking in Russian!”
“Anastasia!” hissed Tatiana sharply.
“Well, he was!”
“Shut up!” said the guard. “Get downstairs.”
To Anastasia’s surprise, they were not taken into any of the rooms on the first floor, but a room down in the basement. Ivan Kharitonov, their head cook, Alexei Trupp, their chief footman, Anna Demidova, their maid, and Dr. Eugene Botkin, their family physician, were already there. Anastasia pondered for a moment why these four would be whisked away with them in the dead of night, but figured as they had all refused to leave the family’s side, it was only natural that they would come. They probably would have refused to be separated. Dr. Botkin would certainly be necessary for Alexei’s sake. Poor, poor little brother.
As the group milled together in the medium-sized room, the sound of footsteps drew silence, and all faces turned. Yakov Yurovsky, the chief of the Bolshevik guard at the house, had come down the steps. His men, who seemed either too tired – or too drunk – to salute him, didn’t even lift their gaze as he walked in. Anastasia immediately felt her blood boil. Everyone in the family, she knew, hated the man. He was responsible for many of the tightening restrictions they had to endure, and he rarely told them anything of the outside world – they had to find out from word of mouth or from whatever guard Maria had fallen in love with at the time. Either way, his sudden appearance hadn’t made the night any better.
Yakov paused to study the family, then began to point and give orders. “Nikolai, there. Alexandra, there… Maria there, Tatiana there… no, there…” And so on it went, with the family ordered about about towards different spots in the room. All of it was against the wall.
Maria and Anastasia took spots near the door. Maria whispered to Anastasia, “One of the men told me he used to be a photographer before the war, can you believe it?”
“Is he going to take our photograph?” Anastasia asked.
“Girls, be quite, please,” came Alexandra’s whispered orders. They were in English, tinged with her native German, and yet, unlike in the stairway, no one barked at her.
Once everyone had been placed somewhere, Yakov nodded, then left up the stairway. Anastasia saw his boots disappear past the top of the doorway.
“Could we have a chair for my wife and my son?” Nikolai asked. “He hasn’t been feeling well.”
One of the Bolsheviks lifted up his gaze, then adjusted his hat. It had gone off kilter. “What?”
“Could we please have some chairs for my wife and son?”
The Bolshevik blinked one eye, then the other, like an infant waking up, then said, “Alright, yer majesty...” He left out the door, while the other guard snickered.
“He is
still your majesty, to you!” Anastasia barked.
Tatiana shot her sister a sharp, motherly look. “Anastasia, will you guard your tongue?”
Maria broad hands patted Anastasia on the shoulder. With her strength, it almost like a boy doing so. “I know you’re upset, Nastenka, but please… this will be over soon. We just have to endure it for now.”
“Why, are the Whites coming? Are they coming to rescue father?”
“I don’t know...”
The guard returned, carrying two chairs awkwardly under each arm. Their legs bonked on either side of the doorway as he came in. They were placed down by Alexandra and Alexei without further adjustment. Nikolai helped his wife and son to sit down. Anastasia noticed the strangely shaped bulges in Alexei’s tunic, and realized that he must be wearing jewelry underneath his clothing, like all of them were. She felt pity for him, as it couldn’t have helped his already worsening condition. It must have been unbearable for him to walk – it was no wonder he had to sit down. She wished she could have gone over and hugged him, and told him it would be okay, but they were told to wait where they were.
There were footsteps, and then Yakov reappeared. He was flanked by several men, who all spread out in a line about him as they entered the room. There was a pause among the group. Yakov stepped forward, then surveyed the room. He seemed to consider where he had placed everyone again, with that photographer’s eye that Maria had mentioned. At last, his eyes stopped on Nikolai, the former tsar. There were no words said. Yakov merely stared at him, and seemed to… hesitate. Anastasia felt like, behind those glassy, cold eyes, something was stirring. Like there was a fight going on. Two thoughts in conflict with each other. There was an argument in his head, loud as a shout and yet no one but Yakov could hear it. His boots creaked in the silent room as he leaned forward, then rocked back to come on his heels again. Once again, those glassy eyes scanned the room, from one end to the other. He came upon Anastasia, and seemed to linger on her. Then, with a snap of his head, he turned back to Nikolai.
Yakov took a deep breath, then said:
“Nikolai Alexandrovich. In view of the fact that your relatives are continuing their attack on Soviet Russia, the Ural Executive Committee has decided to execute you.”
Nikolai blinked and turned to his family. “What?”
“Nikolai Alexandrovich,” repeated Yakov, “in view of the fact that your relatives are continuing their attack on Soviet Russia, the Ural Executive Committee has decided to execute you.”
“But-”
Yakov lifted his pistol. A flash of light burst forth. Two more followed. Nikolai tumbled back, gripping his chest.
Immediately the other men lifted their pistols. Maria and Anastasia both screamed and fell on their knees. Flashes of light flashed about like fireworks. Anastasia heard her servants cry out, and saw their bodies tumbling down. Her mother jerked form the chair and tumbled down, her face a bloodied mess. Tatiana and Olga covered their heads and bowed down. “Mama! Mama!!” they cried. Blood burst through their white blouses, and they jerked to the ground. Maria stood and ran to the doors, only to be jerked forward and slam headfirst into it. Suddenly, Anastasia felt a hard thud against her torso. Sharp pain filled her body, followed by more hard thuds. There was what felt like a punch to her thigh, and pain surged through her leg. Warm fluid drenched her skirt. She gripped her leg and fell, feeling more blows to her chest. Her mind was swirling. It smelled like burning metal, copper, and fire. The loud clanging of the guns from only several feet away rang through her ears. Smoke filled her nostrils, causing her to inhale deep and forget momentarily how to breathe.
“Stop shooting, you fools!” came a cry.
The gunfire stopped. Some of the men coughed, waving their hands. The smoke refused to dissipate.
The voice continued. “I could hear you outside, loud as dogs!”
“Even with the engine running?”
“Yes!”
Yakov cursed. “Get everything together. Gather the bodies.”
It was then that Anastasia realized she wasn’t dead. Her body hurt too much to move. The smoke she had inhaled still burned her nostrils, making her fearful to breathe. Her brain gave her little energy to do much else except turn her eyes gently around, observing all the details in the room as if she were in slumber. Near her, she could hear a soft, whimpering cry. She realized then that it was her little brother. The young boy was leaning back on the chair, clutching his torso. He was crying, sniffling even. He began to mutter for his mother. Muttering for their mother, whom Anastasia saw lying on the floor not too far from her. Motionless. A pool of blood forming under her head.
“This one isn’t dead yet,” a man said.
“What? Finish him off!”
The man took out a knife. Anastasia’s still eyes watched as he plunged it several times into the small boy. He grunted with frustration, unsure why his knife seemed unable to penetrate properly. Yakov cursed the man, then pulled out his own pistol and fired a shot right into her little brother’s head. The prince, the heir to Russia, the next tsar, that little boy that Olga, Tatiana, Maria, and Anastasia had doted on and cared for… that little boy fell to the ground, his body still. He had fallen many times in his life, to everyone’s worry. No one would ever worry again – because now, he would never rise up again.
The men came to the daughters next. Anastasia could hear some of the men snickering as they began to investigate them. She heard her sister Maria suddenly groan, and one of the men said, “She’s still alive too.” He took out a sharp knife, and grunted as he tore at her dress. “They have jewels here!”
“Really? Do the others have jewels?” Another man went to Anastasia. She felt the front of her blouse torn with the knife, and her corset revealed underneath. The man grinned wide. “They sure do. No wonder our bullets did nothing.”
“So do these!” said a Bolshevik over by Tatiana and Olga. “Look at this. You could get a lot in Moscow for this.”
“The boy has some too.”
Men began to yank jewels off of the bodies. Some showed them off to others, smiling with crooked, rotten teeth. Others were starting to shove them into their pockets. Yakov intervened, his voice rising in anger. “Stop it! Stop it! All of you! You, put that back. You too.” He growled and took out his pistol, waving it about the air. “I said put it back! You, finish that girl off. Then I want every single last one of you in my office. Nobody is taking anything from the bodies!”
The man in front of Maria growled under his breadth, but offered no other protest. He took Maria by the neck, then lifted his pistol. Anastasia watched as Maria held up a weak, feeble arm. Her lips mouthed a weak, “
Nyet...” It was all she could do before the pistol went off with a loud bang. The back of her head exploded in blood. Anastasia saw that arm drop. The man let go of her body then, letting it slump onto the ground. Without another consideration for his murder of the grand duchess, the guard turned and followed the other men out of the room.
What was she to feel at that moment? To lie there, surrounded by her family, brutally murdered? In truth, Anastasia was uncertain how to respond. Her body was still in immense pain, from head to foot, with the agony growing by the second. Her head swirled as her mind tried to take in everything that had happened. It was like she was in a dream, and yet her consciousness knew it was no dream. It refused to accept what had happened, and yet it knew, deep within, what had happened. What’s more, part of her desired to escape. Her body knew it had to escape, to survive, to live again. Her heart was being mocked by her mind. Her mind told her of reality, her heart of will. And reality seemed opposed to her will.
With what little strength she had, she rolled onto her front. One arm was moist with a copper-scented liquid, and moved very little. The other had what little strength she could muster, and with feeble, soft pushes of her legs, she made her way towards the double doors near her. In several seconds, she was there, and lifting up.
“Please, Mother of God,” she muttered, “please… let me…”
Her hand, which she now saw was covered in red, lifted up before her face. Her shaking, unstable fingers curled and uncurled as she ran it up towards the door knob. A door knob which… she could not reach. She groaned, finding it just outside of her grip. It was like she was a little girl again. That helpless little girl in the palace who couldn’t reach the doorknob. Could her servants help her? No, they were all dead. Could her sisters help her? No, they were all dead, too. Even Maria, her accomplice, her partner-in-crime… she too was dead. Her mother and father? No… it couldn’t be. The mighty Tsar of Russia? The descendant of Ivan the Great, Alexander I, and Alexander III? Dead? That couldn’t be. And her mother, who had kept the all together and sane for so long? No, that was a lie. Her mind swirled, unable to come to grips with what was going on. Her sanity refused to relent to the truth. No… someone had to be alive to help her… to help this poor little girl who couldn’t reach the door… someone had to be out there… mother… father… help…
“Mama… mama...” came a weak voice.
No response. The room was quiet.
“Mama… papa…”
Tears filled her eyes. Her hand began to slide down the doorway, her strength at last leaving her. Her mind was turning black as the pain became unbearable. There was no one. Nobody. This was it. She was going to be in Paradise, with Christ and her old friend. The chill of the door touched her cheek as her arm finally lost all strength, and her head leaned against the wood.
“Papa… papa… pa…”
A hand snatched her shoulder.