Prologue – Part 3
16 July, 1918
It got cold at night. Mikhail knew that well. Nonetheless, the cold that night seemed a bit unnatural. He tugged on his long coat, trying to get it closer to his throat, as a strange breeze brushed across his flesh. It was uncomfortable, but he had to count himself lucky. His small unit had been moved to Yekaterinburg, deeper in the Urals, and away from Kolchak and his Siberian Army. They had continued making headway, with no end to their advance in sight. Rumor had it that “the Black Baron” was moving up from the south, towards Moscow. There were rumblings in the ranks on how long this situation would last, but Filipp Goloshchyokin, their dear fearless leader in this region, forbid any and all talk of this, and was ready to whack a soldier over the head with the butt of his pistol if this was disobeyed.
Nearby, the truck they had escorted outside the large mansion was running. Strange, too – it had simply parked and then been left on, with the driver heading in. Nobody had come out of the mansion for several minutes. Mikhail glanced his head towards the mansion and, through the puffs of smoke he blew from his cigarette, could see some of the lights come on, then off, on the second floor. Was it true that the former tsar was there, with his whole family? Deposed and kept under house arrest?
It was all the better for the young Bolshevik soldier. He had signed up partially because of the way his family suffered under the Tsar. Originally they had lived in St. Petersburg, and his father was one of those killed the fateful day when protesters went to show their love and support to the Tsar, only to be murdered like rabble. His mother had taken them out of the city for fear of reprisal, and they had done their best in the harsh conditions to make ends meet. Yet even the hard work of his mother, himself and his brothers wasn’t enough. His siblings died, one by one, before finally his mother had died, perhaps more from anguish than from starvation and sickness.
His youngest sister… she had been the worst. He still had vivid memories of her final days. He could see her, dark haired and laying in bed. Her eyes were rolled under her eyelids, her face pale, her flesh drenched in sweat from a fever. She couldn’t even speak fragmented sentences. She would mutter for her mother at first, but in her final moments, her delirious mind began to make her cry out for father. Still there were nights when Mikhail found himself plagued by dreams where he could see her, and hear that stuttering voice clear as day: “Mama… mama… papa… papa… pa…” And then, the voice went silent forever. Every dream, it ended that same way, with his sister giving those pitiful cries for a parent who would never come… in a moment where she had been determined to die…
His family had been killed because the upper classes had deemed them expendable. The Communists and Anarchists had offered him answers. Vultures, parasites, leeches – all of them. They were to be removed, and the revolution made a reality. The people across the world would no longer be lead by kings and tsars, but by the people. If men like the Tsar had to be taken down and placed in chains to right the wrongs of society, let him be placed in chains – he needed to get at least a little taste of what people like Mikhail’s family had experienced.
The heat from the shrinking cigarette could be felt against his lips, contrasting with the chill in the air. Mikhail dropped his cigarette on the ground and snuffed it out with his boot before asking aloud, “Should I turn that off? We’re wasting petrol.”
Goloshchyokin snarled at the soldier. “Shut up and leave it on. Don’t ask again.”
Mikhail nodded, hiding his disgust. Even a bad gleam of the eyes got a soldier in trouble with this army. And of all the officers, Goloshchyokin was the worst he had encountered. The look on his face did not settle well with the boy, and he seemed to be the kind of man who, in his youth, had enjoyed lighting the tails of cats on fire just to see them run off in panic. Turning his eyes to the other soldiers, he could see some of them shared their annoyance. No doubt they, like Mikhail, were wondering just why they had been summoned here. Their silent annoyance, however, suggested that, like Mikhail, they’d rather be here than out fighting the Whites.
“Anybody got another-”
BOOM. BOOM BOOM.
The men jumped. They turned their eyes to the house.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Despite the loud hum of the truck, they could hear the gunshots clear as if the truck hadn’t been running at all. Goloshchyokin cursed and ran back into the mansion. From inside, his shouting could be heard over the gunshots, followed by an abrupt silence. The soldiers outside waited patiently, staring at the mansion. There were a few more gunshots, but otherwise there was nothing but silence. Mikhail swallowed and turned to his comrades who all looked pale. Even the harder ones he knew seemed to be thinking what he was thinking: something had happened inside.
Goloshchyokin came back up, grumbling to himself. “Yakov is enacting some discipline, the fool.” He pointed to Mikhail. “Go guard the door to the cellar. Make sure no one gets in.”
Mikhail nodded, then picked up his rifle. Without another word, he headed towards the stairway leading down into the mansion cellar. To his surprise, the doorway had been left open. As soon as he got to the bottom, he looked in, and froze.
The entire royal family was there. They had been slaughtered. He could barely identify some, but he recognized the Tsar and his family from photos in the newspapers. The tunic of Nikolai was torn from bullet holes, and the face of the Tsarina was covered in blood, a large hole in her forehead. The crown prince was on the ground, his small body a lifeless lump of flesh, clothing, and a bloodied head. Other people of various ages were there, strewn about, covered in blood.
They had killed the Tsar. And not only the Tsar, but his entire family.
A groan came from near the door on the opposite wall. When Mikhail looked, he saw one of the young women, wearing a bloodied, torn white blouse, forcing her way to the door. It must have been one of the Tsar’s daughters. One of his little brats that had grown up in wealth and luxury while his family starved to death. Had she survived the shooting? She must have. He could see her reach up a bloodied hand towards the door knob. Yet in his mind, all he could think was hate. Hatred towards this girl. A girl who had grown up in wealth and luxury all her life. How many times had this evil witch dined on twenty course meals while Mikhail’s younger siblings begged mother for a crumb? How many times had she gone to a warm, thick bed with a fireplace in her bedroom, while Mikhail huddled in a corner, wrapped in a coat? How many times had she gone to balls to see countless noblemen while Mikhail traveled to town only to find out more of his neighbors had passed? The more he asked these questions to himself, the more and more the very sight of the struggling girl filled him with revulsion.
“One got away,” he whispered. With a shrug of his shoulder, the strap holding his rifle slid down, and the barrel landed in his hand. Mikhail now lifted his rifle and aimed the barrel straight towards the girl’s head. Being only several feet away, he had a good, clear shot. All he had to do was pull the trigger, and a bullet would end the girl’s life. Already, in his mind, he could see the royal blood splattered against the doorway. Already, he could see the smile from his comrades, feel the pats on his back, and see the grinning face of even hard-nosed Goloshchyokin. He could get a promotion for this. All he had to do was pull the trigger.
As he aimed, a timid, sad voice left the girl’s throat:
“Mama… mama…”
Mikhail kept his rifle pointed. His lips curled into a snarl.
She’s a leach, he reminded himself.
She’s a vulture. She deserves to die. This is the fate of all royalists. His lower jaw began to grind his teeth in a slow, steady rhythm. The finger on the trigger squeezed gently.
“Mama… papa…”
His finger stiffened. That snarl on his face stayed. A low sound of his teeth grinding filled the room. And yet…
And yet…
…he felt the warmth of an involuntary tear sliding down, trailing slowly over the curve of his cheek.
“Papa… pa… pa…”
Pull the trigger. End the vulture’s life.
“Pa…”
“It’s… it’s okay...”
It was Mikhail’s voice. His rifle was still aimed at her head. He could have pulled the trigger and ended this girl’s life. With a tighter squeeze, it would have all been over for her. And yet, he could not pull the trigger. His mind told him to. His mind ordered him to. His mind BEGGED him to pull the trigger and kill this royalist vermin.
And yet… his finger remained still.
“It’s… it’s okay,” Mikhail murmured, even as he felt the cold of his weapon against his cheek. “Don’t worry… I’ll get help.”
He lowered the rifle now, staring at the girl. Her hand was sliding down the door, her strength clearly weakening. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, he leaned forward and gripped her by the shoulder. As soon as his fingers curled around her shoulder, the girl suddenly slumped forward. A gasp left the soldier’s lips, worried that she had died. When he turned her over, however, he could see the flare of her nostrils as she breathed. He swallowed, and then wondered how, exactly, he was to move her. The thought occurred to use his coat to cover her body, or at the very least keep the rest of his body from getting blood as he moved her. Moving quickly, he undid his coat, wrapped it around the girl, and lifted her up. She seemed to be completely unconscious, and didn’t even mutter a peep as he walked her out of the room. He took her up the stairs and glanced over by the truck. The soldiers were facing away, enjoying another cigarette. Mikhail leaped to the other side of the house, towards some thick trees and bushes. It was there that he laid the girl down, as gently as he could. For a moment, he pressed a finger against her nostrils. Warm air flowed out. With a sigh of relief, he got up and rushed back to the cellar.
He was there when Yakov returned with his men. “Everything alright?” he asked.
Mikhail saluted. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” He motioned for his men into the cellar. “Collect them and put them in the truck.” Yakov turned then to head towards the truck, where he began to speak with Goloshchyokin. Mikhail watched and waited as the two men were occupied speaking, then glanced into the cellar. Yakov’s men, who seemed drunk and disoriented, were collecting the bodies, and none seemed suspicious of the number of corpses. He swallowed hard, and, for the first time in many years, began to pray. As the bodies were carried out, one by one, he waited for someone to bring up that one of the girls was missing. However, nobody seemed to protest anything. At last, Yakov went to join the driver in the truck, and it drove off.
Goloshchyokin led some men towards the cellar door, joining Mikhail. “Get in the mansion, and collect whatever you can. Burn what you find.” He paused to study Mikhail. “Where’s your jacket?”
“It got hot in there, sir,” Mikhail replied.
The answer seemed to satisfy Goloshchyokin, who was obviously more excited about the chance of looting than enforcing uniform standards. “Get in the mansion, all of you. Burn any papers you find. I don’t want any record left that these pieces of trash ever existed.”
The soldiers all departed to execute this order, most of them heading through the front door, while others moved around to the back. Mikhail made as if he were following them, and yet, as he lingered back, he soon diverted his motion towards the nearby trees. Heading into the thick woods, he found his jacket where he had left it.
And found it empty.
Mikhail blinked. He looked about frantically. Within his tunic, his heart was racing. The fright only lasted a moment, for he saw, a few feet away, that the girl had somehow managed to crawl towards a tree. She was leaning against it, like a baby learning to crawl. Heavy gasps left her mouth, and sweat was building over her face. Mikhail grabbed his coat, then went over and wrapped it around the girl. Once again, she offered no resistance, and he had to wonder for a moment if she even knew he was there. When he picked her up, he was amazed at how light she seemed, even though, when glancing at her face, he perceived she might have been closer to his age.
Holding her in his arms, Mikhail was struck suddenly by how beautiful the girl was. Her head was laying against one of his arms, looking upward, though her eyes were closed. She had a classical beauty face, with soft cheeks and yet a tender neck. Dark hair was matted about her pale face, highlighting her flesh. She was a combination of girl and woman, youth and blooming adulthood, all in one.
At any rate, he had to get her to a good hiding place… and he only knew of one in the town: the British consulate. He’d heard that the British consul was under suspicion of being allied with the Romanovs, and as he was the only British diplomat in the country at the time, he was under greater watch. Still, if he was friendly to the Romanovs, Mikhail was certain he could at least try to help. He made his way on foot through the dark streets of the town, using as many alleyways as he could find, and managed to get to the house. Once there he banged on the door with the tip of his boot.
A female voice called from the other side, speaking in Russian. “Who is it?”
“Please, open the door,” Mikhail said. “I have a girl hurt here. She needs help.”
The door creaked open, and an elderly woman’s eye looked out, incredulity gleaming within it. She stared at Mikhail, then glanced down. At once, her facial expression changed into one of shock. She opened the door wide, gawking at the young girl. “What is this?”
Mikhail rushed in, using his size difference over the woman to gain entryway. Once he was in, she shut the door. “Please, I need help.”
“What’s going on?”
It was the voice of another man. When Mikhail looked to a nearby stairway, he saw Thomas Preston, the British consulate, coming down the steps. He wore a fanciful robe, and was holding the stairway with one hand as he studied the scene through tired eyes. When he saw the girl in Mikhail’s hands, he grimaced. “What… who is…” Something seemed to dawn on him. His eyes widened as large as eggs. “Her royal highness…”
“What?!” the old woman squawked.
“Anastasia,” Preston remarked. He rushed down the steps, then over to Mikhail. He regarded the soldier with confusion. “What happened to her?”
Mikhail swallowed. “They shot her. They shot the whole family.”
Preston’s face grimaced. “I feared as much. We heard the gunshots from the mansion.” A sigh left his lips. “I tried to telegram the Foreign Secretary in London about it. An officer at the telegram station snatched the telegram from my hand at the office before I could.”
“Please, she needs help. She might die.” Mikhail gripped her close. He could feel Anastasia’s head roll over, her cheek pressed against his firm chest. “Please, you must!”
The British man pressed a hand against Mikhail’s shoulder and squeezed. “I can get you a doctor. But she can’t stay here. I know of a place outside of town. We’ll take you both there.” He turned to the old woman. “Call for Dr. Rostov. Also, get this man my jacket and hat. It’ll look less suspicious when they use my car. Oh! I’m getting ahead of myself. Wake my driver. Yes, eh what? That will do.”
As the woman rushed off, Mikhail said, “We may not have enough time for that.”
“My dear boy, I’m doing all I can,” Preston said. The look on his face was a mix of exasperation and worry. “The Bolsheviks don’t like me. When I first met them, they said they weren’t sure if they should greet me or shoot me. They said that to me! Even now, I’ve been warned by the Swiss consulate that the Ural Soviets are looking for any excuse to kill me. If those monsters realize that one of the grand duchesses is missing, I am certain this house will be one of the very first they search. That is why I cannot keep you here long.” He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, then sighed. “But believe me, I will help however I must. See here, put the poor girl down here...”
Mikhail, with Preston’s help, laid Anastasia on a nearby couch. The girl was still sweating, but, to Mikhail’s relief, still seemed very much alive. He knelt down beside her and adjusted her head to make certain she was comfortable. As he did, his fingers shifted through the locks of her dark hair. It was amazingly smooth, and flowed about the space between his fingers like he were running his hands under a waterfall. Once again, he was struck by her beauty, and yet, he was also struck by her… humanity. Her chest rose and fell in deep intervals as she breathed heavily, and her eyelids fluttered in a sporadic pattern. Laying here like this, he didn’t think of her as a rich noblewoman, let alone the daughter of the Tsar. No… she was just another girl. Another Russian woman with a will, if not desire to live. It was strange – even disgusting – to think that, only less than an hour ago, he had seriously thought to shoot a bullet through this young girl’s head.
“Pa… pa…” came a weak voice from her throat.
Without thinking, Mikhail reached out and took her hand. He felt those bloodied fingers immediately squeeze around his palm. Surprisingly, it almost hurt, but he didn’t mind – it was yet another sign that she was still very much alive.
“We’ll put my hat and coat on you,” Preston explained. He took out a handkerchief from his robe pocket and used it to dab Anastasia’s forehead. “If anyone sees you leaving out the back to my car, they’ll think I’m on a drive. Oh, no worries about returning the clothing, I have plenty more. But… ah. This poor girl. This poor, poor girl…”
“Ma… ma…”
Mikhail began to pat Anastasia’s hand. “Please tell me she’ll live… please tell me she’ll live…”
“I cannot promise anything. The doctor will tell you. However…” Preston pressed his lips together. “If she lives… oh, what would that mean for Russia…?”