Yekaterinburg 16 JULY
Irina’s 23rd B.D.
11°C Tuesday
Grey morning, later lovely sunshine. Baby has a slight cold. All went out 1/2 hour in the morning, Olga and I arranged our medicines.
3:00 Tatyana read Spir. Readings.3. They went out, T. stayed with me & we read: Book of the Pr. Amos & Pr. Obadiah. Tatted. Every morning the komend. comes to our rooms, at last after a week brought eggs again for Baby.
8:00 Supper.
Suddenly Leonka Sednyov was fetched to go & see his Uncle & flew off – wonder whether it’s true & we shall see the boy back again!
Played bezique with Nicky.
10:30 to bed. 15 degrees.
Not quite two hours later the sound of a simple electric bell signaled the beginning of the end.
17
Even though I had been removed from The House of Special Purpose, I have read so many eyewitness accounts and studied so many documents, that in my mind’s eye I can picture it all as if it were a movie. We know, for example, that by eleven o’clock Nikolai was asleep, having escaped into the depth of darkness, for sleep was his only refuge from depression. And I am certain that Aleksandra, who had been sleeping so poorly, was tossing and turning next to him, madly listening for that midnight whistle that was never to be heard. Otherwise, we know that the only other prisoner who was awake was Dr. Botkin, who sat at the large desk off the living room, writing a prophetic letter to some friend, a certain Sasha. Botkin never finished the letter, of course; it languishes in the Moscow archives, exactly where the doctor broke off…
My dear, good friend Sasha,
I am making a last attempt at writing a real letter – at least from here – although that qualification, I believe is utterly superfluous. I do not think that I was fated at any time to write anyone from anywhere. My voluntary confinement here is restricted less by time than by my earthly existence. In essence I am dead – dead for my children, for my work… I am dead but not yet buried, or buried alive – whichever, the consequences are nearly identical… My children may hold out hope that we will see each other again in this life… but I personally do not indulge in that hope… and I look the unadulterated reality right in the eye… The day before yesterday, as I was peacefully reading Saltykov-Shchedrin, whom I greatly enjoy, I suddenly saw a vision of my son Yuri’s face, Yuri who died in battle in 1914. He was dead, lying in a horizontal position, his eyes closed. Then yesterday, again while reading, I suddenly heard a word that sound like Papulya – dear Papa – and I nearly burst into sobs. Again, this is not a hallucination because the word was pronounced, the voice was identical, and I did not doubt for an instant that my daughter, Tatyana, who was supposed to be in Tobolsk, was talking to me. I will probably never hear that voice so dear or feel that touch so dear with which my little children have so spoiled me. If faith without works is dead, then deeds can live without faith. This vindicates my last decision. When I unhesitatingly orphaned my own children to carry out my physician’s duty to the end, as Abraham did not hesitate at God’s demand to sacrifice his only son-
Hard and shrill, the electric bell rang with a chill just then, shattering the peace of that midsummer’s night and interrupting Botkin midsentence. He immediately put down his pen without the slightest thought that he would never pick it up again. Instead, he focused on the bell, understanding that something was quite wrong, for that was the alarm that roused them for morning inspection, yet here it was now approaching one at night. Concerned, Botkin slid back his chair and stood. He adjusted his gold wire-rimmed spectacles and pulled at his leather suspenders. He could hear noises from beyond – noises from the room of the guards – and he glanced into the living room, where the manservant, Trupp, had been roused from his sleep and was now propped up on his elbows.
“What’s happening?” asked Trupp, his eyes puffy with sleep.
Botkin shrugged and ran one hand over his round balding head. “Bog znayet.” Only God knows.
The door leading from the front halls rattled and opened, and Yurovsky emerged into the living room.
Botkin stepped forward, and asked, “What’s the matter?”
The komendant calmly replied, “The town is uneasy tonight and it’s too dangerous for all of you to remain upstairs. Would you kindly wake up Citizen Romanov and his family and ask them to dress as quickly as possible? For safety reasons all of you will be moved downstairs. This will only be for a short period, so instruct them not to bring anything at all along.”
“Yasno.” Understood.
As if he were inviting friends to the dinner table, Yurovsky’s summons to mass murder was that easy, that simple. When the komendant disappeared, Botkin turned to Trupp, and the two men silently stared at each other, both of them wondering what this really meant.
Finally, Botkin took a deep breath, screwed up his eyes, and said, “I’ll go wake them.”
Wearing just an undershirt and his suspenders and pants, he crossed into the dining room, where he turned the switch for the electric chandelier. No sooner had the lights burst on than Nikolai appeared in the doorway on the opposite side of the room.
“What is it?” asked Nikolai, wearing his nightshirt. “We heard the bells.”
“By orders of Komendant Yurovsky we are to dress and move downstairs. He says it’s for our own safety – apparently there’s some sort of unrest in town.”
“Unrest? What kind of unrest?”
“This I cannot say, Nikolai Aleksandrovich. He simply told me to wake you and the others, and that we are to dress as quickly as possible and move to the cellar. He also said this will only be for a short while and that we are not to bring anything.”
Nikolai hesitated in thought before beckoning Botkin forward. “What do you think, could this be it? Could our friends be on the way?”
“Quite possibly, but it’s difficult to say.”
“Have you heard anything – shots, horses – anything at all?”
“Nyet-s.”
“Neither have we.” Brushing his mustache with the back of his right hand, Nikolai stood in nervous thought. “Still, we must be prepared. After all, we can hear the fighting getting closer and closer. The town is sure to fall any day now.”
“We can only hope.”
“Wake the others and tell them to be calm but ready for anything,” ordered the Tsar.
“Trupp is already up. I’ll wake Demidova and Kharitonov.”
Botkin moved toward the other rooms off the dining room, where the Tsaritsa’s maid and cook slept. The Tsar, meanwhile, retreated to the room of his daughters, where all four of them sat up in their cots, the colored glass chandelier now ablaze overhead. Aleksandra, wearing a white linen nightgown, stood in the doorway of her bedroom, and even Aleksei stood there, balanced on one foot and leaning against the doorjamb.
“What is it, Nicky?” asked Aleksandra, her brow wrinkled with anxiety.
“Komendant Yurovsky has ordered us to get dressed and move downstairs. Apparently there’s some sort of unrest in town.”
Aleksandra audibly gasped and pressed a hand to her chest. “What do you think, could it-”
“I don’t know the full story, but he says it’s for our own safety. He claims it’s to be only for a short while and that we’re not to bring anything with us.”
“Oh, Nicky, God has heard our prayers and they’re coming! I just know it, they’re coming for us!”
At this the girls began to move about and mumble with excitement, the vision of three hundred officers on horseback looming in their virginal minds. Nikolai, however, understood that the situation, whatever it was, was most precarious, and he turned and checked the dining room. No one was there.