Free The Kitchen Boy by Robert Alexander

would have meant restoring the autocracy, which was at that point untenable to almost all of Russia.
    And so the long wait for the second note…
    I found the first note to the Tsar and his family on the morning of the twentieth, and then carried a reply to Father Storozhev on the afternoon of the twenty-first. I think all of us were expecting, or at least hoping, that Sister Antonina would bring a reply on the twenty-second. Instead, she failed to appear, leaving us awash in anxiety.
    How did the time pass?
    Well, for starters, that morning of the twenty-second the weather on the street was glorious, sunny and pleasant, about sixteen degrees of warmth, but soon it was more than twenty Celsius inside.
    “Dear Lord in Heaven,” moaned Nikolai Aleksandrovich, sweat beading on his brow, “it’s been two weeks now – two solid weeks – and they still haven’t decided whether or not we can open a window. It’s absolutely inhumane!”
    “Of course it is, my sweetheart,” said Aleksandra Fyodorovna, standing behind him, a pair of scissors in her hands. “Now be still before I do you serious damage.”
    “Better you than them.”
    “I’ll hear no such thing.”
    She’d cut his hair for the first time ever a month earlier; this was the second attempt. Just fifteen minutes earlier, Nyuta, the Tsaritsa’s maid, had laid a sheet in a corner of the dining room, then placed a chair atop that. And now Nikolai Aleksandrovich sat there trying to be still, which wasn’t his nature. Already he had paced for an hour around the dining table. He needed more time outside; a half hour once in the morning and once in the afternoon just wasn’t enough.
    While the Empress was trimming his hair, my duty was to entertain the Tsarevich, and as such we were playing troika. He sat in the wheeled chaise, and I pushed, obeying his every command.
    “Off into the woods – faster!” ordered Aleksei Nikolaevich.
    “Alyosha!” beckoned his father. “Alyosha, I want you two to be careful. Am I clear?”
    “Of course, Papa.”
    As I slowed the vehicle of Aleksei’s imaginary escape, one of the girls appeared, the front of her frock all dusted white.
    “Look at me, look at your Nasten’ka!” proclaimed Anastasiya Nikolaevna.
    “What ever have you gotten into,
dorogaya
?” asked her father, entirely amused.
    “Cook Kharitonov is teaching us how to bake bread.”
    “Really?” said her mother, unable to hide her surprise.
    “Yes, he showed us how to knead it, and it’s rising right now. I’m sure it’s going to be delicious.”
    Nikolai Aleksandrovich smiled and said, “I have no doubt about that. Pretty soon you girls will know how to do everything in the kitchen.”
    “I love you all and kiss you a thousand times!” she said with her usual flare as she spun and hurried off.
    Aleksandra Fyodorovna smiled after her, and said, “In spite of everything, they’re growing up.”
    “I suppose they are,” agreed her husband.
    “I do hope Anya keeps growing, though. Her legs are too short, her waist is too thick.”
    “That’s the least of our worries.”
    “Yes, of course…”
    Again the Heir ordered me off into the woods, and I turned the troika and started our pursuit of wild Siberian tigers and bears. Suddenly, however, a real monster appeared in the form of a guard, who blocked our route into the living room. He was tall, big-shouldered, had a long greasy mustache, and he wore a filthy tunic and rumpled, baggy pants. From his shoulder hung a long rifle with a rusty bayonet on the end, and hanging from his belt, of course, was a hand grenade.
    “Get back,” he ordered.
    I halted the chair and looked from the guard to the Tsar, then back to the guard.
    “The women are here,” said the guard, his voice as deep as it was abrupt. “You must return to your rooms. They will wash the floors.”
    “But can’t you see I’m cutting my husband’s hair?” protested Aleksandra Fyodorovna, glaring imperiously at him.
    “By