Free The Kitchen Boy by Robert Alexander Page B

thirty degrees, so God only knew how hot it was inside.
    The Reds had evicted the Ipatiev family with barely any notice, and after lunch the Emperor found one of Mr. Ipatiev’s own books,
Sea Stories
by Belamor, which the engineer had left behind as he fled. Choosing a passage, the Tsar read aloud to his son until close to two-thirty when we were allowed into the garden for an entire hour on account of the intensity of the heat. All of us went out, including the Empress. As innocent, as unsuspecting as they would be on the night of July 16-17, the Romanovs descended those twenty-three steps, passed out the door, and into that untidy little garden. Dr. Botkin and Trupp managed the rolling chaise, and Nikolai Aleksandrovich himself carried his son down the steps. I followed the girls who followed their father as he paced a circle, while the Heir and his mother took refuge from the fearful heat beneath the branches of a lilac bush.
    There was nothing to cling to in our lives but our regimen, and at four-thirty, just as punctual as ever, I helped serve tea in the drawing room, where all seven Romanovs and Dr. Botkin were gathered. Cook Kharitonov sliced some of the fresh bread, which was still hot, and I carried it out on a plate along with a bit of butter, handed it to Demidova, who in turn placed it on the tea table. This produced no end of delight for the grand duchesses, who were quite proud of their creation. It wasn’t white bread, the preferred sort of the nobility, for both Aleksandra and Kharitonov had been carefully hoarding what little white flour we had for Aleksei, thinking it more healthy, more digestible. Rather these princesses had made real Russian
chyorny khleb
, black bread that was dark and earthy and so deliciously sour. An endless stream of questions and comments and praise followed.
    I was just returning to the kitchen when the door burst open and six unknown men stomped into the room, led by none other than the
komendant
himself. A flash of unspoken terror shot through us all: Had Sister Antonina been found out? Was the rescue plot so quickly dashed?
    His voice trembling like a schoolboy’s, Nikolai Aleksandrovich quickly pushed himself to his feet, and said, “Good afternoon, gentlemen. May I-”
    Avdeyev looked in Nikolashka’s direction, and muttered, “
S’yad
!” Sit!
    “But-”
    “Sit down and be quiet!”
    Good soldier that he was, the Tsar sank back down, and all of us watched in terror as this group of thugs moved from the drawing room, into the dining room, and then proceeded into the bedchambers. Maria Nikolaevna and I, peering through the open doorways, watched and tried to discern what they were saying, but of course it was impossible. Their voices were low and deep, a lot of grumbling went on. For what purpose had they come? I looked over at the Tsaritsa, who was clutching the Tsar’s hand, her eyes clenched shut in fright. Would they search the rooms, tear apart their things in search of evidence against them? Might the “medicines” be discovered?
    But then… then…
    The group of men was going from one whitewashed window to the next, and I whispered to Maria, “It looks like they’re checking out which windows can be opened.”
    “They must be from the regional soviet.”
    And so it became evident that they were in fact a soviet – a council, a committee – that had been formed to decide which, if any, windows might be unglued. For more than twenty minutes these Reds went from room to room, from window to window, discussing all this with the utmost intensity. They must have been terribly afraid of anarchists or conspirators – that is, worried that one group might take a shot at the Tsar through that open window, or fearful that another bunch might try to rescue their monarch via an opening. Finally, in the end they seemed to agree not to agree. Perhaps they had a report to make. Perhaps they were afraid of answering with their lives. In any case, this group of six men