STARODUG, 10:00 AM
Akilina watched as Lord slowed the car. A cold rain smacked the windshield. Last night, Iosif Maks had stashed them in a house west of Starodug. It was owned by another Maks family member who'd provided two pallets before an open hearth.
Maks had returned a couple of hours ago and explained that the police had come to his house late last night inquiring about a black man and Russian woman who'd visited his eatery earlier. He'd told them exactly what had happened, most of which was witnessed by the militsya officer. They apparently believed what he said, since they had not returned. Thankfully, no one witnessed the escape from the Okatyabrsky.
Maks also left them a vehicle, a banged-up, cream-colored Mercedes coupe caked in black mud, its leather seats brittle from exposure. And he provided directions to where the son of Kolya Maks lived.
The farmhouse was single-story and built of double planks caulked with a thick layer of oakum, the roof's bark shingles darkened by mildew. A stone chimney puffed a thick column of gray vapor into the cold air. An open field spread in the distance, plows and harrows stored under a lean-to.
The entire scene reminded Akilina of the cabin her grandmother had once occupied, a similar grove of white birch rising to one side. She'd always thought autumn such a sad time of year. The season arrived without warning, then evaporated overnight into winter. Its presence meant the end of green forests and grassy meadows-more reminders of her childhood, the village near the Urals where she was raised, and the school where they all wore matching dresses with pinafores and red ribbons. Between lessons they'd been drilled about the oppression workers suffered during tsarist times, how Lenin had changed all that, why capitalism was evil, and what the collective expected from each of its members. Lenin's portrait had hung in every classroom, in every home. Any challenge to him was wrong. Comfort was derived in knowing that ideas were shared by everyone.
The individual did not exist.
But her father had been an individual.
All he'd wanted was to live with his new wife and child in Romania. But the kollektiv would not allow such a simple thing. Good parents were expected to be party members. They had to be. Those who did not possess "revolutionary ideals" should be reported. One famous story was of a son who informed on his father for selling documents to rebellious farmers. The son testified against the father and was later murdered by the farmers. Songs and poems were subsequently written about him, and all children were taught to idealize such dedication to the Motherland.
But why?
What was admirable about being a traitor to your own family?
"I've only been into rural Russia twice," Lord said, interrupting her thoughts. "Both under controlled circumstances. But this is quite different. It's another world."
"In tsarist times they called the village mir. Peace. A good description since few ever left their village. It was their world. A place for peace."
Outside, the factory smog of Starodug was gone, replaced with verdant trees, green hills, and hay fields that she imagined in summer were alive with meadowlarks.
Lord parked the car in front of the cabin.
The man who answered the door was short and sturdy with reddish brown hair and a face round and flush like a beet. He was, Akilina estimated, close to seventy, but moved with surprising agility. He studied them with scrutinizing eyes that she thought akin to those of a border guard, then invited them inside.
The cabin was spacious with a single bedroom, kitchen, and a cozy den. The furniture was a mismatched decor of necessity and practicality. The floors were wide planks, sanded smooth, their varnish nearly gone. There were no electric lights. All the rooms were lit by smoky oil lamps and a fireplace.
"I am Vassily Maks. Kolya was my father."
They were seated at a kitchen table. A wood-burning stove was warming a pot of lapsha-the homemade noodles Akilina had always loved. The scent of roasted meat was strong, lamb if she wasn't mistaken, tempered by the musty smell of cheap tobacco. One corner of the room was devoted to an icon surrounded by candles. Her grandmother had maintained a holy corner until the day she disappeared.
"I prepared lunch," Maks said. "I hope you're hungry."
"A meal would be welcome," Lord said. "It smells good."
"Cooking is one of the few pleasures I have left to enjoy." Maks stood and moved toward the stove. He stirred the simmering pot of noodles, his back to them. "My nephew said you had something to say."
Lord seemed to understand. "He that endureth to the end shall be saved."
The old man tabled the spoon, then sat back down. "I never believed I would hear those words. I thought them a figment of my father's imagination. And to be spoken by a man of color." Maks turned to Akilina. "Your name means 'eagle,' child."
"So I'm told."
"You are a lovely creature."
She smiled.
"I hope this quest does not endanger that beauty."
"How would it?" she asked.
The old man rubbed his bulbous nose. "When my father informed me of the duty expected, he warned that perhaps it might cost my life one day. I never took him seriously… until this moment."
"What is it you know?" Lord asked.
The old man let out a breath. "I think about what happened often. My father told me I would, but I didn't believe him. I can almost see them being awakened in the middle of night and hustled downstairs. They think the White Army is about to overrun the town and free them. Yurovsky, the mad Jew, tells them an evacuation is necessary, but first a photo needs to be taken for Moscow, to prove them alive and well. He tells everyone where to stand. But there is to be no photo. Instead, men with guns come into the room and the tsar is told that he and his family are to be executed. Then, Yurovsky points his gun."
The old man paused and shook his head.
"Let me prepare our lunch. Then I will tell you all about what happened in Yekaterinburg that July night."
Yurovsky fired the Colt pistol and the head of Nicholas II, Tsar of All Russia, exploded in a shower of blood. The tsar fell back toward his son. Alexandra had just started to make the sign of the cross when the other gunmen opened fire. Bullets raked the tsarina and toppled her from the chair. Yurovsky had specifically assigned a victim for each gunman and instructed that the shots be to the heart to minimize bleeding. But Nicholas's body erupted in a fury of impacts as the other eleven executioners decided to take aim at their once divine ruler.
The shooters were arrayed in rows of three. The second and third rows were firing over the shoulders of the first, so close that many on the first row were being burned by hot exhaust. Kolya Maks stood in the first row, his neck singed twice. He'd been instructed to shoot Olga, the oldest daughter, but could not bring himself to do it. He'd been sent to Yekaterinburg to orchestrate the family's escape, arriving three days earlier, but events had accelerated at lightning pace.
The guards had been called into Yurovsky's office earlier. The commandant had told them, "Today, we are going to be killing the entire family and the doctor and servants living with them. Warn the detachment not to be alarmed if they hear shots." Eleven men, including Maks, were selected. It had been a stroke of luck that Maks was chosen, but he'd come highly recommended from the Ural Soviet-a man who could be trusted to follow orders-and apparently Yurovsky was in need of loyalty.
Two Latvians immediately spoke up and said they would not shoot women. Maks had been impressed that such brutal men possessed a conscience. Yurovsky did not object to their refusal and replaced them with two more who eagerly stepped forward and expressed no reservations. The final regiment included six Latvians and five Russians, plus Yurovsky. Hardened men with the names of Nikulin, Ermakov, two Medvedevs, and Pavel. Names Kolya Maks would forever recall.
A truck was parked outside, its engine revved to cover the gunfire, which came in a fusillade. The smoke from the barrels clothed the scene in a thick, eerie fog. It was becoming difficult to see, to tell who was shooting whom. Maks reasoned that several hours of hard drinking had dulled senses to the point that no one other than himself, and perhaps Yurovsky, was sober. Few would remember the details, only that they fired at anything that moved. He'd been careful with his alcohol consumption, knowing his head had to stay clear.
Maks watched Olga's body crumple after a bullet to the head. The shooters were aiming at each victim's heart, but something strange was happening. The bullets simply ricocheted off the women's chests and darted around the room like hail. One of the Latvians muttered that God was protecting them. Another wondered aloud if all this was wise.
Maks watched as Grand Duchesses Tatiana and Marie tried to cower in one corner, their arms raised for protection. Bullets raked their young bodies, some bouncing off, others penetrating. Two men broke formation and moved close, shooting both girls in the head.
The valet, the cook, and the doctor were all shot where they stood, their bodies dropping like targets at an arcade. The maid was the crazy one. She flailed wildly around the room, screaming, shielding herself with a pillow. Several of the shooters adjusted and fired into the pillow. The bullets careered away. It was frightening. What protection did these people possess? The maid's head finally succumbed to a clean shot and her screams halted.
"Stop firing," Yurovsky yelled.
The room went silent.
"The shots will be heard from the street. Finish them off with bayonets."
The shooters tossed their revolvers aside and grabbed their American Winchester rifles, moving into the room.
Somehow, the maid had survived the shot to the head. She bolted upright and started picking her way over the bleeding corpses, softly wailing. Two Latvians moved toward her and thrust their daggers into the pillow she still clutched. The blades were dull and did not penetrate. She grabbed one of the bayonets and started shrieking. The men moved toward her. One crashed his rifle butt down on her head. The pitiful moan that came reminded Maks of a wounded animal. More rifle butts went down and her moans stopped. Men jabbed their bayonets into the body as if exorcizing a demon, too many thrusts for Maks to count.
Maks moved toward the tsar. Thick rivulets of blood rushed over the field shirt and trousers. The others were concentrating their bayonets on the maid and one of the grand duchesses. Acrid smoke filled the air and stifled his breath. Yurovsky was examining the tsarina.
Maks bent down and rolled Nicholas to one side. The tsarevich was underneath, dressed in the same military field shirt, trousers, boots, and forage cap he'd seen the boy wear many times. Just like his father. He knew they enjoyed dressing alike.
The boy opened his eyes. The look was one of terror. Maks immediately clamped a hand over the boy's mouth. He then brought a finger to his lips.
"Stay still. Be dead," he mouthed.
The boy's eyes closed.
Maks stood and aimed his pistol down at the floor just beside the boy's head and fired. The bullet ripped into the planking and Alexie jarred. Maks fired again on the other side and hoped no one noticed the body jerk, but everyone seemed consumed with the surrounding carnage. Eleven victims, twelve executioners, the space tight, time short.
"Was the tsarevich still alive?" Yurovsky asked through the smoke.
"Not anymore," Maks said.
The answer seemed to satisfy the commandant.
Maks rolled the bloodied body of Nicholas II back on top of the boy. He looked up as one of the Latvians moved toward the youngest daughter, Anastasia. She'd fallen in the initial volley and lay prostrate on the floor amid a thickening sea of blood. The girl was moaning, and Maks wondered if some of the bullets had found their mark. The Latvian was raising his rifle butt to finish the job when Maks stopped him.
"Let me," he mouthed. "I have not had the pleasure."
A smile curled on the other man's face and he backed away. Maks stared down at the girl. Her chest heaved from labored breath, blood streamed off her dress, but it was hard to tell if it was hers or from her sister's body nearby.
May God forgive him.
He brought the rifle butt down onto the girl's head. He angled it for a glance, enough to pound her into unconsciousness, but hopefully not enough to kill her.
"I'll finish her," Maks said, reversing the rifle to prepare the bayonet.
Luckily, the Latvian moved to another corpse without an argument.
"Stop," Yurovsky yelled.
The room went eerily quiet. No more flesh being serrated with blades. No more gunshots. No more moans. Just twelve men standing in thick smoke, the overhead electric lamp like the sun in a storm.
"Open the doors and let the smoke disperse," Yurovsky said. "We can't see a damn thing. Then check for pulses and report."
Maks moved straight to Anastasia. There was a pulse, faint and light. "Grand Duchess Anastasia. Dead," he called out.
Other guards reported more deaths. Maks moved to the tsarevich and rolled Nicholas over. He felt the boy's pulse. Beating strong. He wondered if he'd even been hit. "Tsarevich. Dead."
"Good fucking riddance," one of the Latvians said.
"We must remove these corpses quickly," Yurovsky said. "This room has to be cleaned before morning." The commandant faced one of the Russians. "Go get some sheets from upstairs." He turned back. "Start laying the bodies out straight."
Maks watched as a Latvian grabbed one of the grand duchesses. Exactly which was hard to tell.
"Look," the man cried.
Everyone's attention went to the bloodied young woman. Maks moved close with the others. Yurovsky came over. A glistening diamond shone through the ripped corset. The commandant bent down and fingered the stone. He then grabbed one of the bayonets and opened an incision in the corset, sliding the garment free from the dead torso. More jewels tinkered down, splattering the blood on the floor.
"The stones shielded them," Yurovsky said. "Bloody bastards sewed them into their clothes."
Some of the other men realized the fortune that lay around them and started for the women.
"No," Yurovsky shouted. "Later. But anything found is to be turned over to me. It belongs to the state. Anyone keeping even a button will be shot. Clear?"
No one said a word.
The man arrived with sheets. Maks knew that Yurovsky was in a hurry to get the bodies away from the house. He'd made that clear earlier. Dawn was only a few hours away and the White Army was just outside town, approaching fast.
The tsar's body was wrapped first and carried out to the waiting truck.
One of the grand duchesses was tossed on a stretcher. Suddenly, the girl bolted upright and started to scream. Horror gripped everyone. It almost seemed like heaven was working against them. The doors and windows of the house were now open, so there could be no more gunshots. Yurovsky palmed one of the rifles and thrust the blade into the girl's chest. The blade barely penetrated. He quickly reversed the rifle and slammed the butt into her head. Maks heard the skull crack. Yurovsky then jammed the blade deep into the girl's neck and twisted. There was gurgling and wrenching, blood spouted, then all movement stopped.
"Get these witches out of here," Yurovsky muttered. "They are possessed."
Maks moved to Anastasia and wrapped her in one of the sheets. A commotion came from the hall. Another of the grand duchesses had come back to life, and Maks glanced out to see men descend upon her with rifle butts and knives. He used the distraction to move to the tsarevich, still lying in the blood of his parents.
He bent close. "Little One."
The boy opened his eyes.
"Make no sound. I must carry you to the truck. Understand?"
A slight nod.
"Any sound or movement and they will skewer you."
He rolled the boy in the sheet and shoulder-carried both Alexie and Anastasia outside. He hoped the grand duchess did not awaken from her sleep. He also hoped no one checked for a pulse. Outside he discovered the men were far more interested in what they were finding on the bodies. Watches, rings, bracelets, cigarette cases, and jewels.
"I repeat," Yurovsky said. "All to be returned or you will be shot. There was a watch downstairs that is now gone. I am going back for the last body. When I return, it should be here."
No one doubted what would happen if it wasn't, and one of the Latvians removed the watch from his pocket and tossed it into the pile with the other booty.
Yurovsky returned with the last body. It was slung onto the back of the truck. The commandant carried a forage cap in his hands.
"The tsar's," he said, stuffing it onto one of the killer's head. "It fits."
The others laughed.
"They died hard," one of the Latvians said.
Yurovsky stared into the truck bed. "It is not easy to kill people."
A tarpaulin was spread over the bodies in the truck bed, sheets stretched underneath to soak up the blood. Yurovsky selected four men to accompany the truck, then stepped to the cab and climbed inside. The rest of the execution squad started to disperse to their assigned posts. Maks was not one of those selected to go and he approached the open passenger's-side window.
"Comrade Yurovsky. Might I come along? I would like to help finish."
Yurovsky angled his short neck. He was so dark in the night. Black beard. Black hair. Black leather jacket. All Maks could discern were the whites of his eyes through a chilling stare.
"Why not? Climb in with the others."
The truck motored out of the Ipatiev house through open gates. One of the other men noted the time out loud: three AM. They would have to hurry. Two bottles of vodka were produced and passed around among the men in the bed with the bodies. Maks took only shallow swigs.
He'd been sent to Yekaterinburg to lay the groundwork for an escape. There were generals in the tsar's former command who took their oath to the Crown seriously. There'd been rumors for months that the fate of the imperial family was sealed. But only in the last day had Maks learned what that meant.
His gaze drifted to the body pile under the tarp. He'd laid the boy and his sister on top, just under their mother. He wondered if the tsarevich recognized his face. Perhaps that was what had kept him quiet.
The truck passed the racetrack on the outskirts of town. It rolled past swamps, pits, and abandoned mines. Beyond the Upper Isetsk factory and across the railroad tracks the route entered dense forest. A couple more miles and another set of railroad tracks interfered. The only structures anywhere were the booths manned by railway watchmen, who were all asleep at this hour.
Maks could feel the roadway turn to mud. The truck slid as tires grabbed slippery earth. The rear wheels bogged in a quagmire, spinning freely, and the driver tried in vain to free the transport. Steam started billowing from the hood. The driver shut down the overheating engine and Yurovsky climbed from the cab, pointed to the darkened railway booth they'd just passed, and told the driver, "Go wake the attendant and get some water." He turned toward the truck bed. "Find some lumber to help the tires get out of this shit. I am going to walk ahead and look for Ermakov and his crew."
Two of the men had already passed out drunk. Two more jumped from the bed and disappeared into the darkness. Maks feigned drunkenness and remained still in the bed. He watched as the driver trudged back to the railway booth and banged on the door. A lamp flickered inside and the door opened. Maks could hear the driver telling the watchman they needed water. There was more arguing and Maks heard the guardsmen, who'd moved off into the night, call out that they had located lumber.
It would have to be now.
He crawled toward the tarp and slowly peeled it back. A coppery stench turned his stomach. He rolled the tsarina's sheeted body over and grasped the bundle with the tsarevich.
"It is I, Little One. Be still and quiet."
The boy murmured something Maks could not understand.
He carried the bundle from the bed and deposited it in the woods a few meters off the road.
"Do not move," he whispered.
He quickly scampered back and cupped the bundle holding Anastasia. He gently laid her on the ground and replaced the tarp. He cradled her in his arms and deposited her in the woods beside her brother. He loosened the wrap around each child and checked the girl's pulse. Faint, but there.
Alexie looked at him.
"I know this is horrible. But you must stay here. Watch over your sister. Do not move. I will come back. When, I don't know. Understand?"
The boy nodded.
"You remember me, don't you?"
Alexie nodded again.
"Then trust me, Little One."
The boy hugged him with a desperate grasp that tugged at his heart.
"Sleep, for now. I will return."
Maks hustled back to the truck and climbed into the bed, taking up his prone position beside the other two men still passed out. He heard footsteps approaching through the darkness. He moaned and started to sit up.
"Get up, Kolya. We need your help," one of the men said as they approached. "We found lumber at the watch station."
He jumped down and helped the other two as they started laying boards across the muddy road. The driver returned with a pail of water for the engine.
Yurovsky appeared a few minutes later. "Ermakov's people are just ahead."
The truck recranked with some effort and the boards provided the traction needed. Less than half a mile later they encountered a group of men waiting with torches. From their shouts it was obvious most were drunk. Maks recognized Peter Ermakov standing in the headlight beam. Yurovsky had only been ordered to carry out the sentence. The body disposal was Comrade Ermakov's responsibility. He was a worker at the Upper Isetsk plant who loved to kill so much that everyone called him Comrade Mauser.
Somebody yelled, "Why didn't you bring them to us alive?"
Maks knew what Ermakov had probably promised the men. Be good Soviets and do as you are told and I will let you have your way with the women while Papa Tsar watches. The possibility of carnal lust on four virgins was surely enough of an incentive to get them to make the necessary preparations.
A crowd gathered at the rear of the truck facing the tarpaulin, torches crackling in the night. One of them yanked the cover away.
"Shit, that stinks," somebody hollered.
"The stench of royalty," another said.
"Move the bodies off into the carts," Yurovsky ordered.
Somebody grumbled about not wanting to touch the filthy things, and Ermakov hopped onto the bed. "Get these damn corpses off the truck. We have only a couple of hours until dawn and there is much to do."
Maks realized that Ermakov was not a man to challenge. The men started hauling bloodied bundles and dropping them into droshkies. There were only four of the wooden carts and he hoped no one counted corpses. Only Yurovsky would know the exact number, but his commander moved off with Ermakov ahead of the truck. The rest of the men who'd come from the Ipatiev house were too drunk or too tired to care about whether there were nine or eleven bodies.
The sheets were removed as each corpse was tossed into a droshkie. Maks watched as some of the men started going through the pockets in the bloodied clothing. One of the men from the execution squad told the crowd about the finds made earlier.
Yurovsky appeared and a shot rang out. "There'll be none of that. We will strip them at the burial site. But anything found is to be handed over or you will be shot on the spot."
No one argued.
With only four carts, the decision was made that the truck should drive as far as it could with the remaining bodies, with the carts following. Maks sat on the edge of the truck bed and watched the carts roll behind as the vehicle inched forward. He knew they would have to stop at some point, leave the road, and hike into the woods. He'd heard earlier that a burial site in one of the abandoned mine shafts had been chosen. The Four Brothers, somebody called the location.
Twenty minutes passed as the truck rocked forward. Then the tires slid to a stop and Yurovsky leaped out of the cab. He walked back to where Ermakov was leading a cart. The commandant grabbed Ermakov and jammed a pistol into the man's neck.
"This is fucking shit," Yurovsky said. "The man in the truck says he can't locate the trail back to the mine. You were all just here yesterday. Now, no memory? You're hoping I'll tire and leave you with the bodies so they can be robbed. That will not happen. Either find the trail or I'll kill you. The Ural Committee will support me, I assure you."
Two from the execution squad sprang to their feet and the bolts of their rifles cocked in the night. Maks followed suit.
"All right, Comrade," Ermakov calmly said. "There is no need for violence. I will personally lead the way."