The Romanov Conspiracy (28 page)

Every Wednesday afternoon for almost four months he would take the train to Tsarskoye Selo and just before 4 p.m. would present himself at the palace gate.

The sentries checked his papers—Sorg’s special pass was stamped with the Romanov crest, along with a letter stating that he was a piano tutor by royal appointment. A palace aide would escort him across the courtyard and up some stone steps to the royal family quarters.

He and Anastasia would spend two hours together in a cold palace room with wooden floors, seated on two stools in front of the piano.

The family lived simply. Sorg learned the tsar was no believer in an easy life for his children; they slept on hard beds and were obliged to do daily chores.

Despite Anastasia’s enthusiasm, it took only one lesson to discover that she was a terrible pupil—she preferred to distract him with mimicry, palace gossip, and news about her relatives and family, which helped Sorg fill his reports.

“I’ve decided,” Anastasia announced after a month of lessons, “I don’t have the talent to be a good musician. But can we keep it our secret, Philip? I enjoy your company so much. Life gets so boring here. My sisters say we children can never have a normal life. It’s like living in a gilded cage—we almost never go out.”

She laid the ground rules on their second meeting. “Please don’t call me Princess or Grand Duchess. I hate formality. Just call me Anastasia and I’ll call you Philip. How’s that?”

She said, “Tell me more about America. Would I really like it there,
do you think?” She laid her hand on Sorg’s arm and the touch of her fingers felt like silk.

Her infectious spirit always lifted his mood, but that afternoon he knew something was wrong.

All week St. Petersburg was in chaos, the government in turmoil, troops everywhere. When Sorg approached the sentry post he noticed soldiers all over the palace grounds. His documents got him past the sentry, but there was no sign of the aide and Sorg strolled toward the courtyard that led up to the royal quarters.

An elderly palace officer with a monocle halted him. “What’s your business here?” he demanded.

“I’m expected.” Sorg showed his pass and letter.

The officer squinted through his monocle at the pieces of paper as if they were worthless currency. “No more lessons, all that’s over now. Haven’t you heard the news? The tsar’s abdicated. He’s under house arrest.”

So that’s it
. Rumors flew for days in St. Petersburg that the tsar might abdicate. Sorg worried it might be his last opportunity to see Anastasia. “If you could summon a member of the royal household, I’m sure they’ll—”

The officer went to reach for his revolver. “Are you deaf?”

“No, please! Don’t harm him.”

Anastasia hurried down the steps, carrying a brown leather pouch. She wore a simple white muslin dress, a pearl choker around her neck, black shoes, and white socks. Her blue eyes begged the officer as she said, “Please, sir, this gentleman’s my tutor and I need to speak with him in private. I thank you for being so kind as to allow it.”

Disarmed by her plea, the officer snapped off a salute. “As you wish, Grand Duchess, but please remain within the courtyard where I can see you.”

“I knew you’d come; that’s why I had to meet you. Papa’s heard that we may eventually be moved east to the Urals, so I wanted to say good-bye.”

Strolling in the distance of the gardens, Sorg caught sight of the
tsar. He wore his trademark tunic and hat and pushed a wheelchair in which sat his invalid young son, the tsarevitch, Alexei. “Why the Urals?”

“They think we’ll be safer there, whoever
they
are. Mama is worried that it’s so far away we won’t have a proper doctor for Alexei. He’s often ill these days.”

“I thought the officer said you weren’t to leave his sight.”

Anastasia smiled as she led him toward a private garden with a stone fountain, out of view of the officer. She swung the leather pouch she carried and plucked a flower as they walked, smelling its scent. Sorg realized that she had never once mentioned his lame pace.

“You mean old Squinty? He knows I break the rules, but he won’t cause a rumpus. Anyway, I wanted us to talk.”

They came to a bench and she gestured for him to sit. “I won’t be able to see you again and I’m going to miss our friendship and our talks. I’m sorry for being such a terrible pupil, Philip.”

“I’ve known worse but none as entertaining.”

“Really? Your visits always help relieve the monotony.” She giggled. “Maria says the formality here makes her want to set fire to the palace. What will you do? Will you stay in Russia?”

“That depends on how much worse things get.”

“Do you think they’ll get worse?”

“I’m afraid so. How are the guards treating your family?”

“Well enough. Why?”

“This government isn’t going to last forever, Anastasia. Others may come to power, and some may be angry people who’ll want to harm your father.”

“I overheard my mother say that to Papa. But Papa said that won’t happen. That the people would never allow it.” She looked at Sorg intently. “Papa always puts his faith in God. He says he’ll never leave Russia, not ever. He loves it too much. I just don’t understand why anyone would hate Papa. He’s such a kind and gentle man.”

“Not everyone thinks that way. There are some who believe he did terrible wrongs in the past.”

“I’m not stupid, Philip. I’ve overheard people talk about such
things, especially the guards. They said sometimes Papa allowed very bad things to happen. Some people call him ‘Bloody Nicholas.’ What’s your opinion?”

The question threw Sorg. Part of him wanted to protect her, but he couldn’t hide the bitter truth. “May I be honest?”

“Of course.”

Sorg told her. When he finished there was a silence. A shocked Anastasia put a hand to her mouth and looked close to tears. “I—I expect you must hate my father for what happened to your family.”

“At times I have.”

She considered. “I don’t doubt you, but I still love my father. I know he tries to be a better person. We all do. My sister Maria says we all commit sins but that emperors can commit bigger sins than most. And my mama always tells us to be considerate of others. To think of ourselves last, to always show a loving heart. Do—do you secretly hate me?”

“How could I? It’s not your fault. But some people may want revenge for the wrongs they believe your father did.”

“Do you know what Rasputin said to my parents before he was killed?”

“What?”

“He prophesied that none of us Romanovs would live. That we’d be killed by the Russian people. I know some say Rasputin was insane, and Papa would probably agree, but he was always good to Alexei. The trouble is my mama’s a superstitious woman and she fears his prophecy.”

He feared the truth of her words but tried to comfort her. “I think perhaps your mother worries too much.”

“I hope you’re right.” She brightened, then said earnestly, “I’m going to miss your company, Philip. May I tell you a secret? Maria also said that there may be more to you than I think.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What’s the expression she used? ‘A dark horse.’ She says you might even be a spy. You’re not a spy, are you, Philip?”

The teasing question startled Sorg.
Is she just making fun or does she suspect me?

Before Sorg could even speak, she fumbled in the leather pouch on her lap and produced a Kodak camera—the small vest pocket model that was all the rage. “Do you like boats?”

“Why?”

“No reason. There are a few things I really like. Messing about on boats is one. And taking photographs is another. May I take yours? I’d like to have a photograph of you to remember you by. I’ll keep it among my albums.”

“Of—of course.”

“You’re not smiling. Smile.”

“I find it hard to, knowing I’ll never see you again.”

“Then imagine that we will.”

A self-conscious Sorg looked into the lens, tried to smile, and barely managed it.

Anastasia said, “Try not to look like I’m going to shoot you, Philip. This isn’t an execution, you know.”

That made him smile.

Anastasia brightened. “Actually, I think I’d prefer it if I took one of us both. Would you mind?”

“No.”

She shifted back on the bench and leaned close to him—so close he could smell her lavender scent—held one hand outstretched so that the camera was aimed at them, and pressed the shutter.

“Thank you,” she said. “I feel better knowing I have this to remember you by.”

Sorg saw the officer march toward them, adjusting his monocle.

Anastasia jumped to her feet and stuffed the Kodak in the pouch. “I better go. Mama will get worried. She always gets worried these days. Papa says she’s a bag of nerves. May I say something very personal?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t know if we’ll ever see each other again, but I want you to know that I enjoyed our meetings. In fact, Maria thinks I’m a little in love with you.”

Anastasia blushed and offered him her hand. Sorg, speechless, accepted it. He felt his heart beat furiously as he held her soft fingers.

At that moment, she looked like the lost adolescent she truly was, trying to find her way in the harsh adult world. There seemed to be something incredibly naïve and touching about her, an almost childish honesty that again aroused in him the powerful feeling that he wanted to protect her.

Then, without warning, she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Good-bye, Philip. I’m sorry for what happened to your father, I truly am. Please forgive my family.” She turned and raced past the officer through the garden and up a flight of stone steps.

Sorg, watching her go, put a hand up to feel the ghost of her lips on his cheek.

34

EKATERINBURG

Sorg heard the harsh rattle of a motor engine and came alert.

A truck passed him in the alleyway outside the loft window. Seated in the back were at least ten Red Army soldiers. A couple were females, rough-looking peasant girls. The Reds recruited anyone able to carry a rifle.

The laudanum had worn off and now his adrenaline kicked in. He tensed and checked his pocket watch: 10:50 a.m. He had nodded off.

He glimpsed a movement in the Ipatiev House garden and settled his right eye into the spyglass. His heart skipped. The Romanovs had stepped out into the garden. Sorg recognized Anastasia walking next to her sisters, Maria and Tatiana, who pushed Alexei in a wheelchair.

The usual half dozen or so armed sentries patrolled the grounds, while two more washed down a truck parked near the fence.

Sorg swore. For some reason, the guards had allowed the family out early for their daily exercise. It could ruin his plans.

He shifted his attention back to the alleyway below. The truck drove slowly to the farthest end, turned, and disappeared.

Sorg wasted no time. He stashed the spyglass and tripod under the woodpile and clambered down the stairs.

Sorg dragged the handcart along the public road that ran along the eastern side of the Ipatiev House. As he walked he slipped on a red armband and tucked the revolver under the scrap in the handcart.