Red Days, White Nights
by Valeriya Salt
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Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3 |
conclusion
Scotland, November 1918
A heavy grey cloud spread out all over the autumnal glen, bringing the first shy snowflakes. Nicholas sighed, wrapping in his long cloak and turning away from the window. The endless velvety glens, the narrow, deep lochs with ice-cold grey waters, the gloomy, dark woods, even the thick medieval walls of the castle where he had been living as “a special guest” of Lord Kyle McMurrae for the last six months after he had escaped from Russia, this entire inhospitable world didn’t bother him much.
At least he was treated with appropriate courtesy and respect. At least young Lord Kyle gave him hope. Hope? Hope... for what? To see his girls and Alexei again? Hope to stay alive? Hope to meet his cousin, George V, who seemed to avoid him all these months, making new excuses every time? Hope to reclaim back what belonged to him? Hope and faith: that was all he lived for.
A quiet knock at the door interrupted the slow motion of his thoughts.
‘My Lord’ — His valet, tall and grey-headed, bowed deeply at the doorstep — ‘Lord McMurrae is waiting in the reception room.’ A tired smile flashed across his lips. ‘Don’t keep him waiting.’ The valet bowed again and opened the heavy doors wider.
‘Good to see you, Nicholas Alexandrovich,’ Lord Kyle started with his usual sweetest half-smile.
Nicholas just bowed slightly, reaching for a handshake.
‘I do apologise for our early morning visit, but I thought Your Majesty would be glad to hear some positive news, which one of my agents has brought from France.’
Nicholas gestured to a coffee table and chairs. ‘Please take a seat. What kind of news have you brought to me?’
‘A letter from Her Majesty. The family has reached Paris safely.’
Nicholas took the envelope with shaking hands.
‘All the details are in the letter,’ Lord Kyle added.
‘My gratitude has no limits.’ Nicholas nodded, hiding desperation behind his manners.
‘I’m honoured to serve Your Majesty and my country.’ Lord Kyle smiled again. ‘I can reassure you, my Lord, your family are in good health and high spirits. My people are looking after them and their safety in Paris.’
‘Your people?’
‘I think it’s not a great secret for anyone that Europe is full of Bolshevik agents nowadays. The British government is doing everything possible and impossible to prevent them from finding out the truth about you,’ Lord Kyle said. ‘That’s why it is so important to wait, my Lord. I beg you to be patient, to give me a bit more time—’
‘A bit more time for what?’ Nicholas frowned. ‘I’ve been waiting for the meeting with my cousin for the last six months. My future is in his hands, a future that he doesn’t want to uncover to me. Now, you’re telling me I can’t see my family.’
‘Your Majesty need not worry. Our king has appointed me to be a guardian of the family in France. All letters, telegrams, documents — I’m personally responsible for them now.’
Nicholas rose from his chair and made a few circles around the room. ‘What can I do against the British Intelligence Service?’ He sighed, his fingers squeezed the envelope. ‘What can I do against the will of my cousin George?’
‘Nicholas Alexandrovich, during these six months I haven’t failed my duties to protect you. Now, I beg you to trust me with your safety and the safety of your family.’ Lord Kyle rose from his seat as well. ‘Tomorrow, I’ll depart to London to meet the king again. I’ll do my best to persuade him to meet you as soon as possible.’
Nicholas bit his lower lip but found no words to object. ‘Thank you for your help and your service,’ he said, acknowledging to Lord Kyle that the meeting was over.
They said goodbye, and Lord Kyle departed. Nicholas had been staring outside for a few minutes, amazed by the raging snowstorm. Then, he opened the envelope and froze on the spot. Deep sadness squeezed his heart when he recognised Alexandra’s intricate handwriting. Just a few paragraphs to let him know that the Bolshevik government, struggling with finance and drowning in the civil war, had finally agreed to release the family and let it go abroad.
He exhaled. At least they are safe now. Their British allies had given them fake identities, details of some loyal, reliable French aristocrats and Russian emigrants in France.
At least they are all alive, but... what’s next? His eyes were burning with unshed tears when he noticed Alexei’s writing at the bottom of the page. He was telling about his visit to the Eiffel Tower with his sisters and the zoo with his French teacher where they had met an elephant.
Nicholas finished reading and closed his eyes. The tears continued to stream down his face, disappearing in his beard. This man, this short, bold Bolshevik... Tovarisch Vladimir Lenin... or whatever they call him. This Bolshevik, who seduced the entire country to the bloodshed of revolution and now, the civil war, the angry man full of hatred, who made his family suffer.
He hadn’t abdicated to put people like Vladimir Lenin in power. He hadn’t abdicated to clear the space for Bolsheviks. He had abdicated because he believed it would been good for his country and his people. He clenched his fists.
The snowstorm raged outside, howling behind the castle’s windows, almost lulling him. He opened his eyes and glimpsed a dark black silhouette in the chaotic mass of snow and clouds. The howl of the storm turned into a high-pitched cry.
Alexandra? He would’ve recognized her voice anytime, anywhere. He turned his head slightly and noticed a dark mass in the far corner of the hall. He must’ve blinked, but the next second Rasputin’s pale face appeared straight in front of him from nowhere.
‘My death will be your death.’ The long-forgotten memory of Rasputin’s gloomy prophecy emerged in Nicholas’s mind. His whole body jerked, and he woke up.
The snowstorm hit windows with its icy fury. There was nobody in the room. He rose from the chair, rubbing his dozy eyes. ‘My death will be your death.’ The sinister words still sounded in his ears.
* * *
Lord Kyle entered his study and slammed the door behind his back. He stared outside at the storm without switching on the lights. I need a new plan to keep His Majesty happy until...
A dark shadow moved in the corner of the study, making him turn. ‘You? Oh, God! How did you get here?’ Lord Kyle asked in Russian, switching on the light.
‘I’m sorry, my Lord. I might’ve scared you.’ Vasily Yakovlev grinned.
‘Where the hell have you been for the last six months? I didn’t hear a word from you,’ Lord Kyle snapped, forgetting his manners. ‘The Bolsheviks don’t reveal any official information about the family either. How long do you think I can lie to your tsar? What the hell is going on?’ he almost shouted.
Yakovlev folded his arms on his chest and reclined in his wide chair. ‘The doppelganger died in May. The tsarina was heartbroken, and Alexei fell ill again—’
‘Please skip the details. I don’t have time for emotions.’ Lord Kyle waved him off. ‘Where are they now?’
Yakovlev’s dark eyes had been studying his face for a few seconds.
An oppressive silence filled in the room.
‘The White Army of General Kolchak and the royalists advanced in Siberia, and the scared Bolsheviks decided to move the family to their red nest, Yekaterinburg.’ Yakovlev broke the pause first. ‘As expected, their comrades from Petrograd and Moscow were not interested in the family after the death of “the tsar,” but comrade Lenin didn’t want to let them go, either.’
‘And?’
‘The family travelled by train, heavily guarded. A few other carriages were occupied by the Red Cross, transporting doctors, nurses, and wounded soldiers to Yekaterinburg,’ Yakovlev continued. ‘Evsey and his Cossacks had no choice, but to put explosives under tracks and derail the train.
‘The Cossacks got rid of the guards and rescued the Grand Duchesses and Alexei. A few carriages caught fire, including the Red Cross’s ward. The Cossacks managed to salvage some clothes and passports for the girls.
‘Disguised as nurses, they travelled with Evsey to Ufa, then Samara, and all the way south to Crimea to catch a ship to Malta where they met their grandmother, the Dowager Empress Maria Feodorovna. I took another route with Alexei. I’ve brought him to Denmark. His Danish relatives are looking after him there.’
Lord Kyle frowned. ‘The family is separated?’
‘You wouldn’t put all eggs in one basket, would you?’ Yakovlev shrugged.
‘Why didn’t you make contact? What am I supposed to think, sitting here and imagining new explanations for His Majesty,’ Lord Kyle said, still annoyed.
‘Some technical problems,’ Yakovlev snapped, raising his voice. ‘Sorry, my Lord. I ran across the country, torn by the civil war, saving the ill, weak boy. Risking my life every single day, I didn’t have much time to write you detailed letters.’
‘No need for letters. A short telegram would have been enough,’ Lord Kyle mumbled. ‘And the tsarina?’ he asked after a pause. ‘You’ve mentioned only the children.’
Yakovlev bowed his head low, touching a tiny golden cross on his chest. ‘She didn’t make it.’ He exhaled finally. ‘She was killed in crossfire between the red guards and the Cossacks. The children... God! They didn’t want to leave her and—’
The next second, the study’s door flew open, and Nicholas, pale and trembling, appeared on the doorstep.
* * *
Nicholas stood in front of the study’s heavy wooden door and couldn’t believe his ears. He had come to ask Lord Kyle about his family’s whereabouts in Paris but froze on the spot when he distinguished a familiar male voice, arguing with Lord Kyle in Russian. He listened for a couple of minutes, petrified.
‘And the tsarina?’ Lord Kyle sounded from behind the door. ‘You’ve mentioned only the children.’
‘She didn’t make it,’ the voice said. ‘She was killed in crossfire between the red guards and the Cossacks. The children... God! They didn’t want to leave her and—’
Forgetting manners, Nicholas pushed the door. Commissar Yakovlev jumped from his chair. Lord Kyle’s face expressed nothing but confusion and fear.
‘Commissar Yakovlev? You?’ Nicholas turned to Lord Kyle. ‘You lied to me, my Lord. You lied to me all this time.’ His legs felt weak, his head was spinning.
‘Your Majesty, I can reassure you—’ Lord Kyle rushed to him, but Nicholas pushed him back.
‘Alexandra? Alexei? God! What have you done?’
‘Nicholas Alexandrovich, we had no choice,’ Yakovlev said. ‘My assumptions about the Bolsheviks’ plans were wrong. Sooner or later, they would have killed your family anyway. Yekaterinburg is the biggest Bolshevik stronghold in Siberia now. It would’ve been impossible to rescue the family, if they had reached the city. We needed to act fast. I’m sorry for your loss, but we needed to—’ he continued, but Nicholas didn’t listen.
The darkness, thick and pulsating, surrounded him. He couldn’t move. He wanted to shout, but couldn’t make a sound.
‘My death will be your death.’ The evil prophecy sounded in his ears like a rumble of thunder.
The next second, the dark abyss swallowed him.
* * *
Nicholas woke up in his brightly lit bedroom. He turned his head slightly and squinted, glancing in the window.
The snow, thick and dazzling-white, covered all the hills around, reflecting the low winter sun. The loch turned into a smooth mirror of ice.
‘I see Your Majesty feels better today.’
Yakovlev’s voice made him turn away from the window. ‘You..? Oh, it wasn’t a bad dream, after all.’ Nicholas closed his face with his palms. ‘And Lord Kyle? Isn’t he with you?’
‘He’s on his way to London to inform his king about the latest news from Russia.’
‘The latest news...’ Nicholas raised his eyes to him. ‘Alexandra? God! I can’t believe it.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss, my Lord. Her Majesty sacrificed her life for your children.’ Yakovlev took a seat at his bed. His voice sounded quiet but determined. ‘Please don’t waste her sacrifice.’
‘What? What do you mean?’ Nicholas almost jumped on the bed. ‘You... what? Want me to go back to Russia?’ He swallowed his indignation back. ‘I shouldn’t have listened to you in Tobolsk. I should’ve stayed with my family. If I had stayed with them—’
‘You would’ve been executed together with your children. The Bolsheviks made their intentions crystal clear when they ordered the family transported to Yekaterinburg,’ Yakovlev cut him off. ‘There was no hope there.’
Nicholas clenched his fists. A wave of nausea made his head spin. ‘I don’t want anything apart from seeing my children again.’
‘Hell and damnation!’ Yakovlev jumped from his chair and circled the room. ‘I, Evsey and his Cossacks, even Lord Kyle, we gambled everything to save you and your family. We derailed the train. We were killing people to rescue you. Now, all you want to do is to sit in Britain, surrounded by your children?’ He stared at Nicholas for a second. ‘What about your wife? Was her death in vain? Everything we’ve done is in vain?’
‘I’ve abdicated on behalf of myself and my son.’ Nicholas reclined back on his pillow. ‘What’s done can’t be undone.’
‘You’ve abdicated in favour of your younger brother, Grand Duke Michael, and the Provisional Government. I don’t want to open the old wounds, but...’ Yakovlev paused. ‘The Grand Duke is dead. The Provisional Government has been dispersed. Its ministers ran abroad, others were executed. The Bolsheviks dragged the country into the bloody civil war. What else do you need to reinstall yourself as a legitimate ruler?’
Nicholas squinted with a smirk. ‘And how am I supposed to do it, Mr. Smart?’
‘General Kolchak in Siberia and other royalist leaders in the south of Russia are ready for your arrival. The White Army is pushing the Reds out of Siberia and back to the Baltic Sea. It will be a miracle for all the Russian people to see their tsar-batyushka and the children alive. The Bolsheviks are weak. They’re losing people and territories but, most importantly, they’re losing support. After years of the Great War, the Bolsheviks keep on pushing the country into another war. People are exhausted. They need a miracle.’ Yakovlev’s black eyes challenged him for a second. ‘Are you ready to be the one?’
Nicholas kept silent. His gaze glided across the snowy hills. ‘I want to see Alexei and the girls first,’ he sighed finally.
‘I understand your concern. You can’t trust anybody now, but here is the evidence.’ Yakovlev nodded, then pulled an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to Nicholas. ‘I’m sure you recognise this place.’
Nicholas opened the envelope with a frown.
The first photo depicted Alexei in his favourite sailor suit, sitting on the bench in the garden of Fredensborg Palace, the favourite home of his grandmother. The family used to spend time with their Danish cousins there. Alexei’s sad eyes stared from the photo. No hint of a smile on his lips.
‘How does he feel after his mother’s death?’ Nicholas demanded after the prolonged pause.
‘Not well.’ Yakovlev shrugged, coming to the window and glancing outside. In the bright sunlight, his slim silhouette, dressed in all black, looked like it was carved of granite. ‘He was sick all the way to Denmark. He cried a lot. Luckily, I had the family’s physician, who accompanied him to Yekaterinburg, with us. He looked after the tsarevitch. I’ve never been good with kids, but...’ He smiled. ‘We’ve got along well with His Highness. He feels a bit better now, surrounded by his uncles, aunties, and cousins. He needs to see his father — strong and protective again.’
Nicholas rose from his bed, coming to the window, and squeezed Yakovlev’s shoulder. ‘Thank you. Whatever your motives are, thank you.’
Yakovlev turned around, and their eyes met. ‘I’m not doing it for you, for Lord Kyle, or for the English king. I’m not doing it just for money either. I have enough of it. I’m doing it because I still believe in Russia,’ he said with passion. ‘Let’s be honest, Nicholas Alexandrovich, you’re a great man but a useless monarch. You’ve made lots of mistakes during your reign, listening for bad advisers like Rasputin and allowing evil to prevail.
‘I don’t like the Bolsheviks either. The country dreamt of democracy. What have we received from them apart from war and terror? You’ve lived here long enough. You travelled all over the world and observed how other monarchies worked. The era of autocracy is over. We need a monarch and a parliament, working together. Russia needs a real government with real power, not the Provisional Government, the bunch of puppets. Russian people still need their tsar-batyushka, but they need their voice to be heard too.’ He stopped, probably afraid of his words.
‘Thank you again, Mr. Yakovlev,’ Nicholas said, patting his shoulder and smiling warmly. ‘Not only for saving me and my family but also for your openness and courage. Thank you for opening my eyes. Thank you for giving me a second chance on behalf of the Russian people. I swear to God, I won’t let you down. I won’t let my country down.’
Copyright © 2021 by Valeriya Salt
