Dmitri felt like shouting in frustration, but instead he buried his face in his hands and took a deep breath.
‘I completely understand your alarm,’ Sir Thomas continued, speaking quietly now. ‘I myself am deeply worried by recent developments and if it were possible for me to assist any attempt to liberate the family without being directly accountable, then you can be assured I would do so.’
Dmitri looked up in surprise. At last an official seemed willing to help. ‘My colleagues and I have formulated many plans but without success. The problem lies in freeing so many at once, including a boy who can no longer walk. And I have counted ten guard posts outside their new accommodation. It would take dozens of heavily armed men simply to get the family out of this town, never mind into safe territory.’
‘Indeed,’ Sir Thomas agreed. ‘Let me be clear: the British government will not help in any official capacity. However, I have spoken to some British merchants who regularly trade within this region and take goods back to London, and we have discussed routes that might be used in the event of a rescue. They know ways of getting through the German naval blockade. Perhaps I should put you in touch.’
‘You would do that?’ Dmitri was astonished. Sir Thomas’s sympathy was in complete contrast to the cold lack of interest he had encountered at the British embassy in St Petersburg. ‘Why would you trust me?’
Sir Thomas smiled. ‘I consider myself a reasonable judge of character after many years in this job. You took a risk in identifying yourself to me as a member of the royal escort. I could have called the local soviet and had you arrested. You’ll find they are very militant in this town, so be sure to keep your counsel.’
An aide brought in a tray of tea and Sir Thomas offered Dmitri a cup. He hadn’t eaten or drunk anything since the previous evening and it warmed his throat, slightly easing the tension in his ribcage.
‘You are so close to the house … I wonder if you know of anyone who goes in and out who might be prepared to deliver messages for me?’
Sir Thomas shook his head slowly. ‘I’m afraid not. Some nuns bring the family eggs and cream once a week, but their deliveries are searched with a fine-tooth comb. And a group of women go in to clean from time to time but they are recruited through the local soviet and I doubt you would find a Romanov sympathiser amongst them. It’s unlikely Father Storozhev, the priest who visits to conduct Orthodox services, would risk falling out with the Bolsheviks. And otherwise, their only visitors are Red Guards. I tried to deliver a note of welcome to the Tsar and Tsarina on their arrival but was rebuffed. I’m sorry.’
Dmitri was crestfallen. How would he ever arrange a rescue if he could not communicate with Tatiana? How would he cope without their daily correspondence? Already he missed her letters, missed knowing the tiny details of her life. Were they rehearsing another play? How were her bread-making attempts progressing? These were the slender straws at which he had clutched to keep him sane, and without them he felt he was drowning in a vast sea of despair.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ekaterinburg, Russia, June 1918
Dmitri found excuses to walk past the Ipatiev House several times a day and gradually he worked out the family’s routine. They were allowed to exercise in the garden for half an hour at eleven in the morning and then again between three and four in the afternoon. One morning when the guards did not appear to be watching, Dmitri pressed his eye to the knothole in the wooden fence and was able to catch a glimpse of the girls playing a game of tennis without a net. Tatiana was wearing a pale grey gown with a crimson-fringed shawl around her shoulders. He longed to call out but did not dare. Despite the fact that the weather had grown warmer, her mother and brother weren’t there. Tsar Nicholas marched briskly up and down the bare yard, lost in thought, but Tatiana rallied her sisters to focus on the game and he could tell she was trying to keep their spirits up.
Suddenly, some instinct made her turn and look directly at the knothole. She stared hard for a moment and he blinked. Could she see his eye? Might she realise it was him? Dmitri quickly retrieved a scrap of paper from his pocket, scribbled ‘Je t’adore. D.M.’, screwed it into a ball and wedged it in the hole. He walked off, swinging his arms, and ducked down a side street. Half an hour later when he walked back that way he was excited to notice that the paper had gone. Pray God Tatiana had retrieved it rather than a guard.
He returned that afternoon at four-thirty, after the Romanovs had been ushered indoors following their afternoon exercise, and saw there was a ball of paper in the knothole again. After checking that no one was watching he grabbed it and stuffed it in his pocket. He did not dare open it until he was several streets away. Fingers shaking, he uncrumpled the paper and read, in Tatiana’s distinctive sloping handwriting, the words: ‘All are coping as best they can but I yearn for you with all my heart. A thousand blessings upon you for following us and for giving me strength with your closeness. I adore you now and forever.’
A sob burst from Dmitri’s chest and he struggled to suppress it. His beautiful, ethereal wife knew he was here and she loved him still. It was like a chink of light in a long, dark tunnel. They must be careful not to overuse the knothole as a method of communication because if they were caught, the guards might punish her and that avenue would be closed to them. He wrote explaining that in the note he left the following morning, and when there was no reply, he guessed she understood.
Dmitri felt immensely cheered by being able to write to Tatiana. He dropped by to see Sir Thomas Preston again later in the week and mentioned he had a line of communication with the Romanovs.
‘Good,’ Sir Thomas nodded. ‘That will be useful. I also have a piece of news that may or may not be of interest. One of my staff knows a farmer, a man named Tolmachev, whose daughter is one of the cleaners at the Ipatiev House. He tells me that Tolmachev is no lover of the Bolsheviks, who have imposed all kinds of nonsensical legislation on farmers. I thought it worth noting.’
Dmitri was immediately interested. ‘Will you give me directions to his farm?’
Sir Thomas took a sip of his tea. ‘I think it would be best if my man introduces you. Next week some time. We’ll arrange it.’
They spoke of the massive changes being imposed on Russian society by the new leadership – the plans for collectivisation of industry, the enhanced workers’ rights – but agreed the immediate effect was that food prices were rising and the poor were struggling more than ever. Sir Thomas asked how Dmitri’s own family were faring and Dmitri felt ashamed as he replied. ‘My father was arrested soon after the Revolution and died in jail last winter. My mother and sisters long for me to visit but I have not … it seemed wrong to leave the Romanovs. My loyalties have been torn.’ He blushed. ‘I could not at any rate have attended my father’s funeral because we were stuck in Tobolsk until the thaw. And now, it feels as though I am more needed here than at home in Lozovotka … If only it were closer. I feel horribly guilty every time I write yet again delaying my visit.’
Sir Thomas eyed him thoughtfully, then asked: ‘Which one of the grand duchesses are you in love with?’
Dmitri was so startled, he sloshed tea into his saucer and it dripped onto his trouser leg.
Sir Thomas laughed. ‘I knew I was right! Go on, which girl?’
‘Tatiana,’ Dmitri whispered, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘And she loves me too.’
‘So she should, considering the sacrifices you are making for her. Well, I will do all I can to help.’