Dmitri rode out to Piotr Tolmachev’s farm with a man from the consulate by the name of Henderson. The farmer was working in a wheat field. When he saw them waving he pushed through the tall stalks towards the fence.
‘Have you heard the latest orders from Moscow?’ he asked, continuing a conversation he appeared to have been having with Henderson at their previous meeting. ‘I have to hand over all my excess wheat, beyond immediate needs, to a commissariat who will distribute it according to desert. Those doing hard manual labour will get the most, while those who do work that is not physical will scarcely get any. That means the likes of you will go hungry,’ he told Henderson, glancing sideways at Dmitri.
‘It sounds completely unworkable,’ Henderson sympathised. He introduced Dmitri and they talked for some time about the new economic system the Bolsheviks planned to impose countrywide, with strict quotas for every commodity.
Dmitri had not heard all the details of the new plans and was horrified at how quickly the social structure of the country he loved was being ripped to shreds. Part of him accepted that the aristocracy, of which he had been a part, had no place in the twentieth century. For a privileged family to own the land and all its products by a chance of birth, and for those not so lucky in their parentage to have to work long hours on said land and pay taxes to boot, was a recipe for rebellion. But the alternative the Bolsheviks proposed seemed childishly simplistic. If land were owned communally, how would they make everyone do the same amount of work? Who would make the investment necessary to rebuild and renovate facilities, as his father had done on their estate?
The farmer’s face was reddened by the elements but his eyes were a clear blue and his hair a short silver-grey thatch. ‘If I could afford it, I would move south to Crimea, which the Bolsheviks have been unable to take,’ he said. ‘My wife’s family comes from there and it’s good farming land. The extra hours of sunlight mean they get two harvests a year rather than our one. In Ekaterinburg we farmers are lucky to break even. I don’t know how I am supposed to find “excess” to give the state.’
Dmitri bided his time until there was a lull in the conversation, then ventured: ‘I hear your daughter works in the Ipatiev House. Does she tell you anything about the mood of the imperial family? I imagine they must be very fearful.’
The farmer shook his head. ‘Shocking, isn’t it? If the Bolsheviks have evidence the Tsar and Tsarina were traitors, let them produce it and try them in a court. If not, why can’t they be released to live in exile? Yelena, my daughter, says they are a charming family who are grateful for every little service. She feels sorry for them.’
‘Is Yelena here today?’ Dmitri asked, looking around.
‘She’s over tending to the pigs.’ He waved an arm in the direction of a shed some hundred yards away.
They continued talking, but Dmitri kept an eye on the barn until a girl walked out carrying a bucket. He was too far off to tell much about her appearance but she looked tall and slender. She walked in their direction and as she got closer, Dmitri saw that she had shoulder-length brown hair. Suddenly a plan began to take shape in his head. Was it crazy? Could it possibly work? While Henderson and the farmer continued their discussion, he tried to think it through.
‘How much money would you need to relocate to Crimea?’ he asked the farmer abruptly, interrupting their conversation.
Tolmachev was puzzled. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Name a figure,’ Dmitri insisted, and the farmer thought for a moment then came up with the sum of two thousand roubles.
Dmitri continued: ‘If I give you two thousand roubles, would you consider asking your daughter to help us communicate with the Romanovs? We are trying to get them overseas, and we need someone who has access to the house.’
The farmer was instantly suspicious. ‘Who are you? How do I know you are not a Bolshevik spy?’
‘I can vouch for him,’ Henderson said quietly, and Dmitri gave him a quick nod of thanks.
‘Well, I suppose I would consider it. What do you want her to do? Carry letters back and forth?’
‘Not exactly,’ Dmitri replied. ‘First of all, I need you to find out the days on which she will be working over the coming weeks. Can you do that for me?’
‘Two thousand, you say. In cash?’
‘In cash.’
‘It sounds as though we could work together, my friend.’
The farmer shook Dmitri’s hand, and Dmitri could see the gleam of hope in his eyes, hope of a way out of an increasingly difficult life. This might work. It must work.
Dmitri rode back into town to see Thomas Preston. ‘I need to talk to one of your merchants about the safest route out of Russia. Are any based in Ekaterinburg?’
Preston’s eyes widened. ‘You have a plan?’
‘I’m working on it.’
‘The best man would be Henry Armistead. Let me give him a call.’ He lifted a telephone receiver and instructed the secretary on the other end to get Armistead on the line, then hung up and continued: ‘Between ourselves, he was part of a plan to rescue the family from Tobolsk. They were going to travel down the River Enisei to the north coast then sail round to Murmansk on a Norwegian Arctic shipping line. The scheme had to be cancelled when they were moved to Ekaterinburg but perhaps he could arrange something similar here if you can get them out of the house.’
Dmitri spoke urgently. ‘Please ask him to come as soon as he can.’
The phone rang, the connection having been made, and Sir Thomas spoke to the man on the other end, saying he had an important delivery for the Murmansk route they had spoken of before. There was a pause. ‘Can you make it any sooner?’ he asked. ‘The opportunity could be lost by then … Oh, very well. And you will make the arrangements? Thirteenth of July it is.’
Dmitri’s spirits fell. That was three weeks away. On the other hand, it gave him time to get the details in place. He had a lot to arrange. When he left the consulate he went to the town’s telegraph office and sent a cable to his mother. APOLOGIES BUT URGENT BUSINESS KEEPS ME AWAY STOP CAN YOU WIRE TWO THOUSAND ROUBLES TO HELP CONCLUDE DEAL STOP HOPE ALL WELL STOP WILL VISIT SOON STOP YOUR SON.
Next he sent a cable to Malevich: CARGO WILL BE READY IN EKATERINBURG ON 13 JULY STOP COME A WEEK BEFORE WITH TWENTY YELKA STOP.
Spruce trees – yelka – were the largest and hardiest in the forests where they had fought during the war, and they had sometimes likened the toughest soldiers to them; he was sure Malevich would get the reference.
His stomach churning with nerves, he rode back to the cottage to think through every last detail. At last he was taking action. It felt as though he had delayed too long already and this would be his last chance.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Lake Akanabee, New York State, September 2016