Dmitri wished he could get a message to Yelena, telling her that she would be rescued soon. If only he had spoken to Svetlana that morning. If only he hadn’t done such a despicable thing in the first place.
He was waiting on the corner when the cleaning ladies left the house at twelve and Svetlana rushed straight over, her face white with worry. ‘Where is Tatiana? Yelena doesn’t know what to do. How can she leave if they do not change places again?’
‘I know, I’m sorry. We’re doing what we can. Say nothing to anyone and your friend will be freed soon.’ His promise sounded hollow even to his own ears and he could tell Svetlana was not reassured.
After that he rode out to Tolmachev’s farm and told the farmer and his wife what had happened.
‘Svolach!’ The wife slapped him hard across the face. ‘You promised us she would be safe.’ She began to wail. ‘I will never forgive you if …’
Dmitri quickly explained their plan to free the Romanovs and shepherd them into the hands of the White Army. ‘It will be any day now,’ he promised. ‘I will keep you informed. The good thing is that none of the guards suspect the substitution has been made and the family are keeping up the pretence. Yelena is perfectly safe for now.’
‘She must be so scared,’ the farmer breathed. ‘You guarantee it will be over soon?’
‘I give you my word,’ he told them. One way or another it would.
Before he left he placed the bag containing two thousand roubles on their kitchen floor. The farmer’s wife kicked it. ‘What use is your money without our daughter? Did you think of that? Or was she not a person to you, just a body you could buy? You disgust me.’
Dmitri hung his head in misery. He disgusted himself too.
Dmitri went back to the consulate that afternoon and Sir Thomas let him sit by the window to keep an eye on the Ipatiev House. At least he felt as though he was doing something, however futile. The family came out to exercise at three but Yelena wasn’t with them, which sent Dmitri into fresh spiral of panic. Where was she? Had her identity been revealed? He noticed cars coming and going but wasn’t sure if there were more than normal, and could not make out any of the occupants. His blood was pounding and he paced up and down, unable to keep still.
‘Go home before the curfew,’ Sir Thomas told him at seven. ‘Your being here serves no purpose. We will have more information in the morning.’
Reluctantly, Dmitri rode back to the cottage, once again hoping that through some miracle Tatiana might have found her way back there. But she hadn’t. He cried as he touched the space on the sofa where she had sat and listened to the silence all around. After two nights of very little sleep, he managed to doze for a few hours but woke with fear gripping his heart. What had he done? Had he ruined everything with his thoughtlessness? If so, he could never live with himself.
He rode to the consulate as soon as the curfew was lifted in the morning, and was met by Sir Thomas, who looked grey and worried.
‘Sit down, Malama,’ he instructed. ‘I have some news which I think is credible.’
Dmitri felt his legs give way; he collapsed into a chair. ‘Bad news?’
‘I’m afraid so. It’s being said that Tsar Nicholas was shot and killed by the Red Guards last night.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
Ekaterinburg, Russia, 17th July 1918
Dmitri couldn’t breathe. His Tsar, his Commander-in-Chief, had been executed. His first thought was that it must be his fault for smuggling Tatiana out of the house. How would he ever live with himself? Tatiana was sure to hold him responsible.
‘What of the others?’ he croaked.
‘Word is that the rest of the family have been moved elsewhere for safekeeping.’ Sir Thomas looked grave.
‘Moved where?’
‘I was told by one source that they have gone to Verkhoturye, but there’s no confirmation. I stress I don’t know any of this for sure, but local people heard a disturbance around three in the morning and there are reports of a number of vehicles leaving the house.’
Dmitri leapt up. ‘I will ride to Verkhoturye today. I must do something.’
‘It’s almost two hundred miles north.’
‘I will telephone when I arrive.’
‘Ah, yes. And your friend Malevich sent a telegram this morning. He has met Kolchak, the White Army commander, but says none of their men know anything of Tatiana’s whereabouts.’
This was a blow. It meant Tatiana was almost certainly being held by the Red Guards. He must get to Verkhoturye as soon as humanly possible.
Dmitri knew Tatiana would take it very hard to lose her father. If only he could hold her in his arms and comfort her. He’d barely had time to mourn his own father but if he could just find her, he would try to help her recover from this shocking loss.
Dmitri rode day and night without rest, arriving in Verkhoturye at noon on the 18th of July. It was a tiny town on the Tura River, with historic buildings and a pretty cathedral. There were no more than a hundred private dwellings set along one main road and half a dozen cross streets. He should be able to find the family quite easily in such a place. But after riding up and down each street, he could see no house with guards posted outside. Wherever they were, there were bound to be guards. He knocked on the door of a female monastery and asked the elderly nun who answered if there had been any new arrivals in town over the past day, but she replied, ‘Only yourself, sir.’
He spent the afternoon touring the countryside around the town, wondering if they might be in a remote building somewhere, his thoughts in turmoil. Could it really be true that Nicholas was murdered without a trial, with no chance to defend himself? What kind of people were these new rulers?
As evening fell he took a room in the area’s only hotel and asked if he might use their telephone but when he spoke to Sir Thomas, the only further news was that the family appeared to have been transported from the Ipatiev House in trucks rather than carriages – yet another sign of the lack of respect now shown towards them. Sir Thomas’s informant was a local woman, who had seen the trucks pull out between three and four in the morning. Perhaps they were slow-moving and the party had not yet arrived in Verkhoturye. Dmitri couldn’t remember seeing any trucks on the road, but maybe he had overtaken them when they stopped for the night.
‘I will continue my search tomorrow,’ Dmitri said. It was the only thing he could think of. He had to keep himself occupied or he would go completely insane.
A week later, an inconsolable Dmitri returned to Ekaterinburg, having scoured every part of the countryside between there and Verkhoturye without finding a trace of the Romanovs. He discovered there had been dramatic changes in town since he left: the White Army had arrived, chasing out the Bolsheviks, and celebration was in the air. Flags hung from buildings, and flowers lay trampled on the streets where townspeople had tossed them at the liberating army.
‘It is like emerging from a huge cave into the daylight,’ Sir Thomas told Dmitri. ‘We need no longer kowtow to those insufferable Red Guards.’
‘But is there further news of the Imperial Family?’
‘Nothing as yet. International pressure is mounting on the Bolsheviks to hand them over. King Alfonso of Spain and King Christian of Denmark are making diplomatic representations. I imagine we will learn their whereabouts very soon.’
Dmitri turned away. Every moment was sheer torture as he speculated what might have become of Tatiana. He prayed she had not been punished for attempting to escape. Surely they wouldn’t do that? She was so young, so luminous …
‘The Ipatiev House is abandoned,’ Sir Thomas told him. ‘No one guards the gates and curious townspeople have been wandering in.’