Comrades

Our chapter this month is a first-hand account of one of the most brutal acts of betrayal of the twentieth century; as well as a unique, Souls Series take on a modern myth. Comrades comes from Galaxy of Souls, the fourth instalment in the series. While it's a work of fiction, it's horrifying to note a great deal of it is true!


She was in a beautiful ballroom with gold-framed mirrors lining the walls, running from floor to ceiling. She twirled around the floor in her favourite ball gown, enjoying the admiring glances of the young men stood around the side of the room. Handsome, elegant men in smart evening dress or colourful dress uniforms... except for one of them; he wore a scruffy, dull brown jacket buttoned to the neck and stared at her from his dark, beetle-like eyes. Suddenly he started walking towards her. With a gasp, she realised it was the commandant. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a pistol. He pointed it at her as he marched in her direction. She tried to back away, but she couldn’t move. The commandant kept coming. He reached out and grabbed her shoulder. He started to shake her. What was he saying?

“Wake up Nastya,” a soft, female voice urged. 

With an effort, she opened her eyes. Disappointment surged through her as she saw the dull, drab walls of the bedroom she shared with her sisters and realised she’d been dreaming of their old life, the life they had lost. Her mother was standing over her, shaking her gently by the shoulder. She looked tired and anxious, as they all did these days.

“What is it, Mama?”

“We are being moved to another house for our safety. You have to get dressed and be ready to leave straight away, Nastya.”

“But it’s night time, Mama. Can’t we leave in the morning?”

“No, Botkin says the commandant wants us out of here before it gets light. Hurry up now, Nastya, and don’t forget to wear your best blouse. You know the one I mean, don’t you, Schwipsig?”

“Yes, Mama, I understand,” she nodded.

Minutes later, she was walking down the stairs with the rest of the family. Papa led the way, holding hands with Mama and Alexei. Her brother looked pale and tired. She knew he needed his sleep, being disturbed in the night was harder for him than the rest of them because of his illness.

Olga and Tatiana followed behind their parents, she and Maria were following them, with Botkin and the other servants at the back. She looked at Maria, her other half in what the family called the ‘little pair’, and whispered, “Do you know what’s happening; where are we going?”

“I don’t know,” Maria hissed. Nastya could see her lip trembling as she spoke. Realising her sister was terrified, she reached out and took her hand, squeezing it reassuringly. Maria looked at her and Nastya tried to give her a smile. She decided to change the subject, to take Maria’s mind off her fears. “These damn rocks in my blouse are very uncomfortable,” she whispered, switching to German; “I wish Mama would let us take them out.”

“Those rocks could buy half this city,” Maria answered in the same language; “you know that’s why we keep them hidden in our clothes.”

“Huh, I don’t think I’d want any of this dreadful city, never mind half of it,” Nastya retorted. Then, as another thought struck her, she added, “Do you think they’ll take us back to St Petersburg?”

“Shhh,” Olga looked back to scold her; “be quiet, little mischief, you know we are forbidden to speak anything but Russian.”

“Alright, then; do you think they’ll take us back to St Petersburg?” Nastya repeated in Russian.

“Shut up, Malenkaya, you talk too much in any language.”

As Olga turned away, Nastya stuck her tongue out at her eldest sister’s back. Glancing aside at Maria, she put her hand to her mouth to stifle her giggles.

A few seconds later, they were nearing the bottom of the stairs, and Nastya could see the commandant waiting for them. She grimaced; she had grown to despise him since he’d taken charge of their captivity. He’d confiscated their phonograph and their piano, put them on army rations, and cut off the last of what little comforts they had left; even butter was forbidden now. That afternoon, he’d taken away the kitchen boy, little Leonid, Alexei’s only playmate. They all feared they would never see the boy again. Like everyone, and everything else that had been taken from them, it felt like he was gone for good.

She sighed, feeling the familiar wave of self-pity, but she fought it off. She looked at Maria again, then her other sisters, her parents, and her brother. It wasn’t true, they still had some comforts, the greatest, most important ones of all: they had each other. She didn’t think she’d ever loved them as much as she had the last few weeks, since they’d been imprisoned in this awful house.

The commandant was talking to a tall, thin man with long, dark hair. For just a heartbeat, she thought their dear Rasputin had returned, come to rescue them from these dreadful Bolsheviks. But, as the newcomer turned to face the approaching family, she saw the resemblance was only superficial. Straining to hear, she listened to the end of the men’s conversation.

“Yankel is most insistent, all of them must reach their destination tonight. My place on the politburo depends on it,” the newcomer said. His accent was similar to Mama and Papa’s English cousins but, while he sounded like an aristocrat, he was obviously working with the Bolsheviks.

“I understand, comrade, my instructions were very clear on this point. It must be all of them. I have prepared accordingly.”

“Good, then I will leave you to attend to the, er... details, and I will meet you there.”

The newcomer began to leave, then paused and looked up at the family on the stairs. Nastya felt like he was staring directly at her. He muttered something to himself in English. She was still trying to work it out when he turned and walked away, just as Papa reached the foot of the stairs and confronted the commandant, “What is the meaning of this, Yurovsky; I demand to know where you are taking us.”

“You forget, Nikolai Alexandrovich, you are in no position to make demands. We are all equal now. You are being moved to a safe location. We are expecting some trouble in the city; the fighting will be here soon, perhaps by the morning. Come, follow me.”

Yurovsky led them out of the main building, across the courtyard then back inside and along a long corridor to an empty basement room. “Wait in here, the truck will be here to take you to your destination shortly,” he ordered. Yurovsky walked out, leaving the family and their four retainers standing in confusion under the watchful eyes of a few guards, wondering what was happening. The minutes stretched out. Papa put his arm around Mama and pulled her close. Alexei leaned against them, “My legs ache, are we going to be in here long?”

Papa looked up at one of the guards. “Will it be long?” he repeated his son’s question.

The guard shrugged, “As long as it takes.”

“Can we have some chairs, for my wife and son? He is ill, he needs to rest.”

The guard smiled, “Chairs, you want chairs?”

“Yes, two chairs, for my wife and son,” Papa insisted.

“All right, I will see what we have,” the guard left the room. It was several minutes before he returned with the requested furniture, which he positioned facing the doorway. “There,” he gestured at the seats.

Papa thanked him. Mama and Alexei sat down, the rest of the family stood around them; Papa stood facing them, his back to the door. Nastya and Maria held each other close. Nastya could feel her sister shaking, “Do not be afraid, Mashka, we will soon be leaving this dreadful prison. Wherever we go next, it must be a better place than this.”

“But it is all so strange. Not like when we left Alexander Palace or Tobolsk. The Bolsheviks have always been hard on us, but they have not woken us in the night or herded us into a basement before. I am frightened, Nastya, I don’t like this at all. You remember what Rasputin said?”

“That a great darkness hung over us and one day he feared it might consume us if he was not there to protect us? I have thought of that often too, Mashka. Do you think this is that darkness now?”

“I fear it might be, Nastya.”

Nastya frowned, “Perhaps it may be. But still I think we are going to a better place, even if it is...”

She was interrupted as the commandant burst through the door. He was quickly followed by a group of armed men carrying pistols. The men filed rapidly into the room and tried to form a line opposite the waiting family, but there was not enough space and they had to crowd in, two or three deep. Nastya felt her blood turn to ice water as the fear ran through her veins. In a soft whisper, she finished what she was saying, “... our next life.”

Yurovsky took a step forward. He held a piece of paper at arms’ length in front of him and read aloud, “Nikolai Alexandrovich, in view of the fact your relatives continue their attack on Soviet Russia, the Ural Executive Committee has decided to execute you.”

Papa whirled around to face Yurovsky, “What? What?”

“I said, Nikolai Alexandrovich, in view of the fact your relatives are continuing their attack on Soviet Russia, the Ural Executive Committee has decided to execute you,” the commandant repeated, then dropped the paper, raised his gun, and shot Papa in the chest.

As Papa fell, the other men in the execution squad raised their weapons and began firing. Some of them had to lean over the shoulders of those in front. Struggling to aim at their targets, the executioners’ bullets were spraying everywhere, knocking plaster off the walls, sending dust into the air to mingle with the black smoke coming from the guns.

Olga was crossing herself, Tatiana began screaming. A bullet struck Nastya’s chest, but it was stopped by the diamonds sewn into her blouse. One of the men staggered forward; she could see he was drunk. He aimed unsteadily at Mama, and shot her in the head. Maria screamed and pulled away from Nastya’s embrace: she ran for the double doors at the back of the room, looking for an escape route; she tried to pull them open, but they were locked. The drunken man shot her in the leg and she fell to the floor.

Nastya felt numb. She felt as if she was watching a moving picture show running in slow motion. It didn’t seem real: she was watching, but she didn’t feel part of it. Yet part of her mind, the logical part, knew her parents were dead, and she and her siblings would follow any second.

Botkin fell, then Ivan the cook, and Trupp, the footman: loyal servants who’d stayed with the family to this most bitter of ends. The last of them was Mama’s maid, Anna, who Nastya could see cowering against the back wall, hiding behind a pillow she held in front of her like a shield.

The smoke and dust grew steadily thicker, until the killers could no longer see their targets. Someone was shouting something about the noise and the neighbouring houses then Yurovsky ordered the men to stop firing and open the doors to allow the smoke to clear.

In the darkness, Nastya could hear Maria whimpering in pain, in the corner where she’d fallen. She made her way across the room and crouched next to her, pulling her close, “It is all right, Mashka, they have stopped now.”

“Mama, Papa,” her sister wept.

“I know, I know,” Nastya stroked her sister’s hair, trying to comfort her.

The smoke slowly began to clear. Yurovsky shouted, “Bayonets; finish them with your bayonets, men.”

Maria stiffened in Nastya’s arms, burying her head in her chest. “No, please, no,” she sobbed. Nastya watched in horror as the executioners began moving across the room, stabbing her brother and sisters. Two of them pinned Anna to the back wall. The maid tried to defend herself with the pillow, and Nastya realised this makeshift shield was more effective than it looked: it was stuffed, not with feathers, but with jewels.

Nastya looked up to see another soldier standing over her, his bayonet poised, ready to strike. She turned away, doing her best to protect Maria. She felt the blade being jammed into her back many times, but it did not penetrate deeply, deflected by the jewels sewn into her blouse. The soldier snorted derisively; when she looked up again, he had moved away to join his comrades attacking Anna. One of the men had pulled the pillow from the maid now, the others began stabbing her repeatedly in the chest until she collapsed to the floor, dead.

Elsewhere, the soldiers seemed to be realising their bayonets were proving ineffective on the children. One of them pulled out his gun and began shooting Alexei, but the boy remained in his chair, still alive. Nastya knew her brother had precious gems sewn into his undergarments and cap, and that these were protecting him. When the first man’s gun was empty, the drunk took over, firing at Alexei’s chest, then stabbing him with his bayonet. Yurovsky shoved the drunk aside, “Ermakov, you drunken imbecile, do you not yet understand there is something in their clothes? There is only one way to finish this.” The commandant placed his gun to Alexei’s head and pulled the trigger.

“As you command,” grunted Ermakov; he staggered over to Olga, who was kneeling on the floor, praying. She looked up at him as he aimed his gun and shot her between the eyes. Her blood splattered across Tatiana, also kneeling nearby. She turned to face the wall. Ermakov put his gun to the back of her head and fired.

As Nastya was watching Ermakov, the soldier who’d attacked her before left Anna’s body and began walking towards her. He drew his pistol and aimed it at her head. She tried to will herself to get up, to run, but her limbs would not respond. It was like her dream, she couldn’t move. The soldier stood over her, grinning down at her, “Now you die, imperial whore.”

She put her hands over Maria’s head, holding her tightly to her chest, “Please, just me, not my sister.” The soldier laughed. He reached down and grabbed a handful of Maria’s hair, pulled her head up sharply, then jammed the barrel of his gun into her jaw.

“Mashka, no,” Nastya screamed, trying to pull her sister’s head back to her chest.

The soldier fired. The top of Maria’s head exploded, showering blood, bone fragments, and brain tissue into the air. A sharp piece of bone hit Nastya in the middle of her forehead. Blood poured from the wound, mingling with her sister’s as it ran down her face. She was stunned by the blow, her ears were ringing, her vision began to blur. Her head slumped forward. Everything was going dark.

Dimly, she was aware of the soldier turning the gun towards her, pressing it against her temple. He pulled the trigger. The gun clicked. He pulled the trigger again. Same result. The magazine was empty. “Aaagh, fuck it, she’s dead anyway,” she heard him say. Then it went black, the darkness was complete.

*

She was being lifted by rough hands, manhandled onto something. It felt like a stretcher. The man lifting her had his hand under her skirt. He squeezed her hard. She squealed in pain and shock, her eyes flew open, she raised her arm to shade them as she was immediately dazzled by the electric light bulb hanging overhead.

“Fuck, one of the bitches is still alive. How did that happen?” it was Ermakov’s voice.

Nastya lowered her arm and saw Ermakov grab a rifle from one of the soldiers. He thrust the bayonet into her chest. It hurt, but once again the blade did not sink far into her flesh. She blinked at the commissar and shook her head, “Please, no.”

Ermakov swore under his breath, “Christ, how hard can it be to dispose of this monarchist filth.” He pulled a flask from his pocket and took a long drink of liquor. Then he drew his pistol and aimed at her head. She could see his finger tightening on the trigger. This was it, there would be no escape this time. She was glad in a way. She wanted to be with Maria, Mama and Papa, Alexei, and her other sisters; she wanted this nightmare to end.

She closed her eyes. Ermakov hiccupped. Then it went black again.

*

She woke once more. The pain was terrible. There was a throbbing, burning sensation at the side of her head, it felt as if someone had drilled into her skull. She had another sharp pain in the centre of her forehead, a severe ache where the bullet had hit her in the chest, and multiple sore spots where she’d been stabbed by bayonets. Yet, incredibly, she was alive.

For a minute, she thought she was blind, she couldn’t see anything. Then she realised the darkness was due to the fact her eyes were caked in blood, and because she was buried beneath a pile of bodies… the bodies of her family.

She’d been ready to join them, prepared to face death. But now it appeared fate had spared her a second time. That had to mean something: somehow, she’d been chosen as the one who might perhaps endure this terrible act of betrayal. She owed it to the others, to her family, to do her best to live through this… but it was not going to be easy.

The weight was oppressive, she was barely able to breathe as she lay crushed beneath the corpses, beneath the people she’d loved all her life. She knew she didn’t have the strength to wriggle out of the pile. She wasn’t sure if it was safe either.

The floor beneath her bounced and jolted, she could hear the sound of an engine, it seemed to be straining: she was in the back of a truck struggling to cope with its grisly burden. Every now and then it hit a bump in the road and she was badly jarred. The pain shot through her, her head swam, she feared she might black out again. She bit her lip to stop herself crying out in agony. Her only hope was to keep quiet, lie still, and play dead. She’d been lucky twice; she was unlikely to survive a third time.

Eventually, the truck jerked to a halt and she heard voices outside.

“There is no need for you to trouble yourself with this trivial matter, commandant. As you can see, my men are waiting to take the bodies to the disposal site, as we agreed.”

“There is every need,” replied Yurovsky; “your men are as drunk as you, Ermakov, I cannot trust any of you. I want no looting and no violation of the bodies.”

“But my men expected...”

“I know what they expected, and I was determined from the start they were not getting any of it. Our job is to dispose of the royal family, that is all. Any property we find belongs to the state and the bodies are not to be violated.”

“Hey,” shouted a third voice; “what is this, Ermakov, they’re all dead already. You promised we could have the women before we killed them.”

“Yeah,” shouted a fourth, “and you said we could hang the fucking tsar from a tree and watch him kicking while he choked. This is a fucking swindle, Ermakov.”

More voices joined the protests and soon Nastya could hear the drunken rabble working themselves into a frenzy. Suddenly there was a gunshot and the mob fell silent.

“Get back,” shouted Yurovsky, “or the next one goes through someone’s head. You will do your duty to the state, or it will be you hanging from trees, kicking while you choke. Now, start getting the bodies off the truck and lay them on the ground where I can see them clearly.”

Nastya heard the bodies in the pile above her being dragged from the truck. The men were grunting from the exertion, moaning at their lot. As some of the weight was lifted off her, she was able to move slightly. She turned her head towards the sounds of the men, blinking her eyes to clear away some of the blood. Still hidden from view, she was nonetheless able to see a little. She saw two of the men lift Olga’s body. They tore open her blouse and started groping her breasts. One of the men pocketed a diamond he’d ripped from the corpse.

Suddenly, her mother’s dead eyes appeared in front of her, staring back at her. She had to bite her lip again to stop herself crying out. More of Ermakov’s men dragged Mama’s body away. As Nastya watched, the men lifted her mother’s skirts. One rubbed her vulva; another pushed his fingers inside her. “I can die in peace now I’ve touched the royal cunt,” he sniggered.

Yurovsky fired his pistol into the air again, “That’s it; you men are dismissed. Empty your pockets first, then leave the area. You are lucky I am too busy with the burial, or I would have you hanged.”

“We were promised the women,” shouted one of the men abusing the tsarina’s body.

“And we deserve a reward for our efforts, this is dirty work,” shouted another man.

“The honour of serving the state should have been reward enough, but instead you have brought dishonour on yourselves. Now, you will do as I command, or you will be shot,” ordered Yurovsky.

“Who are you to command us?”

“Why must we obey you?”

“Yes, we are all equal now.”

“We are entitled to…”

The argument raged on, the men clamouring for the reward they thought they deserved. Nastya realised this could be her best chance. There was only one body on top of her now. She pushed it aside. As it fell off her, she recognised what was left of its face. “I am sorry, Mashka, rest in peace, my beloved sister,” she whispered.

She turned over, onto her stomach, shuffled to the back of the truck, and peered out. All the men were arguing, many brandishing their weapons threateningly. She rolled off the bed of the truck and dropped to the ground, then quickly crawled under the vehicle. Every movement was agony, she could feel the blood running from her wounds. She squinted into the darkness from beneath the truck. There was a clump of bushes nearby. She slithered towards them on her belly, like a snake, afraid of being discovered any moment. Behind her, she could hear the argument still raging, then Yurovsky used his gun again, and she heard someone cry out. He was getting the upper hand, he would have things under control again soon. In desperation, she got up onto her hands and knees, scrambled the last few feet to the bushes, and pushed her way into the undergrowth. Suddenly, she was falling. She hit the ground hard, and felt something snap in her shoulder. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she looked around, her eyes well accustomed to the darkness by now. By good fortune, she’d found some sort of disused quarry, about ten feet deep, very dark, and surrounded by bushes. To one side, there was an overhang, creating what looked like a miniature cave. She crawled over to it and squeezed herself inside.

The shouting had stopped but she could still hear the voices of the men by the truck. There were less of them now, and it sounded like Yurovsky had re-established his authority. She heard another vehicle approaching. It halted a few yards from her hiding place. Someone climbed out and began walking towards the others.

“This is no place for a Rolls Royce, comrade,” Yurovsky greeted the new arrival.

“Oh, it is not a problem, the suspension on the Silver Ghost is excellent, even in this dreadful terrain.”

Nastya gasped, it was the English aristocrat she’d seen at the house in Yekaterinburg. His final, muttered words as he stared up at her rang through her head. This time, she realised what he’d said, ‘Such a pity, I would have liked to try some of the girls first, especially that one.’ She shuddered, suddenly more afraid of falling into the sinister Englishman’s hands than anything, even death.

“You misunderstand me, comrade,” Yurovsky continued, “I mean the decadent luxury of a Rolls Royce is out of place amid our noble revolutionary work.”

“Really? I always thought getting a share of decadent luxury was the whole point of a revolution. But, no matter. Why are the bodies still here at the roadside? It will be light soon, the operation was meant to be completed under cover of darkness.”

“The fault is Ermakov’s. The fool is drunk and the men he hired are nothing but would-be rapists and looters. To compound his other failings, the idiot brought only a single shovel when I ordered him to bring at least a dozen. But I have used the time well, I have recovered many precious stones from the bodies of these crowned robbers. They will be returned to the state for the benefit of the people.”

“Yes, I am sure they will. Did you count them, by the way?”

“No, there were far too many, they were hidden in the girls’ clothes, the boy’s too, the maid had them stuffed in a pillow, and…”

“No, not the jewels, did you count the bodies?”

“What?”

“One tsar, one tsarina, the tsarevich, four grand duchesses, the family doctor, and three servants. That should be eleven, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, eleven, that’s right.”

“So why are there only ten?”

*

Nastya squeezed herself as far into the little niche in the rock as her broken, aching body would allow. She shivered in fear as she heard the men thrashing about in the undergrowth, searching for her. At one point, two of them stood directly above her, on the lip of the quarry. She shuddered with revulsion as she listened to their conversation about what they would like to have done to her sisters and her. She was terrified they would see her. Then two cigarette butts dropped on the ground in front of her and the men moved away.

The sky was growing lighter. She feared the approaching daylight would help the searchers find her. In fact, the impending dawn saved her.

“We must call off the search, the light is strengthening; we must not be discovered.” Yurovsky was close by. Nastya supposed he must be standing near the truck.

“No, we must keep looking,” the Englishman responded; “I assured Yankel we would dispose of them tonight. All of them.”

“A foolish promise to make when you are not pulling the trigger yourself, comrade”

“Perhaps, but even so, we must find the missing one. She must be nearby, I am certain we will locate her soon.”

“I do not agree. We have searched the area; she is not here. Ermakov and his men are drunk, who knows where the mistake was made? She may have jumped from the truck somewhere on the road, or simply fallen out. We must carry on with the plan and dispose of the others, there is no more time to spare for this pointless hunt.”

“But we must find her tonight. We cannot fail.”

“Look at the sky, comrade. The night is gone, you have failed.”

“Very well, we will continue as planned. But no-one must ever know one of them got away.”

“Do not worry, comrade, we will conceal the bodies well; the world will never know what we did with them. And even if the bodies should ever be discovered, I will make sure it looks like there are eleven instead of ten.”

“Good, then we are agreed. No-one shall know one of them is missing.”

“I said the world will never know. I must report the truth to Yankel and Ilyich.”

“They will be displeased.”

“Yes, comrade. And they will want someone to blame. Most likely someone who is not a true revolutionary. You should take your decadent motor car and leave; you do not belong here, English lord.”

There was a long pause. Nastya wondered what was happening. Then she heard what sounded like several bolts being drawn at once.

The Englishman sighed, “You are well guarded, commandant, I commend you on your preparedness. As you wish, I shall leave. Tell Yankel he is not alone, I have other protégés waiting to take his place. There is one in Germany who shows a great deal of promise. You and Yankel should take note, he doesn’t like Jews, I’m afraid.”

Nastya heard footsteps and the sound of a car door opening.

“By the way, I forgot to ask,” the English lord shouted.

“What, Englishman?” Yurovsky retorted.

“Who was it that got away?”

“Anastasia; she was the one that got away.”