The lost symphony, p.26
The Lost Symphony, page 26
‘To Russia? Why?’
‘To follow those breadcrumbs of destiny I told you about,’ said Jack and gently stroked Anielka’s hair.
‘Where in Russia?’
‘St Petersburg, to begin with. After that, who knows?’
‘St Petersburg? The Alexander Palace, Catherine’s Palace, the Hermitage! Oh, Jack, I’ve dreamt about visiting the Hermitage since I was a little girl. Can you imagine, all those treasures in one place?’
‘It sure is an amazing city. I’ve been there before.’
Anielka looked at Jack, her eyes full of longing and wonder. ‘Oh Jack, take me with you! Please.’
‘You want to come with me?’
‘Oh yes, please! I could help you find those “breadcrumbs of destiny”.’
Jack burst out laughing. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Of course I am. Can’t you see? It’s meant to be!’
‘It’s not quite that simple, you know. You need a valid passport, visas—’
‘I have a passport,’ interrupted Anielka. ‘It’s upstairs!’
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘You can’t leave without me, Jack,’ said Anielka. ‘You’ve ignited a flame and I can’t put it out. It will consume me if you don’t take me with you.’
‘Well, we can’t let that happen, can we?’ said Jack and gently kissed Anielka on her forehead.
Part III
The Weeping Madonna of Kazan
44
Ipatiev House, Yekaterinburg: 16 July 1918
7:00 am
Alexandra opened her eyes, terrified. Covered in sweat and breathing heavily, she tried to sit up, but fleeting images of the frightening dream just wouldn’t go. Alexandra could still see the troubled face of the Madonna. She could also see that the Madonna was weeping. Alexandra closed her eyes, trying desperately to banish the remaining fragments of the dream, and sat up. After a while, she opened her eyes and looked at the icon on the small table by the window as the first rays of the morning sun reached hesitantly through the dirty window like comforting fingers, caressing the heavy silver-gilt frame, and making the jewels on the riza sparkle with hope and the promise of a new, better day. Feeling calmer, Alexandra got out of bed, slowly walked over to the window and knelt down in front of the icon. Bowing her head, she began to pray and asked Kazanskaya Bogomater for guidance.
10:00 am
Privacy was impossible in the crowded quarters on the first floor of the house occupied by a family of seven, a doctor, Alexandra’s maid, a cook and Nicholas’s valet, all watched over around the clock by leering, uncouth guards. Once the chaotic, banal routine of the morning had settled down somewhat, Alexandra retreated to the bedroom she shared with Nicholas and Alexei, and began to write a letter to her friend, Countess Bezukhova:
I had a terrible dream last night. Kazanskaya Bogomater was looking down on seven open graves from above, and weeping. I woke up, terrified, and with a sense of foreboding making me tremble, I began to pray. I asked for guidance, and Kazanskaya Bogomater showed me the way, but I fear that something dreadful is about to happen to us.
Alexandra put down her pen and looked pensively out of the window, unable to banish the dark premonition clawing at her heavy heart. This may well be my last letter to you, my dear friend, she wrote, as my only contact with the outside world is a kind nun from a convent nearby, who brings us food.
4:30 pm
Sister Natalya arrived from the Novo-Tikhvinsky Convent with a basketful of food for the family, as she did most days. Yakov Yurovsky, a rough, vulgar man in charge at the Ipatiev House, stopped her at the front door, lifted the serviette covering the basket and examined the food. ‘Very nice,’ he said and helped himself to several large portions, which he piled on a wooden plate. ‘You can go upstairs now.’
For several weeks, Sister Natalya, a simple, pious woman in her forties, had brought food for the Imperial family from the kitchens of the convent. This was tolerated by the guards despite orders that any kind of contact between the prisoners and the outside world was strictly forbidden. The reason for this forbearance was simple enough: Yurovsky enjoyed the tasty food from the convent, which was a welcome change from the meagre, boring rations issued to the guards. Besides, contact with a nun didn’t seem to be a threat.
‘I have to talk to you before you go,’ whispered Alexandra after Sister Natalya had emptied her basket and put the food on the table. ‘Come.’
Alexandra ushered Sister Natalya into her bedroom, careful not to attract the attention of the guards in the corridor outside who watched the family’s every move.
‘You have been a wonderful friend to us,’ said Alexandra and placed her hand on Sister Natalya’s arm. ‘You have shown us kindness and compassion during these difficult times, and for that I am grateful.’ Sister Natalya nodded, surprised by the intimacy of the moment, and looked at her former empress. ‘With a heavy heart, I have a great favour to ask of you,’ continued Alexandra, her face troubled. ‘It may involve danger, but I have no-one else I can turn to, and I fear that time is running out.’
‘What kind of favour, Your Majesty?’ asked Sister Natalya, barely able to speak.
Alexandra pointed to the little table by the window. ‘It involves that icon over there, and a letter,’ she said, tears glistening in her eyes.
Midnight
Yurovsky put his hand on the pistol in his pocket and walked slowly upstairs. It was time to wake the family. Aware of the gravity of moment, he stood quietly in front of one of the bedroom doors, collecting his thoughts. Then, taking a deep breath, he knocked.
Dr Eugene Botkin, the family physician who had accompanied the Romanovs into exile, answered the door.
‘Apologies for the intrusion,’ said Yurovsky. ‘There’s unrest in town. For the protection of the family, we have to move everyone downstairs. It’s no longer safe up here should there be shooting in the streets outside.’
Botkin nodded. For days, artillery fire had been rumbling in the distance and was coming closer. An anti-Bolshevik White Army had joined forces with thousands of former Czech prisoners of war on their way home, and was closing in on Yekaterinburg. A showdown appeared imminent.
‘Please get everybody ready; there isn’t much time,’ added Yurovsky. ‘I’ll wait here.’
Dr Botkin went inside to wake the family and explain the situation.
17 July, 1:00 am
It took the family forty-five minutes to get ready. The first one to step out into the dark corridor was Nicholas. Dressed in a simple military shirt and trousers, boots and a forage cap, the former emperor was carrying a sleepy Alexei who, weakened by chronic haemophilia, was unable to walk. Alexandra came out next, followed by her daughters Olga, Tatiana, Marie, and Anastasia, the youngest. All wore dresses without hats or shawls, and Anastasia cradled her pet King Charles spaniel, Jemmy, in her arms.
After the daughters came Dr Botkin and the three faithful servants who had shared the former Imperial family’s imprisonment since their house arrest in the Alexander Palace the year before.
‘We’ll go down into the basement,’ announced Yurovsky, leading the way down the stairs and out into the courtyard. Without saying a word, everyone followed him across the courtyard and then downstairs into a small room at the corner of the house.
As Alexandra entered the stark, claustrophobic basement room without any furniture, the feeling of dread that had so troubled her the night before returned, only this time it was stronger and more urgent. ‘No chairs? May we not at least sit?’ she asked, turning to Yurovsky.
‘Wait here,’ said Yurovsky and left the room. He returned moments later with two chairs. Alexandra, who suffered greatly from sciatica, sat down in one, and Nicholas put Alexei into the other. The daughters stood behind the chairs.
Aware of what was about to happen, Yurovsky began to give instructions. ‘You stand here, and you over there,’ he said until his eleven charges were spread out across the room in two rows.
‘What’s the meaning of this?’ asked Alexandra, her voice hoarse.
‘I have been instructed to take a photograph of you all,’ said Yurovsky, ‘because some of my superiors in Moscow believe you may have escaped.’
Alexandra looked at Nicholas and made eye contact. Nicholas shook his head, but said nothing. It was the way he had approached every crisis in his troubled life.
Yurovsky stepped back and looked around the dimly lit room. The four former grand duchesses stood behind their mother’s chair, Dr Botkin and the three servants stood behind Nicholas in a bizarre tableau of impending death. Satisfied, Yurovsky turned around, opened the door and barked some instructions. Instead of a photographer, eleven men armed with revolvers crowded into the room, their faces flushed with excitement and the alcohol they had consumed.
1:15 am
Yurovsky stood in front of Nicholas, the silence in the room electric. He held a piece of paper in his shaking right hand, from which he began to read:
‘In view of the fact that your relatives are continuing their attack on Soviet Russia, the Ural Executive Committee has decided to execute you,’ pronounced Yurovsky in a shrill voice.
Nicholas placed his hand on Alexei’s head and turned to face Alexandra, looking bewildered. ‘What?’ he called out, refusing to believe what he had just heard.
In a hurry and slurring his words, Yurovsky repeated the order from the Ural Executive Committee. He then reached into his trouser pocket, pulled out a revolver and shot Nicholas in the chest, killing him instantly. The ice was broken and the brutal killing of the last tsar and his family had begun.
The eleven excited men standing behind Yurovsky began to fire, cursing and shouting obscenities. Each had been allocated a specific target and was aiming for the heart. Because there was little space in the crowded room and the noise from the gunshots deafening, the shooting was chaotic. Alexandra tried in vain to make the sign of the cross just before she died in her chair. Olga, who stood behind her, tried to do the same, but was killed by a single shot through the head.
Alexei lay on the floor, mortally wounded, but still alive. One of the men kicked him in the head, but the former tsarevich was still moving. Yurovsky stepped forward and shot the boy twice in the ear. The killing frenzy continued.
Demidova, Alexandra’s maid, crawled along the back wall, bleeding. The executioners attacked her with bayonets until her mutilated body, cut more than thirty times, lay still in a pool of blood.
1:45 am
Yurovsky held up his hand, the acrid gunpowder smoke making him choke and his eyes water. The room fell silent and the men, many of them covered in blood, stood aside. Slowly, Yurovsky went from body to body, checking pulses. Satisfied there were no signs of life, he ordered sheets to be brought down from the bedrooms. One by one, the bodies were wrapped in the sheets, carried outside and thrown into the back of a waiting truck.
Just before the bodies were covered by a tarpaulin, one of the men discovered Anastasia’s little spaniel, its head crushed, in the courtyard. Laughing, he carried it outside. The truck was already moving away, but the man ran after it and hurled what was left of the little dog into the back of the truck.
This senseless, pathetic act concluded one of the most brutal chapters in Russian history, which would leave an ugly stain on the soul of an entire nation and haunt it for generations to come.
45
Carpe Diem, Paris: 22 February 2017
It was still dark outside, but Jack was already sitting at his desk in the conservatory. He was working on his itinerary for the upcoming St Petersburg visit, when his phone rang. It was Dupree calling from the Gatekeeper’s Cottage.
‘His name is Emile Fabron,’ said Dupree, sounding excited.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The safebreaker from the bank robbery. I got the files last night.’
‘The long shot you mentioned the other day? The man with the limp?’
‘Exactly.’
‘And this is helpful?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s still around.’
‘Do you know where you can find him?’
‘Yes. He lives on a houseboat.’
‘Where?’
‘In Paris.’
‘What’s on your mind?’
‘Let’s pay him a visit.’
‘All right. When?’
‘What are you doing right now?’
‘Getting my coat.’
Moored at the end of Canal Saint-Martin near the Bassin de la Vilette, the largest artificial lake in Paris, the Carpe Diem, a converted tugboat, had seen better days. Years of neglect had given rust, peeling paint and rotting timber a free hand. A dense fog hovered about the still water of the canal, wrapping the dilapidated vessel in what looked like grey cotton wool and giving it an almost ghostlike appearance; a Flying Frenchman of the Seine.
‘Do you think someone could actually live on this?’ said Jack.
‘Let’s find out,’ replied Dupree and slowly walked across the rickety gangplank, careful not to lose his balance.
‘Hold it right there!’ a voice called out from somewhere near the wheelhouse at the stern. ‘Stop!’
‘Is that you, Emile?’ said Dupree, certain that Fabron had a gun.
‘Who wants to know?’
‘Last time we met you were lying in front of a bank you had just robbed, with a bullet in your leg.’
‘Dupree? You’ve got a nerve coming here. What do you want?’
‘A chat.’
‘What about?’
‘How to avoid a possible murder charge through a little cooperation.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘May we come in?’
‘You’re not even with the police anymore. You’re retired.’
‘But still doing the odd job here and there, just like you, Emile.’
‘Do you have a warrant?’
‘No. But when Chief Superintendent Lapointe gets here, he will certainly have one. Only by then, it may be too late.’
‘Too late for what?’
‘I’ll tell you.’
‘Better come in, then.’
The inside of the tugboat looked surprisingly comfortable and well appointed.
Wearing an apron over a pair of flannel pyjamas, Fabron, a short, bald man in his sixties, stood in the galley, his eyes fixed on a frying pan.
‘Smells good,’ said Jack, and let his eye roam around the spacious interior that had been modified to create one large living space. Under the untidy chaos of crumpled newspapers, empty bottles, dirty plates and a washing basket full of worn clothes waiting for attention, the place reflected the lifestyle of a man who had known hard times, but didn’t care.
‘State your business and leave me alone,’ said Fabron. ‘As you can see, I’m cooking breakfast.’ Fabron picked up a half-empty bottle of brandy, splashed some into the pan, took a swig and burped.
‘It’s hard to imagine you in a dinner suit,’ said Dupree. He called up the CCTV recording of the limping man walking through the foyer of the Ritz on his iPad, placed it on the table in front of him and turned the screen towards Fabron.
Jack could see that Fabron was watching out of the corner of his eye.
‘And you came here after all these years just to show me this?’ he said, laughing.
‘That’s you, isn’t it?’ continued Dupree, undeterred. ‘Walking through the Ritz. You broke into one of the strong boxes in the safe in the basement and stole what was in it. Wig suits you. Makes you look younger.’
Fabron took the pan off the cooktop, turned off the gas and began to laugh.
‘You think this is funny?’
‘It is. For some reason I can’t possibly imagine, you are accusing me of some fancy robbery I’m supposed to have committed, in disguise?’ Fabron pointed to the screen. ‘Are you seriously suggesting that this is supposed to be me? Come on—’
‘No doubt you noticed the limp and the bag?’
‘Is that all you have? If so, I will not be the only one laughing. You can’t even see the guy’s face. The prosecutor will be laughing too, at you. For the record, that’s not me leaving the Ritz and I don’t know anything about a robbery. Now, get out and let me eat my breakfast.’
‘Being accused of robbery will be the least of your worries,’ continued Dupree quietly. ‘There was a dead man in the safe with his throat cut.’
‘So, now it’s murder as well? You should hear yourself.’
‘I don’t believe you killed the man. Not your style, but Lapointe may think otherwise when he gets here and pulls this place apart. All I want is some information.’
‘What kind of information?’
‘Who hired you?’
‘I already told you, I know nothing about this. This is harassment. Now piss off!’
‘Remember Le Fantôme and the Black Widow?’
‘Ancient history. What’s that got to do with this?’
‘You tell me.’
Fabron shook his head and didn’t reply.
‘I believe the Black Widow is back in business and hired you. Yes, it’s only a hunch – for now. But you know how these things go. A hunch can quickly turn into the real thing, and you could find yourself in the frame, not only for a robbery but for murder, as well. Once Lapointe starts to dig, who knows what he will find, eh?’
Fabron frowned at Dupree. Jack noticed a flash of fear and uncertainty race across Fabron’s stern face. It only lasted an instant, but Jack recognised the telltale sign.
‘For the last time, leave me alone and get out. You’ve got nothing on me!’
‘Very well, Emile,’ said Dupree and turned to leave. ‘I thought you were smarter than that. The Fabergé egg sold for nineteen million the other day, and you took all the risks. What did they pay you? Peanuts, I bet.’
