The kind faced man—with his sly Jewish features and bulgy big eyes, did not ask me who I was, how I was, and why I wanted the position of an "advising commissary" with the detachment. He looked at me, and smiled,—read the letter I presented,—and, seeing on my face an admiration for his splendor, accepted me. My God, how alike these people-in-power are! I remember, in my early days, the Count Witte, a man with heavy, depressing looks. He liked this move of a man-of-power. I recollect Mr. Kokovtzev who liked so much to see admiration on his visitor's face.... I see this little insignificant and blunt Kerensky, that fished for worship.... And here,—this "tovarishch" Nachman—sitting in his chair and ruling—had the same identical signs of self-respect, self-adoration, and independence. And—with all of them—I would, without any effort, just by instinct, get on their feeble side, change the whole expression of my face,—even think like them, and love them,—and win. The instinct of accommodation is a great thing,—and, it seems to me I possess it in sufficient volume.

So—accepted in the ranks of those that go wherever they wish, that do whatever their left foot feels like doing, those that continue to remodel the country, those that are so free in every action—I sat near the powerful man,—Comrade Nachman—as equal to equal.

But—what I really could not conceive,—was the range of his duties; he was judge, and governor, and military commander, and lawyer, and coroner, and administrator of the city, and the notary public—all that used to be connected with business—was his concern.... They could not do it in the olden days; they had to have a specially trained man for every branch before,—and now!

"How perfectly you perform all of these different duties," I said.



42

I am a jailer; I guess the first in our family.

Together with Comrade Adolf Pashinsky,—a Pole from the dreadnaught "Andrey Pervozvanny,"—I am walking on the Great Liberty Street, and inside of the fence, watching the prisoners in the Mansion, and watching to see that supreme justice—the will of the people—be done.

My companion—is a muscular man of thirty, without front teeth; his thin lips are always curved in a bad smile; his brain is such that he cannot think and speak of anything that would not be vulgar and vicious.

The very first night we came to change sentinels—I felt embarrassed, as I do not know the ritual; but—there is nothing military about these things nowadays, all is abolished. The soldiers come to change sentinels, talk freely, laugh loudly. Instead of military traditions—like parole, pass-words, exchange of salutes, etc., etc.,—they ask:

"Ah, howdy! What are "they" (meaning the prisoners) doing? Anything to look at? All right—now you go, we'll stay."

They have, however, a tradition. When the changed jailors are assembled near the entrance,—they start to knock on the rain pipes of the Mansion with their rifles, to throw sand and small stones into the windows of the Heir and the Princesses. When they think enough frightening has been done, they start to sing something hideous and pornographic.

"She went to the ma-a-rket, Bought a bell as a locket...."

begins a thin trembling voice very calmly and even bashfully, as if nothing bad will come out of this quiet song. And then, suddenly, a chorus of twelve big fat swine would belch the notorious refrain:

"Ah, you brunette of mine, O-oh, curly girl of mine...."

and so forth, with the licentious words of this song accompanying it with whistles and jazzing with bayonettes, field-pans and general noise.

I tried to analyze all of this. Why? Why is there such a hatred for these,—this poor man, these five women and a boy? Such unnecessary torture of people of the past,—nothing but a man who awaits the end of his tragedy, nothing but a frail boy, nothing but five trembling ladies. And the picture of the old woman that broke her hip on the deck—and provoked laughter, comes to me.

The second day of my occupation,—it was about eleven when the sentinels were changed and the night was warm and bluish, the demonstration, perhaps in my honor, was exceptionally noisy and obscene.

"How do you like it?" asked Pashinsky gloriously, looking at me and showing, instead of teeth, a burned-out cemetery in his mouth. "Don't they get enough? They just went to bed—and here is the music."

"Fine!" I answered. "Why don't we shoot? It makes more noise and frightens much more."

"We used to do so," he said with regret, "but all these burjoois, and the popes, and the whole carrion of Tobolsk did not like it. So we have decided for the moment not to. Nobody can forbid singing. We are free. The air belongs to the Soviet Government."

Then he continued:

"You should have seen those little ones"—he winked his eyes—"they got scared to death the first time we sang the "Parson's Daughter" right near their windows! And I'll tell you...." he whispered something in my ear.

I decided to start with him when it comes to rid the world of some of these Reds.

"Good!" I said with extreme pleasure and tapping him on the shoulder, "Where are their rooms?"

"Right where the white curtain hangs ... you see ... one ... two ... three ... fourth window on the second floor. They all are there in one room, they are never alone lately. They used to be on the first floor. That—was a holiday for us boys. Everything seen,—and we would...."

The smile on his face stretched from ear to ear.

"But," he continued,—"again the popes intervened. I hope they'll croak soon. And Kobylinsky consented. He is with us, of course,—but we must get rid of him."

"Well, you boys have good times here," (I said dreamily) "I am glad I came. It's great! All these people had enough of our blood. Now—the people rule themselves! Great life!"

"You bet! Stay with us longer and you'll see better things...."



43

Next day,—it was about four,—Pashinsky, who sticks near me thinking I am his best friend and admirer, punched me with his elbow and said:

"Look, look. Who is coming."

The Emperor, stooping and walking with tottering steps, was passing from the garden into the house. Dr. Botkin was with him. The Emperor's hands were clasped behind him, his eyes were staring downwards. An old, soiled soldier's blouse of khaki flannel was hanging on his spare, bowed, bony body. He was walking slowly, evidently trying to appear indifferent and calm.

I had not seen him for a year and a half or even more. There was more gray in his whiskers,—and to me, at this moment he never seemed to so strikingly resemble his more fortunate English cousin.

They passed very near us. Pashinsky loudly yawned and stretched right in the Emperor's face, who looked at him blankly; but under a dignified and elaborate calm—I detected a spark of wounded majesty. Then he looked at me,—evidently seeing in me nothing but a new jailer,—sighed, and turned his suffering face away. Dr. Botkin looked at me, too; he recognized me with a start.

"Ever see the bloodsucker before? Did you see how I treat him?"

"Never saw him. Where in the hell could I?... As for you—you certainly are some boy!"

I was so near to the Emperor that for a moment I feared he could recognize me. But he did not, for he glanced twice at me and—passed by. When they were on the stairs, Botkin said something to him, and the Emperor turned around, his eyes resting for a moment on my figure. I brought up my hand,—so, that for the Emperor—it was a salute; for Pashinsky—a mosquito which I killed on my forehead. Both Emperor and Botkin immediately turned away and entered the Mansion.

"You watch him closer, Syva," Pashinsky said, "I think we'll take him away for good pretty soon."

Today,—during my watch hours I had time to make observations, especially, when the evening came and the night began.

In the house silent figures were walking; these delicate shadows of yesterday; later—Princess Tatiana sat near the window with a book.

... (line illegible).... has not changed much. From time to time she would stop turning the pages,—and look—without expression, without moving—down at Pashinsky and me, and at the quiet city, at clear skies, at the distant golden crosses shining under the moon.

There was something natural,—and yet not ordinary, in this dark figure behind the curtain.

Did she think of our black ingratitude, she who did so much for the wounded soldiers and for the families of those killed? Did she think of the capricious Fate, which played with her young life so nastily? Did she pray—crushed, humble, and lost? Did she cry for the past, or dream of the future?... Or, perhaps, in her mind was the present,—and behind those noble eyebrows, were thoughts and plans to fight still.... Perhaps there was hope?

This dark figure and the other frightened silhouettes of the endangered ladies in the Mansion, surrounded by their jailers, keep me turning from side to side each night.

I see crooked smiles full of rotting teeth; I see perspiring low foreheads and piercing oily eyes; and I know that New Russia has no compassion.



44

Nachman invited me to a dinner. Later Dutzman came and brought a smirking girl with him. Nothing very interesting. A girl. She sang gypsy songs accompanied by a guitar. Good voice—and bad manners. We had champagne, caviar and cigars,—real Uppman.

"Eh," he said, "After all—this life is good! Much better even than when I was secretary of the 'Courier of Moscow.' Of course, it is transitory.... Won't you take some more, please?... and we all will be out. Perhaps those of us who will not, by that time, hang, will have already some money put aside. Not I—I am a spender. I can't keep this money."

He was happy and therefore talkative and sincere.

He continued.... "You ask how we get this money? Easily, comrad, very easily, indeed. Besides what we receive from Petrograd, we have other incomes. For instance, here, take this case of the Emperor. Why do you think we intend to send him to Ekaterinburg? Why should we send him towards the approaching Czechs?"

"Everything has been taken by them; they threaten to crush us if the Allies will assist them, even in the slightest way. Still we send. It is a question of two hundred thousand rubles,—but nobody knows that I, Nachman, a scabby Jew, got about fifty thousand out of them. Now another thing: who got the pay for the heavy trucks, and for the benzine, and for the tents, and for the ... oh, many other things!... who got it? This very Nachman, yes, comrad ... have some more, please, it's good!..."



45

"Quod forti placuit legis habet valorem."

Sailor Khokhriakov—the special envoy of the Sovnarkom—and his band. Here is the real danger, but only in case Colonel Kobylinsky and his Detachment of Special Destination would consent to join the Soviets. They all hesitate, not the Colonel, however.

The meeting of the Peoples' Commissaries from Petrograd (Khokhriakov) and Kaganitsky (from Ural, I guess) is certainly worthy of description. I went there, leaving for that reason my Mansion duties—(simply by saying to Pashinsky "tell them I am not coming to the Mansion as I have to attend the meeting"); nowadays military service is really a pleasure.

We all were sitting in the recreation room, about sixty or seventy of us in all. Khokhriakov presided. His neck is like a bull's, but rougher—and red. He started the meeting by a thunderous "Shut up, you over there!" and "Somebody open the window; who in hell is smoking such ... tobacco (I omit the adjective, though correct and strikingly expressive, but profane)?"

The noise stopped under this voice, the windows were thrown open, and our Peoples' Commissary began:

"Comrades,—before us are three questions; 1st—whether to release the prisoners and give them to the Tobolsk people under the auspices of Comrade Kobylinsky and his men, or 2d—whether to try the prisoners right here by the people's tribunal, or 3d—to comply with some other requests—which I have the authority to propose—to send the prisoners to a Ural city. Let us proceed with the first question. I put this proposition to the ballot in this way: the Tobolians, and amongst them the popes, the monarchists, all of the counter-revolutionary trash do not want the Peoples' rule. So they say that the Nikolai family must be given to the Constituent Assembly. Now, what in the hell of hells, do they mean by this? What is a Constituant Assembly? Isn't it a crowd of the same enemies of the people? Isn't this 'Parliament' against our will? Shall we, proletarians, consider the question of a Constituent Assembly? Would it not be an act of counter-revolution? Come out here, right before me, the one that will dare to propose such a thing," and the ten pound wooly fist of the sailor was lifted and held for moments in the filthy air of the recreation room.

This rhetorical question, in fact, was not necessary, as we all, hearing the word "Proletariat" in the middle of Khokhriakov's speech had already started to make a noise and to applaud, the cheers densely hung in the room,—and even before he said, "I knew you are good proletarians and would drown this proposition, God damn you,—carried,"—the fate of this weak and impossible thing at that time, the hope for a Constituent Assembly,—was told. In no way would it do.

"Now comrades,"—Khokhriakov continued after a short confidential chat with the curly, blond, small-faced and long-eared Kaganitsky,—"comes the next proposition. I warn you, however; no matter how tempting this proposition is, do not make any harsh decision. We know your zeal in Petrograd—that's why we all would want you to say your word, but ... if I see that someone is too zealous, I'd rather keep silent if I were he. Can we try these bloodsuckers here?"

An impossible noise began after his words.

"Try?"—"Why? Kill them all, that's all." "Kill the Czar,"—"Kill the brat." "Let them go." "To hell with all of them." "Let's try them, of course." "Give the women to the people." "Put their guts out," etc., etc....

"Shut up you all," shouted Khokhriakov, "let me count the votes. I see you cannot decide, though you all don't want the trial here! Is that so? All right, as you wish, the will of people must prevail. What? Who said it is not so? Come out you counter-revolutionary, you monarchist, you royal carrion,—come out and say it to my face, don't hide, you...." Nobody came out. This categorical imperative could surpass the Kant's.... Kaganitzky's face, smiling, and with moving flappy ears, was in accord with this understanding, and when Khokhriakov barked his—"Carried," he bowed his head.

The audience was then silenced.

"Now, comrades, comes the next proposition,—to send the prisoners away,—to the Ural city, probably Ekaterinburg. Comrade Kaganitzky is here. He says, they will be treated very well (Laughter) and they will not be in danger of the Czecks, and popes, and monarchists. The comrades of the detachment and Comrade Kobylinsky—agreed. How do you like this? Say, who is against it? Come out!"

Free people in a free country—consented. After which consent a commission under the chairmanship of Kaganitzky was appointed to elaborate particulars. The Detachment of Special Destination was thus dissolved and Comrade Kobylinsky was allowed to proceed to Petrograd.

With a headache from the noise and smoke I left the court-room and went out in the City Square to breathe a little fresh air. Children were playing with sand and toys. Children of the New Russia! Russia of free speech, free thoughts, free ways! God, what will grow out of you?... I wanted to pet one of them, a little thing with gray eyes, but frightened to death of a "Red"—the child yelled and ran; from a distance it shook at me a little trembling fist. So—it is not so bad.

While in the garden—the court room probably was emptied, as few shots were fired behind me,—on the hill, and shortly after, a gala-demonstration started—with a rattling of stones on the roof of the Mansion, whistles, songs and a general delirium of the uncontrolled and wicked mob ...

Feeling the bridles of the High Commissaries, unable to do something to them, understanding the guidance under a sauce of self government, the mob was avenging itself on the inhabitants of the Mansion.



46

I wonder where Lucie is now?

Something heavy and depressing is in my mind this last time; some fog in my thoughts; I think I am losing my standing of a gentleman, dealing with all of these people. My language has become vulgar; my manners, also. I begin....

(few lines scratched out)



47

... This morning Pashinsky repeated that the Em. will be taken to Ekaterinburg with the Empress and the Heir. The daughters will stay here for a while. "Believe me, we'll have a good time," he said, offensively breathing in my face.

I stood near the gates of the fence when Dr. Botkin passed. Nobody was near me, Pashinsky having gone for a drink of water into the quarters. I said without turning my head:

"Decision taken to send only the Em. and Empress and the Heir. Daughters will stay here." Dr. Botkin did not stop. Then, as guard, I did not let him in, and as if I were examining him (that was my right) I said, "Please warn the ladies, and tell the Emperor that the Commissary did not act badly; I guess there is no danger in his going away. I fear for the ladies only."

"You don't mean it! They double-crossed us! They assured us all would go. The scoundrels! Now please let me go,—and thank you, you strange man."

I let him go.

Pashinsky appeared and looked at me. "Are you getting tired of this muzzle, too? Isn't he a ...?"

"Yes," I said, "I must watch him closer now. I think we had better watch him. You stay on the other side, and I'll be here near the windows.

"All right," he said. "Then we can meet here. I'm going to walk from the garden to the fence, and you stay right here. What is your suspicion?"

"Nothing in particular," I answered.... "Just the ordinary one; I don't like him. That's all."

So we walked the way he proposed. Every time he would be near the garden, he would cough in such a noisy and sardonic way that the Heir, who was sitting with Derevenko on the bench would turn his long, pensive face, and his old sailor guardian would look with hatred on the rascal.

When Pashinsky was away, the window behind me opened very cautiously and a lady's voice said to me, "Don't turn. Is it true they are to take Father away? Now, I know you are a gentleman. What would you advise us to do? I think we are all lost."

Pashinsky started to come back; then a Lett passed, so the voice stopped. Pashinsky came near me and said, "The Heir never cries when I tease him. Believe me, he is a hard kid. What do you think if I scare him more?"

"Yes," I said, "a stubborn child." "I must try again," and he walked away.

The window again gave way. "Please," the same voice said, "can't you give any advice to us? We are so frightened! Father is praying; Mother's very ill; we are all alone."

"I'll write you," I said, (without moving my lips), "what I think and bring it back."

"Thank you."

I went to Pashinsky, whose teasing was becoming hideous and rough. He said to the Heir that they had decided to shoot the whole family. Tears were on the child's face but he kept on bravely; he could not go away—Pashinsky was at the gate.

I wished: "Just a day or two,—and I will be able to do something. Oh, God! Send something to stop it right now."

I guess that my prayer was heard.

The tutor's face,—one of those broad Russian faces,—gradually grew purple and then grey. Slowly, and hypnotising Pashinsky, he approached the scamp, took him by the collar and pulled him towards the fence. Then, losing his breath, Derevenko said, "Leave the boy alone, you scoundrel! You,—you call yourself a Russian sailor? You? Have this...." and the slap on Pashinsky's face sounded to me like Chopin's First Nocturne. What divine music!

I expected a clash. But no! The rifle fell out of Pashinsky's hands and, silent and tamed, with half-closed eyes, he was waiting for another smash. Then Derevenko saw me and thought I was going to shoot him, but I made no such move. I slipped away and went innocently towards the big gate. So, when Pashinsky came to me—he was sure I had seen nothing, and when I asked how the teasing was going on, he answered:

"Oh, I let this trash go. It annoys me."

The left side of his face was inflamed and tears were frozen on his eyes. It was a good one, by God!

After this incident I turned to the quarters "for a drink of water" and wrote a little note that "nothing bad could happen to the Princesses when they were alone" and that, "I shall exert all in my power to prevent any disagreeable happenings." I wrote that I knew some people were working to save them. My letter, I thought, would brace them up and would give them an idea that there was, amongst these beasts—one, that would not be an enemy. In case of a struggle this idea would keep them from losing hope and their power of resistance. Then I added that I could be found in the hotel, and that Dr. Botkin knew me.

Contemplating my scratchings, I went over to the window; somebody was patiently waiting and looking around, for the voice said:

"I am so glad Derevenko slapped this awful man."

"I am too, your Highness. Now—there is a letter. I'll put it on the bayonette and stay still; you take it."

Pashinsky passed near me talking with another Red. He felt badly I am sure,—he did not look at me.

I rolled the piece of paper, stuck it on the edge of the sharp bayonette and putting the rifle on my shoulder, directed it towards the window. I felt when it was taken. Then I joined my fellow jailers.



48

Today I saw a man who resembled strikingly the Tumen Russian of the profane language. And it reminded me very much of the Ls., of the English officer, of the fellow with dark eyeglasses—and of Lucie. I felt abandoned again. So I went to the Church, but then turned back: I cannot go in, for it might spoil my reputation of a Red. However, I stood for a bit near the doors and listened to the singers, and then decided to go to the Catholic church, for only Russian Reds must not pray; Polish Reds happen to have this privilege.

There is no difference in fact. I wanted to be closer to something elevated.

The lights were so quiet and peaceful looking in the dark church through high-colored windows. There were not many people in their church, so I could concentrate. But instead of a Christian quiet, I got something else. I guess the idea came to me when I thought that Pashinsky was a Pole.

I began to think that I could not do very much here,—but still something. They will try to annoy the Princesses, and I must protect them. Thus—my staying here will be justified. If Pashinsky or the Letts should do something that would be bad, I'll kill them,—or some of them. When I thought of it, I looked at the Holy Faces; the sun came out of the white clouds, the rays fell on the walls,—and the Faces smiled at me. "Yes," I thought, "if my decision is not agreeable,—the sun will hide behind the clouds again. I'll wait for five minutes"—the sun did not hide,—so—this was accepted. Then I tried to figure how to do it, and found a way. I'll get Pashinsky at the first attempt.

My God, what nonsense I think of!...



49

Schtolz. Jackson. Vieren. The man with the wounded leg. Kitser. Dutzman. Khokhriakov. Fost. Pashinsky. Kart. Fedor. Laksman. Vassiliev (son). Kobylinsky. Perkel. Niestadt. Cymes. Leibner. Vert. Wang-Lee. Frenkel. The fat Kister. Vygardt....

(a few lines scratched out)



50

The "Kitai" was at the pier when we—the detachment of twelve, guarding a silent man and a hysterical woman—came there under the cover of night; it was raining, though the air was warm. The Irtysh stood fragrant with this odor of a big, noble river. The waters—in which sank Yermak under his heavy corselet—the same waters were carrying toward the unknown—the Imperial Family.

Though their departure was supposed to be made in secrecy, there was a crowd of people on the pier—we tried to chase them away, but they stood there. An ascetic figure was standing on the next pier, lit only by a few lanterns. This black figure lifted a cross and blessed the Emperor, who tenderly released his hand from the spasmatic grip of his terrified wife and made the sign of the cross.

"Quit that, Reverend scoundrel," I heard Khokhriakov's voice. "Who asked you to come?"

The priest answered:

"Thou knowest not what thou art committing."

"Ah, shut up! To hell with your citations, you old idiot!

"Take him down over there. Isn't there anyone to choke him?" continued Khokhriakov bending over the hand-rails. "This ass is propagating,—don't you see, comrades?"

No one, however, moved. This crowd around the Bishop all answered. Their answer,—a blunt roaring,—sounded like distant thunder and there was such a frightening unity in this dull noise,—that I had the shivers.

"You cowards!" bellowed the sailor, "I'll have to come back and finish with the pope myself! It will not be the first one, anyhow. It's too late now! Be damned you all! Go ahead!" The gangplanks dropped.

The steamer started to move.

The priest stood still blessing her passengers,—the Emperor, the Empress, the bolsheviki,—the crew,—all, all of them. And, wet under the rain, this figure vested in black, with a shiny cross lifted high in the air, will for a long time remain in my memory.

The Mansion was black; not a light in the windows. The four girls, left alone in this nest of rattlesnakes,—were probably sitting in some far distant corner,—crying, trembling, praying,—and waiting for the worst, which they feared was coming.



51

To kill a man? Nothing more agreeable if it is the right one,—I should say! And in such country where the trial is impossible. I did not know I ever could,—but...

Pashinsky started soon after the Emperor was taken. He and Fost asked me for a conference behind the quarters, when we were waiting to change the watchmen. Both had a confidential expression on their faces.

"You see here, Syva,—what is planned. You and Fost stay under the windows, and go around, just as you please. I'll go upstairs, and listen. If there is no one around I'll call you up. I know that they are all alone."

I consented, and when they left I wrote a note: "Si, se soir, quelcun tache de forcer l'entree de votre chambre, je vous implore de rester calme et sure que je suis avec Vous et Vos soeurs a vous proteger. Ne craignez rien, ne criez pas!" I wrote it in French in order to assure them of the faith in me—and prove my identity—and signed my real name.

It looked funny to me; I think now I am Syvorotka,—honestly Syvorotka, formerly of the 7th of Hussars!

I went out and looked around. The Pole and the Lett were talking and gazing from time to time at the upper windows. Then the Pole approached: "How much would you take from me not to go up at all, and let me do it alone?" and then, becoming sweet and fawning—.

"You see, Syva," he said, "Fost consented. Why shouldn't you? I'll give you just as much."

"Did you consent, Fost?" I asked.

"Yes," said the Lett, digging in his short nose, "I did. I have grown-up daughters at home. I cannot. Besides he gives me money, so why shouldn't I? I will stay in the corridor and won't let anybody come in, on this side of the House. I know nothing of your business. Go on, have your pleasure."

"No, Pashinsky," I said, "that will not do. I must be with you. I have to protect you besides, you idiot; Fost can only see what is in the house, but supposing someone comes from down here? You think they will forget such an outrage to the Soviets? I will be with you somewhere behind, and when you call me I will come out. Hope you won't forget me."

Pashinsky thought over my proposition for a second,—thinking was a strenuous effort for him. His obscene face wore a suffering and preoccupied expression; then he said:

"I think you are right. We'll let Fost stay and watch the inner doors, and you and I will be alone in this side of the house. Then the men on the streets can't catch us, and we will be protected from the inside too...."

Then he had some idea. A bad one, I am sure!

"All right, that's a good way, anyhow. Now I am going to take a bath,—I need it. If somebody asks for me, say so."

The Lett and I remained. I stood for half an hour near my window,—then it opened. I fixed the note on the bayonette and it went to its destination.

After, a voice said:

"Mister * * *, we are afraid! What can we do? Do you think that you can protect us? Please tell the truth, don't try to console us."

"I am sure, your Highness," I said, "please don't worry."

The voice continued: "They took out the keys from the doors. We cannot even lock ourselves in, or hide. Can't you tell this to the Budishchev's—perhaps they can do something?"

"You shouldn't try to hide, and there is no use to tell it to anybody, believe me. Be in the room on the second floor and wait there. I will be on the watch as I said."

—"You know better perhaps,—we believe you."

With a "Thank you so much" and "We are so frightened!" repeated with despair and horror, the window closed.

I had to invent something, and invent quickly, for I had no plan as yet.

The Browning was with me but I reserved it for the last chance, and I decided to keep it loaded to finish some of the Reds—and myself—if it should come to an open fight. With such thoughts I was desperately rambling within the fence.

My vague plan was to come right after Pashinsky and knock him on the head with something heavy,—then I rejected this project: the scoundrel could yell and I would be discovered. I came to the quarters and looked around. It was the office of Tanaevsky before occupied by us. In the classic disorder, with an inch of cigarette butts and dust on the floor, among the remnants of the Governor's House stored here, I saw a gold metallic rope cord which in better times had been used to support the heavy drapery of the reception room. The idea of a silent strangulation came into my head with the picture of Jacolliot's Thugs. I cut the tassel away and put it under somebody's pillow, and hid the rope in my bosom.

At seven Pashinsky finally came back, surprisingly clean, shaven, and smelling of some cheap and penetrating perfume. He was slightly drunk. When clean,—he looked to me a thousand times worse.

Neither Pashinsky, nor I, could wait until the night came. He was continually repeating what I should do, and continually asking me whether I thought everything was safe. Finally night arrived. At nine the lights in the Mansion were put out—all but in one window. I knew how hearts were beating there: mine was echoing.

—"I am going, Syva," Pashinsky whispered. "I can't wait any longer—all is burning inside of me."

He put his rifle behind the rain-pipe, straightened his belt, and started towards the entrance door.

The door of the Mansion squeaked and swallowed him, and before I heard him walking up the stairs I followed him.

All was dark inside, only a feeble light from the court penetrated through the windows. We passed the corridor, then a large room, then a small room. Here Pashinsky stopped—and I heard his heavy breathing. Then he threw open the door.

I saw mattresses on the floor and in a far corner pale, trembling figures, glued together by fear.

Pashinsky hesitated for a moment—to pick out the one he wanted—and then with an outcry, suddenly rushed to this mass of helpless panic-stricken bodies, and a struggle between a delirious man, feebled by desire, and these ladies, began.

I jumped on him from behind; preoccupied, he did not feel when I put the rope around his neck so that the collar wouldn't be in my way, tightened my weapon in a deadlock and dragged him away—almost before his carnal touch contaminated the Princesses—into the next room, and shut the doors.

He was making some efforts to free himself, hitting my knees with his heels, and growling from rage; then he bit me in the hand. But in a minute I was already firmly sitting on his back, with my knees on his awkwardly turned arms, twisting the rope with all of the strength I had.

"Please, don't kill him," I heard a sobbing whispering voice say, and other voices, too, repeated the "don't kill."

This Kerensky idea made me quite angry and I said as calmly as I could under the circumstances:

"With all of my reverence for your order, your Highnesses, I refuse to obey. Please shut the doors and don't wake up the others,—I have my own accounts to settle." And when the doors closed, I kept tightening and tightening the rope until his head turned and his tongue,—rough and dry,—came way out and was touching my hands, and his face became hot and wet. He made a few convulsive movements—and became still.

When his head fell with a dull sound on the floor, I took him out under cover of the night, and threw his body into the well. I walked out onto Tuliatskaya Street and chatted for a while with Leibner and Vert.

I was changed and nobody asked me where my friend Pashinsky was.



52

Comrade Fost was shot yesterday at nine in the morning for murder. It was a glorious inspiration to put the tassel under his pillow. In the afternoon we buried Pashinsky. I gave my share for a wreath with red ribbons and the inscription "To him who fell for Proletariat—Long live the International," and was present at the funeral. Dutzman made a speech; a very pathetic one.

In the evening the sentinels were doubled. There are lights in every room now. There was a light in every corridor. The ladies—are,—for the moment being, out of immediate danger. The Soviet decided to transport all to Ekaterinburg,—as soon as a steamer will be available.

Today Nachman called on me. He took me to the Square and when we were sitting on a bench, he said, that "It was well done" ("that's all right, sir, perfectly all right"), but if he were in my place he would go away. "It's easy," he continued,—"supposing I give you a good letter of recommendation to my people in Ekaterinburg? The interesting part of all of this,—believe me, has started only. Don't fear me,—this scabby Jew, this very Nachman,—will not betray."

I thought it over and said:

"I would do so, if I only could leave some trace here. A friend may ask for me here, and I would be sore if she could not find me,—if she only cares."

"Oh, she will," he laughed, "she will. Of course, I am not posted in your personal affairs, but—a lady always can find one, if she cares. Ha-ha-ha! Youth is always youth! But you better go without leaving traces...."

I continued:

"Nachman, there is another thing. Here is an old man,—a friend of mine,—he is very sick. His days are numbered, and I feel very sorry for him. If I go away all will be lost for this old chap; he has nobody in this world. Could you use your power and place him in a hospital? I will give you money, of course,—I have some."

Nachman sighed: "This is so out of time! Nowadays love and charity are much more dangerous than murders and thefts."

Then after a pause, he continued;

"Very well, friend, I will take care of your man. Hand me the money."

Then he gave me a letter to his friends in Ekaterinburg (it was ready in his pocket) and we parted.

I am free, happy, independent, with a good standing amongst the present Russians. And if only she could be near me ... but there is no perfect happiness on this strangest of planets of ours.



53

(pages missing)

... heavy trucks, and other military paraphernalia. Some of the men on them surely are not Russians, Letts, or Germans, or ...

(nine lines scratched out)

... I don't know whether it was Nachman's talk or the truth.

Anyhow I am going away,—again alone,—alone forever. Damn life! I cannot look backwards—I feel sorry for my past; the present—is sufficiently bad not to speak of it; the future—is just as dark—as this night. Not a star, not a single star.

The old man was taken to the People's Hospital this afternoon. He thanked me.



54

... starting rumors of the killing of the whole Family, and always emphasizing that this tragedy—was the supreme penalty brought to the altar by the Emperor.

Nachman, and others, who—it seems to me, know what they are talking about, foresee many chances; the best of them, is of course the fact, that some ...

(few lines scratched out)

... are in this enterprise, and therefore it might be crowned with success. I really do not know what to think. Only one point is clear: I cannot believe that our sufferings, the sufferings of the whole country, are unknown beyond our frontiers. They must be known; the tears shed cannot during so long a time fall on stones,—even stones get wet. If they are not known,—these sufferings,—if our hands stretched for help are not seen, if we are condemned just for the only fact that we are Russians,—and if ...

(a page missing)



55

... knocked at the door. I hardly had time to say "enter," when something enveloped in a thick brown overcoat rolled in, jumped at me and in a second covered all of my face with hot kisses. I answered them very attentively.

Then I noticed that the amiable creature was Lucie.

"No, you don't hate me! No, you don't hate me! I know it! I knew it!..."

"Lucie," I said, "before we proceed, please let me put some of these papers in my pockets."

"Alex! Don't remind me of that! How did you dare to write such stories about me? You can't blame me, can you?"

"Perhaps I don't—for some pages you destroyed. How about the chart, and about the?..."

She covered my mouth with her hands. "If we recollect everything it will be endless. And besides I don't think I took anything from you. Let's forget! I'll forgive you, if you promise me not to write nasty stories about your Lucie."

I promised, and consented, of course. How can I do otherwise? No use!

I put her near me, poured her some tea and offered her the cookies.

For a time we looked at each other. She certainly looked like a peasant girl!

"How do you like this costume?" she said. "Next bal masque I certainly will wear this kind, you may be sure. Of course all of this, and that must be chiffon, and silk, and...." A woman cannot get on without these chats. On the other hand—woman speaks to the man about it with a concealed contempt: what does a man understand? She does not get angry when she sees that the man does not listen; he only looks.

"Now,"—she said, gazing around with a dear grimace,—"again in your element, in dirt? What shall I do with you, Alex? I can't stand it!"

"Dirt is my protection, dear. Why did you leave? Don't run away any more."

"We will see about it. But first—what are you doing here? Are you following me? Don't you think I saw you here? Why do you risk your life? How did you think of leaving Tumen? How is your cook?"

"Do your questions give me the same right of investigation? I'll answer you, anyhow. I've decided to lay down my cards, Lucie. I came here on business. I broke all ties. Nobody wants me. I am investigating at my own expense, at my own risk, out of curiosity only. But I am free. Don't you need me? Don't you need a friend? Can't we live without deceiving each other, without robbing,—eh? I came here, Lucie,—and behind all of my intentions was one thing only: I hoped to find you, and tell you how much I love you. I knew you had to be near the center, and the center is, at least now—here. Don't lie to me, bad girl, I know what I am talking about. Now—when I think we again will part—I have chills; especially when I think of your manner of going away: pinning a "good-by" to the cushion. Please, let us be together!"

"You should not tempt me, Alex. I feel just as you do, only—I don't think I can even dream of our being together—right now, I mean. What will be after—we'll see."

"Cannot you arrange something for me so that I could be with you in your business? Did not you ask me before to do so? Now—I come to you."

"It's true, I did. Things have changed. Can you believe me when I swear I am telling the truth? Yes? You'll try? Well, I wanted you in Petrograd—you fascinated me; that was all,—and if then, after being with us, you had come to know too much and something had happened to you, I would, of course, have been sorry,—but,—how shall I say it? Not too much. In Tumen,—you know I came to Syvorotka with certain purposes: you described them well in your diary, so well that I had to put my censorship on them,—I did not suspect Syvorotka was—you...."

I made an impatient movement. "Again your fairy tale?"

"Alex!" she exclaimed, "I conjure you to believe me! Can't you see? Get me to tell you the truth when I am so happy as now! I could not lie to you! So that's how I came to Tumen. You were there, and you know what happened. Now—don't laugh at me,—I understand that you risked too much,—and I ran away, because I saw—I loved you. I'd die if I knew something had happened to you on account of me. I told them that you had gone to Kazan, or Nijni, that you had turned into a real bolshevik. They think you are out. For them—you are lost. And they must not see you here."

"Who are 'they'? And how about you knowing too much?" I inquired. "Your mysteries don't sound grave anyhow."

"Alex,—I'll be angry! Again you ask silly things."

So I kissed her and asked how Stanley was and the Russian and the Letts, and the pony.

"Poor little thing! It died. We tried to reach Tobolsk with it."

"Your Stanley poisoned it with his chimney," I said.

"Don't hold anything against him, Alex. He is a good fellow. And don't be jealous, you bad, dirty, lovable crank. He still thinks you are a Canadian."

"He never thinks. He fancies."

She laughed. "Yes, you are jealous. It is silly of you, but agreeable. I did not know you could be."

"Now, let's be serious. You can't stay here. I must insist on your going away,—dear, for your own sake,—for our sake! I promise it won't be for a long time,—perhaps it will only seem so, if you love me! Don't say no. Can't you picture how happy we can be afterwards? How somewhere away from here we could marry, and.... You must go away. Why not go to England, or Japan, or Sweden? Just a trip?"

"How funny you talk!" I said. "Listen to my reasons. One: I must stay near you. Two: I must see the end of this tragedy. Three: I must close my bit of an account with some people. Four: All I have is not enough to pay for this room,—so no trips for me. Five: ..."

"Stop! Stop!" she exclaimed, and crawling into my lap, continued:

"My poor boy! That—is killing! I know why you are so poor! You spent every penny on others! You had some earnings! And to think of all you were bringing to me in Tumen ... then you did not care even, but just to be hospitable to an intruder.... And other things.... How can I repay you!..."

"There are no reasons for crying on this account. Forget it please. Don't put me in the light of a benefactor,—I hate it."

"No, no! I feel so guilty now. I'll give you money."

"Don't offend me. All I want is not to be an idiot in the future and not to lose you. So I have said it,—and it is said. When it comes to stubbornness—I hardly think anybody could beat me. So just understand: I am going to stay where you are, and if you try this time to get away, I'll have to take measures. I'll kidnap you. I'll put you in a place where no 'Navy-Cut' is smoked. Now—it is serious. Understand?"

We talked, and argued, and even quarrelled, and again made peace, until she declared herself beaten. Maybe she was angry; perhaps scared; but surely greatly flattered. A woman is a woman—always flattered when she sees persistence. She consented to take me into her game. I had to swear, and cross my heart, and give endless words of honor,—all that for a position of a traffic man, like the one in Tumen. I had to swear that no cooks, or maids, or ladies (especially ladies!) would distract me from the thought of her. Very selfish, but understandable. It was late, when she left me.

"Alex," she said on the threshold,—"Please don't talk. Do not write, please! You'll have time to finish your diary, and write even a series of books on the subject afterwards. Maybe I'll help you even. Close your diary. Give it to me, I'll hide it!..."

"Is that so?" I said,—"there is nothing now that would be of interest to you."

"Everything interests me, dear. Aren't you mean to your Lucie?... Very well, hide it yourself, burn it, if you can't hide it. Can't you keep in your mind your impressions? Do you promise? Consider me too!"

"I promise. I'll do it. I must only write all about this evening. Every word. This evening I almost trust you. It is of historical value therefore."

She gave her consent.

When the door closed after her, and my lips were still burning, hideous phantoms of doubt poured into the room; they tortured me, and sneered at me, and kept me awake....

And with the pale rose of the first sunrays the phantoms of doubt left me exhausted, miserable and helpless like a wet cat.

* * * * *

Translator's note.

With paragraph 55 ends the diary of Syvorotka.

Among his documents, however, has been found the following letter, not in his characteristic handwriting, but in that of someone else, bearing directly upon the incidents narrated by the diarist. Written in ungrammatical Russian, bearing many orthographic mistakes, this document seems to be a fragment of a report, by some unidentified co-operating agent, to his unrevealed superior.

It is deemed necessary, therefore, for purposes of clearness, to append this document, as I find it among the literary remains of Al. Syvorotka:



56

... "four or five days after your departure, I gave the story to P.D.; he took it to the E * * * *; the latter made but a few corrections in it, and P.D. copied it,—as you ordered: with different ink, and on different paper. The fourteenth passed quietly. The new man who took command of the guards and his assistant, assembled the men and organized a meeting; Syvorotka was present. Some of the people spoke of the "hidden treasury"; some spoke of the People's Tribunal; some insisted upon a wholesale killing,—for the loyals and the Czechs are rapidly approaching, and from everywhere come rumors about uprisings. Finally it was decided to try the Family immediately.

The next day we were busy with the trucks; towards evening all of them were in shape including the Number 74-M in which you ordered the change of magneto, and ready to move. So you see—we have done what you ordered, and if all happened so that we could not foresee, it was not my fault, nor Syvorotka's, nor Phillip's.

All the day of the 16th the investigation continued, and the Commissaries asked for the E * * * * twice; once four men went to Ipatiev's; their conduct was outrageous. At eight in the evening I was on my post in the red house, the wires were working fine and Philip answered. Nachman's place answered too.

At nine I signalled to the Ipatiev's, and Princess waved "all well," but could not continue for a Red came to the window and shut it with a bayonet. It had already begun to get very dark, so I phoned again to Philip and Syvorotka and asked them whether they had orders to start. I was told that they had not heard anything from the house. I decided to wait a little longer and then to 'phone to Tikhvinsky to inquire whether or not the Nun was on her place, so I could go and investigate why S-y did not start. At ten I called up, but the 'phone was dead. While I was waiting for some movement about the house, Philip himself came and said that S-y had ordered him to remove the trucks away out of the city. Philip refused to do so, and tried to reach me by 'phone but it was out of order, so he left Syvorotka in charge and came to ask me personally. While we were trying to digest what all of this meant and what should be done, a movement began in the house; lights flickered in the windows and shortly afterwards, we distinctly heard the report of a revolver. As this looked bad we both left and ran across the place, but the Reds would not let anybody in. Already there were about fifteen men trying to break down the fence. The inside guards resisted and some shots were exchanged. The assailants were Reds, asking for "a treasury," and some of them were asking for the Family as it was rumored that they had already been killed.

Seeing that nothing could be done from this side I went to the rear and squeezed in, for Ch. was there and he let me do so; but he said that he had heard shots inside and that he thought all was finished, and said also that Leinst and three others went to search in Syvorotka's home—they evidently don't know that all was taken out yesterday. In the house I found complete commotion. The family had disappeared, and no one knew where or how. Pytkan was shot in the stomach and in the throat and I saw him lying on the floor in the room. Khokhriakov and his men were shaking the rest of his life out of him, asking where the E. and the jewelry were, but all that Pytkan could say was "they were taken away." No one could make out what really had happened and who had shot him; some said that they went away in trucks, yet, in the evening, some that a detachment sent by the Soviet took them secretly out, some said aeroplanes. All were wrong, for Philip had just come back and the trucks were in place, no one came into the Ipatiev's house as I was on guard, and there had been no aeroplanes since six o'clock. Pytkan was almost dead when Khokhriakov finally got from him that the family had been shot and taken away—and then he began to expire. Later the German appeared and chased us all away,—he sent for his assistant, but they could not find him.

The family disappeared,—it is true; there was no trace of them. I continued to look everywhere up to the time that the Soviet representatives arrived, having been ordered to arrest all people who were with the family, and commenced searching for the bodies. The whole place was surrounded by Reds, and all were ordered out, but nothing was there. Then a resolution was made that the prisoners had been taken away and shot, and they sent a wire to Moscow. I only know that inside the house they killed two people and nobody else, anyhow. Pytkan and Kramer were dead; Kramer probably had been shot from a distance—the bullet was in his head. There were no more than two men killed, I know it; so you may feel sure, when you hear that all were killed in the house that it is a lie. Somebody must have been burning things in the stove long before—maybe in the daytime or the early evening; the stove was almost cold,—the Reds got something out of it, I did not see what it was. When I understood that the whole family had been taken away, dead or alive, or had somehow disappeared, and that there was nothing for us to do, I took Philip and we rushed back to Syvorotka. The trucks and the chauffeurs were all gone. In the garage we found Syvorotka tied with a rope and shot in the spine, and bleeding from scratches and other wounds. From the appearance of the garage we understood that there had been a struggle, but he could not speak comprehensively; all we got from him were moanings, separate phrases and words like "treason," "run away," "leave me die here," etc., etc.,—he was decidedly raving and very weak. We helped him as best we could and came back to the city at about five in the morning and Philip went to Nachman's. They both reported that shortly after two o'clock, three of the trucks passed on the highway to Sysertsky Works. Some people were in them, and the Nachmans thought it was our affair, for the rumors had already reached them that the family had disappeared or had been executed. This Sysertsky direction is more or less correct for I know from Syvorotka that supplies were lately being sent continuously with him to Tubiuk. This way also went Syvorotka's woman.

S-y and all the rest left,—some people say in the evening, some early in the morning of the 17th.

Maybe something could be told by Syvorotka if he ever survives his wounds, and if the Reds do not find him and finish him before they leave, for he is under suspicion. He still is unconscious, and has fever. All Philip and I know is that either all our organization has failed to succeed, or we were all betrayed and sold, or that you intentionally detracted our attention from the truth.

This letter will be given to you by Mrs. Nachman who is going tonight to Ufa. As soon as the Reds leave Ekaterinburg we will both follow,—we are hiding now,—and will report on the facts that we witnessed and the rumors we heard."

END