Ipatiev House
Ekaterinburg, Russia
2:00 A.M., July 17, 1918
Stephen Morrison sat motionless, absorbed in thought while Yakov Yurovsky sat nearby, blowing smoke rings as he exhaled his cigarette smoke. Morrison looked at the small clock on the desk in the second floor room of the Ipatiev House. He and Yurovsky had gone over the plan several times after the two of them returned to the room over an hour before. They both felt confident that their men understood their assignments and would follow their instructions to the letter. Finally, Morrison spoke. “It’s time,” he said softly.
Yurovsky stood up and said, “We’ll meet you outside the cellar door in about forty-five minutes.”
“Just keep the men in line and quiet. We’ll get this thing over with.” As Yurovsky left the room, he smiled and said, “Don’t worry, Comrade Moryak, all will go as planned.”
Once Yurovsky had left, Morrison pulled the Nagant M1895 pistol out from his belt. From his coat pocket, he removed the cartridges that Slaughter had provided to him. He carefully laid out two live rounds and five blanks. As he loaded the seven bullets into the chambers, he was careful to align them so that the first round he would fire would be a live 7.62 round, followed by five blank rounds. The last of his seven rounds would be a live round, just in case he needed it. Satisfied that his weapon was prepared, he sat back and stared at the clock. Just over forty minutes to go. With any luck, he would be with Homer Slaughter later that morning and begin his journey back to the United States.
Yurovsky opened the door to the Tsar’s bedroom. The light from the hallway cut into the darkness. Nicholas Romanov lay there awake, only pretending to be asleep. “What is it? What do you want?” he asked.
“Citizen Romanov, you and your family must get up and get dressed. You will be in danger if you remain here. We will be transporting you to safety. You must hurry!”
“Where will we be going?” asked the Tsarina.
“You will be told when you are all assembled downstairs. Now hurry!” Noting that the Tsarevitch wasn’t even stirring, he angrily said, “Awaken your son and get him moving!” He stomped out of the room to begin awakening the rest of the family and entourage. One by one, each person was awakened and ordered to quickly get dressed. After about a half-hour, all eleven prisoners had assembled in the hallway. Nicholas stood holding his son in his arms. The boy appeared to be in a deep sleep. “Everyone, follow me!” ordered Yurovsky. Walking slowly, he led them down the stairway on the east side of the house to the basement room. They cut through the lower floor until they entered the small basement room in the center of the west side of the house. “Wait in here,” he ordered.
The barren room contained no furniture and they stood near the back wall, facing the door that led to the side yard. Staring around at the green and white striped wallpaper, the Tsarina began to complain before Yurovsky left the room. “What, no chairs?” she said angrily. “We need to sit! My baby is not well.”
Yurovsky left the room and walked to the team that had assembled outside. “Where’s Moryak?” he asked. No one seemed to know. “Well, get two chairs for them in there. One for Nicholas and the other for his damn wife so she will shut up.” After a few minutes, one of the men returned with two wooden chairs. He carried them into the room where the prisoners had assembled.
He remembered the diagram that Moryak had drawn for them, indicating where he wanted the Tsar and his wife to be. He placed the chairs in the front row of the prisoners, directly in the center. Pointing at Nicholas and Alexandria, he indicated, “These chairs are for you. Sit down.” Nicholas sat in the chair on the right, cradling his son in his lap. Next to him sat Alexandria. She wondered, How can he sleep so soundly through this? Then the waiting began. They had been told that trucks would be coming for them to take them to Tobolsk. Alexandria looked over at Nicholas and saw that his forehead was wet with perspiration.
Nicholas hoped he appeared calm enough. He tried not to look at his wife, fearing that his expression might betray him and reveal the disaster that very soon would engulf them. It would end here, in the basement of a stranger’s house, as a prisoner of Bolshevik rabble. It was nearly impossible for him to comprehend that his life would end this way. Yet, to add to the incredulity, this man had appeared, the same man who had rescued him thirty years ago. Who he was, and why he was attempting to rescue Alexei was also beyond comprehension.
Nicholas could only pray to God for a merciful death and that He would look over Alexei and spare his life. Oh, how the thought of his son ate at his soul! The boy was born to be emperor of all Russia and instead was now a cripple as a result of an inherited disease. Now he held his beloved son as if he was still a baby and gently kissed his forehead. As he did, he felt a tear tickle down his cheek. Courage, he thought to himself. It will all be over soon. Soon we all will sleep, and the nightmare will be over. He began to rock ever so slightly. As he did, he felt his beloved wife rub his arm. The minutes seemed to go on forever as they waited.
The rest of the entourage stood behind them and Nicholas could sense a growing restlessness developing amongst them. Why are we not leaving? Why had they awakened us for this in the middle of the night? No one spoke. The room remained deathly quiet.
After what seemed to be an eternity, the door to the outside opened and eleven of the guards entered the room and spread out along the entrance wall in two rows. The guards had been led into the room by the new commander, the cruel-looking one they called Moryak. Next to him stood the old commander Yurovsky, who had a piece of paper in his hand. As soon as each of the men got into their assigned position, one of the guards closed the door and locked it. Nicholas held his son close to him against his chest. At that point, Yurovsky started reading from his paper.
“Nicholas Romanov, you and your family have been charged with crimes against the Russian people and for attempting to communicate with outside forces for the sole purpose of attempting escape. Accordingly, it is the decision of the people of the Ekaterinburg Soviet that you and your family are to be executed immediately!”
Since they had entered the room, Nicholas’ eyes had been locked with Morrison’s in an almost understanding way. When Yurovsky finished speaking, Nicholas turned to Yurovsky and blurted out, “What? What?”
Yurovsky repeated the death sentence, and when he did, Morrison walked to within two feet of Nicholas and pulled his revolver out, pointed it at the center of his forehead and fired. The impact of the bullet entering his skull and shattering it threw Nicholas over backward, still clutching his son close to him as all of the women began to scream. Morrison took another step forward, aimed his pistol at the Tsarevitch, and fired twice in rapid succession before stepping back and turning to the other executioners. This was their signal. He stepped back and they all began to open fire at their respective targets.
The fusillade lasted about thirty seconds. The room immediately filled with smoke from the gunpowder, and the screams continued. Morrison could feel ricocheting bullets whizzing by as the assassins continued their firing. After what seemed like an eternity, the screams stopped and it appeared that the task had been completed.
“Cease fire!” ordered Morrison. The firing continued, and he bellowed out, “Cease fire, now!” The other assassins looked over at him through the misty smoke, awaiting further instructions. They then heard moaning coming from the young daughters, and the men looked up as Moryak for guidance. “You can finish them off,” he said, wondering if the bullets had ricocheted off of the diamond-encrusted corsets that the former Tsar had mentioned. The men clubbed the girls’ heads with the butts of their rifles and, for good measure, fired a bullet into each of their heads.
As they began to approach the girls, Morrison had placed his pistol in his belt and walked over to Nicholas, who lay face up. The smoke made it difficult to see and stung his eyes. “Open the damn door and vent this room!” he yelled as the guards murdered the girls. Nicholas lay motionless, his eyes wide open. The starburst entry wound of the bullet in his forehead had splattered blood over his face, and he still had Alexei over him, clutched to his chest by his lifeless arms. Morrison leaned over and lifted the motionless boy up over his shoulders. “Okay now,” he ordered, “everyone grab a body and let’s get them loaded into the truck.” As each of the executioners began to lift a body, he complimented them. “Well done men, well done.”
He could see the look of satisfaction in their faces. Not only had they gotten to kill the Romanovs, but the famous Moryak had complimented them on their work. As he walked from the room with Alexei on his shoulder, he noted that the boy still remained unconscious from the sedative, but he could detect shallow breathing. Exiting the basement room into the warm summer air, he noted that the full moon illuminated the sky brightly, despite the late hour.
The open-bed truck, driven by one of the guards named Lytenko pulled up to the side of the Ipatiev House. Morrison nodded over to the line of men that had formed, each carrying a bloody body on their shoulder and they began to walk up to the rear end of the truck. One by one, they tossed the dead bodies of the Romanov entourage onto the truck bed. The space had been lined with bed sheets that rapidly turned red from the blood exiting the many gunshot wounds. In the bright moonlight, it could all be seen very easily. One of the guards stood in the truck bed, helping to arrange the bodies, when Moryak walked up with the last body, that of the Tsarevitch Alexei. “I’ll take care of this one, comrade,” he said as he gently placed the boy’s seemingly lifeless body in the very back of the truck bed. The other guard then jumped out and they closed the tailgate of the truck. As he walked around to the front of the truck, he saw that Yurovsky had mustered the execution squad over by the door to the basement. He motioned for him to come over to the truck.
“Comrade Yurovsky, please convey my compliments to the men for a job well done.” Looking up at the bright moon, he announced, “The hour grows late. Dismiss the men. Lytenko and I will deliver the bodies as planned.” He stepped up into the passenger seat of the truck cabin as Lytenko started the engine. “Well done to you, Comrade Yurovsky! I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Thank you, Comrade Moryak!” Yurovsky slammed the truck door shut, and the truck began to pull away. That Moryak, he thought to himself. What an efficient, cold-hearted bastard. His reputation is well-deserved! As he watched the truck drive down to the main street, he noticed that Lytenko had turned in the wrong direction. Oh well, Lytenko always has been an imbecile. Moryak would straighten him out. He then yawned, stretched, and headed around to the front of the building. He needed some sleep. It did not please him to see one of the Bolsheviks from the soviet running down the street toward him yelling, “Comrade Yurovsky! Comrade Yurovsky!”
Yurovsky stopped and waited as the man approached. Now what the hell can he want at this hour? Finally, the man was at his side, out of breath from running. “Well,” demanded Yurovsky, “What is it that you want at this hour? Couldn’t it have waited until later?”
Still gasping for breath, the man finally said, “No, comrade, it can’t wait!” Reaching into his pocket, he produced a folded telegraph message and handed it to Yurovsky. “It’s urgent that you read this. It’s from Moscow, from Lenin himself! Comrade Goloshcheckin ordered me to deliver it to you personally!”
The puzzled Yurovosky opened the message and rapidly read its contents. His breath seemed to be taken away by what he read. “It can’t be!” he exclaimed out loud. “This is unbelievable!” Looking at the messenger, he ordered, “Come with me, quickly!” The two men ran into the Ipatiev House, and Yurovsky began to shout, “Everyone down! Everyone get down here, now!” The startled guards, who had been drinking in the kitchen, rapidly assembled before Yurovsky, who appeared livid and quite agitated. “You!” he ordered, pointing to the nearest man. “Go out back and get the car, now! Bring it around to the front.” He pointed to two others and demanded, “Get your rifles and meet me in front at the car immediately. Move, now!” he screamed. That bastard Moryak! So that’s why the car turned the wrong way! I should have known that something was up!
* * *
As they headed up the uneven dirt road, Morrison estimated that they should be at the safe house in about fifteen minutes. The plan seemed to be working, almost better than he had dared to hope. He actually now started to believe that before too long, he would be back in the United States. Neither of them spoke as the truck prodded along, the two headlights piercing the moonlit darkness in front of them. Finally Litenko spoke. “How did it feel, Comrade Moryak?”
“How did what feel?”
“How did it feel to kill the criminal Nicholas Romanov? You must feel quite honored to have done so!”
Morrison pictured the final look in Nicholas’ eyes as he pulled the trigger. “How did it feel? It felt about the same way it will feel to me when I kill you.” Litenko’s head rapidly turned toward him with a look of terror on his face. “Just kidding, comrade, just kidding. Keep your eyes on the road.” He heard the younger man exhale a sigh of relief as he concentrated on the road. Too bad I’m not kidding, Morrison thought. I will be killing you in several minutes. Hopefully you’ll be the last man I will ever have to kill. The somber truth depressed him at that point. He had survived all these years because he had, in fact, become a killer. A cold-hearted killer who killed and then slept like a baby.
“You know, comrade,” said Litenko, “you shouldn’t kid like that, because — ” A sudden explosion shattered the rear windshield and a bullet entered the back of Litenko’s head, smashing it against the windshield. The sudden, violent action momentarily stunned Morrison as the skull and brain fragments splattered all over him, the seat, and the windshield. Litenko had been thrown against the steering wheel, dead on impact. Morrison turned around and he could see two headlights behind them, several hundred yards back. He saw a muzzle flash come from the pursuing vehicle as another bullet whizzed by his head and shattered the front windshield. The truck began to swerve to the left and Morrison tried to grab the steering wheel to control it. Litenko’s lifeless body, pinned against the wheel, made steering impossible. Shit! How did they know? How did they find out? About a half-mile ahead, illuminated by the bright moonlight, he could see a small cabin up ahead. He could just make out a small red glow in the front window. God, we are close! So close! The truck swerved over to the left, careened into a small creek, and quickly lodged in the muddy water, with the front of the truck angled down into the creek bed.
We’ve got to get out of here, he thought. We’re so close. Looking back, he could see the headlights in the distance still approaching as the gunshots continued, with bullets raising small sprays of water from the creek. Morrison jumped out of the truck and ran around to the back. Unlatching the ramp, he quickly saw Alexei lying there. The child groaned and began to stir. They only had one chance. Morrison looked over to the cabin. He could see no trees or shrubs. They had to try and make it to the cabin through the open field ahead. He lifted the semiconscious boy up and threw him over his shoulder. Climbing out of the creek, he began to run toward the cabin through the thigh-high grass.
The boy weighed about one-hundred-twenty pounds and running with him on his shoulder proved to be difficult. As he ran in the open field, Morrison could hear the other car getting closer and gunshots continued to whiz around them. Alexei now groaned louder as Morrison tried to run as fast as he could. He could see the cabin getting closer. They had to make it. Every step seemed an effort with the boy on his shoulder. Keep going, he told himself. You’ll be home soon! You’re going back to America! Suddenly, he felt as if a club had been smashed against the back of his right leg as he heard the last rifle shot. He collapsed in agony. The tall grass momentarily provided cover for them as their pursuers continued to approach.
In the cabin, Homer Slaughter heard what sounded like distant gunshots and ran outside of the cabin. Holding his high-powered binoculars to his eyes, he could make out the headlights of the two cars. The second car appeared to be getting closer to the first, which appeared to be stuck in the creek. Christ Almighty, he thought. How did this happen? I am definitely not prepared for this! He had no backup at the cabin, just him, and his only weapon was his Colt 1911 semi-automatic pistol. He got a sick feeling in his stomach as he scanned the field in front of the car for any sign of Morrison. The bright moonlight made it easy to spot the figure of what appeared to be Morrison with the boy on his shoulder, running from the creek toward the cabin. After one rifle burst, they collapsed in the tall grass. “Come on, Commander!” he said out loud, “Get up! Get up!”
Morrison knew he had been hit. Got to keep going, he said to himself. He attempted to get up, but he knew instinctively that his thighbone had been shattered by the bullet. He couldn’t stand. He reached down to his right thigh and felt a pulpy mass of splinted bone, torn muscles, and flesh. Blood gushed from his gaping thigh wound. He unbuckled his belt, removed it, and wrapped it around his thigh proximal to the gunshot wound in an effort to control the bleeding. He would not make it; of this much he was certain. But the boy — Alexei! He lay on the ground next to him, moaning. Morrison reached over, grabbed his arm, and began shaking him. Finally, he slapped him across the face, and the boy’s eyes flew open. “Alexei, listen to me. Wake up!” Another bullet hit the ground right next to them, further startling the boy. “Listen to me! Get up! You need to make it to that cabin!” he implored, pointing to the red light in the distance. Slowly, the confused Tsarevitch struggled to get to his feet. Morrison could see that the boy couldn’t straighten his left knee. As he prodded the young boy, Morrison could feel himself becoming light-headed “Over there!” he pointed. “Go now!”
The boy started to stumble in the direction of the cabin. “Run, Alexei, run!” screamed Morrison. His face now drenched in sweat, he fell backward onto the grass. He looked straight up to the perfectly clear, starlit sky. His breathing had become rapid and shallow. His mind drifted back to a time when he was nine years old, back in Russia, and he and his father had sat in the back of their little shack of a house, pointing up at stars. “The stars are the lights that point the way to God’s kingdom,” his father had told him that night. He also reflected on those nights in Perm when he and his friend Yuri Kodarov sat and talked in the night, looking at the beautiful starlit Russian nights. Now, here he lay, once again staring at the Russian skies. Born in Russia, only to die in Russia, he thought. My mission is now over. He only prayed that the boy would make it to the cabin.
Then all went dark.