Rescuing the Czar / Two authentic diaries arranged and translated

The ice was breaking up along the river Neva, in 1917. At the Winter Palace, the ladies were rejoicing over the good news. The Czar in the field was reorganizing his dismembered armies. America was severing diplomatic relations with the Central Powers. The Asquith Ministry had dissolved and Lloyd-George was hurling his dynamic personality into organizing Victory for the Allied forces in the field. Kut-el-Amara had fallen to the British-Bagdad had been taken-the Crescent was fleeing before the Cross of Russia-the Grand Duke was driving the Turk from Trebizond.

Even Hindenburg was retiring along the Western Front-France with unexampled gallantry was holding back the Juggernaut-America was getting mad and rolling up its sleeves.

The women at the palace did not disguise their happiness over the cheerful events that heralded the approach of Victory. The evening star that poured down its steel-blue rays upon the crosses of St. Isaac's presaged to their encouraged fancies the early dawn of peace. Yet the chilly wind that whistled round their dull-red household was laden with a frosty air that blew from official regions and "froze the genial current of their souls." The icy glances of ambitious princelings, reflecting back the sinister sullenness of designing ministers, fell like a spectral gloom upon their happy hearts. A hollow roar rolled down the Nevskii Prospekt-a guard burst into the palace and put the women under arrest. The pent-up Revolution at last had burst-anarchy howled around the capital-the isolated Czar was captive, and plotting princelings joined hands with puny lawyers to browbeat courageous women and drive the chariot of State!

The miserable fiasco of a delirious Revolution went careering through the giddy maze of treachery and madness until a frenzied wave of rapine and disorder swept all the noblewomen of the Imperial household into a barricaded fortress around which lust and inebriety held unsated and remorseless vigil for the prize. (See Part II: Tumen.)

Among these prisoners of State were five women who realized that the Power which had organized disorder as a feature of its military strategy had also honeycombed the Army, the Navy and the State with its agencies of pillage and so undermined the public conscience that their purity and virtue, more than their jewels and fortune, became an open challenge to the vanity of mob lust.

The younger of these women in their unsullied maidenhood looked longingly and unsuspectingly in the direction of Siberia. They were learning by degrees that the semblance of freedom which offered a pathway to escape was nothing but a strategem employed by pretended friends to entrap them into more cruel and ruthless hands. On every side loomed the evidence of their danger. The villainous stares of foreign interlopers, the ribald jests of guards, the furtive glances of the envious, the scowls of the emancipated underling, the profanity of the domineering agitator who denounced respectability and clamored for possession of the girls,-no moment of their lives was free from ugly threats; no retreat, save the wild jungle or the mountains, offered any liberation from the immodest glare of cruel, licentious eyes. (See Part II: Tobolsk.)

The eldest of the girls was scarcely twenty-two. Like her mother, she was erect and stately and somewhat saddened by the hostile experiences through which the family had just passed. The youngest was a chummy little creature of sixteen years who did not conceal her admiration for her next elder sister, whose courage seemed unfailing through all the trying hours. The next eldest sister, with her little younger brother, was openly planning to outwit the guard and escape to the Siberian wilds. It was doubtless her undisguised activity that ultimately betrayed the Royal prisoners into the unhappy tangle that beset their future lives.

From one camp to another they were carted off like cattle and never for a moment permitted to forget that, if they ever reached a place of safety, they would have to pay the price. Along the frozen pathway of their weary eastern journey there did come, here and there, some slender little byways that offered an escape. Whenever they approached these places and estimated the perils, they found no one to confide in-there were none that they could trust. Treason, like a contagion, lurked in smiles as well as scowls about them, and even their steadfast trust in the Invisible Diplomacy of European Royalty was gradually yielding in their hearts to the dissolving acid of despair. (See Part II: Tobolsk.)

From the conflicting rumors that reached them they fully realized that it was the politician in all countries who ignorantly obstructed their relief. The ferocious and misleading propaganda employed to fanaticize the populace as an element of military strategy seemed to sweep its own authors from their feet and drag the prisoners through many months of torture toward a time and place set for their execution by other politicians in the drunken stupor of their power. (See Part II: Tobolsk.)

Under the agitated surface of this tidal wave of fanaticism that threatened to engulf the Royal prisoners there were a few men in Europe and America, as well as in India and Thibet, who were slowly converging in the direction of the victims with a phrase upon their lips that none but Royalty and themselves were privileged to use. It was that ancient secret code transmitted by tradition to the followers of a sturdy Tyrian king. It was made use of by Lycurgus, as well as by Solomon and Justinian; and it was again employed by the partisans of Louis XVIII to save the House of Bourbon. It is that mystic code which binds Royalty together and is given only to those whom Royalty may trust. That ancient code meant freedom if it reached the prisoners in time! It rested with these silent men to pass the scrutiny of a million eyes to liberate the victims from the fury of the mob.

Such a rescue, as time swept by, became nothing but a slender hope with any of the women. They began to realize that their blood would not very greatly shock the nerves of statesmen who had become accustomed to the daily cataract that poured down upon the soil of Europe. They felt abandoned by the diplomats. Their only friends were busy in the red work of war. One chance alone remained. Soldiers might be deceived by men disguised as comrades. The Secret Service might overlook the hysterical entertainers who fluttered under the mask of charitable workers and skipped across forbidden lines protected by a Cross. This was the only possibility, this the phantom hope that stood trembling on the brink of the prisoners' abysmal fear. Thus the sight of a Red Cross driver or an English uniform in the midst of their disaster became a welcome incident in the lives of these affronted women. The appearance of either seemed to carry to the prisoners a spirit of encouragement and reflect a ray of mercy into the dark corners of their hearts. They indulged the hope that some of those foreign uniforms might conceal trustworthy friends. And they recognized a basis for such a hope in the mystifying movements of one of those uniforms that met their notice day by day. It was near them at the palace when they were thrown upon a maddened world. They saw it following onward as they passed through pathless wilds. They could see it hovering near them on that last historic night. They learned about its maneuvers in the morning as it moved among the silent rooms of the pretty mansard cottage that had witnessed their withdrawal from the vision of historical events,-how it had paused to scan without emotion the small blood stain on the floor-how an agitated censor informed the credulous that the prisoners had been murdered in cold blood! Thus they learned that the world had heard with skepticism that, so far as history and international politicians were affected, their seven lives had been, technically, blotted out! (See Part II: Petrograd-Tumen-Tobolsk.)

Possibly the Prisoners of Tobolsk may have been willing to suffer what is termed a "technical death" in diplomatic circles in order to elude the hungry bloodhounds of the Revolution. They may have welcomed the many opportunities such an event would furnish to read their own obituary in the letters and official documents which treated of their tragic fate. Who knows? They certainly possessed a saving sense of humor or they would never have left behind them at Ekaterinburg so many little reminders of the tragic romance to which calm investigation hereafter will give birth. For instance, there are a couple of diaries that some men must have kept. Of their existence it seems certain that some of the prisoners knew. Why and just how the hitherto profound State secrets narrated in these diaries come now to light is suggested by a simple little letter that raises the inquiry, "Did the Imperial Russian family escape?"

The letter that started this investigation is little different from others one receives from friends traveling in the Orient. By itself it does not clearly identify the family it describes; but, when the scene it pictures is coupled with the events narrated in the purloined diaries which the hands of some invisible diplomats have left behind, the student of the Russian Revolution will marvel at the skill with which some other Royal hands untied the knot of Fate.

There may be those in official circles who will suggest that a case of mistaken identity is exhibited in the following quotation from the letter. "It is in a sort of arboreal enclosure, with all sorts of flowers and vigorous vegetation that characterizes this region," the letter reads. "Behind the ivy-covered wall that extends around the gardens and shuts out all intruders, I got a glimpse of that man through the heavy iron gate. He was smooth-shaven, slightly drooped, sprinkled with gray and with a scar upon his forehead near the roots of his hair-a little to one side.

He was twirling a pruning knife in his left hand and speaking in English to a boy who scampered up to him ahead of four beautiful girls and a very dignified woman moving leisurely over the lawn in the direction of the gate.

"When the women reached the man's side they paused for a moment and asked a few questions in Russian. He seemed to be listening very attentively and answering only in monosyllables.

"Then I noticed the elder of the women unfold a well-known London newspaper and move closer to his side. They began glancing over its pages together and seemed to be deeply moved by an article they, apparently, were reading as they walked slowly toward the gate. Finally, when they were about ten feet from where I stood concealed behind one of the massive palms, the man raised his head from the page and, looking earnestly into the woman's eyes, exclaimed in a skeptical tone: 'Il n'aurait jamais cru le fait si ces messieurs n'avaient pu lui jurer L'avoir vu!... Tout ce que j'ai prédit!... Les faux nobles,-les plagiaires!' which means in English, "He couldn't have believed the thing unless these gentlemen had sworn they witnessed it!... All that I predicted!... The sham nobles!... the stealing authors!" The comment set me thinking.

"Who is he? I asked myself. Inside of five minutes I had heard him speak in English, in Russian and in French! I am certain that he is not a Frenchman,-although his accent would have proclaimed him a native of the Avenue des Champs Elysées. He had a Danish countenance, the eyes of English Royalty and the forehead of an early Christian martyr.

"No one I have talked to on the island seems certain of his identity. Some take the view that he is a retired millionaire, judging from the refined simplicity of his family and the strict guard the Government has furnished to protect his undisturbed retirement. Others hint that he may be, possibly, some very high dignitary, judging from the almost Royal homage that some people in the city pay to his person and family.

"The only reliable information I got about him was that he arrived upon the island aboard a man-o'-war accompanied by one of the richest tea merchants in the Empire. He declines all membership in any of the clubs, apparently satisfied to spend the time among his orchids and the lovely white-robed debutantes I saw blooming in that fascinating garden.

"Naturally I was very curious about the identity of this secluded family. But the only information given out about them by the chivalrous tea merchant or the Government officials is simply, 'Oh, the family have friends in India and are living in retirement.'"

One would be very bold to say, after reading the foregoing, that the personages described were the same people who had been driven out of the Winter Palace upon the ebb-tide of their Imperial splendor a few months before. Yet a long and somewhat intimate interest in the underground diplomacy of the world will lead one thus engaged to piece together stray bits of gossip that come from different sources to check up the information that some others may possess. In this way will the letter of an American who was held incommunicado at Geneva by the Swiss Government in the latter part of 1919, be found exceedingly persuasive in the process of reconstructing the tragic comedy which struts around the vacant Russian throne. The American was en route to Turkestan under proper credentials from the United States; yet there were certain powerful combinations sufficiently interested in his mission to cause his imprisonment for a time sufficiently lengthy to enable their emissaries to precede him beyond the Caspian, where other secret combinations were incubating that American foreign traders would have given much to understand.

It was during this period of restraint that the American, whose name we will call Fox, wrote to a friend in the United States: "You have often heard me speak of my brother who was in Turkestan when the Russian Revolution burst upon the world. He is now resting in Tasmania after going through one of the most remarkable experiences ever given to an ordinary tea merchant intrusted with some secrets of the greatest land monopoly in the world. You may call it a fairy tale; and if you did not know me as a business man of ordinary sense, I should hesitate to intimate that Nicholas R-- and all the family are quite well, I thank you, not a million miles distant from my brother."

Fox had learned from his experience at Geneva that governments are sometimes cajoled by diplomatic pressure to do undreamed-of things. The dispatch of an expeditionary force to Siberia by the United States without a declaration of war against the Revolutionists struck him as an instance of this kind, and he knew his correspondent to be sufficiently versed in the underground politics of Europe to look for a connection between some member of that expedition and the subject mentioned in the two foregoing letters. This connection was innocently revealed by a newspaper report from a Western city concerning a wounded soldier who had recently returned to an American Army hospital. The particular name being given, it was easy enough for Fox's correspondent to meet the soldier on some errand of mercy and to obtain the revelations that are hereinafter made.

The soldier was a young commissioned officer who was having an artificial jaw supplied to replace the one shot off in a Bolshevik encounter. He had greatly recovered when the call was made and an opening naturally presented for the soldier to recount the part he played in the adventure of his country in the Revolutionary drama of that hour.

"I'm as certain as I'm living," the wounded soldier said, "that a Bolshevik is as 'nutty' as a rabbit. The fellow I had by the neck before my lights went out was putting up a holler, in German, and claiming to be a personal friend of some personal friend of the missing Czar. Before he finally passed in his chips he gave me a bundle of paper diaries he had stolen down in China, and he asked me to return them to their rightful owner so that he might die without a sin upon his conscience. Honestly, that chap was dead in earnest in this matter of his conscience. I took the stuff, of course; but I never thought about them until the other day. Since then they seem to haunt me. I wonder if you'd mind looking them over if the nurse'd get them out?"

"With pleasure," was the reply.

The nurse brought in an old leather bag, from which the Captain extracted two begrimed and blood-smeared rolls written in a very small but strong and vigorous hand.

While looking over the documents in a casual way a loose leaf fell to the floor. Upon picking it up, there was found to be written on one side in bold underscored letters:

"Make no belief in the evidence that was manufactured to satisfy some bloodthirsty men in Russia. What I have seen with my own eyes I know is true. For the sake of Russia I stoled these papers from the man come from the West who was with them all the way from 'Yekaterinburg to Chunking. What he write is true.

"DONETSKY"

"That's his name," the Captain said, "and if you don't find that he was as crazy as a bedbug I'll say I'm General Graves."

"This diary seems to be written in very good English."

"Yes," said the Captain, "all those fellows keep one. They're like the Germans-give 'em a pencil and a piece of paper and they'll scribble all day."

"Did he say who wrote this?"

"No; he cashed in, as I told you; but you'll see the name of Fox here and there through the diary that's written in the small hand."

"Fox-who was 'Fox'?"

"Search me! Some Johnny, I suppose."

"May I take these with me?"

"Sure thing! I'll make you a present of 'em. All I ask is, if you find out whether that fellow 'Fox' grabs the peacherino from the Métropole or the one called 'Maria' you'll send me an invitation."

The bargain was struck. Then the question was asked: "Any idea who wrote this diary-the one written in a quick running hand?'

"Sounds like some fellow with a grouch against Kerensky and Lvov. I know enough Russian to make out that much-"

"Evidently one of the Revolutionary officials?"

"Seems so," the Captain said. "You'll notice what he has to say about the mixup with the Russian Royal family at Tobolsk and Tumen. There's a lot of our fellows who don't take any stock in that assassination business at 'Katerinburg."

"I began to read: 'I had walked from Euston Station to Madame Tussaud's, when the messenger jumped from his motorcycle and rushed up to me-' Your diarist starts out in London, I see."

"Yes, he is some globe trotter-"

"'"Go to Birdcage and walk slowly back to Queen Victoria Memorial. As you pass Buckingham, observe the heavily veiled lady wearing white lace wristlets who will follow on behind. Let her overtake you. If she utters the correct phrase, go with her at once to Admiralty Arch and follow the Life Guard to the War Office. Meet number ... there; receive a small orange-colored packet, wear the shirt he gives you, and cross the Channel at once"'-I see! From Buckingham Palace to the War Office; sounds interesting."

"It is; that fellow is all there!" complimented the Captain.

"'The meeting at the Huis ten-Bosch points to Wilhelmstrasse.

Nothing can be done here. They suspect Downing Street.'-Ah, at The

Hague, and at the ten-Bosch too, where the Czar and Andrew Carnegie

held their first Peace Conference in 1899; this looks significant!"

"Keep going," said the Captain; "that fellow's got 'The Man in the

Iron Mask' brushed off the map."

"Here is something singular about Berlin. Your man walks through the lines like a wraith-"

"Not always. As you get into his stuff you'll hear things sizzle."

And thus the Imperial dead return to life through the pages of these stolen diaries.

While the temptation is great to revise the manuscript, so as to make it read more smoothly, it has been decided not to alter a line or letter. Truth will be better served by publishing what is prudent, under the complicated political circumstances of our times, word for word as it was written by its daring author.

For certain persuasive reasons it is deemed prudent to omit that part of the diary which details the writer's experiences in England, Belgium and Holland. Those who recognize the incidents hereafter given will appreciate this act of censorship. The discerning reader will gain all the information necessary by following the "Invisible Diplomat" and author from Berlin to the end of the diary.

The first entry reads:

"Today I called on Count R-- at Thiergartenstrasse 23 and handed him the yellow packet. Then I went with him to the race track at Hoppegarten.... On the way out R. inquired about the incident at Buckingham and asked me if I were willing to continue the adventure.... I assured him that nothing would please me better, providing the lady was good-looking.... He said that there were more than ONE lady as well as a couple of men involved in the affair.... I replied that if there were enough to go around and the men didn't become too meddlesome, their presence wouldn't spoil the 'adventure.'... He assured me that the men were 'fine fellows,' the ladies the loveliest on earth, but the 'adventure' was one that might mean decapitation for me if I failed in the undertaking.... I told him that just suited me.... 'I expect to meet Colonel Z-- S-- von T-- at the track. If he takes a liking to you he'll invite you to Koenigergratzerstrasse for a quiet little talk,' Count R-- replied after I had climbed up on the box with him.... We had just reached the old saddle paddock when a man saluted us in a very knowing manner.... It was Colonel Z-- S--, who put some pointed questions to me about my recent travels and my knowledge of Oriental languages.... Before returning to the hotel tonight the Colonel asked me to call on him tomorrow.... I feel that his request amounts to a positive command.... I shall call early in the morning...."

4. On the same page the following entry was made:

"There were guards everywhere when I called at K-70. Even the doorkeeper was a non-com, who took my name, entered it in a book with the precise time I called, took down his telephone, merely mentioned my name, hung up the receiver, called an orderly who conducted me through a corridor and three anterooms full of civilian clerks and finally landed me in the private office of Colonel Z-- S--. He wore the undress uniform of the Imperial Army, greeted me pleasantly, offered me a cigar and tactfully asked: 'Have you positively made up your mind to continue in this service?'

"I wanted to know a little more fully what was required of me before answering; but he did not say. He insisted, rather, on my answering his question FIRST.... To be perfectly frank I was not anxious to commit myself unreservedly without knowing ALL he expected of me, but it sounded cowardly ... so with a mental reservation I finally said: 'You don't look like a man who would ask another to commit suicide. Go ahead! I've decided to take a chance.'... Colonel Z-- S-- looked me straight in the eye and said: 'We expect you to use the same tactics that are used against you. We can't be squeamish.... The interests at stake are too sacred to allow personal considerations to affect your conduct.... You will be required to undertake a journey in the capacity of a guide.... How you make it will be left entirely to yourself ... but we expect results.... Every resource will be placed at your disposal, but if YOU get into trouble you'll have to get yourself out without calling on us for help.... We must not be known in the matter. And understand this-the assignment is dangerous from start to finish; no official help can be given you under ANY circumstances.'... To get a line on things I asked, casually, what my compensation would be.... He replied: 'You will be allowed a regular retainer fee, an allowance for daily expenses and a bonus sufficiently attractive to make the undertaking worth while, as you should know.' I thought a little while before asking, 'When do I start?'... 'There's another thing,' he said. 'I suppose you know we retain one-third of your fee for the benefit of your family in the event of any trouble.'... I merely nodded and said, 'All right.'"

In a moment a clerk brought in a check for 400, which Colonel Z-- S-- gave me, saying: 'This is your first month's allowance for expenses; your retainer will be paid quarterly.'... 'How do you KNOW I won't swindle you?' I asked, being a perfect stranger to him. 'I am taking my ORDERS from above,' he answered.... 'Who?' I asked. 'Young man!' he thundered, 'learn this QUICK-don't ask questions; keep your ears and eyes open and your mouth SHUT.... Be here at 10 tomorrow.'

5. The next entry of interest read as follows:

"I met Colonel Z-- S-- at 10 today. My head was not clear. Guess I had too much at Kempinsky's last night.... A saturnalia of spending on the theory that the Allies will pay.... Even the ride in the Grunewald this morning didn't clear the cobwebs away. I was constantly thinking of that girl at the Métropole with her long eyelashes and dimpling smile; resembles the veiled lady at Buckingham,-and I was trying to make out why she managed to occupy a seat at the next table to mine at the Admiral's Palace an hour or two later. She seems to know some of the performers who mingled in the audience, especially the energetic dark-eyed Circe with the Greek nose, and said to be some sort of a Baroness, who so often approached my table. I wonder what the connection is between these two.... There is certainly some sympathetic tie between those girls! This I know, for when I had breakfast at the Cafe Bauer, U.d.L., they were BOTH there, slightly disguised, and occupying the same table!... Who is Syvorotka? Her lover?... I wonder what the game is.... Come to think about it, the titled performer of the Métropole looks like a twin sister of Marie Amelia, Countess of [Cszecheny] Chechany, a perfect composite of Juno and Venus and Hebe all rolled into one.... These enigmatical personages crowded everything else out of my mind as I walked into Colonel Z-- S--'s office....

"... Without any preliminaries he said, 'Come with me!'... We entered a cab and a few minutes later I entered the Wilhelmstrasse and was in the presence of that tall, iron-gray, wiry gentleman with eyes like a searchlight and the manners of a Chesterfield. 'Thank you, Colonel,' he said. The Colonel sprang to attention, bowed, saluted and backed away. We were ALONE!... 'In ten minutes,' he said, 'you will be conducted to another room. When you arrive advance to the middle, make a right wheel and stand at attention facing the portière. Maintain perfect silence, answer all question,-make NO inquiries-understand?'... I was taken downstairs, along a wide corridor to a solid-oak door guarded by two sentries and an attendant in the Royal livery. The door was opened by an officer of the Erste Garde; I entered a large room, advanced to the center and faced the divided portières of an adjoining chamber! There sat the man whose nod shook the earth!... Behind a heavy, old-fashioned desk, in a dim light, apparently absorbed in writing, sat a deeply tanned, lean-faced, blue-gray-eyed counterpart of Frederick the Great,-the very embodiment of Majesty!... Eyes that blazed in their defiant depths with a steady and consuming fire-the kind of eyes that seem to defy the world.... I stood there fully five minutes before I heard the sharp, high-pitched voice pierce through the portière saying: 'Adell, I will see the C--'... I was conducted to within six feet of the man at the desk and in the same shrill voice asked how familiar I was with Russia, with Turkestan, India, and the Far East.... My answers seemed to convince my questioner.... Handing me a note he said: 'No one besides ourselves is to know that you are to undertake the mission outlined in that note.' Then he sat forward abruptly, his elbows resting on the desk, his head between his hands, his eyes fixed on space.... I began to study the note.... I was dumfounded!... I had thought all along that this man was the mortal enemy of the persons this note commanded me to rescue from danger.... I could not understand HOW there could be the slightest co-operation between this man and the other great ones of the earth that note commanded me to call upon for assistance in case I should need it. It was utterly incomprehensible! Yet THERE were the directions in plain black and white.... And I could not ask a solitary question!... In the same shrill voice the man asked: 'Have you memorized it?' I had! It was burned into my very soul. I could not forget a syllable of it!... Without another word he took the note, struck a match and watched it curl into shapeless ashes.... Then making a quick gesture he plunged into the documents before him.... I backed away until the door closed and shut out the sight of the lonely figure enveloped in a green light, his face illuminated against the shadowy background of an underground chamber of the Foreign Office.... On the way to Friedrichstrasse depot I met that girl of the Métropole again!"