The Kitchen Boy by Robert Alexander

excused.”
    “Da-s,”
replied Demidova, backing away.
    I likewise muttered, bowed my head, and retreated. Glancing back once, I witnessed Tatyana Nikolaevna confidently pulling a glass syringe from the doctor’s brown leather bag.
    Breakfast that morning was served not too terribly late. We had our morning inspection and then we served the morning tea and bread. Everyone was gathered there in the dining room except Dr. Botkin, who was resting more comfortably, and Aleksandra Fyodorovna, who remained by his side for the rest of the morning.
    The early drama thus melted into our routine. The Tsar paced the dining room. The girls made their beds, then the older pair started reading, while the younger girls came and sat at the dinner table and began to draw. I wheeled about the Heir. Cook Kharitonov fussed in the kitchen over our meager provisions, and Demidova and Trupp emptied the enamel chamber pots employed for night use. Our morning walk in the garden was scheduled for half-past ten, and we all anticipated this silently but with great urgency.
    Just as the day before, however, the doors were suddenly and unexpectedly thrown open. It happened at ten precisely, and this time it was but two men, neither of whom we had ever seen, who marched into our world. I was just wheeling the Heir around the dinner table when they stormed in, proceeding directly past their former master as if he were a stupid dog. I pulled the wheeling chair to a quick stop, and both Aleksei Nikolaevich and I watched as they continued through the room. They carried not guns or grenades, but tools, entering the girls’ room in utter silence, for all visitors to The House of Special Purpose were under strict Red orders not to speak with us.
    Raising his right hand, the Heir bid me forward, and I rolled him thus, creeping around the table, past the chairs. And then, like the Tsar himself, who came up behind us, we cautiously peered through the doorless opening. Several of the grand duchesses sat on their beds, and we were all transfixed as the men quietly but surely set to work on one of the windows. It took but moments, and as we witnessed the seemingly unbelievable, I saw the Tsar’s brow rise in surprise, witnessed the dumbfounded shake of his head, received the thrilled wink of his eye.
Da, da
, the two workmen did the impossible: they unglued a single, wonderful, beautiful window.
    “Oi,”
softly muttered the Heir in joy.
    Just as quickly as they had come, so the men left, their heads hung, their eyes cast to the floor, their lips sealed. At first none of us moved. I think we were expecting the fat, Red pig, Komendant Avdeyev, to come marching in. Instead, the workmen departed, closing the outer doors, and then… then… we poured toward the open window.
    “Papa!” called Olga Nikolaevna, leaping from her bed.
    “Oi, kakaya prelyest!”
Oh, what a joy, shouted Tatyana Nikolaevna.
    “Hourahh!”
shouted the Heir as I wheeled him to the window that overlooked his former empire.
    “Thank the Lord!” proclaimed the Tsar, sucking the air as deeply as he could.
    Huge billowing gusts of air swarmed upon us, and we all gathered around, held our arms out, felt the breeze swirl around and lift our hearts like kites into the boundless sky.
    “Isn’t the fragrance tasty?” said Nikolai Aleksandrovich.
    “I can smell every garden in town!” proclaimed Anastasiya Nikolaevna, squinching up her shoulders and her nose and drinking it all in. “This is heaven!”
    We heard her steps, heard her voice scared and worried as she called out, “What is it, Nicky? What’s happened? What-”
    “Look, Mama!” exclaimed the Heir. “They opened a window!”
    She froze at the threshold, clasped both hands over her mouth. The Tsar, laughing, turned to his consort and held out his arms. The next moment they were embracing. I rolled Aleksei Nikolaevich right up to the edge of the sill, and he grabbed on to it, clutching to all that might yet be. That was all. It