Epilogue
Volleys of rifle fire, often with codas of single, duller pistol shots, resounded in the prisoner’s warehouse from dawn unto the fading half light of dusk. Georgy Lesh’s Third Company was chosen for the executions. This was partly because they’d already been set to guarding all the prisoners, anyway, and partly to give them, too, a chance to bloody their hands in preparation for what would surely be a long and bloody civil war.
Yurovsky, now missing a leg, was not the first, indeed, he was not even among the forty-first, of the Reds to be shot. The doctors had argued that he was too ill to be put to death, a plea that moved nobody, though it did get a few laughs from the rank and file. Still, it wasn’t important when he would be shot, only that he was shot.
A party of four showed up at that portion of the prisoners’ warehouse serving as an aid station, bearing two stout poles. They laid four pieces of rope on the floor, then put the poles across the ropes. Tearing the blanket off of the Bolshevik’s bed, they folded it around the poles to form a stretcher. Then they lifted him bodily and laid him on the now folded blanket. A few quick and simple knots and the Bolshevik was secured to the stretcher.
Once the makeshift stretcher was lifted, it was a short walk to the execution site, nearer to the river. There were a few trees there, being used to hold the condemned prisoners upright for “processing.” A not particularly small pile of bodies was assembled to the west, atop a fairly large assembly of logs. They’d all be incinerated and their bones scattered and dumped in the river once the executions were finished.
Yurovsky seemed only dimly aware of his surroundings as he was carried out of the building and toward the execution site. He muttered odd phrases on the way: “But why . . . kill the boy’s playmate? . . . Citizen Romanov . . . corruption . . . the bodies . . . frame them . . .”
He became more aware when the stretcher was leaned against one of the trees. Perhaps it was the cold reviving him, perhaps something else. He knew, for example, when a rope was used to secure the head of the stretcher to that tree. He said, “Tie it tight, boys. If I fall over I might hurt myself.”
One of the stretcher bearers caught the humor of that. “That’s right, old man, take it well. Want to make a statement? Care for a cigarette? There’s a priest standing by, too.”
“I’ll take the cigarette,” said the condemned Bolshevik. “People who fail aren’t entitled to last statements. Besides, would anyone present even want to hear it? And I wouldn’t have any use for a priest. Nor even a rabbi.”
“Likely not,” said the soldier. He took out a pre-rolled cigarette, lit and puffed it to life, then placed it between Yurovsky’s lips. The Red drew deeply, then coughed so hard the cigarette flew away. The friendly stretcher bearer picked it up and replaced it. Then he patted the Bolshevik’s shoulder and, with the others, backed away.
“No need to hurry,” said Yurovsky, around the cigarette. “Stick around and chat for a while, why don’t you?”
He and the stretcher party both laughed.
Yurovsky’s eyes swam in and out of focus, several times. He thought maybe his stump had started to bleed again. At some point he became aware of nine men marching up to stand in front of him, plus one who followed behind. He searched his mind for an old, old memory, something from his boyhood, drilled into him by an overbearing father. It came to him in spurts.
“I acknowledge before the source of All that life and death are not in my hands.”
“Left . . . face,” sounded from the commander of the ranks of armed men before him.
“Something . . . something . . . something I don’t remember. Ah . . . I remember this: To all I may have hurt, I ask forgiveness . . . to all who hurt me . . . I grant it.”
“Ready!”
“Hear, O Israel . . .”
“Aim!”
“. . . is one.”
“Fire!”
The shots rang out so close together as to form a sound of a single, larger and more powerful shot. Five of them stuck Yurovsky’s chest, more or less exploding it. The force of the blows caused the stretcher to twist around the tree. The Bolshevik’s head flopped loosely to one side and downward.
Even so, the commander of the firing squad, a Sergeant Rogov, marched briskly to the body, removing his Amerikanski pistol from its holster as he did. Once there, he thought Yurovsky was about as dead as dead could be. Even so, in case there were some residual consciousness still in pain, he aimed the pistol at the head of the condemned. The shot that followed ended the possibility of any remaining consciousness, as it blew a fair chunk of Yurovsky’s brain out the other side of his skull and onto the snow.