by Ariel Lawhon
“That,” Prince Frederick says, in answer to her question, his voice dripping with appreciation, “is Dominique Aucléres. She’s a reporter with Figaro. I hear she’s very good. Very…thorough.”
Anna snorts. Thorough. Is that what they’re calling it these days?
“Is it common to have three judges presiding over a case?” she asks, nodding toward the bench where an alarmingly young blonde woman in jurist’s robes sits between two older scowling gentlemen.
Frederick gives her the side-eye. “This is a tribunal, Anna. Judge and jury all at once.”
“That one in the middle looks like a pinup girl. She doesn’t seem old enough to have finished university, much less sit a bench.”
“That is Judge Reisse. And she is far older than she looks. Far more frightening as well. She’s considered to have one of the best legal minds in Germany,” he says, then adds, “Whatever you do, don’t piss her off. That woman is your best hope of a favorable verdict. But she also loves a good courtroom tussle and is known to change her opinions without warning.”
“And the others?”
“Equally dangerous. More conventional. But less testy. Age has mellowed them a bit.” He points to each of the men. “Werkmeister and Backen.”
Now that Anna has resigned herself to watch the proceedings, her sense of humor has returned. “Do you know what the press is calling this? The ‘Trial of Doubt and Coincidence’ and the ‘Lawsuit of Ghosts.’ ”
“Ignore them.”
“Difficult, given that they use the front pages of their newspapers to scream at me.” She points to the man sitting at the defendant’s table. “And of course there’s Gilliard, more than willing to give them fodder.”
“They only called him because he wrote that damnable book. Remember, Gilliard does not represent the imperial family. He speaks for himself. Don’t be too hard on him, Anna. Few of us wouldn’t do the same if a gun were placed to our heads.”
Anna’s eyes have grown lighter with age but they are still a crisp and penetrating blue. “Must we speak of guns today?”
The session is called to order and the crowd whispers now instead of shouting across the room. All eyes are turned toward the front where Judge Werkmeister, president of the Hamburg tribunal, calls Pierre Gilliard forward to give his testimony. The famed Romanov tutor is showing his age. Seventy-eight years old, with silver hair and bad joints, he moves slowly to the bar, wearing a dark suit and obvious disdain. In his hands is a copy of his book, The False Anastasia, and he grips it like a life preserver. Anna studies her fingernails while the judges go through the preliminary questions. She knows all these answers, has heard them for years. Pierre Gilliard was tutor to the imperial family. He served them for over a decade, and he went into exile with them after the revolution. Gilliard accompanied the family, right up to the train station in Ekaterinburg, and was one of the last people to see them all alive. He has denounced Anna’s claim to the rights and title of Anastasia Romanov since he met with her in Berlin in 1925. That encounter is documented in great detail in his book. But no one knows about their second meeting in 1954. He has chosen not to publish those details.
Anna returns her attention to the bench when she hears Gilliard speaking, and she realizes she has missed a question from the judges.
“The intimates of the Russian court have been categorical on this subject,” Gilliard says. “None of them could find the slightest resemblance between that woman and Anastasia Romanov. Not a single one of them.”
Judge Werkmeister drops his chin and raises his eyebrows, looking like a dubious turkey. “How do you know that?” he asks.
“They have told me a hundred times.”
“A hundred times?” the judge asks. “This is not a classroom. And we have not invited you here to give lessons on hyperbole. I remind you, Herr Gilliard, that you must be ready to swear to what you say.”
Anna has always found it odd that in German courtrooms the witness is only sworn in after giving testimony and usually only if the testimony is considered highly relevant or if the justices are trying to catch a witness perjuring himself.
Gilliard clears his throat and straightens his spine. “If I said a hundred times, I meant many times. As for Anastasia’s own aunt, she issued a peremptory declaration to the Danish newspapers. That can be easily verified as it is part of the official record.”
“Again, I remind you that, as a witness, we have called you here to tell us only what you yourself have seen and experienced.”
The old tutor sighs, and Anna cannot help but smile. She has always found that teachers are the least teachable of all people. Pierre Gilliard has to restrain himself from lecturing the judges as they continue with a relentless series of questions. Judge Reisse is the hardest on him. She wants to know specifics of his meeting with Anna in 1925. Where they met. What time of day it was. How long they spoke. Anna decides she likes Reisse immensely when she asks Gilliard if he can remember what Anna wore that day.
He looks dumbfounded at the question. “What she wore? I don’t have the slightest idea. Why is that important?”
“Because,” Judge Reisse smiles sweetly, “you say in your book that you performed a ‘thorough investigation.’ ”
“I did.”
“Then you should remember all of those details. They were enough to convince you that the plaintiff is not Grand Duchess Anastasia.”
“But her clothing has nothing to do with that.” Pierre Gilliard nearly growls through his clenched jaw when he speaks again. “I wrote my book so that I would not have to remember the details. I cannot recall them anymore.”
Judge Backen has been content to listen until this point, but he speaks now, dryly. “Ordinarily a witness who knows that he is going to be heard finds a way to freshen his memory.”
Gilliard lifts his book and shakes it before the judges. “Monsieur le Président,” he says, voice trembling, “I wrote this thirty-five years ago, and I can swear that everything in it is true.”
“A book is not evidence, Herr Gilliard,” Judge Backen says. He doesn’t blink or show the slightest bit of emotion. Anna cannot, for the life of her, decipher what he’s thinking.
Judge Reisse adjusts her robe, pulling the collar away from her neck so it doesn’t chafe. “Your account of those events is of little interest to the court. We would, however, love to see your original documentation. You cite it thoroughly in your book. Of particular interest are a series of letters you say your wife, Shura Tegleva, received from the empress’s sister. You place great weight on them given that she was a governess in the Romanov household.”
“Not just a governess,” he says. “Anastasia’s governess.”
Frederick leans toward Anna and whispers in her ear. “Shura died three years ago. Pierre hasn’t been the same since.”
Judge Reisse continues. “It was these letters that first convinced you to meet with Anastasia in Berlin, yes?”
“Yes. But I met with Anna Anderson, not Anastasia,” he stresses.
“I want to see your correspondence with the duke of Leuchtenberg. And also the entirety of your written exchanges with Harriet von Rathlef, one of the plaintiff’s first supporters. You state in your book it was these conversations that led you with certainty to believe that she is not Anastasia Romanov.” The judge points to the book in Gilliard’s hands. He is now grasping it to his chest and stroking as though about to swear on the Bible. “In your book, The False Anastasia, you published photographs and handwriting samples. But the court has not been granted access to any of the original documents. Will you make them available?”
“No,” Pierre Gilliard says resolutely. There is a good ten seconds of stunned silence in the courtroom before he explains himself. “I do not have them anymore.”
“Why not?”
“I destroyed the entire dossier after the last court ruled against her. I
thought the case was closed. I didn’t think I needed to keep my research any longer.”
Judge Reisse’s voice is a low, dangerous purr. “What did you do with those documents?”
“I burned them.”
“A historian who burns his archives,” she says, bending over the bench and getting as close to the withered old tutor as possible, “is like a corpse that stinks.”
“I can look!” he says, desperate. “Perhaps there is still something left in my safe-deposit box.”
“This witness is dismissed,” Judge Werkmeister says in disgust.
Frederick is helping Anna to her feet when a lawyer for the defense rises quickly from his seat and says, “We would like to call another witness.”
The tribunal looks none too pleased at this surprise but they confer among themselves for a moment. “Who?” Werkmeister asks.
“His name is Hans-Johann Mayer. In 1918 he was a prisoner of war being held in Ekaterinburg in the basement of the Ipatiev House. He was an eyewitness to the slaughter of the entire Romanov family and can prove, definitively, that Anastasia Romanov is dead.”
* * *
—
“No. No. No. It can’t be. I have never seen that man before,” Anna says, gripping the rail and leaning forward. She no longer cares if anyone in the courtroom discovers her presence. But, again, no one is looking at her. All eyes are on the tall bald man with perfect posture. He must be several years older than Anna, but he has aged very well and moves like a man in his forties. As he takes his place at the bar a spectral quiet settles over the courtroom.
“Please state your name for the court,” Judge Reisse says. She has the pinched look of a woman who has just been given vinegar when she thought she was getting wine.
“Hans-Johann Mayer.”
“And you are German?”
“Austrian.”
“How did an Austrian come to be a prisoner of war in Siberia in 1918?”
“The same way Russians, Germans, Ukrainians, and a handful of Mongolians ended up there as well. The Bolsheviks were no respecters of persons, I’m afraid. They hated everyone equally.” He smiles at the judges and then turns to the courtroom to let everyone see the grin. “Have an opinion, rot in jail. If that wasn’t their official mantra it was certainly close to it. As for me personally, I had the great misfortune of being in Petrograd the previous October when the Bolsheviks wrested control away from the provisional government. Wrong place. Wrong time. Long train ride to exile.”
“And why were you in Petrograd to begin with?” Judge Reisse asks.
Mayer sighs and there is a wistful note to his voice. “A woman.”
And, just like that, he has everyone in the palm of his hand. The Austrian is handsome, funny, and well spoken. Anna feels a pit begin to open in her stomach. “Where did they find this man?” she whispers to Prince Frederick. “I don’t like him.”
“I don’t know,” he says, looking rather dispirited. Everything that Anna feels is being played out on her friend’s face. “But this isn’t good.”
For his part, Hans-Johan Mayer is a master storyteller. And the tale he spins before the court is not only compelling, but is immensely probable and peppered with enough details to be damnably believable as well. He makes no attempt to hide the fact that he has recently serialized his story in a tabloid called 7-Tage. He makes no apologies for this but simply explains that he is only now appearing before the court because he has finally made his story public.
“I was, as you can imagine, traumatized for many years.”
Anna’s voice is dry as dust when she says, “It must have been horrible for him.”
“He’s very good,” Prince Frederick growls.
“What’s worse, he’s charming. Just look at Judge Reisse.”
The beautiful blonde jurist is listening raptly, her lips pursed in thought, her full concentration bent on this witness.
Mayer goes on to explain that once imprisoned in the Ipatiev House in Ekaterinburg he was put to work doing menial labor. He was kept in a small room in the cellar, and it was there, he says, that the imperial family was brought on the night of July 17, 1918. His account of what happened next is detailed and shocking; it leaves many of the journalists looking ill, dabbing at their eyes, and covering their mouths. Mayer describes the slow thump of footsteps descending the cellar stairs. The questions of confused children. A tired family yanked from their beds. And then silence in the cellar as their captors leave and go into an adjacent room and drink enough vodka to finish the task. Mayer describes in detail, and with shaking voice, what gunshots sound like in an enclosed space and how the smell of gunpowder can drift beneath a closed door. He tells of screaming and crying and the dull thud of gunmetal hitting human flesh. The worst sound, he explains, was the silence afterward and the knowledge of what it meant. None of that could compare to what the Bolsheviks asked him to do next, however. Hans-Johan Mayer was taken into the cellar and told to help load the bodies onto a wagon. He tells the court how those bloodied, battered bodies lay still and mangled in death. He tells them of the iron-laced stench of blood mixed with the scent of bodily waste voided upon death. How he wretched until his throat was raw and bloodied. He tells them with tears in his eyes how those sights and sounds have haunted him every day since. Mayer explains to Judges Reisse, Werkmeister, and Backen how desperate he was to believe that a Romanov, any Romanov, had survived the slaughter and how he followed those soldiers into the woods. Mayer waited until the soldiers left to fetch supplies so they could destroy the evidence of their grisly deeds. Only then did he creep forward. His voice is hollow when he explains that, in the middle of a warm summer night he stood in the clearing known as Pig’s Meadow and counted the bodies of seven Romanovs and four servants and wept because he had been unable to save any of them.
“You have to understand,” Mayer says, turning toward his audience. “There is no one who wanted that young woman to live more than I did. That’s why I went there at risk to my own life. If she had been alive I would have helped her. But none of them survived that night. I speak the truth in this. Anastasia Romanov is gone.”
The gavel is a distinctly American symbol, and Anna has watched her fair share of Hollywood films in which a judge bangs his gavel to bring order or closure to the court. The gavel is not a tool used in German courts, and there is certainly none in the room today, but she can hear the pounding in her mind anyway. She knows with certainty how the judges will decide, and she is confirmed in this belief when Mayer produces a single piece of evidence to support his claim: an official Bolshevik announcement of the imperial family’s execution, which he claims to have received from the Ural Regional Soviet in Ekaterinburg and smuggled out of Russia on his release a short time after the massacre.
Anna’s lawyers fly into action, insisting the judges give them time to refute Mayer’s account. They question his credibility and recent appearance, given that the case is decades old. They beg for more time. They demand that he be officially sworn in. The fact that her attorneys are so stunned by this new development seems to work against them.
After a brief huddle, Werkmeister announces that “the objections raised by the petitioner against the credibility of the witness Mayer are not valid. We will hear no other witnesses in this matter.”
The verdict comes, not days or weeks later as Anna and Frederick expect, but that very afternoon. By the time Mayer steps away from the bar, it has grown late and dark and a cold wind howls through the streets of Hamburg, whipping the rain into little cyclones in the gutter. Frederick and Anna decide to stay the night and drive to the Black Forest the following day. They are called back to the courtroom before they’ve had time to collect all of their belongings from the small conference room where the day began.
It is Judge Werkmeister who delivers the verdict while Judges Reisse and Backen nod in agreement.
“It is the b
elief of this court,” Werkmeister says, “that Mayer’s knowledge of these details can only have come from things he witnessed firsthand. We do not believe they were gleaned from other writings, stories, or rumors circulating at the time of these events. It is the belief of this court that his account is true, that the entire Romanov family was murdered in 1918, and therefore we deny the petitioner’s suit to be legally recognized as Anastasia Romanov.”
Anna sits back, bewildered, as the judges rise from their bench and begin to adjust their robes. Bedlam overtakes the courtroom as flashbulbs go off and a din of voices erupts. Dmitri Leuchtenberg looks as though he’s just been declared the king of England.
“I don’t understand—” Anna says.
“We can appeal. I refuse to let it end like this,” Prince Frederick says. There is metal in his voice, and his hands are wrapped around the railing like shackles.
Neither of them notices the stunning brunette who settles into the chair beside Frederick until she speaks. “I think an appeal is a brilliant idea,” she says.
They look at her in astonishment.
“Forgive me,” the brunette says. “I saw you up here in the balcony when they called for a verdict. If I’d known you were here today I would have sat with you all along.” She smiles, bright and cheerful—as though this were not in fact a terrible day—and sticks out her lovely, long-fingered hand in greeting. “My name is Dominique Aucléres and I would like to help with your case.”
