by Ariel Lawhon
“But the garden—”
“It will be best if we take a different path tomorrow.” Botkin’s implication is clear: we won’t return to the sitting garden. As we leave I throw my stone into the reflecting pool. It shatters the calm surface of the water, and the disturbance pleases me immensely. It is only a small act of defiance, unseen by the guards, but I am learning those can be the most satisfying.
* * *
—
We find Kerensky waiting for us when we return to the palace. He travels from Petrograd only when there is unwelcome news to deliver. He sits in the formal reception room with my parents, and none of them speak as we enter, flustered and hot from our walk. Father stands at the bookcase, his hand on a bound collection of maps, but his eyes are unfocused. Mother knits what appears to be a scarf from delicate pink cashmere. But she is unable to concentrate whenever Kerensky is near, so she has dropped half her stitches. The result is some shapeless thing that she will no doubt pull apart the moment he leaves.
I groan and drop gracelessly into the nearest chair. “What now?” I ask.
“Schwibsik,” Mother hisses. “He has come to give us news.”
I already regret leaving my rock in the garden. “Bad news, no doubt.”
My parents blink at me, startled by my boldness.
“I would watch that daughter of yours, Nicholas. She has a viper’s tongue.”
Dr. Botkin steps forward then, Gleb no longer in tow. “You will have to pardon her anger, Chairman Kerensky. Anastasia, her sisters, along with Alexey and my son, have just been subjected to vulgar treatment from your soldiers. She has cause for venom.”
Mother casts a protective glance at each of us, and Father moves from his place at the shelf, swiveling in the middle of the room, unsure who to comfort first. But Botkin raises a hand, palm out, to reassure them that we are fine.
Kerensky ignores the accusation altogether. “It is good we are all together,” he says. “We won’t have to do this twice.”
Father grinds his teeth. “Do what?”
“Let me show you.” And with that Kerensky spins on his heel and leaves the room. We follow him with reluctance out the door and through the grand foyer. He stops at the broad, mahogany front doors, waiting for effect. Such theatrics. This is all a game to him. A ridiculous, elaborate game of chess. And we are the pawns he offers up as sacrifice.
Kerensky motions for the guards to open the doors. The guards are young, my age or a little older perhaps, and one of them is in possession of a matching pair of dimples. As we pass through the door he nods at me, ever so slightly. Not enough for Kerensky to notice but enough that I do.
There is a crowd far down the drive, outside the palace gates, nearly two hundred people, and when they see us they begin to scream, to shake their fists and rattle the wrought-iron bars. I have never witnessed a mob before, never seen such raw anger and hatred.
“You did this,” Father says.
“No.” Kerensky shakes his head. “They came of their own accord. But it is a valuable lesson.”
Father’s words are hard and tight. “What could it possibly teach us?”
When Kerensky smiles it makes the widow’s peak at his forehead more severe. “That you ought to be grateful for the protection I provide within these walls.” He lifts an arm to indicate the crowd, and they roar even louder. “Most of these people want you in prison, Nicholas. They want you sent to the Fortress of Saint Peter and Paul. The rest want you dead.”
“I have done nothing—”
“This is true. You did nothing after a thousand people were trampled to death at your coronation. You did nothing to protect your soldiers during the war, and you left the rest of your countrymen to starve. It must have been then, when you were tired of doing nothing, that you ordered your Imperial Guard to fire on a crowd of unarmed demonstrators who had the utter gall to request safe working conditions and fair pay. You don’t get to deny your role in this. They call you Nicholas the Bloody for a reason. You have done plenty.”
Father spits on the polished marble at Kerensky’s feet.
Kerensky looks at the spittle dispassionately, then rubs it away with the toe of his shoe. “I think it is time we make some changes, Citizen Romanov.” He looks around the lavish entrance, from the gilded mirrors to the crystal chandelier, then to us. He takes in our fine clothes and delicate shoes. Kerensky smiles. “I think it is time you learn how to work.”
* * *
—
We are each given a bucket, a spade, and bags of seeds. Mother remains inside with Alexey. Kerensky has some sense at least. My brother, barely recovered from his bout with the measles, is too weak for hard labor. Dr. Botkin and Gleb, however, are happy to take their place. Kerensky leads us to the garden himself. He has allowed us to change into the clothes we wear when helping tend wounded soldiers at the hospital. They are the only work clothes we own—simple skirts with white shirtwaists, stiff canvas aprons, and brown leather boots.
“Practical,” Maria says with a sniff as she smooths a crease from her apron, “but decidedly unattractive.”
Kerensky thrusts a bucket toward her. “And yet half the women in Petrograd do not possess such finery.”
Maria takes the bucket without complaint, but a miserable scowl settles over her countenance.
Joy and Jimmy bound in circles at our feet, barking at the wind and the birds. Ortimo, as usual, refused to join us outside, preferring to stay curled up at Alexey’s feet, safe from Semyon and his boots. The others are grateful for the fresh air and the chance to run.
The garden, dormant since last fall, is covered by a layer of leaves and mulch. It is enormous, two acres at least, but private—much larger than the kitchen garden, and surrounded by a short stone wall and tall, thin juniper trees. We can hear the protestors at the gate, some distance away, but we cannot see them.
Kerensky kicks a pile of rotting leaves. “Sixty beds should get us started.”
Father seems oddly delighted. He loves being outdoors and relishes physical labor. “Where are the plows?” he asks.
“They are called hands and are attached to the end of your arms.”
Even Father balks at this. “You can’t be serious. It will take us weeks just to prepare the soil. And several more to make the beds.”
“Luckily, your social calendar has been cleared. I don’t believe you have any pressing engagements.” Kerensky plucks the seed packets from Father’s basket and holds them up one by one. “Carrots. Radishes. Onions. Lettuce. And cabbage. I think it is time you learn what every other Russian citizen understands from the time they can walk. If you want to eat, you must coax food from the ground yourself.”
· 7 ·
Anna
VISITORS TO THE BLACK FOREST
1954, 1946
Unterlengenhardt, Germany
July 1954
Anna’s garden is filled with the sweet-smelling rot of fallen peaches. She has been ill again—she cannot seem to escape this lingering respiratory malady—and she has missed the harvest. What few peaches remain hang heavy and overripe on their branches. Every brown spot is an indictment of her poor gardening skills. But mostly Anna is furious with herself that she has lost an entire year’s worth of jam. It will be dry toast for her until next summer. Anna curses the tree, but that does no good, so she decides to take her ill temper out on the unfortunate man who has chosen this day to visit.
Anna spins, facing him for the second time in five minutes. “Why are you still here?” she demands, purposefully, in German. “I told you to leave.”
The Frenchman looks like a mustachioed pencil wearing glasses—painfully slender, expertly groomed, carefully spectacled, and wearing a prim brown bowler hat that matches his nondescript tan suit. “I am attempting to have a civil conversation with you.”
“There is nothing civil about
an ambush,” she says again in German.
“Or about yourself apparently.”
“I did not invite you here.”
“Nor did you respond to the countless letters I sent.”
“Go in the cottage and find them if you can. I get more mail than I can read. There are piles and piles of it inside. But if you can locate your missives among the marriage proposals, accusations, death threats, and opportunistic schemes, I will be happy to respond to them with every curse word that I know. And, just for fun, I’ll repeat them in multiple languages so you get the point.”
“For a woman who claims to be multilingual, and the Grand Duchess Anastasia, you display an alarming lack of Russian.”
“Just because I have not spoken it does not mean I can’t,” she says.
“I would kindly ask the lady to prove it.”
Anna shifts smoothly into Italian. “The lady is not fond of bullies or threats and is disinclined to cooperate.”
“Then I have no other option but to conclude that you are a fraud. Neither a Russian speaker nor the woman you claim to be.”
Anna grins, broad and malicious. “Do not insult me by suggesting that you have only now come to this conclusion. Your visit here today is an effort to reinforce a long-held position.” Now in French.
“That is ridiculous!”
She wipes her hand on her apron, takes three confident steps toward her visitor, and speaks slowly and clearly, in Polish. “I am no fool, Mr. Gilliard. I know who you are and what you’re trying to do.” Here she switches to perfectly enunciated Russian. “And I know that you have long since made up your mind about me.”
This proof of her ability to speak Russian leaves him flustered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
“You are clearly ignorant, but please don’t make yourself a liar as well. Your libelous book, The False Anastasia, is lying on top of today’s paper in the bag at your feet.”
He looks down as though stunned to learn this.
Anna continues, “This interview was futile from the start. You came here under false pretenses and then you accuse me of being uncivil.”
He twitches and splutters before her. “That is the most preposterous thing I have ever heard!”
“Oh, go on, make yourself a fool as well. Why not add that to your list of character faults?”
Pierre Gilliard picks up his book bag and slings it over his shoulder with all the animus he can muster. “You look nothing like the Anastasia I have known! I am quite satisfied that you are the most despicable sort of impostor, and I will swear to this every time I am asked, from now until the day I die. The real grand duchess would no more treat a visitor rudely than she would curse a tree for bearing rotten fruit.”
“I will not perform as a dancing monkey to convince you of my personage. Your Anastasia, the gentle girl you knew, no longer exists.”
He nods once abruptly. “At least we can agree on that. Anastasia is dead.”
EIGHT YEARS EARLIER
French Occupation Zone, Near the Border of France and Germany
December 18, 1946
“In all my forty-plus years,” Anna says, tucking one pant leg into her boot, “I have never once been smuggled before.”
It is raining and cold, and the banks of the Weser River have risen up, muddy and brown in protest. For his part, Prince Frederick pretends not to hear her. His head is bent low in whisper to a rather suspicious-looking man who stands at the end of a shaky dock keeping guard over a small rowboat. Their heads bob in animated conversation, and then, upon reaching an agreement, they shake hands. Anna cannot see the exchange of payment, but she is certain it happens.
“Come quickly,” Frederick says. “We don’t have much time.”
They drove half the night down country roads that resembled little more than footpaths, with the headlights off and very few words between them. She cannot bring herself to tell him about the soldier in Winterstein and how his mind was bent on rape, much less the knife in her hand or how she tried to protect herself. How can a woman tell such a story without going to pieces? It is easier to stuff it down and bury it and never utter a word. And so she spent the entire night, tight-lipped, gripping the handle of her suitcase. After the bombing in Hannover destroyed her home and nearly everything she owned, Anna has only this one small suitcase to her name. Inside are two changes of clothing and a handful of items she keeps from Frederick’s curious gaze. The suitcase dangles from her left hand now as she follows him down the dock. For his part, he has a single, oiled-leather satchel slung over one shoulder. His needs are fewer, and his ability to replace provisions is greater.
Their raincoats do not do much to keep out the persistent drizzle, and she can feel an oblong patch of dampness growing along her neck and moving down her spine. Frederick warned her that this would be a miserable journey, but Anna is only now beginning to take in the extent of his meaning.
“What about the car?” she asks. It is parked, empty and forlorn, beneath a giant pine.
He motions toward the Boatman. “Our new friend here will drive it back to town once he has dropped us on the other side of the river.”
The man seems neither trustworthy nor capable of carrying out either task, but she does not mention this to Frederick. He has gone to great trouble and expense to get her to this point, and she is determined not to punish him for it. Truth is, they have no other options.
“Okay, then,” Anna says, eyeing the rowboat with trepidation. “Let’s go.”
It rocks on the choppy water, bow pulling downstream with the current. There are three small bench seats and two sets of oars inside. No one states it explicitly, but it is clear that her job is to be quiet and stay out of the way. She sees nothing on the other, distant bank that would suggest a dock or a safe place to come ashore.
Frederick sees her peering through the gloom and says, “We have to go downstream three miles until we see a campsite on the banks run by the American Red Cross. We will disembark there and be given further instructions.”
“Downstream?”
Frederick frowns at the look of concern on her face. “Can’t you swim?”
“Yes. Of course,” she says. “I’m just not fond of boats, that’s all.”
“No choice, I’m afraid. Hop in.”
The Boatman says nothing during this exchange, or when they load her into the rickety boat, or when they take up the oars. He simply makes quick work of untying the rope and tossing its waterlogged length back onto the dock. And then they push off into the river with such alarming speed that her stomach lurches. Anna grips the seat and closes her eyes tight.
The longer she has known Frederick, the more he amazes her. His list of talents has always staggered her: historian, archeologist, genealogist, philologist, and linguist. But more than that, he has been her friend, her protector, and her defender. He is impetuous, energetic, unrelenting, and utterly devoted. Now, she learns, he also happens to be one hell of an oarsman. Even the Boatman surveys his strong, sweeping strokes with approval.
They speed on for some time with efficiency, and she grows sicker by the moment as the little boat rises and falls, slapping against the water. It’s not until they pull away from the middle of the river and angle toward the opposite bank that things begin to go wrong. The lip of the dinghy dips and suddenly, before they can adjust, water floods the boat, rising to their ankles. Anna realizes only then what great skill and concentration Frederick and the Boatman have expended keeping them upright so far, because both men curse and wobble, their oars flailing, as they try to correct the mistake. The boat tips dangerously to one side and she is certain it will flip entirely. Anna grips the edge of her seat with one hand and the handle of her suitcase with the other. The nausea presses against her throat and her eyes begin to water.
The Boatman speaks for the first time, yelling to be heard abov
e the wind. “We’re too heavy! We can’t keep taking on water like this or we’ll sink.”
“Throw out your suitcase!” Frederick screams.
She grips it tighter. “No!”
“Yes!” he bellows, yanking it cleanly from her grip. “This goes or we all do.” And then he lobs it into the current.
Anna watches as it spins in the air and lands on top of the water with a fantastic splash. “Have you lost your mind? I need that!”
Frederick glares at her and takes to his oars again. But Anna isn’t willing to give up that easily. The case bobs to the surface and when it drifts close enough to the boat she hooks one foot under her seat, leans out, and grabs the handle. Anna is tempted to clock Frederick over the head with it, but she sets it at her feet.
“I have nothing left but what is in this case!” Anna screams, making him the subject of her undiluted rage. “Never do that again. Never!”
And then she leans over the edge and vomits.
Frederick does not offer an apology, but neither does he argue. He looks at her with a stunned sort of pity and then pours every last scrap of energy into forcing the rowboat toward shore. There is a large clearing several hundred yards downstream and Frederick and the Boatman aim for this, heads bent, backs bowed, and arms strained to the point of quivering. As they row she carefully sets the suitcase on her lap, unlocks it, and lifts the lid. Inside, tossed among her clothing, is a photo album given to her by Gleb’s sister, Tanya, filled with private pictures of the imperial family, an ivory chess set carved from the tusk of a butchered elephant, a paper knife, and an icon of Saint Anna of Kashin. Relieved to know that they are safe and dry, she clutches the case to her chest and holds on for dear life.
* * *
—
In the end, it takes several more days to reach their destination. One of those is spent at the Red Cross camp near the riverbank, drying out, eating, and sleeping. Frederick, ever the worrier, refuses to continue the journey until he is certain she has not come down with some respiratory calamity. Her history with tuberculosis keeps him in a constant state of concern. But after a day goes by and she has no fever, they depart in the company of an American soldier. She never thinks to ask Frederick about the Boatman or how he got back up river.
