by Ariel Lawhon
Their new escort is far more talkative than their first. He is tall, black, and so frightfully handsome that Anna cannot help but stare. He tells them stories of his childhood growing up on a pecan farm along the Brazos River in Texas. He recounts how he joined the military the day after the bombing of Pearl Harbor, and how he has spent much of his time stationed in France assisting the Red Cross as a medic. He talks about his desire to become a physician when the war is over. The man is a human steamroller, impervious to any obstacle in his way. As he drives them around the closed border of the Soviet zone, and into the Black Forest, Anna begins to believe, for the first time in years, that her quest is possible after all. If this man can defy the odds, so can she.
“Here,” he says, handing her a slip of paper when they pull to the side of the road to eat their meager lunch and stretch their legs. “You’ll need this pass if you get stopped later.”
Anna unfolds the paper and reads the hastily typed form.
PASS NUMBER: 018 774
NAME: Anderson, Anna
NATIONALITY: Not cleared up
PROFESSION: No profession
REASON FOR TRAVELING: To return home
They stop eventually in the town of Bad Liebenzell. It’s the first time in years that Anna has felt compelled to ask anyone’s name, but she parts without it, happy to think of this man simply as the Soldier. A hero and a friend. From there, Frederick hires a car to take them to Unterlengenhardt, a small village atop a rocky outcrop nearby. Anna decides immediately upon seeing the place that the title “village” is grossly generous. There can’t be fifty people who live here year-round. A single road runs down the middle, and on it sits a small general store, one restaurant, a post office, and an inn. It is here that they stay the night. The next morning, after a long sleep, a warm bath, and a hearty breakfast, Frederick walks her down the road.
“This used to be an army barracks,” he tells her, motioning toward a clapboard building at the end of a weed-ridden lane. “But we are having it converted into a cottage for you. You will finally have a place of your own. No more shuffling from house to house, from friend to friend.”
He is so happy, so completely proud of himself, that Anna cannot help but return his smile.
“Welcome home, Anastasia!” Prince Frederick shouts, his voice echoing through the empty woods. “I so hope you will be happy here.”
· 8 ·
Anastasia
ONWARD, INTO PERIL
1917
Alexander Palace, Tsarskoe Selo, Russia
June 18
Today is my sixteenth birthday, and I have spent the afternoon making our tutor, Pierre Gilliard, curse in Latin. Or at least I think he’s cursing. Latin is the one language I cannot stomach. However, we are put out of our misery when Dova summons me to the imperial bedroom. I hear the words “your mother” and “birthday present” and rush off without thanking Gilliard for his time.
Of all the things I might expect, it is not to find Mother sitting on the floor of her bedroom surrounded by her entire collection of jewels. And not just hers, but Father’s as well, along with a number of infamous family heirlooms. I can barely see the carpet for shiny, glittering items. There are ropes of pearls and strings of diamonds. All three of Mother’s diadems. Every size and shape broach you can imagine. Rings and bracelets and necklaces. Opals. Emeralds. Sapphires. Rubies. Diamonds. Pearls. Teardrop earrings. Hoop earrings. Chandelier earrings. Diamond, pearl, and gemstone studs. Everywhere I look something sparkles, and each item is more magnificent than the last. Here, a feather fan with a rock crystal handle inset with diamonds and there, a gold and emerald pin in the shape of a bow. Seven Fabergé eggs. A crown, known as the “splendid diadem,” that Mother wore to the opening of the Duma. At least four dozen solid silver flowers, set with diamonds and pearls, that can be sewn onto any item of clothing for a special occasion. A stunning broach with a Siberian aquamarine placed in an open lattice with a diamond-set trellis, which Father gave to Mother upon their engagement.
It is a dizzying display, and I stand gaping at it for a full two minutes without uttering a word. I’ve seen many of these jewels through the years, but they have always been attached to people. And I’ve never been allowed to play with them.
“What are you doing?” I finally ask.
“Taking an inventory.”
“Why?”
“The Americans would call it an insurance policy,” she says. There is a blanket across Mother’s knees and a corset in her lap. It looks like one of Olga’s—the waist is too small to be mine. She holds a seam ripper in her hand and is methodically plucking at a row of stitches, loosening them for some reason I can’t fathom. “But that has nothing to do with why I called you here. I want you to pick a pair of earrings. Something small. A pair of studs.”
I brighten immediately. “Is this my birthday present?”
“Of course, silly girl. Dr. Botkin is going to pierce your ears. But you have to choose something little or your ears won’t heal correctly. It will be months before you can wear anything heavier.”
I look at the sea of jewels, overwhelmed.
“Pick something. Quickly. Botkin needs to get back to Alexey. He’s fallen off the garden wall again.”
I look up sharply. “Is he—”
“No. Just a bruise. But it needs more ice. His shin is swollen.”
It might be just a bruise, but that doesn’t mean Alexey isn’t bleeding. It’s simply on the inside. But Mother doesn’t want to discuss the realities of anatomy. This latest injury is just another proof of Rasputin’s lie. She gives me a smile filled with false assurance and motions to the pile of baubles at her feet.
If I consider everything I’ll be here all day. There’s too much. In the end I choose a small pair of diamond studs— each roughly one carat—that lie near a magnificent collier russe. Compared to the two-foot spray of Indian and Brazilian diamonds, my earrings seem plain and boring.
Once I’ve made my selection, Botkin orders me to sit on a small stool. I watch with growing dismay as he holds a sewing needle over a candle flame for several minutes. I watch as the thin sliver of metal turns black. He lets it cool on a porcelain saucer while he pinches my right earlobe between two small cubes of ice. One minute. Two. Three. Four. It tickles at first. And then the cold begins to bite and hurt, but I’m determined not to protest. I abhor whining. So I take long breaths through my nose. I squeeze my eyes closed and force myself not to wiggle my feet. Finally, I feel nothing.
“Keep your eyes closed,” Botkin says.
But I can’t help opening my right eye just a crack and observing with horror how he lifts that needle from that saucer and drives it through my earlobe without the slightest hesitation. There’s a hard, prolonged pinch and then he wipes blood from my ear with his handkerchief. I don’t feel him put the earring in at all. It’s a bit worse the second time but only because I know what to expect.
“Schwibsik,” Mother says.
“Yes?”
There is sadness around her eyes when she smiles. “It would be best if you wore your hair down for a while. Especially when you’re outside or anywhere near the guards. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Good. Now come here so I can see how they look.”
Mother examines me from all sides and clucks with appreciation. Then she gives me a gentle kiss on the cheek, wishes me a happy birthday, and sends me back to whatever remains of my lessons.
ONE MONTH LATER
Alexander Palace, Tsarskoe Selo, Russia
July 10
“You will be leaving Alexander Palace on July 31,” Kerensky announces. This time, Kerensky has summoned us to Father’s study to deliver his bad news. We’ve been in the garden all morning, hard at work planting a late crop of cabbages for winter. Our skirts are dingy, our boots caked with mud, and d
irt clings beneath our fingernails.
Kerensky sits behind the enormous oak desk, his face inscrutable. His hands rest casually behind his head. Father stops short in the doorway, startled by this audacious intrusion into his personal space.
“What are you doing at my desk?” Father asks.
“It’s not your desk. Not anymore. Sit down. We have things to discuss.”
I love Father’s study. It’s smaller and cozier than the formal reception room and always smells of pipe smoke and old books—ink and leather and cracking paper. I settle onto the couch beside Tatiana and kick off my dirty boots. My entire body aches from hours spent picking rocks from hard soil, so I drape myself over the arm of the settee. On the table beside me is a small paper knife with a mother-of-pearl handle. I pick it up and run my finger along its hard, flat edge, then carefully tap the point with the pad of my finger. With any pressure at all it will slice through not just paper but skin as well.
The day that Father returned to the Alexander Palace, his study was searched and all of his weapons seized. Kerensky took his revolver, a Mauser pistol, a long rifle, six knives, two ceremonial swords, and a variety of other blades, handguns, and weapons. Kerensky insisted that the protection provided us by his soldiers was more than sufficient and that as prisoners we no longer had a right to bear arms. With such obvious weapons at hand Kerensky must have overlooked the paper knife. Yet it has an edge and a point that might come in handy. So I lower my hand slowly and drop it into my boot while no one is looking.
“What do you mean we’re leaving?” Mother demands. “For how long?”
I suspect that Kerensky has long since lost patience with my mother, but he still tolerates her inane questions with relative good grace. “Permanently,” he says.
Father takes a step toward the occupied territory of his desk. “Unacceptable. This is our home. You cannot force us out.”
Kerensky gives him a humorless smile. “As we’ve discussed before, this residence is owned by the people of Russia. And they want you removed.”
“I am not willing to concede the fate of my family to the mob, Chairman.”
“Your other option is less appealing, I’m afraid.”
“What option is that?”
“The same fate that your beloved Sammi suffered.”
A small, keening sound escapes Alexey’s throat as he drops into the chair beside Maria. “What did you do to him?” my brother asks.
“I put a bullet in his skull two days after your father came home.”
We haven’t been allowed to visit Sammi, the African bull elephant we keep as a pet, since we were put under house arrest. But there are a hundred things we haven’t been able to do and, honestly, we have given the elephant little thought. We assumed he, like all the other animals in Alexander Park, has been cared for by the gamekeepers.
Alexey feels that Sammi is his. This isn’t far from the truth. For the last one hundred years an elephant has lived on the palace grounds and is a required part of the education of all future tsars. Father and Alexey have regularly visited the elephant enclosure for years. They feed Sammi and watch him swim. He is gentle and enormous and, odd as it might seem, Sammi was an integral part of our childhood. Now, four months after the fact, we learn that he has been dispatched as though he were a lame horse or a rabid dog.
My sisters are pale. Appalled. Mouths open, eyes wide and rimmed with tears. I cannot see Mother’s expression because she has turned her face to the floor, but I expect she is simmering with that helpless fury that has consumed her these past weeks.
Kerensky notes our long silence, then asks, “Do you know how difficult it is to kill an elephant?” When no one answers, he proceeds to give us the ghastly details. “There are rifles so large they are, in fact, called elephant guns. The Americans and British specialize in making them. They do love their safaris. The best I could do on short notice, however, was a Fedorov Avtomat. It is an automatic rifle that barely did the job given the thickness of an elephant’s skull. But thankfully it took only one shot. Your beast never felt a thing.”
Father screams, “Stop! It’s bad enough you’ve committed the act. Must you torture them with the details?”
“Sanctimonious words from a hunter such as yourself.” There is an earnestness to Kerensky’s face when he says, “And yes, I must. You and your family live in a world disconnected from all reality. Your children in particular need to understand what is happening on the other side of the palace wall so they will understand the choices I make going forward.”
Tears run down my brother’s face. “Why!” he sobs. “Why did you have to kill him?”
“Because it costs the Russian government eighteen thousand rubles every year just to feed him. Did you know that, boy?”
Alexey wipes snot on the back of his sleeve, then shakes his head.
“And do you know how much the average family earns per year in this country?”
Again my brother shakes his head.
“Approximately four thousand rubles. Your pet is an offense to every family in Russia that eats one meal a day. The people are tired of paying for your luxuries and your frivolities. The sooner you understand that, the better off you’ll be.”
“Where is he?” Alexey demands. “I want to visit his grave.”
“There is no grave,” Kerensky says.
“But what—”
“Would you really like to know?”
“No,” Father interrupts. “Enough.”
Kerensky squats down in front of my brother. He balances on the balls of his feet and rests his forearms on his knees. “All that is left of your elephant are the tusks. I sawed them off myself. At the moment they are hanging on my office wall, but once they’ve cured, I plan to have them carved into a chess set.”
Alexey collapses into a sobbing heap while Kerensky stands to look at each of us in turn. “You might think me a monster,” he says. “But believe me when I say that killing your pet was a mercy. He would have starved to death otherwise. It would have been long and painful and excruciating to watch. You would have heard his screams echoing through the park. And, without my protection, this is exactly the sort of treatment you will receive from the people who want you handed over to them.”
Father snorts. “You’re sending us away because you think we’ll be starved or shot?”
“Or worse.” Kerensky studies my sisters with concern. “I know you find this hard to believe, but I am not your enemy.”
“You’re certainly not a friend,” Mother says.
Kerensky’s mouth settles into a grim line. “I’m not here to make friends.”
Mother clamps her mouth shut and retreats once again into her anger.
“Alexandra,” Kerensky says.
“Yes?” The word is small and tight and ends with a slight hiss.
“I have other news that might be of interest to you.”
“Little beyond this room is of interest to me.”
“It concerns Grigory Rasputin.”
Her eyes narrow. “What of him?”
“On my orders five soldiers of the First Rifles went into Tsarskoe Selo before dawn and removed his body from display.” His face is impassive as he relates the next details. “I had them burn his remains with gasoline and rebury them in the woods.”
Mother swallows a sob and gives Kerensky a single nod. It looks like gratitude.
I cannot get beyond the grisly image, but she clearly considers this a mercy. The body of her friend will no longer be abused or mocked.
“Where will you send us?” Father demands, deftly changing the subject. He disdains all talk of Rasputin. “To Crimea?”
“I’m afraid I cannot divulge that information,” Kerensky says. “You will go where I deem it safe. In the meantime I suggest you begin gathering your possessions. Take only what can be easily transported by tr
ain. Take only what is meaningful to you.”
Then, with a flick of his wrist, we are dismissed. But none of us moves. We sit in Father’s study, in the piles of dirt we’ve tracked in from the garden, staring at him and then at one another in confusion. Alexey crawls into Mother’s lap, his narrow, bird-like shoulders still shaking as he sobs. She pats him as she would a baby and whispers soothing, nonsensical things into his ear. Finally, she gathers her wits enough to speak. “Come, children. To your rooms. It would appear we have packing to do.”
“No,” Kerensky says. He looks at the clock for confirmation. “Back to the garden. You still have work to do.”
* * *
—
It is not uncommon for Dr. Botkin to join us in the garden. Like Father, he is a firm believer in the benefits of physical labor. He is also quite handy with a spade. And wherever Botkin goes, Gleb follows. He finds me the moment we enter the garden. And I might be flattered by this if I didn’t find it insulting that, compared to my sisters, I cannot attract the attentions of a man. Each of them has been proposed to at least four times while tending soldiers in the infirmary. But I am left to evade the sappy gestures of a boy, a puppy who follows me up and down my garden row, constantly asking if he can carry my spade or my seed sack. Offering to fetch me water or jumping up to give me what little shade is produced by the Krazulya pear tree at midday.
I go in search of that sparse green canopy every day at the end of our work session, watching the fruit, waiting for it to ripen. It won’t be ready for another few weeks, but already parts of the glossy green skin are beginning to turn pink. Unlike most pears, the Krazulya is round and has slick skin, giving it the appearance of an apple. The boughs are heavy with fruit but, according to Kerensky, we won’t be here to eat it. The Krazulya pear has a uniquely short harvest season—a single, decadent week—but I look forward to it every year. The flesh of this particular pear is soft and sweet and infused with a certain spiciness that lends itself to jams and pies. If eaten too early the fruit puckers your mouth and gives you a bellyache. If eaten too late it’s mealy and riddled with worms. The Krazulya season comes and goes all at once the second week of August, but we will already be in some other, unknown location when the pears ripen and hang warm and heavy on their branches.
