by Ariel Lawhon
I’ve been dragged to church by Mother all of my life. The haunting sound of a choir, the smooth wood of a pew, and the worn fabric of a prayer bench are as familiar to me as the feel of my own sheets. Communion. Prayer. Liturgy. All of these things a second language I speak fluently. Yet I love none of it the way I love a Christmas Eve service. The candles and the incense, the greenery and hymns.
It is different, somehow, holy.
We file into the church behind the officers and look for empty seats. The sanctuary is almost full, and the moment that gust of cold air sweeps into the room, flickering the candles and ruffling the pages of hymnals, the entire congregation turns to note the interruption.
And they know.
If the plan was to avoid detection, we fail miserably. So we quietly slide into several empty pews near the back and turn our eyes to the hymnals. But, according to custom, we do not sit. This service, along with most others in the Russian Orthodox church, is performed standing.
The whispering begins as a rustle and grows until it nearly drowns out the choir. Leshy and Semyon go rigid before us. From the corner of my eye I can see Tomas brave a worried glance in my direction. We pull into the shadows, eyes downcast, hands gripping our hymnals. We make no eye contact. We acknowledge no one. Eventually the congregants turn their attention back toward the front. But I can see their rigid backs, their chins angled slightly to the side as though they might catch a glimpse of us if they turn their heads just so.
The service is filled with haunting melodies, incense, Scripture readings, candlelight, and reverent liturgy. After the priest says, “Let us complete our prayers to the Lord,” he lifts his face toward the back of the chapel where we stand. Leshy draws in a sharp breath and Semyon curses when the priest begins reciting the mnogoletie—a prayer of long life for the imperial family. With each word his voice rises, echoing off the stone walls and the arched wooden ceiling. The prayer is eloquent and lovely and the most dangerous thing he could possibly utter. Because that priest, that devout, foolish, idiotic man, recites, in painful, excruciating detail, each of our imperial titles as he prays.
Tsar Nicholas the Second, emperor of all Russia.
Alexandra Feodorovna, empress of all Russia.
Grand Duchess Olga Nikolaevna.
Grand Duchess Tatiana Nikolaevna.
Grand Duchess Maria Nikolaevna.
Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna.
Alexey Nikolaevich, tsarevitch of all Russia.
Each word lands like the blow of a hammer in that deathly quiet sanctuary. Each title sounds more preposterous and arrogant than the next. The congregation stares at us brazenly now, half of them with open hostility and the other half with an alarming sort of reverence. The priest himself stands with eyes closed and arms lifted, as though in worship. To us.
It doesn’t take long for Leshy and Semyon to hustle us from the church. I can still hear the last words of the prayer echoing through the room as the doors slam closed behind us.
“I had nothing to do with that,” Father says when Leshy turns on him with a look of rage.
“It doesn’t matter. That fool declared you to be his sovereign before the entire congregation. Home. Now,” Leshy says, turning the collar of his coat up to block the wind. The big, fat snowflakes from earlier have become tiny projectiles that bite our cheeks and sting our noses. “I should have known better than to take you out in public. It will never happen again.”
“It shouldn’t have happened to start with,” Semyon growls. “You’ve made them objects of worship.”
“No,” Leshy says. “I have made them targets.”
“You are being ridiculous,” Father says.
Leshy steps forward, grabs the front of Father’s coat, and shakes him so hard his jaw clenches. “Don’t you understand, you stupid man? You assinine, entitled fool. The Bolshevik cancer creeps closer every day. Just this morning I got a telegram that the workers’ soviet in Tomsk is demanding that your entire family be handed over and put in prison. Not in a palace, not in a comfortable Governor’s House, but in a prison. A rotting, filthy, piss-covered prison. And that should frighten you.” He shakes Father again, harder this time. I take an involuntary step backward at the guttural sound of Leshy’s voice and bump into Tomas. I feel his hand at my waist, steadying me, and then he pulls it away, but not before Gleb—lips pinched together in disapproval—notices the glancing touch. I ease away from Tomas.
“You may hate it here. You may hate me,” Leshy continues. “But the mercy I extend in this frozen outpost is the only thing standing between you and a misery you cannot imagine. Kerensky knew this. And now he’s running for his life.” Breathless and enraged, Leshy finally lets go of Father and steps back. He motions for the guards to lead us toward the Governor’s House, and we march home in the growing snowstorm without speaking a word. Semyon brings up the rear, and when I look at him there is murder in his eyes. I should be afraid. I should scamper away. But mostly I want to cram the toe of my boot directly into that gap between his teeth.
We stomp through the front door half an hour later, cold, miserable, and subdued after wishing Botkin and his children farewell and a Merry Christmas. The guards disperse to the second floor, and my family retreats to Father’s study.
“Is it true? What Leshy said?” I ask.
I watch as Father builds a fire in the hearth and Olga lights the candles on the Christmas tree that Tomas and Ivan cut in the hills behind the house last week. I wait for his answer.
Finally he says, “Yes, the Bolsheviks have wrested power from Alexander Kerensky, but we are secure in this distant exile. At least until the spring thaw. Tobolsk is separated from the rest of the world for half the year. A river made of ice renders travel impossible. And we will find a way out of here long before then.” Father kisses the top of my head. “It is late. Let us have dinner and then go to bed.”
But I am unwilling to let Christmas slip away just yet.
I pull Alexey aside. He looks at me with those pleading, wide blue eyes—his face pale—and I know he is desperate for some measure of hope and cheer as well.
I lean closer and make him an offer no young boy can refuse. “How would you like to play with fire?” I ask.
The upstairs Christmas tree, when lit, is spectacular. Tomas and Ivan dragged the fat-bottomed balsamic firs into the house a week ago. We set one in Father’s study and the other upstairs in the soldiers’ quarters. They smell of cloves and oranges and pungent sap and are decorated with a measly assortment of ribbons, pinecones, candles, and beads. They are beautiful.
One by one our guards gather upstairs and their expressions turn from gloom to wonder. Scowls became smiles. Hunched shoulders relax and furrowed brows smooth into joy. I can see memories dancing in their eyes. Bits and pieces of their own beloved Christmases past, reflected in the candlelight. I see Tomas on the other side of the tree staring at me and I cannot help but smile. The only other person who looks at me like that is Gleb Botkin, and I suddenly feel guilty for reasons I can’t explain. He would be furious to see me smile at Tomas like this.
“Merry Christmas!” Alexey shouts, and the guards cheer. Tomas steps around the tree and hoists my brother onto his shoulders. He runs in circles around the tree, singing “O Tannenbaum” loudly and off-key but with great enthusiasm.
And then my parents and sisters come upstairs, their arms full of packages filled with bookmarks, knitted caps, stockings, scarves— our small handmade gifts for these men. All the while the dogs run in circles around us, barking happily and licking the hands of anyone who stoops to pet them.
My gift to Tomas is a card with a hand-painted rooster. He takes it and laughs. I think that if we weren’t surrounded by so many others, he might hug me as well. Perhaps he might do something more.
“Thank you,” Tomas whispers, and I go completely still as his thumb brushes the back
of my hand.
“What is this?” Semyon’s hard, angry voice demands from the doorway behind us. Tomas and I spring apart like we’ve been shocked.
Semyon’s eyes are on the tree, however, and the bits of wrapping paper strewn across the floor.
“It is Christmas,” Father says.
“Get out. All of you. Prisoners are not allowed on the second floor.”
SEVEN WEEKS LATER
Tobolsk, Russia
February 14, 1918
Winter meets us finally, with a savage drop in temperature that confirms everything we’ve heard about this distant, frozen tundra. This new cold is nothing less than a crucifixion of the soul, and the snow that began on Christmas Eve still remains at Valentine’s Day, covered by two additional feet. Father, restless and angry, has shoveled paths through the yard so we can reach the chicken coop and the refuse pit. He has spent countless hours tossing huge shovelfuls of snow into the middle of the yard so he can maintain his daily walks. Whether he intended it or not, that pile has grown into a small mountain that Alexey now claims as his own. It doesn’t take my brother long to realize that if he climbs to the top and sits on top of a trash lid he can slide to the bottom with frightening speed.
And so it is that on February 14, 1918, the day the Russian calendar changes to the Gregorian calendar, I sit with Alexey on the snow pile and watch a company of Red Guards march across the frozen river and approach the house. They advance upon us like a horde of spiders, long-limbed and purposeful. I find myself struggling to breathe, as though there’s a hand at my throat. When I turn to Alexey he too is stricken with terror, his mouth open, his eyes wide. We scramble down the snow heap at once and bolt toward the house, without exchanging a word.
Father bursts through the kitchen door just as we enter. “To the study,” he demands, “all of you.” And then he tells us in rushed, breathless sentences what Alexey and I have already seen. We hear shouting and stomping at the front door. We hear boots in the hall.
“But how?” I ask. “You said the boats wouldn’t be able to pass for months. You said we were safe.”
“I was wrong,” he says, pained. “They must have come by wagon and walked across.”
“What happens now?”
“We stay close together at all times. And trust none of them.”
And then the door to Father’s study swings open.
The man who stands there looks as though he has been swallowed by his own clothing. He is all wire and tendon, cinched in the middle by a thick leather belt. His skin is olive, his hair is black, his eyes are small, dark, and deep-set. When he steps into the room I think he looks like a vulture, like he could happily pick us to shreds. What I do not expect is his voice, a deep boom that fills the air and demands immediate attention.
“My name is Yakov Yurovsky,” he says. “And I have come to take command of this garrison.” He looks around the small study, at the bookshelves and rug, at the chairs and writing desk—all small comforts we’ve brought with us from Tsarskoe Selo. He holds his hands out to the cheerfully popping fire, standing there for several minutes, letting his fingers warm until he finally says, “It is time you were brought to justice.”
· 17 ·
Anna
THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL
1928
Kenwood Estate, Oyster Bay, New York
July 1928
It takes six months for Anna to convince Xenia Leeds that she is Grand Duchess Anastasia Romanov.
Her host is kind but naturally suspicious. Instead of pressing Anna with questions, Xenia waits patiently for any signs of fraud. She cares little for the grandiose stories her other guests ask Anna to tell. Sergei Rachmaninoff, the famous composer, wants to hear escapades of the Russian court and exploits of the tsar. He has come to visit Anna several times during her stay, is always magnanimous, showing deference to the point of worship. Xenia tolerates this behavior, but from a distance and with misgiving. She is always watching. Always waiting. The tests she gives Anna are more subtle and harder to pass. Xenia observes how she folds her napkin in her lap, mounts a horse, crosses her ankles, and cuts her filet. Xenia listens to the inflection of her voice when she says certain words, notes Anna’s diction and accent. The way she carries herself, her posture and gait when walking through a room, the way she holds a teacup. How a full curtsy means one thing and a partial curtsy means something else entirely. Unlike the other skeptics Anna has met through the years, Xenia Leeds is intimately acquainted with the small manners of the Russian court—she is, after all, a Romanov cousin and princess in her own right. Anna feels those dark, noble eyes on her constantly, searching for the truth. Some days Anna cannot bear the weight of them, and she retreats to her suite, leaving Xenia to her husband, William, and young daughter, Nancy, in their opulent surroundings. William is laughably American in his looks: sandy hair, bright blue eyes, broad white smile, and, to add insult to injury, is tall, tan, well built, and so handsome as to be distracting. He looks like he might have come directly from California or perhaps from the loins of Zeus.
Anna is only a breath past thirty, but she feels ancient, exhausted beneath the weight of the Leedses’ scrutiny, strained from trying to live up to their expectations.
“Why don’t you speak Russian?” Xenia asks one afternoon in early July. She has entered Anna’s suite wearing her tennis whites, and watches curiously as Anna feeds two green parrots from the end of her fork. Their little hooked beaks pick delicately at pieces of cut apple, and they squawk happily, perched on her forearm.
“I do speak Russian. You heard me, just now, as you stood in the door.”
Xenia blushes. “Forgive me. I wasn’t trying to snoop. I was curious, that’s all. You don’t speak it often. Just a few words and only to the birds. Whispers really.”
Anna still has her head bent toward the parrots. “They don’t speak at all, so I hardly think a full soliloquy necessary.”
“Touché,” Xenia says, but the corners of her pretty mouth draw in tighter. She isn’t ready to give up. Anna’s refusal to speak her native language is one of the main arguments flaunted by her detractors. “But you won’t converse in it. Or at least not with any of us. Why?”
Anna is tired of debating this issue with Xenia. “Russian was the last language I heard spoken in that house,” she says, eager to bring the questioning to an end. Even with her face turned she can see Xenia flinch.
“Ekaterinburg?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.” Xenia is abashed. “I wasn’t thinking…I mean that never occurred to me.”
Anna carefully deposits the birds back in their cage and forgives her host with a smile. “People are curious. It’s understandable.”
Xenia stares over Anna’s shoulder, out the window, to the tennis courts beyond. Her cool facade of disinterest is complete except for one small detail. She is wringing her hands. “Will you be staying in your rooms today?” she asks. “Or would you like to join me for a round of tennis?”
They have played several times since her arrival in February, but Anna lacks Xenia’s height and long years of practice. Losing occasionally is fine. Losing constantly is demoralizing. “No thank you,” she says. “I might go for a walk along the beach later.”
A tiny flash of relief crosses Xenia’s face, and therefore a thread of suspicion begins to hum at the back of Anna’s mind, like an exposed wire.
“Come find me when you’re ready,” Xenia says. “It’s been weeks since I walked the harbor.”
“I would very much enjoy the company,” Anna lies, then watches her host leave in much the way a cat would watch the parrots in her cage.
Xenia is the most competitive woman she has ever known. A ruthless tennis player. A veritable card shark. A chess prodigy. A formidable equestrian—she competes in local show-jumping competitions. She is a strong swimmer. A princess of European birth,
thus making her the highest-ranking member of her social circle. Wife to an aristocrat. Mother of a beautiful daughter. Owner of the largest estate in Oyster Bay. Driver of new cars. Wearer of designer clothes. Friend to few. Admired by all. Moneyed. Titled. Winner at everything she sets her mind to and there is no reason why Xenia would relinquish an easy victory on the courts today, or any day, unless she doesn’t actually want Anna to play.
“Interesting,” Anna mutters as she crosses the room to look at the tennis courts. They are currently empty, but Anna opens the window and settles into a large chair beside it to wait. She thumbs through her mail, deciding which letters to answer and which to toss—there are always so many. She has three from Gleb, one with the words “Urgent! Please respond!” scrawled on the back of the envelope.
“Always so dramatic,” she mutters, slicing it open with her paper knife.
Since his dismissal from Kenwood in February, Gleb has been on a mission to learn everything he can about the inheritance mentioned by the Romanov family in their statement to The New York Times. It was the first time they confirmed that the tsar’s rumored fortune actually exists. Such an inheritance would change Anna’s life entirely. No more relying on friends and strangers and relatives. No more being passed around like a charity case. From the moment it came to his attention, Gleb has set his sights on recovering this fortune for her as if it was her salvation. And perhaps it is. Anna looks around the opulent suite where she lives by the good grace of Xenia Leeds—the damask curtains, the cherry wood floors, the gilded mirrors, Persian rugs, four-poster bed—and daydreams about what it would feel like to have a home of her own.
Dearest Anastasia, Gleb begins his letter, I have learned for a fact that the late emperor did have considerable sums of money in the Bank of England…
Her breath catches in her throat and she begins to read faster, her eyes landing on one stunning sentence and then another.
