by Ariel Lawhon
With June comes the heat and, since Semyon will not let us open the windows, oppression soon follows. We make fans out of ruined books. I chose War and Peace because, masterpiece though it is, I’ve never gotten through it without skimming entire sections. I console myself that I am finally able to appreciate Tolstoy’s penchant for philosophy. How can I not? It is waved in front of my face for hours every day.
“We can only know that we know nothing. And that is the highest degree of human wisdom.” Those words are burned upon my gray matter. I dream of them, pouring from the heavily mustachioed mouth of Pierre Gilliard. Mr. Philosophy himself.
“Nothing is so necessary for a young man as the society of clever women.” Tomas whispers these words to me in my dreams, and I curl into them, begging him to say them over and over.
“If everyone fought for their own convictions there would be no war.” Father.
“We are asleep until we fall in love!” Maria, cooing this into Ivan’s ear as he dangles upside down from a tree while eating one of my pears. This part, I admit, is odd, but dreams are not meant to be rational.
“Everything depends on upbringing.” Mother, sternly shaking her finger at me as I pick willow sap from my hair.
“One must be cunning and wicked in this world.” Semyon, congratulating himself as he straightens the front of his trousers. Even in my dreams I am nauseous and enraged.
On and on these dreams go, tumbling over one another, voices and messages mingling together until I wake one morning, shaken, my hairline damp and my breath ragged. It is that early, nebulous hour before dawn when the sky can’t make up its mind what color it wants to be and you don’t know whether it is today, tomorrow, or perhaps yesterday.
As the last vestiges of sleep drain away, I roll over, looking for my sisters—a new, alarming habit I’ve developed, a head count of sorts—but find only two. Maria is gone, and I am gripped by a flash of panic. I dress quickly and shut the door quietly behind me, hoping that I haven’t woken Olga and Tatiana. They sleep uneasily these days, tossing and turning, crying out in the darkness, and I don’t want to rob them of precious slumber.
I find Maria in an alcove beneath the stairs wrapped in the arms of Ivan Skorokhodov. I’ve never seen such kissing. Certainly not from my parents nor in the paintings we’ve studied. This is something else. Primal and hungry. Frantic. Ivan has one hand in her hair and the other on her bodice, his thumb caressing the rounded underside of her breast. I stare at the motion he makes with that one finger, circular and tender, and it takes a moment to realize that Maria is still in her nightgown. Only a thin layer of fabric separates her skin from his hand.
I gasp and they pull apart as though they’ve been touched with a branding iron. Ivan takes one look at me and flees. Maria on the other hand cannot decide on an emotion.
Anger, fear, embarrassment, stubbornness, euphoria. All of these things flash across her face before she says, “Please don’t tell Mother and Father. They’ll be furious.”
I want to threaten her, to say that I will tell our parents everything, but it would be a lie. “You’re going to get caught.”
“Not if you don’t tell.”
“It will happen eventually,” I say. “And what then? Aren’t things bad enough for us already?”
“He loves me.” Maria’s voice turns tremulous and weepy. “He’s the only good thing I have right now. And he’s going to help us get out of here. I need him. We need him.”
“Don’t be a fool. That boy can’t help us.”
“He’s not a boy, and you don’t know that.”
“Go back to bed,” I tell her, “before someone finds you here.”
Maria pushes out her jaw, stubbornness winning the battle of emotions. “You’ve already found me.”
“And you should be thankful that it was me and not Semyon.”
“So you won’t tell?”
It is stupid not to. Maria needs to have some sense shaken into her. But what does it matter anyway? Why rob her of the one thing that gives her hope? I would want her to keep the secret for me if the situation were reversed. If Tomas…“No. I suppose not,” I say, banishing the thought altogether. “But this is the second time I’ve found the two of you together. You’re being sloppy.”
“Thank you,” she whispers and plants a kiss on my cheek before tiptoeing back to our bedroom.
TWO WEEKS LATER
Ekaterinburg, Russia
June 18
My seventeenth birthday comes and goes without celebration. Cook bakes a pastry and my family toasts me at dinner, but it is nothing like the vacations and parties we used to enjoy. I wasn’t expecting much. Yet I am still sad.
I lay awake feeling sorry for myself long after my sisters begin to snore. I listen to the sounds of this strange new house, the creaks and groanings. The footsteps upstairs as the soldiers walk back and forth. Water in the pipes. The occasional burst of laughter in the yard. The protest of the stairs as someone steps on the loose board halfway up. The gentle, feminine breathing of my sisters, now deep in the recesses of sleep.
I press my face into my pillow and chide myself for wanting more than I can have and missing what I cannot get back. I’ve worked myself into a good, frothing cry when the door handle to our room rattles gently and then turns. The lights are off across the house, so when the door creaks open all I see is more darkness. I reach instinctively for the boot beside my bed and remember that it is empty. The paper knife is gone. I am defenseless. Jimmy stirs at my feet. The sound draws the intruder’s attention and those careful, quiet steps turn toward me.
The scream is building in my chest, furious and unhinged, when I hear my name.
“Anastasia?” A whisper. And then, even quieter, “Hush, Jimmy.”
I let my breath out in a huff and sit up slowly. Jimmy thumps his tail against my feet. “Tomas?”
“Where are you? I can’t see anything in here.”
“Over here.” He shuffles slowly in my direction and stops when his shins hit the edge of my bed.
“What are you doing?”
“I came to give you your birthday present.” He sits down beside me and his thigh is warm against my own.
I swallow, fearing my voice will waver. “How did you know?”
“I heard them toasting you at dinner. But I would have come to find you anyway.”
“Why?”
“To return these.” He reaches for my hand and presses something small and hard into them. “Your earrings.”
“How—”
“Semyon gambled them away the night he took them from you. We all play cards. It passes the time. But he has no skill for the game, and the man who won them can’t hold his liquor.” He pauses and takes a deep breath, then curls his hand around mine. He keeps it there as he explains, “So I made sure he had plenty of vodka and when he passed out I took them from his pocket.”
The words come out strangled and pathetic as I start to cry again. “Thank you.”
“Oh, hey,” Tomas says, releasing my hand and then gripping my face gently in both of his. “There’s no need for that.”
He runs his thumbs over my cheeks, pushing the tears aside. I don’t know which of us leans in but it doesn’t matter because we find each other. First the tips of our noses—which brings a nervous giggle—and then our lips—which brings total silence.
And awe.
And heat.
And amazement.
And suddenly I understand what would drive my sister out of bed in the early hours of the morning to kiss a man beneath the stairs. Because I would do this with Tomas anywhere, at any time of day.
His lips are soft and gentle and he kisses me until he has to pull away for breath. “Happy birthday,” he whispers.
“Do you know,” I say, opening my hand so the studs lie in my palm, “that this is the second year in a
row that I’ve gotten these earrings for my birthday?”
Tomas rests his cheek against mine and his answer is a gentle whisper in my ear. “I wouldn’t go around wearing them. It’s best if everyone thinks they were lost or stolen.”
I lean away and drop the studs into my boot. “I promise I’ll keep them safe.”
Tomas slides his thumb across my lips but he does not kiss me again. Because kisses are dangerous and we have been foolish enough for one night.
· 27 ·
Anna
MISS UNKNOWN
1920
Dalldorf Asylum, Berlin
June 1920
Anna has not seen the Clerk since being admitted to the asylum, but he is waiting for her when she and the Duck enter his office. He has brought two of the larger orderlies with him and they stand quietly, hands folded at their waists, on either side of the file cabinet. They watch cautiously as she enters, then stops abruptly just inside the door.
“What is this about?” Anna asks. “I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve done nothing at all, actually. They barely let me out of my room.”
“Dr. Reiche sent for the police. It’s time we learn your name,” the Clerk says. He sits behind the desk and runs a hand across the top of Anna’s closed file.
The police don’t know it either, you fool. Anna doesn’t speak the words aloud but wishes she could.
The doctor comes in a few minutes later, followed by the Sergeant who arrested Anna in February. If anything he looks more incensed than he did at their first meeting. “I see she hasn’t changed much,” he says.
Anna decides to address him directly. “I don’t get out much. There’s little chance to get sun on my face, if that’s what you mean.”
“I mean,” he says, placing two boxes— one large and one small— on the Clerk’s desk, “that you still look defiant and ungrateful.”
“You seem to have the misguided notion that the natural response to imprisonment is gratitude.”
“And you continue in your misguided notion that I care how you feel.” He opens the smaller of the two boxes and takes out a rectangular inkpad and notebook. “I am here because the good doctor wants answers once and for all about your identity. I assured him that the moment you become too great a burden, I’d be happy to take you off his hands and place you in custody. You are lucky to have found such sympathetic doctors.” The Sergeant looks her up and down slowly, intentionally, as though suspicious that she has offered carnal incentive to be kept from arrest. “Let’s begin with your fingerprints, shall we?”
Anna doesn’t move, and when the Duck sets a hand on her elbow to usher her forward, she jerks it away. “No.”
The Sergeant doesn’t bother to argue or cajole. He simply waves a hand at the orderlies and says, “Take her arms.”
And then Anna is dragged to the desk, elbows locked and arms extended. The Sergeant is quick and adept. He folds out her clenched fingers one at a time to press them against the ink and then the paper. Anna remains stiff and uncooperative through this ordeal, but she doesn’t struggle until she sees him begin to unload a camera from the large wooden box on the table.
“No photos! I don’t want my photo taken. You can’t. I do not give my consent.”
“I can. I will. And your consent is not required. Once this photo has been developed, it will be sent to police stations and newspapers in Stuttgart, Brunswick, Hamburg, Munich, and Dresden. I’m going to make sure your face is published in every newspaper in every corner of the Weimar Republic. We’ll see if we don’t learn your name then, won’t we?”
Anna can feel all the little threads that tether her together begin to grow taut and fray at the ends. She can feel the rebellion boil and begin to spill over into rage. What right does he have to violate her privacy like this? She has hurt no one. She has done nothing but keep her own council and guard her secrets closely. Her only crime was trying to end her life in a broken, desperate moment. Had she succeeded, no one would have even cared. They would have buried her in a cemetery for indigents outside the city without a tombstone or marker. Yet as punishment for surviving, her secrets will spill out, one after another, like buttons from a jar.
When the orderlies lift her from the desk and press her back against the wall, Anna wishes for an episode to come crashing in. She would love to lose control and thrash herself into oblivion. There’s no way he could get a photo then. But her mind is oddly, infuriatingly clear. She is angry but not afraid. There is no darkness, only searing, righteous indignation, so the best she can do is scrunch up her face and twist her head to the side, to obscure her face with her hair. But the officer is more cunning than she gives him credit for. The flashbulb goes off with a blinding snap and Anna knows that whatever picture he’s taken will do him no good with her face lowered and partly in shadow. But when she lifts her face to him triumphantly, he snaps another photo, this one clear, her expression almost joyful.
“That will do,” the officer says. “I have what I need.”
THREE MONTHS EARLIER
Dalldorf Asylum, Berlin
March 30, 1920
Later Dr. Arschloch describes what happened to her in the exam room as an episode. Whatever he may call it, Anna thinks of it only as darkness and nightmare and memory. She thinks of it as tangible despair. It feels like cotton in her lungs and snakes on her skin. When she wakes again fully, she is alone, strapped to a bed by her wrists and ankles, in a large, dim room. There are windows high on the wall but they are only eight inches tall and barred on the outside. It takes her a moment to remember who she is and even longer to remember where she is, but she comforts herself with the fact that until today, she hasn’t had one of these episodes in three months. This is progress. They came daily at first. And she’s never known what to call them until now.
Anna can lift her head only a few inches, but she sees that the room is filled with empty beds, each of them covered with worn quilts in different colors and patterns. She counts seven from where she lies but guesses there are more out of sight. When she turns her head to look, she sees that she isn’t alone after all. A young woman stands to her left, staring at her.
Anna flinches. “Who are you?”
The girl blinks at her, curious.
“Why are you here?”
“I’m so sorry,” she stutters in a soft, lilting voice. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
The girl is older than Anna but not by much, and appears to be unbearably nervous. She sits on the bed, then stands again. Smooths her skirt. Wrings her hands.
Anna says nothing, She simply watches, but the silence seems to rattle this strange young woman even more. She begins to chatter like a squirrel.
“I am Clara. I live here.” She sits down on the bed beside Anna’s. Pats the mattress. “Right here. I live right here.” She is pretty in the way that dolls are pretty, with pale skin, a small red mouth, and eyes so large they’re almost disturbing. “Welcome. I mean…Scheiße…I’m sorry you’re here. No one wants to be here. But they put you in the best place. It’s quiet in this ward. For the most part. The others are awful. Those poor women are crazy. The ones here just have a nervous disposition. Like me. I’m nervous. Do I make you nervous? I’m really sorry if I do. Dr. Reiche says I make people nervous. You’re lucky to be in this ward.”
Anna tries to sit up but can’t. Her heart begins to tick a little faster. “Will you unbind these restraints? I’d like to sit up.”
“Oh!” Clara presses a hand to her mouth. “They don’t know you’re awake! I’ll go tell them.”
“No! No.” She clears her throat. It’s an effort not to shriek. She can’t move. She feels trapped. “Don’t bring them back. Just unbuckle my wrists.” Clara is, in fact, making her nervous. Anna doesn’t want anyone else to come and prod her again with questions or needles. She wants to be left alone, to plan her escape. Anna takes a shaky breath
and lifts her hands, palms up, as far as she can from where they lie at her side. “Help me. Please?”
Guileless. Absolutely guileless. Clara probably wouldn’t survive five minutes outside this institution. She smiles at Anna as though they have been friends for years.
“Of course.” Her fingers hover just above the restraint binding Anna’s wrist. Clara’s large, gray eyes are bright with interest. “You look very familiar,” she says.
ONE DAY EARLIER
Dalldorf Asylum, Berlin
March 29, 1920
Anna refuses to give her name when asked by the admittance clerk at Dalldorf Asylum. He sits behind a metal desk that is bolted to the floor, as is his chair and the file cabinet behind him. The Clerk is not amused with Anna, despite the fact that he has been warned—Dr. Winicke told him not two minutes ago that she consistently balks at this—but he still takes it as a personal offense.
“I cannot admit you without a name.” He taps the folder in front of him with his pen, but Anna only crosses her arms and presses her lips together. There is a single painting on the wall behind him—a murky green abstract that matches his eyes—and she looks at it instead of at him. The painting is supposed to be a landscape but it’s mottled and juvenile. She wonders if he painted it himself. He seems like the sort of man who would celebrate feeble attempts. The Clerk turns to Dr. Winicke, who is seated beside her. “I can’t admit her without a name.”
