by Ariel Lawhon
I shake my head. Ivan’s battered face is still fresh in my memory.
“You will die if you don’t.” Slowly, carefully, Tomas draws his hand away.
I can’t see him so I reach for him instead, finding first his chest and then his shoulder with my hand. I cup his cheek in my palm and can feel the soft bristles of a young beard brush against my skin. “What are you talking about?”
“Please. I can’t explain here. You have to trust me. We have to leave. Right now.”
“Tomas. You’re scaring me.”
“Good!”
“No. Stop. This doesn’t make any sense. Why are you here?”
“Ssshhh. You’ll wake the others. I’ll explain. I promise. Just meet me in that spot beneath the stairs. The one right outside the kitchen. Two minutes.”
“I need to get dressed.”
“There’s no time for that!”
“All right.” I sit up, trying to sweep the cobwebs from my mind. The sound of cannons is clearer now that I am awake. “Two minutes.”
Tomas squeezes my hand and slips away without a noise. I don’t even hear the door creak on its hinges. I sit on the edge of my bed counting slowly to one hundred and twenty and then pad barefoot to the door. It’s open. So I slip into the hallway and wait, listening for the usual sounds of Ipatiev House in the night. Restless soldiers upstairs. Rusted pipes. Footsteps. Snoring. But all is eerily quiet. I make my way to that alcove beneath the stairs, fingers lightly brushing the wall. Down the hall. Second right. Up three steps and around a sharp corner. When I reach the stairs Tomas grabs me and pulls me against him, heedless of the consequences.
“You’re all right,” he whispers against my throat. “I thought I was too late.”
I try to resist, but he hugs me tighter, his entire body trembling, and that’s when I realize he’s crying. Tears dampen my neck and pool in the hollow of my throat. I do not know what to do with this boy weeping into my neck, so I let him hold me until the tears subside.
“What’s wrong?” I run my fingers through Tomas’s hair.
“Yakov called eleven soldiers into his office while your family was eating dinner. He said you will all be shot tonight.”
He may as well have said we were all going to sprout feathers and fly away. “I don’t understand.”
“Don’t you get it? Eleven victims. You. Your family. Your servants. One soldier for each captive.”
I am still so tired and disoriented his words make no sense to me. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes. Shake my head.
Another round of cannon fire sounds in the distant hills. “Do you hear that?” Tomas asks.
I nod.
“That’s the White Army. Yakov thinks they are coming to liberate your family.”
“Are they?” Hope, sudden and bright, springs into my voice.
“I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. They’ll never get here in time. They are still five miles away. Yakov is determined to see you and your family dead long before they reach the front gate.”
Slowly my mind catches up with his words. “How do you know this?”
“I have learned to pay attention and to listen very carefully.”
“You overheard them?”
“It wasn’t hard. They were bragging about it afterward.”
I wish I could see his expression. I would like to know how he looks at me. But I can only run my fingers over his face. It is my turn to wipe the tears from his cheeks. He kisses the pads of my fingers when I brush them against his lips. Once again his arms loop around me, but gentle this time, at my waist. My response is swallowed by his kiss.
Tomas has to bend down several inches to press his forehead against mine. He rocks it back and forth, agitated. “You have to come with me. If we can get to the White Army you’ll be safe.”
“Right now? I’m not…I’m not even wearing shoes. My family. I…” The reality of what he’s asking is impossible. “I’m in my nightgown.”
“There is no time. None. Yakov is only waiting for the truck.”
“What truck?”
Tomas moves his hands to my shoulders and squeezes urgently. I think he wants to shake me. To rattle my teeth and make me understand. His words come out strangled. “For the bodies. He intends to remove your bodies before dawn so no one will know what he’s done.”
Panic. Pure, unbridled terror. Fear like I had never known takes hold of me then. I want to take his hand and run. Every instinct in my body urges me to flee. I am ready to go right now, this second—I want to go running with him into the night—and then a thought comes so suddenly I am nauseous. “I can’t leave my family. I have to warn them.” A moan, deep in my throat. “My brother. He’s still so sick.”
Tomas is crying again. “We can’t help them. The two of us can slip away. But eight people? It’s impossible.”
This is too much. I drop my face to my hands. Shake my head. “How will we even get out of here? The house is guarded. So are the grounds.”
“Not tonight. They’re preparing for…Yakov has most of the guards busy elsewhere.” Tomas pulls me close and cradles my head against his chest. “If we go right now we can get away.”
“You can’t be certain of that.”
“I am certain. That’s where I’ve been tonight, finding a way out. The yard leads to the woods and that leads to the river and that leads to freedom.”
“Why are you doing this? You saw what they did to Ivan. They’ll do worse to you if we fail.”
“Because I love you. Don’t you know that already?”
I do. He has shown it a thousand different ways since we were thrown together. I should respond in kind. I want to. But he is asking me to abandon my family. How can I run for safety and leave everyone else behind? He is asking me to walk away without warning them. How can I doom them to such a fate? How can I choose between Tomas and my family? It is like choosing which side of my body to keep, the right or the left.
“How am I supposed to leave them, Tomas? How am I supposed to do that?”
“Let me take you. Let this be my fault. I will carry that decision for you. My entire life if I have to.”
I hate crying. Utterly loathe it. And never more so than in the moments I need to cry the most. My eyes burn with tears and I cannot hold them back. “I can’t.”
I think Tomas might throw me over his shoulder and forcibly carry me from the house, if not for a sudden commotion in the courtyard. Shouting. The gate clattering open. The revving of an engine. And then voices by the front door, low but insistent.
Tomas’s voice drains of all emotion. “The truck is here.”
· 31 ·
Anna
THE BENDLER BRIDGE
1920
The Netherlands Palace, Berlin
February 17, 1920
Frost is on the gate and Anna wraps her fingers around the iron bars, grateful she can still feel the cold, grateful that her hands aren’t yet frozen solid. Her shawl has done little to keep her warm since she left the bus station, and she has long since misplaced her gloves. Perhaps on that ferry crossing the Rhine? She can’t remember. Anna has no mental energy to spare for trivial details such as where she lost her gloves or how she got the tear in her stocking.
“What are you doing?” A man steps from the guardhouse beside her and approaches with the stiff, formal stride of a longtime soldier. His uniform is new but he looks old and phlegmy; the capillaries are broken in a delicate web along the end of his bulbous nose. Irritated, asthmatic puffs of breath trail behind him, and when he reaches her side he swats her hands away from the gate. “You can’t be here.”
“Please,” she says, pulling a rumpled newspaper article from her pocket. “I must speak with Princess Irene.”
If the Guard is curious, he doesn’t let on. “Why?”
“I have n
ews of her family.”
The Guard yanks the newspaper from her hand and scans it. He looks from Anna, to the elaborate gate, then down the gravel drive toward the palace. All the windows on the first floor are lit with a soft electric glow, and, even from this distance, she can see thin curls of smoke drifting from the fireplaces. Anna can count five chimney stacks, but she wouldn’t be surprised to find that there are more at the back of the palace away from view. Everything about the building speaks of warmth and comfort and opulence, and Anna cannot help but lean closer to inhale the faint smell of burning cedar. Again she reaches out for the gate and again the Guard knocks her hand away, this time rapping her knuckles in the process. She winces and shoves her hands into the folds of her shawl.
He turns his full attention to her, taking in the tattered black skirt and stockings. Her linen blouse is stained and torn at the cuffs, and there is a hole in the toe of her right boot. The borrowed shawl is the nicest of her garments, but even that is working-class, heavy and shapeless, knit with coarse wool. Anna is certain he has formed an opinion of her when his scowl turns to a leer.
But she is not proud, and this man doesn’t scare her. “You have to let me in.”
“I have to do no such thing. Now go away before I have you arrested. They don’t let whores in the palace.”
“I’m not—”
The Guard reaches out and grabs the folds of her shawl. He jerks her forward and she swats at his forearms. He has to bend low to growl in her face. “You are a fool if you think a little begging will get you through this gate. Princess Irene will feed me to the pigs if I let in trash like you. Now go away while I still have a mind to let you.”
He sets his hand flat against her collarbone and shoves hard. The force sends Anna stumbling backward and she falls to the gravel driveway. Sharp pieces of stone dig through her skirt and into the skin covering her tailbone. She gasps and cries and then scrambles backward before he can reach out for her again.
“Go,” he says, the command cruel and final.
And what other choice does she have? Anna sits on the ground for a moment longer, her pride and tailbone smarting, until finally, there on the frigid ground, her last, fragile thread of hope disintegrates. She has been running for so long. She has begged and stolen and lied. Trespassed. Crossed borders in the middle of the night and eaten things she cannot identify. Anna has slept in barns and under bridges. Every choice leading her here. To see the woman who lives beyond these walls, the one person, she believes, who can actually help her.
The Guard has already turned his back and retreated to the small rectangular guardhouse by the time Anna picks herself up and brushes the frost from her clothing. He watches her from his little perch, hands folded over a small lantern for warmth, eager to see her leave. She considers the gate for a moment. There was a time when she could have climbed it easily, but even then the twenty-foot drop to the ground on the other side would have likely given her a broken ankle. There’s no point considering it now, so she throws a last, longing glance at the palace, then limps back the way she came. But instead of turning right, toward the bus station, she goes left toward the park. Raw pangs of hunger gnaw at her belly, and her fingertips tingle with cold. As she wanders deeper into the trees she counts her other afflictions: empty pockets, a bruised backside, a toothache. The sun set over an hour ago and Berlin is slowly going to sleep. The only signs of life come from ahead, along the Landwehr Canal, where lovers stroll beneath the gaslights, hands entwined, heads bent toward one another. So Anna continues in that direction because she has no other options, and she watches with a jealous, despairing ache as these couples laugh and nuzzle each other. They all have somewhere to go. They all have someone to go there with.
Both sides of the canal are bordered by neatly manicured footpaths. The smell of frost and pine needles is heavy in the air, and she stumbles along, pushing past the couples, startling them out of amorous embraces. It isn’t until she reaches the bridge that Anna realizes she’s crying—hard, guttural sobs that come from deep inside her. It’s the sort of crying that makes her throat hurt and her nose run. Someone calls out behind her, asking if she needs help, but she ignores him. Anna goes to the middle of the bridge and looks at her shaky reflection in the water below. Pale and gaunt and fragile, it seems to mock her. She barely recognizes herself in the glassy black surface.
How could it come to this?
Anna is small and scared, and she has no stomach for blood. She’s seen enough of that to last a lifetime. Too timid for other methods, she pursues the only option she has left. Anna leans over the rail and tumbles headfirst into the canal below. It is not gentle or elegant. It is a graceless plummet marked by flailing arms and flapping clothes. Anna lands hard, on her back, and the splash is spectacular. It feels as though she has fallen onto a slab of granite. The impact forces the air from her lungs in a rasping whoosh. It is only the ferocious cold and shocking pain that brings her back to her senses. Her heavy, sodden shawl pulls her beneath the surface. Her lungs burn and her eyes fix on the light of a single lantern from the path above. Her boots fill with water. She struggles in vain against the weight of her clothing. She resists pulling in a lungful of murky water. What a stupid thing she has done. What an idiotic, foolish, asinine thing. But it doesn’t matter now because Anna is sinking fast.
· 32 ·
Anastasia
THE CELLAR
1918
Ipatiev House, Ekaterinburg, Russia
July 17, 1:30 a.m.
“I love you too,” I say, kissing Tomas hard. “Please take care of Jimmy.”
I shove Tomas deeper into the shadows and step from the alcove just as the hallway lights come on. Yakov Yurovsky stands ten feet away.
The light is bright and harsh and I throw my hand across my eyes.
“What are you doing out of bed?” he demands.
Words. I can’t find them. Cannot for the life of me summon a thought after what Tomas has just revealed. I gape at him stupidly and then, after a moment, point in the general direction of the bathroom. “Toilet,” I say, but my voice is shaky and high so I swallow and try again. “I needed the toilet.”
I am still in my nightgown, barefoot, and clearly disoriented. Nothing about me looks like a girl preparing to flee. So he says, “Go back to your room.”
What else is there to do? I take one tentative step forward and then another, skirting around him and then rushing back to where my sisters are still sleeping. Jimmy lies sprawled across the foot of my bed right where I left him. A moment later he presses his cold nose into my thigh, welcoming me back. He is so accustomed to the sound and smell of Tomas that he didn’t complain when he entered or when I wandered away after him. I scratch Jimmy’s ears, trying to push aside the panicked cacophony in my mind.
Think. I have to think.
The hallway light remains on. It casts a yellow beam beneath the bedroom door, and I can faintly see the room now. Olga is turned to the wall. Tatiana is curled into the fetal position like a small, frightened child. Maria is sprawled on her back, one arm hanging off the bed, the other draped across her forehead. I want to wake them. To warn them that a monster is coming for us.
Jimmy is raised up on his forelegs, watching me intently, sniffing at the air. Searching for the source of my fear. The front doors bang open and there are more footsteps in the hall. A growl begins to build at the back of his throat, and it blooms into a full-throated bark when a heavy fist bangs on our bedroom door. Two more impatient knocks and then it swings open. Yakov hovers in the door, a dark silhouette, before he steps in and turns on the overhead light.
“Get up. And get dressed. There is trouble in the city and we have to take you to a safer place.” The way he says this is so convincing that I wonder if Tomas is wrong. “Did you hear me?” Yakov asks.
I nod weakly. “Yes.”
“Wake your sisters. Do as I sai
d.”
“What about everyone else?”
“I’m going to tell them now,” he says and pulls the door shut behind him.
My sisters are roused but not fully awake. I have to shake them and repeat myself numerous times before I can get them into a sitting position. They rub their eyes. Yawn. Complain about the hour. Ask questions I can’t answer.
“Where are we going?”
“What does this mean?
“Does Father know?”
I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. It becomes my mantra, repeated every few seconds as I tug on their arms and yank the pillows out from under their heads when they attempt to lie down again.
The only thing I know for sure is that we need to be prepared. So I throw open the enormous, heavy trunk and toss out the frivolous pillows and shawls that hide our jewel-studded undergarments.
“Put these on,” I say. “As many as you can. We can’t take anything else with us.”
We help each other dress. Tightening corsets. Buttoning collars. Fastening belts. We all wear simple black skirts and white blouses. Nothing elaborate, nothing that would differentiate us from any other woman on the street if we are lucky enough to escape. We have to escape. That is the only option. The only acceptable outcome. Tomas is wrong. Tomas is wrong. Tomas has to be wrong. I repeat this to myself over and over as I help button and lace and belt my sisters.
I cannot wear my earrings, I cannot risk letting Semyon know I’ve gotten them back, so I tuck them into the pocket of my blouse praying desperately that I will see Tomas again. The four of us are huddled together when Yakov returns.
“Leave the dog,” he says, “and follow me.”
“Stay,” I say to Jimmy when he leaps off the bed and tries to follow. I get down on my knees and pull that great black head against my neck. I hug him and stroke his ears. I run my hand down his back and he licks a tear from my cheek as my shoulders begin to tremble. “Stay,” I whisper again. “Wait for Tomas. I love you, big dog. You have been a good friend to me. I am so sorry.” I tell my loyal defender good-bye, then shut him inside the bedroom so he can’t follow.
