by Ariel Lawhon
You’re angry now. I can see it there, written on your face. Good. Now is when you can truly understand what I’ve been getting at all this time. You have proven my point. I might have told the lie, but you perpetuated it with your irrational hope and your willing suspension of disbelief. Don’t you see? You are angry with me—not because I was desperate and broken and wanted more from my life, but because it was just so easy leading you to water.
You wanted to believe that I was Anastasia.
Author’s Note
A word of caution to the overeager reader:
In high school I went through what I like to call my “Stephen King phase,” meaning that I read everything he’d written over the span of my sophomore and junior years. I loved his books (still do), but I had a certain order in which I read them. I began with the Author’s Note. There are few things more enjoyable to me than a good Author’s Note, and King’s are spectacular. Which brings me to my point. If you also like to flip to the end and read these missives first, I must ask you to make an exception here. Spoilers abound below, and you will be displeased to get your answers before you have asked the questions. In this instance you would be well advised not to peak behind the curtain. Turn back now. You will thank me in the end.
That said, I never meant to write this book. I am not that girl who has been fascinated with Anastasia Romanov since childhood. Princesses were never my thing. I was turned off by them, entirely, upon reading “The Princess and the Pea” in kindergarten. Any girl who complains about a lump in her mattress would not be my first pick for a sleepover. And what else, really, is a novel but a 350-page sleepover? Every book I’ve ever loved has gone to bed with me at some point in the reading process. Decades later, my aversion to royalty remains intact. For the most part, I have little interest in reading about the aristocracy or the privileged rich. I grew up with dirt floors, kerosene lanterns, and no indoor plumbing. I bathed in rainwater heated on a woodstove. But I’m grown now and I’ve made a different life for myself. I live in a normal house in a normal neighborhood, and my children roll their eyes when I tell them I had to shovel snow in the winter just to reach the outhouse. They are not impressed. My husband, however, has seen where I come from, and he understands why my sympathies still lie with the lost, the downtrodden, and the disadvantaged. He would be the first to explain why I am drawn more toward Anna Anderson than to the young grand duchess. And that’s why I wrote this novel in the end. Because there are two sides to this story: one shimmering with privilege and affluence and nobility, the other blunted by sorrow and privation and neglect. What we forget as a culture is that both stories are worthy of our attention.
But I digress. I had another novel in mind when the idea for this book crashed into my life. It was another moment in history. A different mystery in a different part of the world, and I plan to get back to that story at some point. Hopefully soon. But this one showed up uninvited and pre-empted all of my plans. I’m still a bit peeved about it, to be honest. I’ve never liked being told what to do, and this novel did exactly that.
Write me, it demanded.
Nope, I replied, not gonna do it.
It dug in its heels.
I cussed vociferously (a thing I excel at though I try not to do so in public).
It was unyielding.
So I went to my literary agent, the wise and lovely Elisabeth Weed, for backup. I don’t have time for this, I said. You don’t have time for this, I said. Tell me to get back to work on the other thing that we all agreed that I would write next.
We need to talk to your editor, she said.
It was over at that point, but I still thrashed around a bit for good measure. A token protest. I knew. I knew this would be my next novel the moment I read about the German authorities pulling Anna Anderson from that canal in Berlin. She brought me to this story because she was a nobody. Fräulein Unbekannt. Miss Unknown. And, God help me, I have a soft spot for nobodies. Little did I know at the time how much trouble she would be and how her name would become my own personal curse word (I invented several in her honor), and how I would wish, a thousand times over, that I’d chosen to write about the history of barbed wire instead. Anything but this tangled, sentient, malevolent novel. Because of her I spent the better part of a year up to my armpits in Bolsheviks—not a thing any decent woman would sign up for.
Anna Anderson has been called “a cunning psychopath,” a “vulgar adventuress,” and a “first-rate actress.” In other words, she is perfect fodder for a novel. She has been assigned the role of villain for decades. But I like to think she is misunderstood. I believe there was so much more to her life and her motives than her detractors care to admit. Her supporters are equally blinded by their own opinions, however, and it was nearly impossible to find a resource that did not blatantly try to tell me what to think about her from the outset. So my goal with this book was to let you make up your own mind. I wanted you to see the evidence both sides had to offer, and I wanted you to be unsure all the way through, because that is how Anna’s contemporaries felt. They did not have the benefit of history or DNA or proof. They only had what sat before them: a scarred, maligned woman with a striking resemblance to Anastasia Romanov.
It will come as no surprise to anyone even vaguely familiar with Romanov history that I had to take liberties with this story. I did so primarily because the historical record contains a cast of hundreds, and that is simply untenable for a novel of any sort, much less one that is already complex and nonlinear. I’ve no time to list all the changes I made, or the reasons for them, but here are a handful, all of them necessary for the sake of clarity and narrative drive. I combined the two Romanov tutors—Charles Sydney Gibbes and Pierre Gilliard—into one man and let him go by the name of Gilliard. I combined the figures of Yakov Sverdlov (the man who gave orders to assassinate the Romanov family), Vasily Yakolev (the man who took control of the Romanov family in Tobolsk), and Yakov Yurovsky (the man who ultimately carried out the orders to slaughter them in Ekaterinburg) into one man—Yakov Yurovsky—simply because I had no easy way of differentiating between so many Yakovs, and only room for one besides. This compilation is meant to be a living symbol of the Romanov demise. I gave Evgeny Koblinsky the nickname “Leshy” so his character would not get muddled with that of Alexander Kerensky. Koblinsky. Kerensky. I find these Russian names all sound the same. It’s damnably confusing to me so I thought to spare the reader as best I could. The man I call Semyon never existed in real life, though many others like him did. He was simply a means of bridging the three different men who held the family captive during the novel. I am afraid that Anastasia’s dog—the sweet, loyal, protective Jimmy—did not survive that night in Ekaterinburg. There are differing accounts of what happened to him, but they all end with his passing. I have a big, black dog myself, and I very badly wanted him to live. So I allowed it to happen in print. It’s a small deviation from the truth, and I am not sorry for it. You will, however, be delighted to know that Alexey’s dog, Joy, did make it out of Ipatiev House alive. She went on to live for many years.
A few biographies I turned to again and again while writing I Was Anastasia were The Romanov Sisters by Helen Rappaport; The Romanovs by Simon Sebag Montefiore; The Riddle of Anna Anderson by Peter Kurth; The Last Days of the Romanovs by Helen Rappaport; The Resurrection of the Romanovs by Greg King and Penny Wilson; The Jewels of the Romanovs by Stefano Papi; Anastasia: The Lost Princess by James Blair Lovell; and The Romanovs: The Final Chapter by Robert K. Massie.
Many of the events and conversations portrayed in this book actually happened, and some of the details used therein were drawn from the books listed above. Among many, many things I learned from them is how the Romanovs lived under house arrest, what jewels they sewed into their clothes—“every corset, coat, camisole, belt, and hat,” as Montefiore describes in The Romanovs; how they interacted with servants, how they squandered one of the greatest dynasties on earth, t
he devastating reality of Alexey’s hemophilia, how the family became friends with some of their captors, and, most regrettably, what happened on the train to Ekaterinburg and also in that cellar on the last night of their lives. I learned about the weather in Ekaterinburg and the garden at Alexander Palace. I learned about Anna Anderson’s wedding and her visits with Maria Rasputin. At times, when appropriate, I used actual bits of dialogue drawn from these biographies, usually as recorded in letters. This was particularly true with the Anna Anderson biographies. Her friends and supporters kept meticulous records and were more than willing to speak to the press. Sometimes I included newspaper clippings, excerpts from letters, or court verdicts. Sometimes I drew details from the correspondence of the Romanov servants and used it to add color and authenticity to the narrative. One such example is a line in chapter 16 where Anastasia says their days “took on a pattern of frost, thaw, sunshine, and darkness.” This is something Anna Demidova (the character I call Dova—because another Anna would have been too confusing) wrote in a letter to a friend in November of 1917. I took the liberty of using it and attributing it to Anastasia. I wanted to present their situation as authentically as possible. Anastasia’s nickname. The pets’ names. The small rivalries within the family. It’s all accurate and drawn from these resources.
The Romanovs themselves were all prolific letter writers. Their lives, clothes, personalities, habits, health issues, and opinions are all well documented. However, I used only that which suited my story, and any proper historian will note that I’ve left out far more than I’ve included. I was interested only in the last eighteen months of their lives as seen through the eyes of one teenage girl who had lived a privileged, sheltered life. A narrow focus to be sure. But necessary to get to the heart of this particular story. Any mischaracterizations, mistakes, or omissions are my fault entirely. I am an enthusiast, not an expert. And I am sorry for all the things I’ve no doubt gotten wrong. Writing about the Romanovs is a bit like playing with a bag of feral cats.
It is worth noting that I read all the Anna Anderson biographies backward, from last chapter to first, so I would remain a little off balance while writing the book. It is, admittedly, a strange way to research a novel, but in this case it helped me keep the mental framework needed to maintain the structure of this book. A structure that—for the record—felt a bit like juggling chainsaws. Only the chainsaws are on fire and you’re blindfolded.
And speaking of the structure: thank you for sticking with me. I know it’s all very Memento-esque (a movie I happen to love), but it is a risky thing to render on paper. I enjoy nonlinear timelines, and I knew the only way to bring this novel to a proper close was to tell Anna’s half backward. I knew from the beginning that she was not Anastasia—the DNA research is crystal clear in that regard—but I wanted her to be. Wanted it so badly, in fact, that I spent several weeks orchestrating a number of cockamamie ways to have Anastasia survive. And then, finally, I realized that was the point of the entire novel. I wanted her to be Anastasia. Wanted it to the point where I was willing to believe almost anything.
Several things led to the success of Anna Anderson’s claims. She lived and died in a different time. There was no Internet. There were no genetic testing nor facial recognition programs. There was no way to definitively prove or disprove her claims. Anna Anderson died on February 12, 1984, of pneumonia. The mass grave holding the remains of the Romanov family was not discovered until 1991. However, even then, two bodies were missing: Alexey and one of the daughters. There is some debate as to whether Anastasia or Maria was the missing daughter. Regardless, this discovery once again made the news and convinced thousands that Anastasia did in fact escape the carnage in Ekaterinburg. As a result, Anna’s claims took on greater credence. It did not matter that hair and tissue samples retrieved from Anna Anderson during a surgery prior to her death did not match the DNA of the remains found in that grave. Genetic testing did confirm, however, that those remains match that of surviving Romanov relations. The issue was laid to rest only sixteen years later when, in 2007, the final two bodies were discovered in a separate grave near the first gravesite. All seven of the Romanovs have since been identified. They are all accounted for. None of them survived that night in Ekaterinburg. Russian, British, and American genetic testing all confirm this.
It is awful, and I think this is why Anastasia Romanov’s legend has lingered for so long and with such power. We want the story to have a happy ending. But I gave us the ending we need, instead. And I think it is far more satisfying this way.
Acknowledgments
The difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter—’tis the difference between the lightning-bug and the lightning.
—MARK TWAIN
This part of the writing process always leaves me stumped. Not because I don’t know whom to thank but because I don’t know how to thank them. I want to find the right words. I want to appropriately honor the people who have helped this book come to be. I will do my best. Please bear with me.
My agent, Elisabeth Weed, has been a friend and champion for many years. She is the perfect blend of ferocious advocate, astute businesswoman, and patient listener. She also has a preternatural ability to send encouraging e-mails at exactly the right moment. I would have long since gone batty without her. Everyone at the Book Group is a delight to know and work with, Hallie Shaeffer, in particular, because she has an uncanny ability to always sound as though she’s in a great mood. And I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge Jenny Meyer, who handles foreign rights and endless questions with aplomb.
My editors on this book—Melissa Danaczko and Margo Shickmanter—are clever, encouraging, and thoughtful. They were the perfect bookends to a project that threatened to break me daily. Also, for the record, they were right about everything.
Blake Leyers was, as always, the guardrails to my careering vehicle.
Marybeth Whalen has been a true friend for more than a decade. I am grateful for our many adventures and endless laughter. I am grateful that she has seen me at my worst but hasn’t kicked me to the curb. She can read my mind, finish my sentences, and divvy up a bottle of wine like no one else. As iron sharpens iron, so one friend sharpens another.
JT Ellison and Paige Crutcher are the sort of women who know how to drink Scotch and do yoga. Likely at the same time, though I’ve not yet tested that theory. They make me laugh and they keep me sane. I’m honored to call them friends.
My publishing team at Doubleday is an impressive group of geniuses. I am endlessly thankful for my publicist Todd Doughty (a man who is equal parts Merlin and Superman), Judy Jacoby (marketing maestro), Bill Thomas (publisher and faithful champion), John Fontana (jacket designer), Nora Reichard (the most patient production editor in all the land), Lorraine Hyland (production manager), Pei Koay (text designer), and Maggie Carr (copy editor). The Penguin Random House sales team is superb. Special thanks goes to Cathy Calvert, Ann Kingman, Stacey Carlini, Emily Bates, Lynn Kovach, Beth Koehler, Beth Meister, James Kimball, Janet Cooke, Ruth Liebmann, David Weller, Jason Gobble, and Jen Trzaska.
Additional thanks to the many friends, family, mentors, and leaders whose presence in my life is an endless blessing: Abby Belbeck, Josh Belbeck, Emily Allison, Tayler Storrs, Dian Belbeck, Jerry and Kay Lawhon, Blake and Tracy Lawhon, Andy and Nicole Kreiling, Jannell Barefoot, Kristee Mays, Michael Easley, Kaylee Storrs, and Christine Flott. To the teachers and baseball coaches who mentor my boys: you are saints, each and every one. Thank you for pouring into my children.
Karen, from Apple Tech Support, quite literally saved this novel. I’m a bit sad that I never asked her last name (in my defense, I was rather panicked). But she knows who she is.
For my friends in publishing and in real life, I am thankful for you every day: Helen Ellis, Anne Bogel, Lisa Patton, Laura Benedict, Joy Jordan-Lake, Patti Callahan Henry, River Jordan, Niki Coffman, Deanna Raybourn, Kar
en Abbott, Amy Kerr, Denise Kiernan, and Angry Joe.
Helen Simonson, Patti Callahan Henry, Jacquelyn Mitchard, Karen Abbott, Jillian Cantor, JT Ellison, and Laura Benedict all offered kind and gracious words of endorsement for this novel. Thank you for reading those early copies and for lending your voice to this project.
My husband, Ashley, makes me laugh every day. I am so grateful for that gift and the irreparable crow’s-feet that come along with it. He is my best friend, my coffee maker, my wine buyer, my laundry folder, my morning person, my joyful singer, and my project finisher. I’ve known him for exactly half my life—it is the better half by far. Twenty years in and he’s still the best thing that has ever happened to me.
I’ve said it before but it is still true: the Wild Rumpus (London, Parker, Marshall, and Riggs) is the part of my heart that walks around outside my body. They are loud and boisterous and unnerving in their intellect and honesty. But they are also soft and tender and some of the kindest young men I know. Being their mother is one of the greatest joys of my life.
Someone once told me that to sign the word help you make a fist with your right hand (thumb pointing up) and hit it once against the palm of your left. Help. Help. Help. Jesus, please help me. That is my daily prayer while writing. I speak it aloud and I speak it in sign. And He does, this Jesus of mine. He helps. For that, I am, and will always be, grateful beyond words—spoken or otherwise.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ARIEL LAWHON is a critically acclaimed author of historical fiction. Her books have been translated into numerous languages and have been selections of LibraryReads, One Book One County, and Book-of-the-Month Club. She is the cofounder of SheReads.org and lives in the rolling hills outside Nashville, Tennessee, with her husband, their four sons, a black Lab, and a deranged cat. She splits her time between the grocery store and the baseball field.
