The Tsarina's Legacy

by Jennifer Laam

  Still standing, Veronica flipped to the back of the binder and withdrew the letter she’d tucked away there earlier. In her previous academic life, she never would have handled such a delicate document with bare hands. She would have used latex gloves and the long tweezers archives provided to turn pages. Fortunately, she was no longer an academic, and she needed to know what Grigory Potemkin, Dmitry’s Grisha, had told Catherine. She needed to know right now.

  His handwriting in the first two paragraphs was shaky and she struggled to read and translate. But his hand seemed to have steadied somewhat as he finished the letter.

  Matushka,

  I can’t believe we are separated this one final time, especially when I feel the end is so near. I want to be near to hold your little hand and help you with the hundreds of small tasks that occupy your day. But this time, darling wife, even from afar, I must ask you to grant me one last favor to make our legacy to this great empire complete.

  We spoke of empire and expansion and absorbing the continent into an enlightened and prosperous whole. I know my project to build the mosque may seem a minor part of this grand vision, but think of the implications. We are rulers who do not need to impose their wills on the people of this land. You, the empress of the greatest land on earth, do not need to rule with an iron fist, but can merely lead by gentle and intelligent example.

  I believe you were put on this earth to do just that.

  Forgive me for our petty squabbles and shouting matches. Forgive me for my arrogance and all the times I let my ego stand in the way of true communion with you. Forgive my anxieties. Know that I love you for both your beguiling womanhood and your holy destiny as our tsarina. I feel my end drawing near. I know whatever happens, your legacy for this world is greatness and compassion. I wish you were here with me at the end, but I take comfort in the memory of your small hand in mine and the certainty that you will soldier on, as you always do, and many will have been blessed and enriched by your courage and your destiny. You may be the greatest woman who has ever walked this earth. I was honored to even have been near you, let alone allowed to treasure and love you and aid in your mission. I love you.

  Your devoted husband as ever,

  G

  Below that, Potemkin had added curving arabesques, elegant Arabic figures scrawled along the bottom of the page. Veronica didn’t believe they were actual letters. They looked more like symbols, a secret code between Potemkin and Catherine.

  Veronica stared at the letter, so precarious in her hand. If she had tugged too hard when she pulled it from its hiding place in the frame, the paper would have crumpled to dust between her fingers. She wished she could break the code at the bottom of the page, draw some wisdom from it. Potemkin must have had something monumental to say to Catherine to bother with a code at all. How fragile the message and how many circumstances could have prevented her from receiving it. And yet, this simple letter from Grisha Potemkin, his final letter from the sound of it, had made it into Veronica’s hands.

  Veronica’s academic impulse lingered still. She always liked to play the “what if” game, guessing how figures from history might respond to present-day problems. It was an exercise her colleagues found pointless. Academic history had become the realm of data and statistics and cold analysis. Their loss. History was a connection to the past, spiritual and transcendent. She was connected to a country that prized those two traits, whose Orthodox Christian religion was built on them. And yet the religion had been twisted into a hard political doctrine and the result was hate.

  Veronica reread the letter and carefully returned it to the plastic sheeting in her binder.

  She picked up her phone and texted Dmitry.

  * * *

  Veronica huddled over the heavy desk with Dmitry and Anya. She had opened the curtains wider and thin moonlight and street lamps cut through the haze outside. Dmitry and Anya both remained stoic, their mouths set in grim lines. Anya’s floral hijab was slightly askew, and shadows fanned in half circles beneath Dmitry’s eyes.

  “How is Reb?” Veronica asked.

  “He has had death threats before.” Dmitry picked up one of the little jade frogs on the desk. His fingers trembled, but he kept his voice steady. “So, unfortunately, he is used to such a tense situation. He will be fine for now, but he is anxious. He is scheduled for transport to Siberia day after tomorrow.” Dmitry looked over his shoulder, at the portraits of Catherine and Potemkin, and then back at Veronica. “So you said Grisha now inspires you? Because of this letter. I don’t understand. Tell us how this is so?”

  “I feel as though I was meant to find this letter. I felt hopeless and then it inspired me.” Veronica explained the situation, what she had overheard. She told them Irina was responsible for Michael’s arrest, that she had planted pamphlets in his pocket. It was how she intended to manipulate Veronica.

  “She wants you to relinquish your claim?” Dmitry said slowly.

  “Right,” Veronica said. “It caught me off guard. I knew she supported restoration of property to noble families. But I never realized how strongly she saw my involvement with Reb’s case as an impediment to this. She’s a true believer. She honestly thinks my viewpoint is anti-Russian, that I’m an interloper.”

  “Does she think the same of me?” Anya said, adjusting her hijab. “Or Dmitry?”

  “I might be a meddling American, but I think she sees us all as traitors.”

  At that, Dmitry cringed.

  “Irina always had strong opinions,” he said in Russian, pensive, catching Anya’s gaze. “I thought ultimately she was the best means to get someone like Dr. Herrera in a position to change things. I should have known better. I am sorry.”

  “If I have to relinquish my title to get Michael out of that hell, I’ll do it,” Veronica said.

  “I only ask that you consider the ramifications,” Dmitry said quickly. “You said she wants you to step down, but what will that mean for Reb? I do not think Grisha would approve of anyone forfeiting so easily. He would want you to fight.”

  “She still wants a ceremonial tsar. She even has a replacement in mind. She thinks Sasha should take my place.”

  Anya gnawed on her lip and said, “You think this is a good idea?”

  “Not exactly,” Veronica replied. “I think someone should take my place. But I have someone different in mind.” She rapped on the desk with her knuckles and looked once more at the letter, at the scrawl of Grisha Potemkin’s handwriting, and then at the portrait of him on the back wall. The cracks in the oil gleamed in the moonlight. “I will ask Sasha to take my place. But only temporarily. Only long enough for Irina to think I’ve caved.”

  “Why would he do that?” Anya cut in.

  “I don’t think he feels the same way Irina does. And I don’t think he’s as desperate for money or his rightful title or whatever it is Irina thinks. I’ve asked him to come here to talk it out.”

  “And then who will take your place?” Dmitry asked.

  Veronica straightened her back, tried once more to project a regal air. “My father. Laurent Marchand. He’s in St. Petersburg. My abuela told me. He wants to see me.”

  “What?” Dmitry cried. “He has never taken an interest in us before.”

  “He’s tried to contact me. Michael was looking into it before…” She felt a catch in her throat. “Well, before what happened. My grandmother gave me his number. We’ve agreed to meet. I think he will help us.”

  “Nika…” Dmitry leaned forward on the desk, hands flat, holding her gaze. “I understand how difficult this is for you.”

  Veronica didn’t want to hear any platitudes. Not even from Dmitry. “You can’t possibly understand what it was like to see Michael in that jail cell.”

  “Of course I can,” he said firmly. “I am thinking about what will happen to Reb.”

  Veronica lowered her gaze. She hadn’t meant to force that image to Dmitry’s mind.

  “But you must consider the greater good,” Dmitry said. �
��Mikhail is American. He will be released. Reb…” His voice started to break, his steady composure finally melting. “He will die in the gulag. You know that. Please don’t do this to him. Please don’t do it to me. You can’t throw away everything we’ve worked toward.”

  “Dmitry…” The tears were starting to form, the dam threatening to burst. She needed to keep it together. She took Dmitry’s hand. It felt like ice. He was so frightened. How could she not have seen it before? “I’m not throwing anything away,” Veronica insisted. “Laurent can take my place. We can make this work.”

  “How do you know he will do the right thing for Reb? Support him?”

  “I will make sure,” Veronica said. “I promise.”

  Dmitry turned slowly to Anya. “What do you think?”

  “I believe Nika,” Anya said, nodding. “I believe she will get her father to help. But I have another concern.” Anya crossed the room, to the sketch of the mosque, and bit her lip thoughtfully. “Irina wanted to work with the Muslim community. Maybe not for the right reasons, but she wanted to build Grisha Potemkin’s mosque. I don’t want to lose sight of this.”

  “The Islamic community has prejudices as well,” Dmitry said. “Same as the Orthodox Christian community. If we are supporting Reb, we may have to let go of the mosque.”

  Anya touched her head scarf thoughtfully. “So the tsarina can call herself a believer and be tolerant. And yet I cannot?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Dmitry told her. “I only said we might need to choose.”

  “Not necessarily.” Veronica pressed Dmitry’s hand one last time before releasing it. “Anya, I think you can help. You said you have contacts in the Muslim community. Perhaps we can bargain with them. We support the mosque, same as Irina did. She wanted help restoring property. We ask for something different in return. We ask them specifically not to interfere when it comes to Reb.” She glanced at Dmitry. “We shouldn’t have to choose.”

  Dmitry placed his hand on Veronica’s arm. “I have to admit, I am impressed with what you have come up with here,” he said with a slow smile. “Perhaps Grisha did inspire you after all. But are you sure about this? Meeting with your father.”

  Veronica stiffened, even at Dmitry’s gentle touch. “It’s the only way.”

  “But he has never tried to talk to you before? He never wants to talk to us. Why now?”

  “I don’t know for certain. But I need to trust that he will help us.”

  Dmitry tapped his chin thoughtfully. “If he does agree, Anya and I can get him in front of reporters.” He hesitated. “Do you want me to come with you to see Laurent?”

  “No,” she told him. “I need to do this alone.”

  Dmitry nodded once more and there was a moment of silence, broken by the thud of heavy male footsteps in the hall.

  “What’s going on?” Sasha peeked his head inside the door. For once, he wasn’t smiling. His beard was fuller now. On the one hand he looked like a typical California hipster, but the beard also gave him the trim bearing of Nicholas II. As Irina might have said, Sasha would play very well on Russian television.

  “Thank you for coming,” Veronica said. “We need to talk.”

  Sasha stepped inside. His brows pinched as he surveyed their faces. He must have heard at least part of what they’d said. A deeper understanding of the situation began to register in his expression. “What has my stepmother done now?”

  Veronica shook her head but didn’t explain anything further. She was sure he had heard and simply needed a few minutes to process the information. Somewhere in his heart, he knew what Irina might do to other people when she didn’t get her way. She only hoped Sasha hadn’t fallen so in love with the idea of reclaiming his fortune that he would go along with anything she told him to do.

  “You know what happened to Michael Karstadt?” Dmitry said, switching to English and exuding confidence once more with his rich baritone.

  Sasha’s gaze landed on Veronica. “I know what happened to your friend Michael. And I heard what you said about my stepmother. I’m sorry. I know she’s stubborn, but I never expected anything like this. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Do you want to help us?” Anya said in tentative English.

  Sasha hesitated. “What she did to Michael blows.”

  Dmitry frowned, misunderstanding what Sasha meant. “He doesn’t agree with what she did,” Veronica said quickly.

  “I didn’t know anything about it,” Sasha said “And I don’t agree with her politics. I don’t think my dad would have either.”

  Veronica glanced backward at the picture of pretty Felix Yusupov on the wall. “Your father was proud of his family’s heritage.”

  “Of course. Konechno,” he added, trying out the Russian word and not completely mangling the pronunciation.

  “And as a Yusupov,” Dmitry said, “he would have been proud of connection to the Potemkin family.” Dmitry gestured to the portrait on the wall. “To the prince.”

  Sasha gave Dmitry a guarded look. “Yes.”

  “I can’t believe your father would have wanted you to pursue any kind of claim to the throne under these circumstances,” Veronica said.

  “If you will help,” Dmitry said, “I promise we will remember when we review property claims.” He opened his arms expansively. “Remember, you and I are family as well.”

  Sasha exhaled slowly and then glanced at the painting of Prince Potemkin. “I think I can help,” he told Dmitry.

  “Are you sure you want to cross your stepmother?” Veronica asked. “She thinks she can make you rich.”

  “Hey, I won’t lie, I still want that to happen,” Sasha said. “But you’re right. It shouldn’t happen this way. Who’s to say I won’t piss her off later and then next thing I know I’m in jail? I know what she’s like. I got a taste for it growing up. She cares about herself. That’s it.”

  “So you’ll help us?” Veronica said. “Behind Irina’s back?”

  He gave her one of his easy smiles. “Just tell me what you need me to do.”

  * * *

  Veronica returned to her hotel for the night. She was too worried about Michael to get any sleep, but she needed to at least close her eyes for a bit. When she checked in with the floor attendant, the woman grasped her hand and let out a string of exclamations about the lateness of the hour. Veronica gave her a reassuring smile, wishing her abuela were there.

  “I want to show you something.” The attendant reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a T-shirt. She unfolded it on the desk before her. It was the same shirt Veronica had worn at the press conference earlier. Free the Wolf.

  “It is too small,” the woman said, clearly perturbed and gesturing at the simple cotton item as though it had a mind of its own. “Otherwise I would wear. I bought it on the street from a young man.”

  Veronica stared at the logo, and the old woman’s hands, spotted with brown freckles, curled around her own hand. Memories of the evening rushed through her mind: what Irina had said to her about not having children, the sad look on Dmitry’s face when he related his concerns for Reb’s safety, and Michael with his bruised eye, trapped and alone in that tiny cell.

  She felt the tears coming and tried to push them back. “Thank you for supporting Reb. It means so much to me,” she told the woman in Russian.

  “Pfffft.” The woman released Veronica’s hand. “I am believer.” She reached under the collar of her lumpy sweater and withdrew an Orthodox cross hanging from a chain as proof. She kissed the cross and then tucked it back under her sweater. “Who is anyone to tell us what to think?”

  This was the third time she’d heard something like this from a Russian, first the woman at the ticket counter at LAX, and then the policeman at the rally, and now her floor attendant.

  “Thank you,” Veronica told her. “Thank you. I agree.”

  “One of my grandsons … he is … well, he was never quite like the other boys. I think he will appreciate. I love him. I don’t want a
nything to happen to him. What else could a grandmother do? I must show support.”

  At that moment, Veronica knew she was exactly where she was meant to be. “I am going to do everything I can for him. I promise.”

  The woman shrugged. “And maybe tomorrow I find shirt in bigger size so I can wear,” she said. “We all will do our part.”

  * * *

  Veronica waited patiently on a bench, glad for the solitude and peace. The day was cold, but the hazy morning fog had cleared and pale sunlight sparkled on the crisp Neva. The bells of Peter and Paul Cathedral chimed in a sharp, clear rhythm across the water. Nearby, a man in a sagging beret and a thickly lined jacket buttoned against the cold had set up an easel and started to paint a bright orange Rostral Column, focusing on the ship prows hanging from the thick base. Grim vendors bundled in winter coats sold fur hats, old Soviet military medals, and coffee mugs featuring shirtless pictures of the Russian president. Veronica scanned the goods but didn’t see any more postcards of Grand Duchess Charlotte. She wondered if the card in her purse was one of a kind.

  She checked her phone for the time, strangely calm. She wished Michael could have been there for a chat beforehand, to boost her confidence, but she knew she needed to face Laurent alone.

  Even though she had never met him, she recognized him instantly.

  Laurent Marchand approached her bench slowly, walking with the aid of a cane. Even though he was bent over, she could tell he was tall. That surprised her; she supposed he’d inherited his height from Alexandra rather than Nicholas. He was handsome too, silver-haired and dignified, with a soft hint of Charlotte’s sister Grand Duchess Tatiana in his gracefully aging features. He wore nice gray slacks and dress shoes and a dapper woolen coat. He had the monarchist ribbon on the lapel of his coat as well, the Russian flag with the double-headed eagle.

  Laurent had to stop and lean on his cane as he caught his breath. She rose to her feet.

  He looked up again. Now he was close enough to catch Veronica’s gaze. His coloring was fairer, but she saw the shape of her eyes and the contours of her own face. He approached faster now, at least as fast as he could manage with his cane, and then stopped before her, eyes tender.