Anastasia's Secret

by Susanne Dunlap

  Checking first to make sure no sentries were making their rounds, I ran quickly over the footbridge between the two nearest ponds and then skirted around the white tower, heading down the path that led toward the elephant house and avoiding the arsenal, which no doubt would be heavily guarded at whatever time of day or night. I saw no evidence of soldiers once I was in the midst of the woods, and thought for a moment that they had become careless and no longer bothered to patrol the grounds at night.

  My destination was several hundred yards to the left of the Alexander Gate, which led into the village itself, and so I turned down another path toward the thick yew hedges that hid some of the iron railings of the park.

  I had so far seen no one and was beginning to have a false sense of security, imagining that the guards were either convinced no one would try to escape and didn’t bother to keep watch overnight, or had simply melted into the darkness. But soon enough I discovered that they hadn’t been quite so obliging. I heard the unmistakable tramp of approaching feet. I scampered off the path, stepping right into a muddy patch, and hid behind a box hedge. It was one of the few times in my life when I was grateful that I was not very tall.

  I held my breath as the soldiers drew closer to where I hid, and I could hear the sounds of effort and muttered curses. “Easy, comrades,” said one of them, “We don’t want to wake up Colonel and Mrs. Romanov and family!”

  I couldn’t get used to hearing Mama and Papa referred to that way. It wasn’t just the disrespect; it was the angry tone of their voices. I peeked out to see what the soldiers were doing together out in the park in the middle of the night, instead of stationed at their sentry posts.

  There were eight of them: six shouldering some kind of long, wooden box, one at the front, and one at the rear. The two who were not carrying looked nervously around them as they walked. At first I couldn’t imagine what load they were bearing through the woods with such suppressed excitement and urgency. Surely it was not some weapon to use against us. They had little need of more than rifles and bayonets to keep us in check.

  When they finally drew level with me, I shivered. It became clear in the light of the full moon that they carried a plain wooden coffin, with a gilded and jeweled cross on its lid that glimmered intermittently with the rhythm of their steps.

  “Let’s take that bauble off before we do the deed,” whispered one of them.

  “No pilfering! We need it as proof,” responded the one who appeared to be the leader.

  Whose coffin could they be carrying, and of what did they need proof? I had to see for myself, and so, once I was certain they were beyond where they could see me crouched close to the ground, I darted toward them, moving from bush to bush, occasionally hiding behind the stump of a fallen tree.

  After they had gone about another half mile or so, they left the path and turned into the forest. From my hiding place I could see them quite clearly. Just as clear to me from that vantage point was exactly whose coffin they had stolen. I didn’t want to believe it, though. It was Rasputin’s. However wrong-headed and strange he was, no one—not even someone accused of the most heinous crimes—deserved to be disturbed after death.

  The soldiers were so intent upon their deed that I think I could have stood up quite brazenly and approached them and no one would have noticed. But I did not want to be foolish, and so remained cautiously hidden from their sight.

  “They say he still rules the family from the grave, that the grand duchesses were all his mistresses in the flesh and that before their captivity, they would come out and dance naked around his grave.”

  “Ho-ho! That must have been a sight!”

  A lascivious chuckle broke out through the ranks.

  “Enough!” said the leader. “This seems a pointless exercise. The man is dead. There is no afterlife, no spirit.”

  I crossed myself quickly and saw two or three of the soldiers do the same. In the eerie light I half expected Grigory’s bones to rise up and smite the desecrators of his grave. But no such thing happened. Instead, they placed the coffin on top of a pile of firewood. The leader took a screwdriver and unfastened the gilt cross from the lid. Then another man struck a match, and before long the wood beneath the coffin blazed high, casting so bright a light that I had to slink back further to avoid detection.

  A wave of nausea overcame me, although I was not quite certain why. Rasputin’s soul had long flown that rotting body, and a greater power than I knew where it went. But there was something so thoroughly evil about the gesture, here, in the grounds of the palace where the people who believed in him most still lived. No, I would not tell Mama and Papa. If they found out from someone else, so be it. The longer they remained in ignorance of such a vile crime, the better.

  The flames illuminated a large area of the park through which I had planned to walk to reach the hidden gate. It would lead out not far from the imperial railway depot, I realized. Not that I thought for a moment we would be able to board one of our trains and steam away to Finland. All our automobiles had been confiscated for the use of the Provisional Government, as had the drivers. Probably the trains were similarly employed.

  But if we could leave the park undetected, Russia was a vast land. There were hundreds of thousands of hectares where someone might not recognize the former tsar and tsaritsa, the heir, and four grand duchesses.

  I sighed. There was the biggest obstacle. We would not be parted from one another. But singly or in small groups we might stand a chance for escape, if it ever came to that.

  I shook myself free of these morbid thoughts, and concentrated on accomplishing the task Sasha had set me. I eventually reached the yew hedge, remembering how frightened I had been that early morning when I’d gone to meet Sasha, and how little danger I had actually been in.

  I plunged through the hedge, scratching myself a little in the process. At first, I found only the high, close iron palings that terminated in sharp points. I was grieved to see that the points had been made even more forbidding by the addition of a thick coil of barbed wire. No one could scale such a barrier. I remember that it had once seemed a secure, protective enclosure, there to keep our private world safe and inviolate. But now, I saw that we had unwittingly created our own prison. Or if not we, the tsars from centuries past.

  The moon had passed its highest point and started its descent toward the west. The night had become frosty, and I was chilled through. Only the hardiest spring flowers would survive early April, the snowdrops and winter anemones. How I used to love seeing their brave beauty blanket the woods for a few weeks, before the weather was warm enough to allow the crocuses, narcissi, and tulips to grow. Even in the moonlight, I could see little patches where tiny flowers had bravely taken root around piles of snow and sticky mud. The world went on, just as it always had, despite what had happened to us. How peaceful, I thought. How simple.

  And then I couldn’t help comparing the natural world to the actions of human beings, who are supposed to be better than the beasts and the flowers. It was those human beings who had thrown poor, lame Anya into prison. Who had made a terrible war, with millions of young men killed and so many lands and homes laid waste. Who dug up the bones of a holy man and burned them for no good reason.

  I continued along behind the hedge, looking for the gate that I knew had to be there. Just as my hands were becoming numb with cold, I found it.

  As soon as I saw it, I knew we would never be able to leave through it. Not only was it chained shut, a sentry sat just inside the yew hedge, snoring in the cold.

  I had come so close to being discovered that my heart pounded. I would have to retrace my steps as quietly as I could. As I went, I stepped on a pile of leaves that just happened to be covering a hedgehog’s burrow. The little thing shot out from under my feet and dashed to the open ground, where he rolled himself into a spiny ball.

  “Eh? What’s that!”

  The soldier was instantly on his feet, his rifle aimed at the still-rolling hedgehog. I held my
breath, not daring to move, feeling just slightly off balance and desperate to take one more step and be secure. He walked out slowly toward the poor creature as it came to a stop, got within a few yards of it, put his rifle to his shoulder, and took aim.

  “Hah! Ahhaha! Ahahahaha!” It was the guard. He obviously recognized the hedgehog for what it was and was having a good laugh at himself. While he continued, sinking to the ground in helpless guffaws, I took my opportunity to creep back between the yew hedge and the iron palings, hoping he would have resumed his snooze by the time I had to make the dash through the woods and back to the palace.

  CHAPTER 18

  I had no more mishaps on my way back, letting myself in silently through the same door to the cellar and removing my shoes so that I would not leave muddy tracks all through the building. When I reached my room, I quickly took off my clothes and hid my dirty shoes far back in my wardrobe, hoping that the few maids who remained with us would be too occupied with other matters to find them. It was not yet three in the morning. I knew I must try to get some sleep. But instead I mentally composed the note I would give to Sasha asking him to meet me so that I could tell him what I’d done. I then spent another restless hour figuring out how I would get it to him.

  I eventually fell asleep, but I was exhausted for the entire next day and not thinking clearly enough to come up with any sort of plan. In the afternoon, Mashka left the sickroom and came down to Mama’s boudoir.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked her.

  “Really, all well,” she answered, although her voice was still hoarse.

  “Are you cold? Shall we put more wood on the fire?” She was wrapped in shawls and wore a scarf close around her head.

  “No, I am warm enough.”

  Tatiana nudged me with her foot. I didn’t know why, but it was a signal not to pursue the subject, and so I didn’t.

  All through tea we hardly spoke. Finally at the end, Zhilik came in and said, “The guards have given the family leave to go outside in the mornings. Now that the weather is becoming warmer, I told them it was necessary for the full recovery of the children that they be allowed to exercise in the fresh air.”

  “You are too good, Pierre,” Mama said. And I was so glad that we would be able to go outside for a long stretch of time that I didn’t even mind him calling us all children.

  Only when we went to bed that night did I discover why Tatiana had not wanted me to question Mashka closely about her health: Mashka removed her scarf to reveal a completely bald head. I laughed before I could stop myself, and saw the tears start in her eyes. “Oh, Mashka, dear, it will grow in.”

  “But I am so ugly!”

  “We have only slovenly guards to impress here,” I said, but I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. Then I remembered the look Tatiana and I had exchanged when we heard of the possibility that Mashka would have to have her head shaved. “Don’t worry. All will be well. You’ll see,” I said before turning out my bedside light.

  The next morning, I jumped up before Mashka was awake and ran to Olga and Tatiana’s room. After a brief conference, we all decided what we would do and sent for Trina, who we could always persuade to do whatever we wanted. In short order we accomplished our goal and I returned to my room to dress.

  We were allowed out as promised, and Zhilik organized us into a small working party to clear the ice from the sluices that fed the ponds. I did not mind the work—none of us did. It felt good to exercise and do something besides sit indoors. The sun shone, and the smell of spring was in the air. Mashka tired quickly and sat down to watch. We waited, excited, for our papa to come by on his daily walk and admire our work.

  When he finally arrived with the prince, Olga called to him. “Father! Come and see what we have done!” We all looked at each other and put down the sticks we’d been using, and, at a signal from Tatiana, took off our scarves.

  The look on Papa’s face was priceless. His eyes went wide, then his mouth spread into a helpless grin. I had not seen him look so happy since before the war. Mashka shrieked with delight. There we all were, our heads as bald as ostrich eggs. “Didn’t you know, it’s all the rage in Petrograd,” I said, imitating a society lady and pointing my nose up in the air. My sisters fell about laughing, and Papa too, so hard that tears rolled down his cheeks. Even the dour prince and dear Zhilik were laughing.

  “Wait! My camera!” Papa jogged back to the palace, a guard on his heels. He returned and took a photograph of all four of us in a row. We still have that picture. It was one of the few they allowed us to take with us to Yekaterinburg.

  But soon after that day something happened that clearly reminded us of the danger that surrounded us all the time. We were outside, and as it was a particularly fine day, Papa, who loved all physical exercise, decided he would ride his bicycle around the part of the garden we were permitted to be in. I looked up from our work clearing the pond sluices to watch him go by, so proud and noble. It made my heart ache.

  Then, as he went past one of the guards—one of the surly Soviet ones—the fellow stuck his bayonet between the spokes of the bicycle wheels. I shrieked, and my sisters all looked up. I watched the bicycle flip up into the air, but somehow Papa was standing to the side. He must have reacted quickly, and it was fortunate he took such care to be athletic and healthy or he might have suffered a terrible accident.

  Papa simply stared at the guard, turned, and walked back to the house. The other guard that had been detailed to follow him was shaking with laughter. They were worse than children, was all I could think. Papa never rode his bicycle again after that.

  It was perhaps the Easter season of 1917 that truly signaled to everyone in the household the extent of the ill feelings toward our family, the old ways, and anyone associated with them. During Easter week, we all went to church twice a day in preparation for receiving the sacrament on Easter Sunday. My mother and father’s devotion to religion was sincere and unflinching. But this didn’t stop our guards from being suspicious of us.

  They hated religion so much that throughout every church service, a soldier stood behind the altar and watched the priest carefully, as though he might use the implements of faith to make a bomb. But that was just a small annoyance. One afternoon, on the day that we would all go to confession, Isa strode angrily into the parlor where we all sat doing our needlework or reading.

  “They tried their utmost to commit the foulest disrespect, but I won the day!” she declared, still quivering with anger.

  “What is it, Isa, dear?” said Nastinka, who patted the place next to her on the sofa.

  But Isa continued to pace back and forth. “I went to the chapel for confession. A soldier followed me in. I waited. He stood there, looking stupid. Finally I said, ‘Young man, kindly leave so that I may make my confession to the priest in private.’

  “And do you know, he planted himself more firmly in front of me and refused!”

  “How insolent!” Nastinka said, rising and going to take Isa’s hand and lead her over to sit.

  “That was not the end of it, though. I realized that the fellow had gone there with the intention of listening to the tsar and tsaritsa’s confessions, to see if there was anything he could use against them. I was determined that he would not remain in the chapel. ‘No order has been given for you to listen to private confessions,’ I said to him. ‘Even condemned criminals have the right to their time alone with a priest. I demand you call your superior, who must telephone Kerensky concerning this matter.’”

  “What happened then?”

  Having told the most upsetting part of her story, Isa finally sat with Nastinka on the sofa. “He got all in a sweat and went charging off to fetch his commander, who came right away. I explained my point, and the superior officer agreed with me. No call to Kerensky was necessary.”

  Nastinka took Isa’s hand. “You did a very brave thing for their majesties. I’m certain they will be grateful for it.”

  Alyosha had been listening closely to
all she said, and rose to look out the window. “Show me which of the guards it was, Isa,” he commanded.

  She went to the window and looked. “I don’t see the one, and I’m not sure I’d be able to recognize him from this distance.”

  “Well, when you know who he is, tell me. Because I will kill him.”

  Tatiana and I both looked up at once. Alyosha had a stern look on his face, hard and set, as if instead of the sickly extsarevich he was an enthroned ruler with armies to command. Perhaps he would have made a different sort of tsar, as Sasha had said would be necessary. Or perhaps he wouldn’t. In any case, the matter was forgotten, and no soldiers followed us into confession.

  The interference with our Easter observances continued nonetheless. On Maundy Thursday, the local Soviet decided that they would have the burial ceremonies for citizens killed in the revolution on that day as well. At first, we were told they would bury them beneath the windows of the palace, but there wasn’t room, so they had to find another place, still within the palace grounds.

  We all dressed for church and prepared to go to the morning service. As we were walking to St. Sophia, the small cathedral in the park, we saw an astonishing sight. Thousands of workmen and ordinary people had entered through the gate from the village of Tsarskoe, carrying red banners. In front of them marched a brass band and a cortege of pallbearers carrying dozens of red-painted coffins.

  At first they walked silently. Then, upon seeing us, the leader of the brass band raised his baton and led his musicians in a very loud, out-of-tune rendition of “La Marseillaise.”