Natasha shook her head, scattering her tangled mane of raven-black hair. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘I grew up in just a few hours, when I was fourteen. Not on a farm. In our house. I became very old in just a few hours. It is such a sad thing to know I am very old, even though my twenty-first name day was only last month.’
‘You are not old at all,’ said Mr Gibson. ‘You simply look as if you haven’t eaten too well lately. That can be put right. Natasha, will it pain you too much to tell me why the Bolsheviks should want to do away with a girl of fourteen?’
Natasha did not immediately answer that. She finished her soup first, and her head was bent again when she did speak.
‘Who can see into the minds of people who believe hatred is a good reason for killing people? Who can understand men who believe God is not as important as their Revolution?’
‘But who could hate a fourteen-year-old girl, Natasha?’
‘A commissar,’ she said.
Mr Gibson thought about the incident on the bridge. ‘Are there Bolshevik agents in Berlin?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes.’ Natasha shuddered. ‘Some pose as White Russians favourable to the cause of the Tsar.’
‘The Tsar is dead,’ said Mr Gibson, ‘and his family too, all of them.’
‘Yes, that is what is said.’ Natasha gazed at the empty soup bowl.
‘Do you mean it isn’t true?’
‘Kind sir, how should I know what is true and what is not?’
Mr Gibson nodded. ‘Would you like to have what’s left of the soup?’ he asked.
‘Oh, thank you, thank you.’
He took the tray into the kitchen. He returned it to her lap with the bowl almost full again, and more bread with it. Natasha, quite overcome, was moist-eyed with gratitude.
‘Natasha,’ he said, as she began to eat again, ‘although all the Tsar’s children were reported dead, there’s a woman in Berlin claiming to be his youngest daughter.’
She hesitated before saying, ‘Yes, so I have heard.’
‘Have you seen her?’
‘No.’
‘If you did see her, would you be able to say whether or not she was the Grand Duchess Anastasia?’
Natasha’s relish for the food continued unabated, but her appetite for conversation seemed in sudden decline. She looked uneasy.
‘I—’ She cut herself off by filling her mouth with bread.
‘Natasha?’ Mr Gibson was becoming curious.
‘I was never invited to St Petersburg to meet the Tsar and his family,’ she said, ‘so how would I recognize any of them? Why do you ask such a question?’
‘Because you’re Russian, I suppose, and this woman must be of interest to you.’
Natasha looked worried then, and a little cautious. She spooned soup, ate bread, and said, ‘But you are English, so why should she be of interest to you?’
‘She poses a mystery that fascinates people everywhere,’ said Mr Gibson, studying her thoughtfully. What was it that had made the Bolsheviks murder her family, and what was it that made her keep the reason to herself? And why was she uneasy about the woman who called herself Anastasia? ‘Doesn’t it fascinate you, Natasha, the possibility that she might be who she says she is?’
Natasha looked at him, her rimmed eyes very dark. ‘When one is struggling to stay alive, one is not very interested in other people’s problems, Mr Gibson, sir.’
‘Where was your home in Russia?’ he asked.
She stared blindly at the soup spoon. ‘I cannot think of things like that without pain,’ she whispered, ‘I cannot speak of it. You have been kind to me, you have given me food and saved me from being robbed of my papers. Without papers, a Russian in Berlin might as well be dead. Without papers, one does not exist. I cannot speak of other things.’
Mr Gibson wondered if it would be a further kindness to warn this unhappy girl. He decided he must.
‘I don’t think it was your papers he was after, I think he meant to pitch you into the river,’ he said.
Natasha paled to whiteness. ‘No, no, I have said nothing,’ she breathed.
‘What does that mean?’ asked Mr Gibson.
‘Nothing. Nothing.’ Natasha shook her head. ‘Oh, that is terrible, isn’t it, to think someone would want to do that?’
‘Might the man have been a Bolshevik agent?’ asked Mr Gibson gently. ‘Do they still want to do away with you, Natasha? If so, why?’
Natasha shivered. ‘No, no, he must have given up by now,’ she said.
‘He?’
‘The commissar.’ Her eyes were looking inwards. ‘No, it must have been—’ She stopped. ‘I must find a corner in another house.’
‘Why?’ Mr Gibson was worried for her and very curious about her. ‘Do you think the man knew where you slept at night and was waiting for you on your way there?’
‘Dear sir,’ she said earnestly, ‘you have many questions and I have only a few answers. When I am not quite so poor as I am now, I shall light a candle to your goodness, and ask the priest to say a blessing for you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Mr Gibson gravely. The faultlessness of her English added to his curiosity. He felt, however, that he had asked more than enough questions for the moment. ‘But first things first, I think. To start with, may I suggest you sleep here tonight?’
Her pale face showed sudden pink spots, and her eyes showed alarm. ‘You must see that as I am, I could not be a pleasure to a man,’ she stammered, ‘and it is wrong to think I would be, in any case. It is not what I would ever do in exchange for food and help.’
‘Ah,’ said Mr Gibson. A smile flickered. ‘Shame on you, young lady, to think I’d ever ask you to. Very bad form, I assure you.’
‘Bad form?’
‘It’s not the thing, Natasha, to make improper suggestions to a young lady down on her luck.’ Mr Gibson smiled, and relief flooded her. ‘But you simply aren’t well enough to go looking for cold corners at this time of night. You shall have a warm bed, all to yourself. And a hot bath. The amenities here are excellent. So they should be, for the rent’s scandalous. There’s plenty of hot water.’
Again a delighted smile transfigured her. ‘Hot water? Oh, how good you are.’
‘And when you’ve had your bath and are in bed, I’ll bring you some hot milk laced with a little more cognac. You’ll enjoy a sound sleep then.’
He felt he could do no less for her. He showed her the bathroom. He ran the bath for her, and while it ran, he introduced her to a bedroom that promised bliss to her tired body. He gave her a pair of pyjamas. Her eyes became moistly luminous.
‘Why do you do all this for me?’ she whispered emotionally.
‘Because you are not very old, Natasha, you are still very young, and because it’s time someone made the world a little more pleasant for you.’
The hot bath and the cake of soap were pure bliss. The pyjamas, of fine, striped flannel, were ridiculous. They enveloped her. She laughed at herself in the mirror. She stopped laughing when the mirror told her how drawn and thin her face was. Her eyes looked terrible. She was clean, yes, but so unlovely. Mr Gibson must think her the most unappealing creature he had ever met. He brought her the promised hot milk when she was finally in bed. She sat up, the pyjama jacket capaciously loose around her. Sensitive because she had no looks, she flushed as he smiled at her. She looked very much better, he thought, her face warm with colour. Her hair, which she had washed vigorously and towelled just as vigorously, even though it hurt her aching head, hung in lustrous black waves. But how thin she was. The open neck of the pyjama jacket revealed thrusting collarbones. However, her appearance was no longer wretched. The deep blue of her eyes seemed a warm violet in the light of the bedside lamp.
‘Oh, thank you,’ she said, receiving the glass of milk with gratitude. ‘I am ashamed of how dirty I was. Kindest sir, the bath was close to the wonders of heaven. You do not know how good it is to feel so clean after being so miserably dirty.’
‘Yes, I do,’
said Mr Gibson.
‘You have been miserably dirty too?’ Natasha showed astonishment. ‘I cannot believe it.’
‘It’s quite true,’ he said. It was, for he had known the trench warfare of Flanders. ‘Drink that milk, then go to sleep. You’ll be perfectly safe. Goodnight now, and we’ll talk again in the morning.’
He left her to herself. She drank the milk that was laced with cognac, then switched off the light and lay in languorous content between the sheets. Just before blissful sleep claimed her, she said to herself, ‘If you’re lucky, Natasha Petrovna, there’ll be breakfast as well as more talk.’
In a house not far from the centre of the city, an aloof-looking gentleman of aristocratic lineage regarded his visitor coldly.
‘You bungled it? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘No, I’m not saying that.’
‘You’ll permit me to say it for you?’ The gentleman was softly sarcastic.
‘I protest,’ said the caller, a tall man in a black raincoat and soft felt hat. ‘I selected the right time, the right place—’
‘But a little carelessness crept in?’
‘I was alone with her. The man who had passed her had gone, and there were no other people about. Then the damned interloper reappeared out of nowhere. I must point out it’s not the easiest thing, trying to arrange what has to look like suicide. It would be far simpler to cut her throat.’
‘Must you talk like that?’ The aloof gentleman showed distaste.
‘I’m a frank man.’
‘You were chosen for your willingness, not your frankness, I also asked for your discretion. Plain speaking can be dangerous. I must emphasize again, only you and I and one other know this solution has been decided on. The Council would never agree to it.’
‘But they’d be very relieved to hear she’d committed suicide.’
‘Of course,’ said the gentleman acidly. ‘Something that looked like murder must be avoided. It would mean the police asking all kinds of questions. The Berlin police are very thorough when investigating murder. Our influence has its limits.’
‘I’ll try again.’
‘No. I dislike the fact that you were seen. I dislike even more the possibility that the man might put two and two together. He’ll have spoken to her, and God knows what she might have said to him. He’ll remember her. If she’s disposed of in the way most convenient to us, he may go to the police and question whether it was suicide or not. He’ll have a description of you, he’ll remember you as well as her. Therefore, leave things as they are for the moment. Just keep your eye on her. I don’t believe she’ll stay silent for ever, and if the Austrian is still alive and decides to tell his story, she may well confirm it. She’s not much more than a peasant, but peasants fear God and develop consciences. A conscience is a religious necessity amongst peasants. It’s something the rest of us can’t always afford.’
‘Are you sure we aren’t overrating her importance?’
‘Quite sure,’ said the disdainful gentleman. ‘What does it matter if some impressionable people declare the woman is Anastasia? We can always produce sensibly minded people who’ll declare she isn’t. But if someone should say he can prove, with the aid of a witness, that Anastasia survived, then a court of adjudication would undoubtedly find in her favour. She would inherit everything: the crown, the fortune and a restored Imperial Russia. Well, we have that witness in our sights. Don’t lose her.’
‘I won’t. Does it occur to you, by the way, that she may have written her story down and lodged it somewhere?’
‘Yes, it has occurred to me, and I try not to think about it.’
Chapter Four
The woman who had aroused so much interest and speculation throughout the world, and who was a patient at the moment in the well-equipped Mommsen Clinic of Berlin, had become very sick. Her left arm, badly injured years ago – at Ekaterinburg, she said – had never healed properly, and a tubercular lesion had developed. She had been a patient since July, and was being cared for skilfully and compassionately.
One very intelligent person who had interested himself in her claim was Inspector Franz Grunberg of the Berlin police. Something of an amateur historian, he became fascinated by her story and by what he considered her credibility. He had met her three years ago, in 1922, and did not take long to decide she was who she said she was, the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nicolaievna. His investigation into her claim was exhaustive, and he put up with behaviour both unreasonable and eccentric. She could be unbearably difficult and, on occasions, completely impossible. But, since he accepted that her story was true, he also accepted that her terrible ordeal at Ekaterinburg could not have failed to have a destructive effect on her nerves and behaviour. Her unreasonableness, therefore, was reasonable, and her impossible moods did not shake his belief in her. However, since the summer of 1925 he had allowed a Russian émigré, Harriet von Rathlef, to take his place as her closest friend and confidante. Harriet von Rathlef, quite Russian despite her German-sounding name, was absolutely certain the woman was Anastasia.
She had appeared in Berlin in 1920, when she had jumped into the icy waters of the Landwehr Canal from the Bendler Bridge. She was pulled out and taken to the Elisabeth Hospital in the Lutzowstrasse. She was there for six weeks, during which time she persistently refused to tell anyone who she was. She was afraid of the Bolsheviks, she said, and kept her face covered as much as she could. The doctors noted her jaw had been badly injured at some time, disfiguring her. After six weeks, she was transferred to the Dalldorf Asylum, where it was felt she could be better treated. They called her Fräulein Unbekannt (Miss Unknown). They diagnosed that she was suffering from mental depression or melancholia.
At Dalldorf, she was given a thorough physical examination, much to her torment and distress. The doctors understood her anguish when they discovered her body was covered with scars. She would not explain why, and she still refused to give any information about her identity. She exhibited a great fear of people getting too close, and a great distaste for being touched. After some months, however, she began to talk to the nurses, all of whom showed her kindness and sympathy. They formed the opinion that she was intelligent, courteous, educated and well bred. They also found her gracious, meticulous and certainly of an aristocratic background.
But it was two years before she suddenly made the declaration that she was the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nicolaievna. The first people to believe her were the nurses who had watched her and cared for her since her arrival at Dalldorf. To them, she fitted their image of a royal personage, and they made allowances for her bad days. They had seen her scars and they knew she must have experienced moments that were dreadful, horrible and savage.
Her story, pieced together from her disjointed recollections over a period of many weeks, dated from the night of 16th July 1918, when in the Ipatiev house in Ekaterinburg, the Bolshevik guards murdered the Imperial family of Russia and their servants. She did not give a lucid or detailed account. She offered snatches of a nightmare.
‘I fainted. Everything was blue, and I saw stars dancing and there was a great roar …’
That was what she said, and whatever the truth, who could have dissociated such words from the most terrifying moments of Anastasia’s life?
She was discovered to be still alive by one of the Red soldiers, Alexander Tschaikovsky, who carried her unobserved from the scene of the carnage. He hid her in a nearby house and returned for her days later. With the help of his mother, sister and brother, he began a hazardous journey of escape on a cart. Horribly injured by bullets and a bayonet, she lay close to death in that cart. But although the family could only treat her wounds with cold compresses, she made a gradual recovery. Nevertheless, she was ill, very ill, for many months. Miraculously, they reached Bucharest in Romania, and stayed there. In Bucharest, she gave birth to Alexander Tschaikovsky’s child, a boy, having first gone through some kind of marriage ceremony with him, the details of which she could never clearly rememb
er. She handed the child over to the family. They all lived on the proceeds that came from selling the jewels which she, like her sisters, had sewn into their clothes. After a year in Bucharest, Alexander Tschaikovsky was knifed to death, probably on account of the jewels he kept producing. Romanians, she said, were very quick with a knife.
Her one wish then was to go to Germany and seek the protection of her mother’s family, the Hesses. The Grand Duke of Hesse was her mother’s brother. She travelled to Berlin with the help of her dead husband’s brother. She wandered alone through the streets of the city one cold February evening in 1920. The streets confused her, loneliness frightened her, and she had no idea where to find her relatives. Sick in mind and body, and full of despair, she threw herself into the Landwehr Canal. She was pulled out.
Was it believable, this story she had told two years later? Many people laughed at it. But at least the chief of Moscow’s Foreign Commissariat for Leningrad, a Bolshevik called Weinstein, told Dr Bock, German consul, that one of the Romanov women had escaped the Ekaterinburg execution. Dr Bock, curiously, did not pass this information on.
The Russian monarchists in Berlin reacted in different ways when they first heard the news that a patient in the Mommsen Clinic was claiming to be the youngest daughter of the late Tsar Nicholas. There were sceptical monarchists, wondering monarchists and excited monarchists. She did not, however, make too good an impression on people who saw her. Emaciated, nervous and still a sick woman, she did not come easily to the eye as a daughter of the Russian Tsar. The Supreme Monarchist Council, naturally interested by the possibilities, but made cautious by reports on her, looked around for someone whose opinion could be relied on. Their choice fell on Captain Nicholas von Schwabe. He was asked to make a close study of the claimant.
Once a member of the personal guard of the Dowager Empress Marie Fedorovna, Anastasia’s grandmother, Captain von Schwabe had known all members of the Imperial family. He commenced his study with a certain amount of healthy scepticism, but came to a relatively quick conclusion. Yes, the woman actually was Anastasia. That was his firm belief. It aroused the Supreme Monarchist Council to excitement and action. The action resulted in many prominent figures visiting the woman. They were people who had known Anastasia intimately.
Natasha's Dream Page 3
