‘But the soldiers—’
‘Hush. They don’t know. Come, I’ll show you, but you must swear not to give her away. Come, Natasha.’
He seemed intense in his desire to have her see what he had seen, and with her heart beating fast, she went with him. Cautiously, and making sure they were not observed, he took her into the house. The Baoudins were in their kitchen, preparing supper. Silently, he led Natasha up the stairs to his lodging room. Opening the door, he brought her in on tiptoe. In his bed lay a young woman, covered by a sheet. She was unconscious, her eyes closed, her breathing heavy and painful. Her white face looked terribly bruised and broken.
‘Oh,’ breathed Natasha, stricken with pity.
‘You see who it is?’ whispered Kleibenzetl.
‘Yes – yes.’ Natasha saw too a bowl of water and clean rags. ‘You have saved her?’
‘Not I. A soldier brought her here – one of the guards, my landlady said. There were wounds all over her. Terrible, yes. So my landlady told me to go away and to keep quiet. Little Natasha, don’t speak of this. You see how she lies there, and who knows whether she’ll live or not? If the soldiers find her, she’ll surely die. But for you to have seen her, to know there’s one who might survive, perhaps that will make your heart not quite so sad. You must say nothing, not to anyone, anyone. Pray for her, Natasha, pray silently. Come, we must leave her.’
They stole silently out of the house, and Natasha, assuring the tender-hearted little Austrian tailor that she would indeed pray, went quickly on her way home. Before she reached her home, she was stopped by Tanya, a schoolfriend of hers. Tanya was herself quite tearful, and carried on so emotionally about the terrible fate of the Tsar and his family, that Natasha yielded to an impulse.
‘Oh, but there’s one who isn’t dead – I saw—’ She checked.
‘Not dead?’ said Tanya. ‘Who? Who?’
But bitterly regretting her impulsiveness, even though no one could have said Tanya was a Bolshevik, Natasha whispered, ‘No, it was no one, no one.’ And she hurried away.
Tanya, however, mentioned to her parents what Natasha had said, and her parents wondered about it because of rumours already circulating. And when Bolshevik commissars, accompanied by soldiers, began searching houses for a woman they said was wounded, fright caused the parents to tell a certain Commissar Bukov what Natasha had said to Tanya. Bukov confronted Natasha and asked her to explain. He asked her in his own way, with his eyes like cold grey stone, his face impassive and his hands bruising her flesh. But she could not betray the young woman who lay in the room of the house where Heinrich Kleibenzetl lodged, she could not deliver that poor tragic creature to such a man as Commissar Bukov. Nor could she betray the friendly, compassionate Austrian tailor, or the Baoudins. She could not. And so the commissar deliberately broke her finger, flung her to the floor and murdered her mother, her father and her two brothers ten minutes later.
She escaped. She fled. She eluded Commissar Bukov for years.
‘But all my life,’ said Natasha, the pain on her face, ‘all my life I shall never know whether or not I might have saved my family by telling Commissar Bukov what he wanted to hear.’
‘Natasha,’ said Mr Gibson very gently, ‘your family would not have wanted you to tell. I feel sure of that, and if I do, then you must be quite certain. I have seen your torment. You have carried it with you for too long. Give your mind peace. In your courage you were all your family could have wished. You are God’s bright gift to a world full of darkness. Weep no more for your family. Stand on your bravery. What else is there to tell?’
Natasha fought her tears. She fought the emotions that came from her susceptibility to his warmth and kindness.
It was 1923, she said, when she went to some Russian monarchists in Berlin to tell them what she knew about Ekaterinburg, about the young woman shown to her by her friend, Heinrich Kleibenzetl. Count Orlov was among the men who listened to her. It was he who told her first that she was lying, then that she was mad. She protested. She begged him to try to find Heinrich Kleibenzetl, whose home was in Vienna, and who might still be alive. Count Orlov said that if such a man existed, if he had ever existed, he would have come forward and spoken. He told Natasha not to repeat her story to anyone. If she did, he would have her certified as a lunatic, and locked away. He also told her not to leave Berlin, but to stay there. She could not get regular work after that, she could not get any kind of real work. Many times she was close to starvation. Not until she saw Count Orlov for the last time a month ago did he admit that influence had been used to ensure no one would employ her, and that it was frankly hoped she would die an uncontentious death from starvation. She supposed the count eventually thought she was taking far too long to disappear from life, for if Mr Gibson was right about the incident on the bridge, then it seemed as if someone had received orders to precipitate her end by drowning her.
Mr Gibson knew the rest, she said.
Mr Gibson did know, but could not understand why sadness had returned to her, why she had a strangely lonely look about her. He felt deeply moved. She had been overjoyed when they had landed safely in England a month ago.
‘Don’t be so unhappy,’ he said. ‘You are no longer alone, you know.’
‘Everyone has been so kind,’ she said.
‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘for there’s still something I don’t know, still something you haven’t mentioned. Who was the young woman who lay in the Austrian tailor’s room, looking as if her face was broken?’
‘The Grand Duchess Anastasia Nicolaievna, the youngest daughter of the Tsar,’ said Natasha quietly but firmly.
‘Anastasia, yes,’ said Mr Gibson.
‘Before God, Heinrich Kleibenzetl knows the truth of this, if he is still alive,’ said Natasha.
‘Anastasia is being rejected, Natasha, because of the child she conceived.’
‘It is wrong,’ said Natasha.
‘Should you not speak out?’
‘I cannot,’ she said.
‘Why not?’
‘Because I swore I would not.’
‘You have sworn an oath?’ said Mr Gibson. ‘Dear girl, why?’
Natasha told him why. She told him of her conversation with Count Orlov at police headquarters, and how she had taken the Bible in her hands and spoken the words he demanded of her.
‘You were my salvation, you were the kindest man I had ever known,’ she said. ‘I could not let them harm you. I have failed the Grand Duchess, I know. Please forgive me.’
How heartbreakingly sad she was. Mr Gibson shook his head at her. ‘Natasha, do you really think anyone has anything to forgive you for? You are a young lady of great courage and faith. You and I, we have both been fighting the savaged Imperial eagle of Russia. Yes, the Revolution savaged the Romanovs beyond all their expectations. But they think they can repair the damage and claw their way back, with the help of the German Nationalist Socialist Party under the leadership of Adolf Hitler. A sick and suffering Anastasia, with a child, represents an unwanted embarrassment to them. Well, you took an oath under duress. I think you can stretch it a little. You can tell your story to a solicitor. He’ll draw it up in the right way for your signature so that it can, if necessary, be presented as an affidavit to any court that may grant a hearing to Anastasia’s claim for official recognition. You wouldn’t have to appear in person, and that is the main requirement of the oath. So let all your worries rest, Natasha.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You have given me a friendship and a kindness I will always remember, always cherish.’ She drew a breath. ‘Mr Gibson, could you do me one last kindness? Gould you help me to go to America and begin a new life there?’
Mr Gibson looked stunned. ‘Would you repeat that?’ he said.
‘I would like to go to America. Is it possible you could help me?’
He stared at her. There was a tragic, heart-wrenching look of loneliness about her.
‘It’s possible, yes,’ he said, ‘but it
’s highly unlikely.’
‘Oh,’ said Natasha, hurt as well as unhappy, ‘you are refusing me?’
‘I am saying, quite frankly, that under no circumstances am I going to be responsible for putting you on a ship to America.’
‘I – I have offended you?’ she said.
‘You have taken the wind out of my sails,’ said Mr Gibson. ‘America? I won’t hear of it. My dear girl, what’s wrong? Life has been desperately cruel to you, I know, but you’re still young, and the twins aren’t making things hard for you, are they? I wanted to talk to you yesterday, at length and in private, but had no time to. I had to be in London by ten thirty to report on the blanks I drew in Copenhagen and Lausanne, and to listen to comments on what you and I achieved in Berlin. In London again this morning, I was advised that if you wished to apply for a permanent resident’s permit, you’d get it. I said I had hopes of a happening that would render such an application entirely unnecessary. It doesn’t include letting you go off to America. Natasha Petrovna, angel of Berlin, don’t you like England?’
‘Yes – oh, yes.’ Natasha cast her unhappy eyes downwards. ‘But now that you are going to be married – no, it’s impossible for me to stay. I couldn’t bear it. It was different when I thought you already had a wife and family. I would have been—’ Her voice failed her.
Mr Gibson was painfully aware that her unhappiness was a desperate thing. ‘Who am I getting married to?’ he asked.
‘To Miss Thornton. Oh, she is beautiful, yes, but—’
‘Mildred is marrying George Wadsworth. That might upset me if I loved her, but I don’t. I can’t love two women at once, I’m far too conservative.’
Natasha put a hand to her throat. ‘Mr Gibson?’
‘Natasha, surely you know it’s you I love.’ He forgot she was Russian, and added incautiously, ‘So what are you trying to do to me with all this nonsense about going to America?’
Natasha was Russian indeed, very much so, and for all that she was resurgent with new life, she was not going to let him get away with that. Furthermore, he had plucked once too often at her heartstrings. She rose in a rush, and attacked in a rush.
‘Trying to do to you? Have you thought of what you have done to me? You went away, you left me—’
‘Left you?’ Mr Gibson knew he had put his foot into his mouth.
‘Yes. In Berlin, I was with you all the time, cooking for you, asking questions for you and loving you with all my heart. Then you brought me here, to England, and almost at once you left me to go to Denmark and Switzerland. You did not say, Natasha Petrovna, I love you, so you must come with me. No, you left me, and when you came back you did not even bother to see me. So, you cannot possibly love me. So, I will go to America. Yes.’
‘Very well,’ said Mr Gibson.
‘Oh, have you no feelings at all?’ she gasped.
‘Calm yourself, child.’
‘Child? Child? Who is a child? I am not. I am a woman and I am dying of love. Ah, you are smiling? It amuses you that I am dying?’ Natasha was revelling in the exchanges. ‘There, how can you love me if such a terrible thing amuses you?’
‘Love you I do,’ said Mr Gibson, ‘so stop playing Chekov.’
‘But you haven’t even kissed me!’ cried Natasha.
‘Pardon?’ said Mr Gibson.
‘Oh, kiss me, won’t you? Just a little kiss, even?’
Natasha lifted her flushed face, eyes moist and shining. Mr Gibson kissed her. Warmly. On the mouth. Her lips clung, and her body vibrated.
‘Is that better?’ he asked.
‘I am no longer dying,’ she declared, ‘I am just a little faint, that is all. It’s permissible in England to be just a little faint?’
‘It’s permissible for young Russian ladies to even fall about. Now, what I wanted to talk to you about was the possibility that you might consider marrying me. Will you consider it? If, of course, America has more appeal—’
‘Oh!’ Natasha burst into tears.
‘Good grief,’ said Mr Gibson, ‘is the thought of marrying me as bad as that?’
‘Oh, no! No!’ Natasha’s emotions were now very real. ‘Don’t you understand? There were so many years, so much running and hiding. There was no one, no one, not even in Berlin. Then, suddenly, there was you. You gave me everything, everything, and asked for nothing. Oh, such lovely clothes, such warmth and comfort, such kindness. Don’t you see, don’t you see, how could I ever feel alive unless I am with you? To marry you, to be your wife – oh, my tears are miserable, aren’t they, when you have made me so happy? But how can I help it? Is it true? You are really asking me to marry you?’
‘Well,’ said Mr Gibson, looking into her swimming eyes, ‘since I love you, I naturally thought it was the best thing I could do. The best thing for me, I mean. You are an exceptional young Russian lady. Yes, I did have feelings for Mildred. But by the time you and I reached England, I wondered what had happened to those feelings. Later, in Lausanne, I wondered what the devil I was doing there, trying to see a man who, like so many others, had recanted. I wondered why on earth I was spending time in pursuit of the hopeless when I should have been here in pursuit of the brave and the beautiful, which is you, Natasha Petrovna. Now, does that confession help you to consider my proposal favourably?’
‘Favourably? Favourably? How can you ask a question like that?’ Natasha was still heady and emotional. ‘How could any woman not want to marry a man like you?’
‘Well, none of them have,’ said Mr Gibson, ‘and you’re making quite a Russian meal of my proposal yourself.’
‘Oh, it is not amusing – no, no, no! You are not to joke with me. I am balanced on the precipice of heaven, and that is not a joke, it is a wonder of wonders. You are the light of my soul—’
‘That’s a little extravagant,’ said Mr Gibson, ‘and not to be repeated in front of people.’
‘But it’s true,’ said Natasha. Lightly, his hand caressed her shoulder. She took it and placed it on her breast. ‘If you love me, that is where you should caress me.’ She wound her arms around his neck and kissed his mouth. ‘You are all of my life, and I am going to be the most wonderful wife you could have chosen. You will like having a wonderful wife? I shall be very passionate.’
‘I shall count my blessings, naturally,’ said Mr Gibson gravely.
‘Yes, one should count one’s blessings,’ said Natasha. ‘Please, you are not caressing me,’ she murmured, putting her face against his shoulder. ‘Yes, that is better. Oh, everything is a miracle, isn’t it? I am lovely, you are lovely, we are both lovely. We shall have a large family, many children, and belong to each other always?’
‘There may be some ups and downs,’ said Mr Gibson, remembering she was Russian.
‘Ups and downs are lovely too. And when a woman has a husband and children, their ups and downs are very forgivable. I should not mind six children, would you?’
‘What you shall have, my sweet, is a family that will love you,’ said Mr Gibson. He knew what her dearest wish was. An escape from loneliness.
‘Thank you,’ said Natasha, ‘you are very dear to me.’
Elizabeth, who had absented herself from the cosy classroom, tiptoed back in.
‘Pssst,’ she whispered.
‘What for?’ asked Julia.
‘Uncle Philip’s kissing Miss Alex.’
‘Fancy that,’ said Julia. ‘How d’you spell crocodile?’
The Hamburg Judgement
Because of so much opposition and her constant declaration that she did not have to prove she was who she was, any more than any person did, it was many years before the claim of Fräulein Unbekannt (Miss Unknown) was heard by a court of justice. Not until 1958 did that hearing begin, when the claimant’s suit for legal recognition as Anastasia, youngest daughter of the late Tsar Nicholas II, was laid before a court in Hamburg, West Germany.
Her two most eminent opponents were dead. The Dowager Empress Marie of Russia had died in 1928, the Grand Du
ke Ernest of Hesse in 1957. But their implacability lived on, to be reflected in the attitude of the opposition, which contested the claim fiercely and went to extraordinary lengths to discredit the claimant. Whenever evidence entirely convincing was produced in her favour, the opposition managed to drum up new witnesses willing to declare that black was white. Under challenging and intelligent cross-examination, certain of these witnesses were proved to be liars.
The lawyers for the claimant presented a case backed by scores of reliable witnesses, and it was a case of dramatic and moving credibility. Among the most important people who spoke up for the plaintiff was a tailor from Vienna, one Heinrich Kleibenzetl. He said he knew Anastasia had survived the massacre. When asked why he had never mentioned this before, he said he had. He said he had told his story to a friend in Vienna as early as 1923. But he had also told his friend that when a man had seen what the Red Revolution was all about, it was wiser, even in 1923, to keep his mouth shut. (Significantly, despite Soviet Russia’s apparent indifference to anything relating to the murder at Ekaterinburg, and to the murder itself, their occupation of part of Berlin from 1945 resulted in the disappearance from the Central District Court of files containing a great deal of evidence favourable to the claimant.)
In 1958, because of all that was being quoted in the newspapers about the claimant not being who she said she was, Heinrich Kleibenzetl told his wife that this was crazy and wrong, for he knew Grand Duchess Anastasia had escaped death. He had seen her alive after the murder of her family. And his wife had urged him to come forward with his story.
What was his story, then?
First, the still ebullient Austrian produced documents proving he was in Ekaterinburg as a prisoner of war in 1918, working as an apprentice to the tailor Baoudin in a house directly opposite the Ipatiev residence, in which the Imperial family were imprisoned. He was allowed to go in and out of that depressing place because of the work he and Baoudin did in the repair of the guard’s uniforms. He saw the daughters of the Tsar many times.
Late one evening in July, he was actually in the courtyard and aware of unusual activity going on. A guard appeared, told him to make himself scarce, and then went back into the house. Kleibenzetl, about to leave, suddenly heard the sound of rifles being fired, the sound of screams and the cry of a young woman.
Natasha's Dream Page 21
