The House of Special Purpose

by John Boyne

  I frowned. ‘Isn’t it a little risky?’ I asked. ‘What if we are seen?’

  ‘We won’t be,’ she insisted. ‘As long as we don’t draw attention to ourselves, that is.’

  I was unsure of the wisdom of the plan, but Anastasia’s enthusiasm won me over, as did the idea of the two of us walking along the riverbank hand in hand, like any of the other young lovers who strolled together at night. We would be normal people for once. Not a Grand Duchess and a member of the Leib Guard. Not an anointed one and a moujik. Just two people.

  Georgy and Anastasia.

  Typically, the Imperial Family went to bed early, particularly now that the Tsar was quartered at Stavka and the Tsaritsa and her two eldest daughters were up by seven o’clock in order to be at the hospital an hour later. And so we decided to meet by the Alexander Column in Palace Square at three o’clock in the morning, when we were sure that no one would be awake to see us. I went to my bed at midnight as usual, but didn’t sleep. Instead I read a few chapters of a book I had borrowed from the library, a volume of Pushkin’s poetry that I had recently been reading in an attempt to educate myself; I didn’t understand much of it, but did my best to concentrate. When it was time to leave, I pulled on a pair of trousers, a shirt and an overcoat – not my typical guard’s uniform – and crept downstairs and out into the peculiar bright night.

  The square was quieter than I had ever seen it before, but there were still people passing through, their spirits raised by the late-night illumination. Groups of soldiers returning from some adventure ambled by noisily. Two prostitutes, young and rouge-faced, leered in my direction and offered me those sensual delights which were still unknown to me, but which I desired desperately. Drunks returning from some excess sought, sung and forgot the words of ancient songs in off-key voices. I spoke to no one, however, ignoring all advances, and waited silently in our agreed meeting place until I saw my darling emerge from behind one of the colonnades and raise a gloved hand in my direction. She was dressed in the most extraordinary outfit. A simple dress, with a dusegrej on top, the sleeveless, fur-lined jacket a second layer beneath the common person’s letnik. A cheap pair of shoes. A headscarf. I had never seen her wear anything quite so lacking in jewels before.

  ‘Good God,’ I said, walking towards her and shaking my head, even as I tried to stop myself from laughing. ‘Where on earth did you find those things?’

  ‘I stole them from one of my maid’s wardrobes,’ she giggled. ‘I’ll replace them in the morning, she’ll never know.’

  ‘But why?’ I asked. ‘It’s beneath you to wear such—’

  ‘Beneath me?’ she asked, surprised. ‘Why, Georgy, you don’t know me at all if you believe that I think that way.’

  ‘No,’ I said quickly. ‘No, I didn’t mean that. It’s just—’

  ‘There may be people who will recognize me,’ she said, looking around and pulling her scarf closer about her head. ‘It’s unlikely, but nevertheless, it’s not worth taking the risk. These clothes will help me blend into the crowd, that’s all.’

  I took her hand and pressed my lips to hers, my body curving against the contours of her own, my desire anxious to be recognized. ‘You could never blend into any crowd,’ I told her. ‘Don’t you know that by now?’

  She smiled and bit her lip in that funny way of hers, shaking her head at my foolishness, but I could tell that she was pleased by the compliment.

  A few minutes later, we were making our way along the side of the palace and on to the path that bordered the banks of the river. The night was warmer than most I had known; we could breathe without seeing clouds of unspoken words dissolving into the atmosphere before us and my trousers were not clinging to my legs with that damp sensation that characterized so many St Petersburg evenings. The first sight that greeted us was the vision of the half-completed Palace Bridge, whose construction had begun even before I had arrived in the city, but which had been halted by the war and stood as a stark reminder of how our progress had been stunted in recent years. Stretching from the front of the Hermitage and across to Vasilievsky Island, the enormous brick and steelwork supports stood in place on either side of the Neva, but there was no sign that the two would ever meet; instead they stretched out towards each other, like a pair of lovers separated by a great expanse of water. I caught Anastasia staring in their direction, her expression a little disheartened, and found myself hurting for her.

  ‘You’re looking at the bridge?’ I asked.

  She nodded but remained silent for a moment, imagining what might have been. ‘Yes,’ she said finally. ‘Do you think they will ever complete it?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, my confident tone masking my uncertainty. ‘Some day. It can’t stay like that for ever.’

  ‘When it began I was perhaps eleven or twelve years old,’ she recalled, smiling a little. ‘Alexei’s age. The construction law decreed that no work could be done on it between nine at night and seven in the morning, the time when, perhaps, you might consider it most suitable to work on such a project.’

  ‘Really?’ I asked, surprised by her knowledge of such things.

  ‘Yes. And do you know why they did that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Because it would have kept me awake. My sisters and me that is. And my brother.’

  I looked at her and laughed, sure that she was teasing me, but the expression on her face told a different story and I could only laugh again, amazed by the extraordinary life she lived.

  ‘Well, you can sleep all you want now,’ I said finally. ‘There will be no workers, or any steel for that matter, until the war is over.’

  ‘That day cannot come quickly enough,’ she said as we continued to walk.

  ‘You miss your father?’

  ‘Yes, very much,’ she admitted. ‘But it’s more than that. And it’s not for the reasons my sister wants the war to end. I have no interest in balls or fine dresses or dancing or any of those trivialities which St Petersburg society treasures above all other things.’

  ‘You don’t?’ I asked, surprised. ‘I thought you might have enjoyed such entertainments.’

  ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I don’t dislike them exactly, Georgy, it’s not as simple as that. Sometimes they can be amusing. But you have no idea what life was like here before the war. My parents went to a different party every night of the week. Olga had just come out into society. They would have found her a husband soon. Some English prince, most likely. And they will, once the war is over, that much is certain. There’s always talk of her being intended for Cousin David, the Prince of Wales.’

  ‘Really?’ I asked, surprised, for I hadn’t thought that Olga was yet promised to any man. ‘How long have they been in love?’

  ‘In love?’ she asked, turning to me and raising an eyebrow. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Georgy, they’re not in love.’

  ‘Then how—?’

  ‘Don’t be naive. Surely you know how these things work. Olga is a beautiful young woman, don’t you agree?’

  ‘Well yes, of course,’ I said. ‘She has a more beautiful sister, however.’

  Anastasia smiled and pressed her head to my arm as we continued to stroll along. The statue of the Bronze Horseman was on my left, looking for all the world as if it was ready to burst into a charge and race towards the waterfront. ‘Then she will need a husband,’ she continued. ‘She is the eldest daughter of the Russian Tsar, after all. She cannot marry just anyone.’

  ‘No,’ I agreed. ‘No, I can see that.’

  ‘And it has always been said that she and Cousin David would make a perfect match. He will be king one day, of course. When Cousin Georgie dies. That might not be for many years yet, of course, but then the throne will be his. And Olga will be Queen of England. Like our great-grandmother, Queen Victoria.’

  I shook my head, confused by the associations between all the royal families of Europe.

  ‘Is there anyone you’re not related to?’ I asked.

 
‘I don’t think so,’ she replied in a perfectly serious tone. ‘No one who matters, anyway. Cousin Georgie is King in England. Cousin Alfonso is King in Spain. Cousin Christian is King in Denmark. And then, of course, there is Cousin Willy, the Kaiser in Germany, but we are told not to refer to him as cousin any more. Not now that we are at war. But he was Queen Victoria’s grandson, just as Mother was her granddaughter. Perhaps it is all a little strange. Do you think it odd, Georgy?’

  ‘I’m not sure what to think,’ I said. ‘I can’t keep track of all these names and the countries they rule over. I thought Prince Edward was the Prince of Wales.’

  ‘Same person,’ she said. ‘David is his given name, Edward his regal name.’

  ‘I see,’ I said, not seeing at all.

  ‘And if Olga is to be married to the Prince of Wales and become Queen of England, are Tatiana and Marie to suffer similar fates?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, pulling her greatcoat tighter around her, for the night had grown cold now, even if the sun did still consent to give us light. ‘They’ll find some silly prince for both of them, I’m sure of that. No one as illustrious as Cousin David, perhaps. Tatiana might marry Cousin Bertie, I suppose. Mother proposed that idea last year and Father approved. Then they could be sisters in the English court, you see, which would be very convenient.’

  ‘And what of you?’ I asked quietly, stopping now and taking her arm to pull her around to face me. The tides of the river were flowing towards the banks and as she turned the wind lifted her hair away from her forehead, causing her to close her eyes slightly against the breeze, even as she put a hand to her neck to tie her headscarf more carefully.

  ‘Me, Georgy?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. Who are you to marry? Am I to lose you to some English prince? Or a Greek one? A Danish one? An Italian? At least let me know the nationality of my rival.’

  ‘Oh, Georgy,’ she said sadly, turning away from me, but I was not about to let her go so easily.

  ‘Tell me,’ I insisted, pulling her closer. ‘Tell me now, so that I can prepare for my broken heart.’

  ‘But it’s you, Georgy,’ she said, her eyes filling with tears as she reached forward to kiss me. ‘It’s you that I intend to marry. No one else.’

  ‘But what can I offer you?’ I asked, desperate with love and desire. ‘I bring you no kingdom, you understand. No principality. No land over which to reign. I come without title or provenance, without money or expectations. I am simply me. I am just Georgy. I am no one at all.’

  She hesitated and looked deep into my eyes. I could see the sorrow there. The anguish. I knew that she cared nothing for my lack of prospects in the world, that I did not need to be of royal blood for her to love me. But still, this matter lay between us and divided us, like the tides of the Neva, separating the two unfinished sides of Palace Bridge. The war would end, the day would come, and the Tsar would decide. Another young man would arrive in St Petersburg. And he would be introduced to Anastasia and they would dance a mazurka together at the Mariinsky Palace while the whole of society watched them, and she would have little choice but to obey. And that would be the end of the matter. She would be betrothed to another. And I would be lost.

  ‘There is one possibility,’ she began, but before she could say anything further, we were interrupted and we both jumped in fright. So intent had we been on our conversation that we had lost track of everyone around us, and the sound of a man’s voice next to me shocked us back into the real world.

  ‘My apologies,’ said the young man, a fellow of around my age, dressed in an outfit similar to my own. ‘Could I trouble you for a match?’

  I glanced at the unlit cigarette he held out towards me and patted the pockets of my coat for a light. Anastasia stepped out of my grip as I did so and retreated a little along the path, wrapping her arms around her body to protect herself from the cold as she looked down into the water. I located a small box of matches in my pocket and as the young man took one, I noticed his companion, a young peasant girl, staring at Anastasia. She was around the same age as my darling, no more than sixteen, with pretty features, spoiled only by a noticeable scar which ran along her left cheek from directly beneath her eye for perhaps two inches to a point below her cheekbone. The young man, who was handsome, with thick blond hair and an easy smile, lit his cigarette, smiled and thanked me.

  ‘We’ll all want to sleep tomorrow afternoon,’ he said, glancing out towards the bright horizon.

  ‘Probably,’ I said. ‘I keep thinking I should feel tired already and yet I don’t. The light is playing tricks on me.’

  ‘Last year I stayed up for the entire three days,’ he said, taking a long drag from his cigarette. ‘I was supposed to return to my regiment immediately afterwards, but I slept too long. I was nearly shot for it.’

  ‘You’re a soldier, then?’ I asked.

  ‘Was,’ he said. ‘I got shot in the shoulder and lost the use of this arm.’ He nodded towards his left side. ‘So they let me go.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ I said, smiling.

  ‘Not so lucky,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘I should be there, not here. I want to fight. And you?’ he asked, looking me up and down to reassure himself that I was healthy. ‘You are in the army?’

  ‘On leave,’ I lied. ‘I have to return at the end of the week.’

  He nodded and his expression seemed regretful. ‘I wish you well, then,’ he said, glancing towards Anastasia and smiling. ‘I wish you both well.’

  ‘And you,’ I said.

  ‘Well, enjoy your evening,’ he added, turning to take his lover’s hand, but she was staring at Anastasia with nothing short of awe upon her face, as if Mother Mary herself had descended from heaven to walk among us along the banks of the river. She knew who Anastasia was, of course, that much was obvious. And like most of the moujiks, she considered her to be appointed to her position by God himself. I held my breath, waiting to see whether she would cry out and betray us, but her dignity came to the fore and she shook her head to snap out of the daze, and instead simply reached forward and took Anastasia’s right hand in her own, before sinking to her knees on the wet cobbles and pressing her fingers to it for a moment. I stared at this beautiful young woman, whose face had been terribly injured in who knew what way, pressing her lips against the pale, unblemished hand of the girl I loved, and felt a sudden rush of wonder for where I found myself. She looked up after a moment, and bowed her head.

  ‘May I have your blessing?’ she asked, and Anastasia’s eyes opened wide in surprise.

  ‘My …?’ she began.

  ‘Please, Highness.’

  Anastasia hesitated, but did not move. ‘You have it,’ she said, smiling gently as she leaned forward and embraced the girl. ‘And for what little it is worth, I hope that it brings you peace.’

  The girl smiled and nodded, took her injured soldier’s hand, and they walked on without another word. Anastasia turned to me and smiled, her eyes filled with tears.

  ‘It’s getting cold, Georgy,’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s time to go back.’

  I nodded and took her hand and we returned to the palace in silence, saying nothing further about the conversation we had been engaged in regarding Anastasia’s marriage prospects. We had been born into different lives, it was that simple. We could no sooner change who we were than alter the colour of our eyes.

  We separated as we entered Palace Square with one final, sorrowful kiss, and I made my way towards the doors which would lead to the staircase for my own room. Looking up towards the dark, unlit windows, I noticed a dark figure watching me from the third floor, but as I narrowed my eyes and blinked, trying to make out who was standing there, exhaustion caught up with me at last and the vision seemed to dissolve and disappear as if it had been nothing more than an illusion. I thought no more of it for now and went on my way to bed and to sleep.

  1935

  A MOMENT OF GREAT happiness.

  Zo
ya and I are sitting on our bed in the attic room of a lively Brighton boarding-house, enjoying a week’s holiday, and she has just presented me with a new, finely tailored shirt as a birthday present. It’s a rare thing for us to take a trip like this; our days and weeks and months are always filled with work, responsibilities, anxieties about money, so that extravagances such as vacations usually fall beyond our reach. But Zoya proposed that we leave London and take a short break together, somewhere we could enjoy long, lazy lunches in outdoor cafés without having to watch the clock, somewhere we could stroll along a beach hand in hand while children laughed and played on the pebbles and I had said yes without a moment’s hesitation. Yes, let’s do it. Yes, when can we leave?

  Our trip coincided with my thirty-sixth birthday and that morning I woke with the realization that I had now spent more years away from my family in Kashin than I had ever spent with them, a thought that suffocated my otherwise cheerful mood with sensations of regret and shame. It was not often that I allowed the faces of my parents and sisters to reappear in my mind – I had been a poor son, there was no doubt of that, and an even worse brother – but they were with me that morning, crying out from some dark and distant chamber of my memory, embittered that I had found such unexpected happiness while they … well, I knew not what had become of them, other than a certainty that they were dead.

  ‘I bought it in Harrods,’ Zoya said, biting her lip a little in anticipation as I unwrapped the packaging and examined the gift; it was a shirt of unusual quality, the kind of luxury I would never have afforded for myself but was delighted to receive. ‘You do like it, Georgy, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ I replied, reaching over to kiss her. ‘It’s very beautiful. But it’s too much, really.’

  ‘Please,’ she said, shaking her head, anxious that I would not ruin her own pleasure by listing all the reasons why she should not have spoiled me. ‘I’d never even set foot in Harrods before. It was quite an experience, if I’m honest.’