The Resurrection of the Romanovs

by Greg King

  Dassel’s acceptance of Frau Tchaikovsky as Anastasia may have turned a few heads, but it was her recognition by Tatiana and Gleb Botkin, children of Dr. Eugene Botkin, that renewed interest in her claim and halted what had, until that time, been an increasingly negative progression of opinions. In the summer of 1926, Zenaide Tolstoy approached Tatiana Botkin, expressing guilt over her rejection of the claimant. “I don’t know, I don’t know!” she cried. “It’s horrible. I don’t know what to think. One instant I am absolutely convinced, and then again am plagued with complete doubt. I cannot decide.”45 Tatiana had, of course, heard of the claimant. Her uncle Serge Botkin had marshaled evidence and coordinated efforts to help Frau Tchaikovsky, and she knew of the controversies and disparate claims. But she had never taken the story seriously, believing that Anastasia had perished by the same Bolshevik bullets that had presumably killed her father in Ekaterinburg. Yet Tolstoy seemed genuinely torn, and Tatiana, imbued with a sense of duty toward the martyred imperial family, thought that she owed it to the memory of the Romanovs to meet and judge the claimant for herself.

  Tatiana Botkin at Unterlengenhardt, 1960.

  Tatiana visited Frau Tchaikovsky at Oberstdorf in August 1926. Baron Vassili Osten-Sacken first had to convince Frau Tchaikovsky to receive her caller, though despite her repeated pleas he refused to reveal her identity; if only she would try to guess, he said, he would tell her the name of her caller. Frau Tchaikovsky refused, and finally Osten-Sacken confided that the young woman’s father had served Nicholas II very closely.46 On first seeing her from a distance, Tatiana noted “a resemblance to the manner and movements of the eldest Grand Duchesses, Olga and Tatiana Nikolaievna,” but nothing particularly reminiscent of Anastasia in the claimant.47

  The following morning, according to Osten-Sacken, Frau Tchaikovsky seemed agitated, saying that she knew her visitor’s face but could not recall her name. Had Serge Botkin sent her? Apparently it was an innocent question; even Tatiana thought it unremarkable, writing, “As the Baron acted as my uncle’s deputy and I had arrived in his company, it was only natural that she would make such a connection.”48 But Osten-Sacken was sure Frau Tchaikovsky was dropping broad hints: “You promised to tell me her name if I guessed, and I did not name Botkin in vain,” she told him. “Now who is she?” This was enough for the baron, who broke down and confessed that Dr. Botkin’s daughter Tatiana had come to see her.49

  “When at first I saw her face up close, and particularly her eyes, so blue and filled with light, I immediately recognized Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaievna,” Tatiana later wrote. “She was much thinner, had aged, and was therefore somewhat changed; the mouth has changed and noticeably coarsened, and owing to her thinness her nose seemed more prominent than before.” In continuing her examination, “I noticed more and more the resemblance.” She was struck by “the height, the form, and the color of her hair,” which reminded her of Anastasia, as well as the same “roguish” appearance when she laughed. Above all, she wrote, “her unforgettable blue-gray eyes had exactly the same look in them as when she was a child.”50

  That afternoon, over tea, Frau Tchaikovsky was showing her visitors some images taken at Lugano when Tatiana said, “I also have photographs” and produced a souvenir album of the hospital at Tsarskoye Selo. After a quick glance, the claimant slammed the cover shut, crying, “This I must see alone!” She ran from the room, followed by a worried Tatiana. Then something truly peculiar happened: although Osten-Sacken had already told the claimant her visitor’s name, when Tatiana gently asked, “Do you not know me?” Frau Tchaikovsky insisted that though she recognized the face, she needed to rest before the name would come to her. Unaware of this contradiction, Tatiana later helped her prepare for bed, remarking, “I’ll undress you as my father did when you were ill.”

  “Yes, with measles,” Frau Tchaikovsky replied. It was all the confirmation Tatiana needed, for Dr. Botkin had indeed tended to Anastasia when she was ill with measles at the time of the Revolution. “This fact,” Tatiana insisted, “had not been published and apart from my father I was the only one to know of it.”51 She may have believed this to be true, but Tatiana was wrong. The claimant already owned several books, including the German edition of Gilliard’s memoirs, that recorded Dr. Botkin’s attendance on the grand duchesses during the nights preceding the Revolution; Tchaikovsky had even discussed this fact with Rathlef-Keilmann a year before she met Tatiana.52

  “It is Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaievna,” Tatiana told Osten-Sacken. “I have recognized her. She is the same person I used to know, only the lower half of her face, her mouth, has changed.”53

  After this encounter, Tatiana dispatched a hasty cable to Olga Alexandrovna in Copenhagen, explaining her recognition and begging the grand duchess to reconsider the issue. To this, however, Olga replied, “We took the matter very seriously, as shown by the visits paid by old Volkov, two visits by M. Gilliard and his wife, and those of myself and my husband. . . . Despite our repeated efforts to try to recognize the patient as either Tatiana or Anastasia, we came away quite convinced of the reverse.”54

  Tatiana’s recognition of Frau Tchaikovsky as Anastasia earned her the lasting wrath of many Russian émigrés. Those who sided with Olga Alexandrovna and other opponents took Tatiana’s acceptance of the claimant as a betrayal of the Romanovs and callously accused her of dishonoring their memory and that of her father. Even her own Uncle Peter once dismissed her identification by insisting that at the time of the meeting his niece had been “suffering from the hallucinations common to a pregnant woman.”55 Yet despite the social consequences and persistently mean-spirited insinuations against her, Tatiana remained absolutely convinced that Tchaikovsky was Anastasia. Uniquely, in a case often populated with dubious assertions and exaggerated stories, no one—not even the surviving Romanovs—ever accused Tatiana of duplicity or doubted her obvious sincerity.

  The same, unfortunately, could not be said of Tatiana’s brother Gleb. It was 1925 or 1926, he recalled, when, working as a journalist in New York, he first saw an article on Frau Tchaikovsky. Her features, he said, “vividly reminded me of a mixture of Grand Duchesses Tatiana and Anastasia.” Even so, he noted that there “had always been many rumors” about the escape of one or another member of the imperial family, and that he had “never paid any attention to them, so certain had I been that they had all perished.”56 This certainly, though, changed when Tatiana twice wrote to her brother, assuring him that Frau Tchaikovsky was indeed Anastasia.57 Hoping to clarify this confusing situation, Gleb contacted Gilliard, asking his opinion; the reply, tinged with a bit of hysteria, denounced Frau Tchaikovsky as “a miserable creature” and asserted that the entire affair was “Bolshevik propaganda.”58 In April 1926, the North American Newspaper Alliance in New York agreed to fund Gleb’s trip to Germany to meet the claimant in exchange for a story about the encounter.59

  Gleb Botkin, about 1930.

  When Botkin arrived at Seeon, Frau Tchaikovsky first refused to see him, and he had to content himself with observing her as she passed down a corridor. “I knew the moment I caught sight of Mrs. Tchaikovsky,” Gleb later wrote, “that I was standing before Grand Duchess Anastasia. She was, it is true, changed in body and in features . . . . Her face seemed elongated, and the nose more prominent, perhaps owing to her thinness.” He was particularly struck by “her eyes, which retained their unique, great charm,” adding that “her traits, her voice, inflection, carriage, and certain manners” were all identical to those of Anastasia.60

  Like his sister Tatiana, Gleb honestly admitted that the claimant physically differed from Anastasia in several respects. She was, it is true, the same height, and had the same blue eyes, but he noted his feeling that her face had changed, that her nose was more prominent than that of the grand duchess he had known, and that the shape of her mouth appeared different.61 Nothing suggests Gleb was not sincerely convinced that Frau Tchaikovsky was Anastasia, but aside from her eyes and her height, he based
his recognition on subjective intangibles, including her manner, her carriage, and her voice. Perhaps knowledge that his sister had already done so helped convince Gleb to accept the claimant as genuine.

  Throughout, he recalled, Frau Tchaikovsky spoke German, and he alternated in Russian and in German. She understood Russian and, he said, “substituted one Russian word for a German one” when speaking to him.62 In fact, as Gleb clarified, she had done just that—provided a single Russian word as he was telling a story and forgot the German term for squirrel. “Oh, I know,” the claimant interrupted. “Belka is Eichhörnchen in German.”63 Yet from this single Russian word, Gleb concluded that “not only did she have a perfect command of Russian, but she had also preserved that unique accent which I have never heard outside of her own family.”64 Aside from this single word, though, he admitted, “I do not remember that the Grand Duchess spoke Russian with me or in my presence.”65

  But the most compelling aspect of the encounter once again involved Frau Tchaikovsky’s revelation of startling and intimate information that, her supporters contended, only the real Anastasia would have known. One day, she asked if Gleb had brought “his funny animals.” Everyone but Gleb was puzzled, and he quickly produced a batch of the drawings he had done to illustrate his allegorical stories peopled by animals; some of the images were new, while some dated from his stay in Tobolsk—the same drawings that his father had smuggled into the Governor’s House to amuse Anastasia and Alexei. These the claimant readily identified.66

  Surely this was proof: who but Anastasia would know of the images, or be able to point out which drawings dated to the stay in Tobolsk? Yet the story was not quite as convincing as this account suggests. Contrary to what Gleb wrote in his 1938 book on the case, Frau Tchaikovsky never asked about his “funny animals” or offered any evidence that she was aware of their existence. It was, in fact, Gleb who first raised the issue, as he confirmed on three separate occasions: first to Rathlef-Keilmann, then in his 1931 book on the Romanovs, and finally in his affidavit on the claimant’s case; only later did he change his story.67 He had mentioned the drawings, he said, “to break the ice,” “to ease the conversation.”68 It was not, though, really a question of who first raised the subject but rather the claimant’s apparent ability to detect the older images from those done more recently, “the painful feelings that overwhelmed her” on seeing those done in Tobolsk, and her comment “You did them then, in Siberia” that seemed so powerful.69 It has been suggested that she simply guessed which pictures had been done in Siberia, as “at least some” bore dates at the bottom.70 This is unlikely, as very few of the drawings were dated.71 For those who did not believe that Frau Tchaikovsky was Anastasia, though, there was a simpler possibility: that when looking through the drawings the claimant may simply have made some vague comment, a general remark about Siberia, that the impressionable Botkin interpreted in a way most favorable to the idea that she was the grand duchess.

  This seems possible, especially given Botkin’s somewhat questionable assertions, willingness to dismiss contrary evidence, and alterations to his stories—facts that did nothing to enhance his reputation with the émigré community. Where his sister Tatiana was merely scorned over the case, Gleb took an overt pride in the numerous enemies he made; he even accused his sister of treachery. To Gleb, everyone who had met and rejected Frau Tchaikovsky as Anastasia was guilty of deceit, of denying a surviving grand duchess her name and identity. His was a mystical rather than a practical nature, and it allowed him to embrace such charges in the service of what he believed was a just cause. He cast himself in the role of champion, and Frau Tchaikovsky never had a more convinced—and ultimately damaging—supporter than the man who believed that in aiding her he was continuing his father’s service to the imperial family.

  13

  “A Gruesome Impression”

  By the beginning of 1928, and after nearly a decade of intrigue, Frau Tchaikovsky’s claim to be Anastasia had grown into a confusing enigma. The previous year, much against the claimant’s wishes, Rathlef-Keilmann published a series of articles on the case: for the first time, the public read of the controversies over recognitions and denunciations, scars and languages, memories and manners. It was a tragic fairy tale come to life, replete with royal intrigue and a compelling air of mystery. In Berlin the claimant’s haunted face stared from newspapers and magazines arguing and analyzing her case; and it was not just Berlin that followed her tale with rapt attention—all of Germany seemed fascinated, along with the rest of Europe and even America.1

  Intrigue seemed inseparable from the story as it continued to develop. Opinions and assertions hardened on both sides amid a constant swell of rumor and conflicting reports. The newspaper headlines chronicling the case were remarkably consistent if only in their inconsistency: one day, they announced that Frau Tchaikovsky had been exposed as a Bolshevik agent; the next, that she had “confessed” to being a Romanian actress; one month, she had been “unmasked” as a Polish factory worker; the next, she was said to be the fiancée of a well-known Baltic gangster.2 There were threats of lawsuits, retractions, and demands that Frau Tchaikovsky be arrested. Faced with this growing uncertainty, Gleb Botkin thought it best that the claimant leave Europe. A New York socialite named Margharita Derfelden, whose late husband had served in the dowager empress’s personal escort, contacted Botkin after he returned from Seeon; she also was friendly with Princess Xenia Georgievna, the real Anastasia’s second cousin, who lived on Long Island, and eventually arranged a meeting so that Botkin could inform her of the case.3

  Anna Anderson, dressed in her new winter white wardrobe, in America, 1928.

  Xenia Georgievna’s uncle Prince Christopher of Greece happened to be present at her Long Island estate Kenwood when Botkin arrived and unraveled his tale of having recognized the claimant as Anastasia. Botkin’s “sincerity,” wrote the prince, “was obvious as he described his visit to her.” After hearing this story, Xenia Georgievna “burst into tears” and suddenly exclaimed, “We must bring her over to America! I will pay all the expenses and she can live with me!”4 “I thought that if I took her in,” Xenia Georgievna later said of the claimant, “publicity surrounding the case could be avoided. This seemed so simple to me, and I was certain that when I was sure in my own mind I could then approach important members of my family.” Above all, she declared, “I felt if she was separated from people of doubtful intent who were accused of suggesting memories and facts to her that I would be able to obtain a true picture of her personality and identity. If she was indeed an impostor, it would save my family much unpleasantness, and if she really was Anastasia, it was terrible to think that nothing was being done for her.”5

  On Saturday, January 28, 1928, Frau Tchaikovsky left Seeon, armed with an expensive new winter wardrobe in white. “There is a universal feeling of compassion for poor little Princess Xenia,” wrote Faith Lavington, “who has no idea what she has landed herself into.”6 She traveled to Cherbourg to board the liner Berengaria for New York, accompanied by Agnes Gallagher, Scottish nanny to Princess Xenia’s daughter Nancy. During their stop in Paris, Gallagher recalled, the claimant had ordered breakfast for them both, and in French—the first recorded instance that she possessed any familiarity with the language. Gallagher spoke no French herself, so had no idea what Frau Tchaikovsky had actually said, though a waiter duly delivered breakfast to their table. But it was an exception, an aberration, not to be repeated for another three decades; in fact, as Gallagher recalled, she spoke English with the claimant throughout the trip. Not that Frau Tchaikovsky answered in kind, for she continued to speak only German. Eventually, necessity resulted in “increasing fluency”; by the time they reached New York, said Gallagher, Frau Tchaikovsky “was talking English perfectly.”7

  The Berengaria steamed into New York Harbor on February 9, greeted by a curious and enthusiastic mob, prying newsreels, exploding flashes from cameras, and the shouted questions of more than fifty reporters who cro
wded the Thirteenth Street Pier as the liner slowly drew near, all hoping for a glimpse of the young woman who just might be the only surviving daughter of Russia’s last tsar. Chaotic as the scene was, it was somehow entirely fitting to this tangled tale and its relocation to the New World, amid rumors that “Anastasia” would soon be off to Hollywood to star in a motion picture based on her story.8 Princess Xenia Georgievna was on holiday in the West Indies when the claimant arrived, so Frau Tchaikovsky temporarily stayed as the guest of elderly New York socialite and Standard Oil heiress Annie Burr Jennings at her luxurious apartment on East Seventieth Street, attending cocktail parties and being feted by the city’s elite.9 New York, with its congested streets and modern skyscrapers, was an entirely new universe, one far removed from the tranquility of Seeon, yet Frau Tchaikovsky found it all fascinating. “For two weeks,” she recalled, “the newspapers talked about me,” an indication that she was soon caught up in the excitement surrounding her visit.10 The New York Herald Tribune rather appropriately summed up the enigmatic nature of the tale by writing, “Historians and enthusiasts produce their mountains of proof; but one never really knows, and one is never quite sure that one would want to.”11

  After a few weeks, Princess Xenia Georgievna returned from holiday and the claimant finally took up residence at Kenwood, her sprawling estate at Oyster Bay on Long Island. Born in 1903, Xenia Georgievna had only occasionally seen Anastasia, most often in the Crimea when they were both children.12 Along with her mother and elder sister Nina, Xenia left Russia in 1914 to live in England and thus escaped the Revolution; her father, Grand Duke George Mikhailovich, was not as lucky, being executed by the Bolsheviks. In 1921, Xenia wed William Leeds, son of widowed American gilded age socialite Nancy Leeds, who, in a confusing twist, had the previous year married Xenia’s uncle Prince Christopher of Greece.