by Ariel Lawhon
* * *
—
It is nearing sunset when Viktor Zborovsky, captain of the Imperial Guard, kneels before Mother and kisses her hand. He is a great, tall man with kind brown eyes and a beard so white that I believed him to be Ded Moroz—or Grandfather Frost—for an entire decade.
“I am so sorry, Tsarina. Alexander Kerensky has ordered the Imperial Guard to stand down. If we refuse, we will all be shot for treason.”
Kerensky. This name is familiar, but I have little reason to place it. Alexander Kerensky is in the government, and Father runs the government, and that’s all I have ever cared to learn about political structure. Now every name and rank and title suddenly matters, and I find myself struggling to keep them all straight beyond the general categories of “for us” and “against us.” Kerensky, I suspect, falls in the latter.
Mother gives Viktor a gracious nod. “Do not fight. There is no point.”
“You are kinder to us than we deserve.” He rises from her feet and sits across from her at the fireplace. “The entire combined regiment will be sent back to Petrograd tonight. We’re being replaced with three hundred troops of the First Rifles, all of them under Kerensky’s command.”
“And what of us? What do they intend?”
“I am told that once the tsar arrives you will all be sent to Murmansk where a British cruiser will carry you to England.”
“I’d hoped for Crimea,” Mother whispers.
“I think that is more than anyone can hope for, under the circumstances.” Viktor takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. He fiddles with the brass buttons on his jacket for a moment, then says, “It pains me to leave you unprotected. I don’t like the whispers coming from Petrograd.”
“Nicholas will be here soon. Everything will be fine once we’re all together again. Please. Don’t create trouble for yourself or your men. I don’t want anyone’s son sent before a firing squad on our account.”
“The Guard asked me to pass along their sentiments. They remain loyal in their hearts. Please do not judge them for leaving.”
“I judge no one other than those cadets from Stavka you brought in to play with Alexey last month. One of them infected him with the measles, and now Olga and Tatiana are ill as well.” The words are harsh but she says them with a smile.
Viktor Zborovsky looks to Mother for absolution and she grants it in her own way, rising from her chair beside the fire and crossing to a small sideboard where she chooses a hand-painted icon of Saint Anna of Kashin—holy protector of women—and places it in his hands. “Take this as a sign of my gratitude,” she says, and then whispers so low that I almost don’t hear, “You know what to do with it.”
Viktor wraps the icon in his kerchief and tucks it inside his coat. “They let me in through the main entrance. Everything else, apart from a side door in the kitchen, has been locked and sealed. Guards are stationed at all the doors, and the first-floor windows are nailed shut. Anyone in your court who wishes to leave will have to go through the main entrance and they will be required to give their names and their relationship to your household. All the information given will be recorded. I’m sorry for that. There is nothing I can do.”
“You have done enough. Take your men to safety.”
Mother and I stand at the window once again, more aware than ever of how completely we have been separated from everything on the other side of the wall. We watch as Viktor gathers the men of the Imperial Guard and marches them from the palace in orderly ranks. We watch as our beloved soldiers and friends are replaced by three hundred strangers who are loyal to a regime that hates us.
“What did you put in that icon, Mother?”
She smiles. “Oh, you are a clever girl.”
“It wasn’t just a gift, was it?”
“No. It was a message.”
“What sort?”
“The sort I hope we do not need.”
A disconcerting silence falls between us again as the soldiers of the First Rifles are being ordered about in the courtyard.
After a moment I say, “At least one good thing came of this.”
“Is that so?”
“We are going to England.”
“Are we?”
“You don’t believe him?”
Mother motions to the cobblestone courtyard below where an artillery gun is being wheeled across the stones and aimed toward the house. And there behind it stand one hundred men and their wall of bayonets.
“I suspect that part was a lie,” she says.
· 3 ·
Anna
DEPARTURE
1968
Neuenbürg, Germany
August
Anna wakes in the hospital. She knows immediately that she has been drugged because she has to pull herself up and out of the fog, to work at keeping her eyes open and her mind clear. This is an old, unpleasant, and unwelcome sensation. The difference this time is that she comes to, not in an asylum but in a hospital. There is no screaming. No crying. It smells of antiseptic instead of urine. And she is in a room by herself instead of in an open ward. It is as though she’s surfacing headfirst from the bottom of a deep, dark pool. Anna can think before she can move her limbs; the result is a brief, suffocating panic in which she fears she is paralyzed. But within moments the rest of her body begins to cooperate and she is once again able to wiggle fingers and toes.
Anna feels the IV in the back of her left hand. The site is stiff and sore; she peels off the tape and pulls the needle from her skin. There is a brief, cool, bizarre feeling as it slips out of her vein, like someone has drawn a sliver of ice from beneath her skin.
Two bags hang from the stand beside her bed, one large and filled with glucose, and the other small and empty. Anna guesses the latter to be a sedative.
Her clothes are folded in neat little rectangles on the chair beside the bed, her shoes perched on top. The hospital gown she wears is clean and white and buttons up the back. They’ve removed her undergarments as well, which means they’ve seen the worst of her scars. This violation of her privacy never gets easier. It is bad enough that the eyes of strangers are always drawn to the thin, silvery lines at her temple and collarbones. But those are small and curious compared to the jagged, puckered scars on her torso and thighs. Her visible scars suggest there might be an interesting story involved. But the ones hidden beneath her clothes tell the grisly truth of what happened to her all those years ago. It is why she does not willingly allow others to see her naked. There is simply no way to explain. And she cannot tolerate the pity that comes with their discovery.
Anna swings her feet lightly over the side of the bed and places them on the cold floor. She tests her balance. And when she’s certain that the drugs have faded from her system, she stands. She is clothed in moments, each article jerked onto her thin frame with little attention paid to tags and buttons or concern for neatness. She cares only about having her armor in place once again. So when a nurse enters several minutes later, she finds Anna standing at the window, arms crossed, as though prepared for battle.
“You’re awake!” The nurse is young and plain but absurdly cheerful.
“Where am I?” Anna demands.
“The district hospital at Neuenbürg.”
“Why?”
“They found you unconscious and brought you here.”
“They?”
“The paramedics. You were on the floor, unresponsive.”
“No,” Anna says, “they drugged me.”
The nurse hesitates. Then smiles. It’s meant to be a reassuring gesture. “Only because you resisted.”
“Who wouldn’t resist being drugged?”
“You resisted coming here.” Now a tight-lipped smirk.
“How could I do such a thing if I was unconscious?”
Anna knows what she looks like, a somewhat senile
and helpless old woman in her early seventies. But this young nurse has just realized the incongruence between her appearance and her intellect and is adjusting accordingly. This time the smile she offers Anna is one of concession.
“Would you like me to fetch the doctor? I’m sure you have questions.”
“Yes.”
If Anna had a franc for every doctor she has seen over the years, for every unwanted examination, and every question evaded, she would be a very wealthy woman. In the early years, the exams sent her into a feral panic—episodes, the doctors called them—but it has been decades since that happened. She is no longer afraid of doctors. They are all the same to her at this point. Anna doesn’t even bother asking the name of this one; she glares at him when he enters the small, sterile room.
“I would like to be taken home.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” He sits on the chair recently occupied by her clothing. “You need rest and care.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“The real reason you’re keeping me here. What is it?”
“There is no other reason. You’ve been ill.”
She glances out the window. Looks at the sky. “How long have I been here?”
A long pause. “Three days.”
There is an immediate uptick in her pulse. A rage begins to settle in her core. “You’ve kept me drugged for three days?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. He is wise, in the end, not to answer her question at all.
Anna does not argue or interrogate him. She stands very quiet and straight and still. This unexpected silence does exactly what she intends. The doctor begins to fidget.
“Your heart—”
“Is perfectly healthy.”
“We were concerned—”
“Needlessly. Why am I here?”
Seeing no way around it, he admits the truth. “Your dacha is being cleaned.”
It is interesting that he uses the word dacha, the Russian word for “cottage.” Perhaps this is some attempt at sympathy? A way to ingratiate himself or to acknowledge her identity? It doesn’t matter. She would have preferred a diagnosis of cancer to this. Anything, really. While she has been sedated in this hospital, strangers have been rummaging through her things. Looking at years’ worth of papers and documents and legal filings. They can see anything. They can take anything.
Sometimes rage is hot and explosive. But other times it is cool and sharp and vicious, and she directs the pointed end of it directly at this idiot doctor. “You will release me from this facility,” she says. “You will arrange immediate transportation for my return to Unterlengenhardt. And you will not, under any circumstances, release details of my condition or my stay to anyone.”
“This is a mistake. You really should—”
“I am not here under psychiatric observation, correct?” Noting the slight shake of his head, she continues, “Nor do I have any pressing health issues. This is my decision. You are obligated by law to release me.”
He offers bristling acknowledgment that she is, in fact, right.
“You know who I am?”
“Yes, Fräulein Anderson.”
Anderson. It’s not her real name, of course, merely one she had to assume in order to leave Germany forty years ago. And yet it sticks, as do the recriminations that come along with it. “Then you know that I have excellent attorneys?”
He nods.
“Good. Prepare my release papers immediately.”
* * *
—
Unterlengenhardt has been Anna’s home for decades, and even though she doesn’t love it the way she loves Wasserburg or Paris, it is familiar and comfortable. A soft landing place. And while she has never claimed to be a good housekeeper—or shown interest in being one for that matter—she does realize that others find her clutter alarming. They call it hoarding and chaos. Sometimes they use other, more offensive words. But what they do not understand is that it gives her the ability to remain invisible and to hide what she does not want seen. The boxes and piles and stacks distract the relentless stream of visitors from noticing things she would rather keep hidden. A photo album filled with pictures of the imperial family. An ivory chess set. A pen knife with a golden crest. And the small hand-painted icon of Saint Anna of Kashin.
Mainly, though, people take issue with the cats. There are so many—half of them identical, long-haired, and bright orange, as though they’ve sprung right out of a malfunctioning copy machine. They breed faster than Anna can control. There are always more kittens than she can find homes for. And, yes, there is a certain…odor, inherent to such a collection. But it’s not as though she lives in an apartment in Manhattan—at least not anymore. And when she did, all she had were the birds. She’s not a fool, for God’s sake. Anna lives in a small cottage outside a remote village on the edge of the Black Forest. Who cares if her animals run rampant?
The neighbors, apparently. And the town council. She has been thumbing her nose at them for years, insisting that they have no say in how she keeps her house or cares for her pets. Now she can see they’ve had their vengeance at last. Anna can tolerate the fact that Prince Frederick has had her home cleared of rubbish (he left a note apologizing for the necessity), but she cannot forgive him for allowing the town to gas and cremate her animals. Sixty-two cats—she knew each and every one of their names—and four dogs. Murdered. Gone. Euthanized and turned to ashes.
At first, when Anna saw the burn pile behind the house she assumed that was where they discarded the trash. But she only realized its true purpose when she found the charred collar.
Anna raised Baby from a puppy, and now all that is left of him is a bit of burnt leather and a crumpled metal tag with his name. Frederick could have saved Baby. He could have made this one exception. But he didn’t, and Anna will never forgive him for it.
* * *
—
Anna says good-bye to no one. Certainly not Frederick. She simply makes a phone call.
“I am ready. Come get me.” This has always been part of the plan, but what has happened here over the last several days has forced her to move more quickly. When there is a long pause on the other end, Anna realizes that she has not bothered with pleasantries or given her name. After a moment she adds, “This is Anna.”
“Yes. I gathered that.” The man clears his throat. “It was my impression that you didn’t want to leave for a few more months, that you had other plans.”
“They have ransacked my house and killed my animals.”
A curse and then, “Bastards.”
“That is a far too gentle word.” She clenches her fist, then releases it, flexing the fingers wide. “When can I expect you?”
“An hour. Maybe less.”
“I’ll be waiting at the road.”
Anna grabs a pile of rumpled clothing, giving little thought to what she stuffs in the leather valise. Apart from that she takes only the chess set, her pen knife, the photo album, and the icon. Inside the hollow statue is a set of carefully rolled documents—some legal, some forged. For all the accusations that she is slovenly, Anna can find exactly what she needs when she needs it. She tucks the items neatly inside her bag, then turns her back on the cottage that has been her home for twenty-two years.
The driveway is long and winding, and she staggers under the weight of her valise. She is a small woman, grown weak with age, but her anger pushes her forward, one indignant step at a time. Anna is out of breath and red-faced by the time she shuffles to a stop beside the mailbox and plops down on a stump, exhausted. She doesn’t have to wait long. Faster than promised, he soon slows to a stop beside her in a government-issue vehicle. The man who steps out is tall and dark and wears an official-looking suit. He opens the door for her, then takes her valise and sets it in the trunk of the car.
“Thank you, Tartar.”
>
He slides behind the wheel and looks at her in the rearview mirror. “Why do you call me that? I’ve always meant to ask.”
Anna thinks for a moment, then laughs. Her first real laugh since waking up in the hospital at Neuenbürg. “You know, I can’t remember.”
It’s a lie, of course. Anna does not forget. Her memory is as sound and as solid as a gun safe. And just as impenetrable. But she can’t very well tell this man that she gave him the nickname because she once watched him eat a steak so rare that a puddle of blood collected on his plate. It reminded her of beef tartare. Tartare became Tartar, and that has been his name ever since. Nor does Anna tell him that she has labeled people for as long as she can remember, given them monikers as both a way to remember all these names and faces that have been forced upon her through the decades, and a means of reminding herself of their true nature in case she’s tempted to lower her defenses. And it has worked. The Heiress and the Duck and the Private Investigator are proof of this. Tartar is just one in a long list of bynames. He might be loyal, but she does not want to forget that he is a man with a taste for blood.
“Are you hungry?” he asks after they’ve driven a few miles. “It will take us several hours to drive to Frankfurt. We can stop and eat on the way.”
“I’m fine for now. Just drive. I want to leave this place.”
“Trust me, Tsarevna, you’ll be in America before they even know you’ve left.”
* * *
—
Tartar hands her the visa and plane ticket only once they’ve reached the airport. “You will fly from Frankfurt to Dulles,” he says. “You will have a two-hour layover in Washington, but you mustn’t leave the airport. You have no time to sightsee. None whatsoever. I know how you are with gardens and monuments, but you’ll have to resist this time. You can come back later. Just go directly to your gate and wait for your flight to Charlottesville. Gleb will meet you at the gate.”