by Ariel Lawhon
“What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to collect you. It’s time to get ready for your appointment.”
He has pulled the car over and parked it a good twenty feet away. He stands there, scowling.
“My appointment isn’t until ten o’clock. Can’t a woman take a walk and get breakfast in peace?”
“You didn’t leave a note. I was worried.”
“You needn’t be.”
Frederick gives her a tight-lipped smile of reassurance. And then he tries to distract her. “Dominique bought you a new dress. She sent me to find you. She wants to make sure it fits.”
“Is she a seamstress now too? In addition to being a journalist?” Anna hates it when they coddle her. She is old, not senile, but she relents and follows him back to the waiting car.
Moments later Frederick helps her out of the vehicle and shuffles her up to the room where Dominique waits with a smart-looking knee-length print dress. It is cream with small black roses and shiny black buttons up the front.
“I couldn’t help myself!” Dominique says, holding up a pair of pumps and a small hat with a tiny black veil as well.
Dominique Aucléres was assigned to cover Anna’s first trial for Figaro, one of Paris’s most prominent newspapers, in 1958. “The hardest part,” she’d said later, “was writing the facts and not my opinion. I was convinced you were Anastasia from the start.”
Convinced, loyal, and, for a Frenchwoman, surprisingly easy to make friends with. Ten years later, Dominique is still one of Anna’s closest confidantes and insisted on seeing Anna the moment she learned they were coming to Paris. Then, when she heard the reason for their visit, she insisted on tagging along for the appointment as well.
“You didn’t have to buy me a dress.”
“I didn’t, in fact. It belonged to my mother. You’re about the same size. I thought it would look lovely on you. And I hate the idea of it sitting in her closet getting eaten by moths.”
“I didn’t realize she’d passed on. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. She’s very much alive. Mother has run off with some Bohemian to Switzerland. They’re living in a nudist colony near a hot springs, and she’s left me to deal with her belongings. Again.” Dominique offers a weary sigh and blows a piece of hair away from her face. “It is so difficult to raise our parents, no?”
“I’m the wrong person to ask.”
“Ah…of course. I forgot. Now it’s my turn to apologize.” She kisses both of Anna’s cheeks, then tugs at the sleeve of her worn and ragged dress. “Truth be told, I probably would have bought you one anyway. How long have you had this?”
“A long time.”
“Well, we certainly can’t let you go meet with a film producer in this tatty old rag, can we? Appearances are everything.”
Anna has known many women through the years who spouted this mantra, Dominique chief among them. But, perhaps because she is French and cannot help it, Anna isn’t put off when her friend recites it in her throaty, rich voice. Dominique is the classic Frenchwoman. Slender and beautiful and cultured. She is brunette with striking, large brown eyes and a wide smile. She moves with grace and purpose and is one of those women who wears off-the-shoulder sweaters in the dead of winter and who inevitably finds herself in extraordinary circumstances without even trying. At the age of nineteen, she marched into the apartment of famed Austrian novelist Arthur Schnitzler and asked if she could translate all his works into French. The poor man was so taken aback by the request—and, Anna suspects, staggered by her beauty—that he agreed. It is unlikely that Dominique even needs her job at the newspaper because she has held the copyright to Schnitzler’s work in France ever since. Her profile soared after that, with her coverage of Anna’s case for Figaro over the last decade comprising only a small portion of her career.
And so Anna wears the dress and allows Dominique to curl and set her hair. She rejects the use of makeup outright but does submit to wearing a necklace and bracelet. Frederick is impressed, smiling and complimenting her appearance as he leads her to the lobby. She waits a moment while he pulls the car around and she takes one long glance at herself in a mirror hung between two light sconces. Anna has forgotten what it feels like to be pretty, to have the attention of men. And she knows that she isn’t exactly pretty now. Not in the traditional sense. Time and scars and trials have all taken their toll. But she does look nice. Put together, even. And this gives her a bit of needed courage.
* * *
—
Gilbert Prouteau greets them at the door to his studio.
“Come in!” the tall Frenchman bellows, sweeping his arm wide. He has the look of a man who was recently handsome but doesn’t know what to do with himself now that’s he’s turned the corner of bald and portly. He clasps Anna’s small hands in his larger ones and grins, kissing each of her cheeks in that carefree, elegant French way. “I am so glad to finally meet you. And”—he pauses to give her a look of solidarity—“for what it’s worth, I think the Hamburg verdict was a grave miscarriage of justice. That’s why I want to make the film. To set things right in the public eye.”
Chances are she will never see this man again, so she doesn’t bother trying to learn his name. Anna decides he will simply be the Producer. She shakes the one hand that remains around hers. “Thank you. But I must say, I’m surprised you invited me. None of the others asked my permission first.”
The Producer has the good grace to flush a little at this. He clears his throat. “Let’s refer to it as your blessing. It is my hope that the film will be in production soon.”
Of course he has gone ahead anyway. Filmmakers can’t seem to help themselves. “On the phone you referred to it as a documentary.”
“It is. But large parts will be reenactments.” He takes a step back into the large, elegant room. The spacious studio takes up the entire top floor of an office building facing the Avenue des Champs-Élysées in Paris’s 8th Arrondissement. At this height she can see swaths of the entire tree-lined avenue and the imposing Arc de Triomphe at its western end. One entire wall is floor-to-ceiling windows that let in copious amounts of natural light. The floors are wide-planked wood and the walls a bone-colored plaster. “But where are my manners? Please, come in. Look around. We plan to film all the court scenes here.”
Frederick and Dominique follow them into the room and remain quiet as the Producer gives a lengthy tour of the studio and introduces them to a few key staff who work out of the space. After showing them a series of possible set designs the Producer says, “I simply cannot believe they ruled against you.”
“We have already filed an appeal,” Prince Frederick says and casts a sideways glance in Anna’s direction. Her friends keep discussion of this subject to a minimum for fear she will become depressive again. She reached a low point after the court in Hamburg offered its verdict several months earlier. “There is still hope.”
“Good news! The film should be ready by then.” He pats a large stack of papers. “Here is the script. The structure is quite ingenious, I think. We’ve created a fictional premise in which two attorneys argue your case before the World Court at the Hague.” He slaps the pile in excitement. “Vittorio De Sica and Paul Meurisse have already signed on for the roles. Isn’t that fantastic?”
“Yes. This is…bonnes nouvelles,” Dominique says, her voice dripping with suspicion.
The Producer is too wrapped up in his vision to note her tone. “We aim to dramatize your story while keeping a faithful record of the actual witness testimony. When the world sees it they will know how poorly you were treated. They will demand justice. The Mayer testimony in particular is a known perjury.”
Anna stiffens at the mention of the charming Austrian who gleefully upturned her case. “I appreciate your support,” Anna says. It’s her standard, noncommittal answer, the thing she says when she doesn’t know how to recei
ve a kindness.
“Now,” the Producer claps his hands together with a loud crack and the sound echoes off the high ceiling, “I have a surprise for you. Please, come with me to the screening room.”
Frederick and Dominique exchange a concerned look but do not question him. They all follow him to the back of the studio and into a room with thick carpet and eight stuffed, velvet-covered chairs. A large canvas screen covers one wall and a projector sits opposite.
“Have a seat,” the Producer says.
Anna lowers herself slowly into the chair nearest the door. “You said production has not yet begun on the film.”
“It hasn’t. This is something else, my gift to you. Something I found in the archives while doing research. I plan to include it in our film.”
Ours, as though she has any say in the matter.
The Producer’s assistant comes in while everyone else chooses a seat. He fiddles with the projector and soon there is a whirring and clicking behind her and faint images fly onto the screen. It’s only when he turns out the light that Anna sees the grainy black-and-white images that flicker and then come to life. On the screen, Tsar Nicholas II walks into view with Empress Alexandra on his arm. They are laughing soundlessly at someone behind them and moving in that quick, jerky fashion that is common in old newsreel footage. Then Tsarevitch Alexey skips into the frame, a mere toddler, and Anna gasps loudly, her hand going to her heart. She can see Dominique out of the corner of her eye, rising as though she will come to assist Anna. But Frederick puts a hand to her arm and she settles into her chair again. One by one the three oldest Romanov girls enter the frame, and even after all this time, on splotchy film, in black and white, they are breathtaking in their court dresses and wide-brimmed bonnets. They are in their mid-teens, slender and youthful. Each of them is escorted down the tree-lined avenue by a handsome cavalier. The girls are smiling, bright and vivacious, and Anna leans forward as though she could touch them, as though she could step through the frame herself and disappear into the past.
It takes her a moment to state the obvious. “Where am I?” Anna says. “I know I was there.”
No sooner are the words out of her mouth than a little girl runs up behind her sisters, frantic, hair wild, hat blown off and attached only by a ribbon knotted beneath her chin. There appears to be a smudge of dirt on her chin and bruises on her knees. Soundlessly her father laughs, then scoops her up, planting a sloppy kiss on her cheek. The look on little Anastasia Romanov’s face is one of peace and delight. It is the look of a child who is loved and secure and completely free of pain and fear.
When Anna speaks, her voice is clear and calm, without a tremor. “This was the tercentenary of the Romanovs in Moscow.” She pauses for a moment. “I remember everything about that day.”
It is cruel, really, how the Producer set her up. Because seconds later the shot changes to a clip of soldiers storming the Winter Palace. One moment the family laughs together and the next there is revolution.
There is a commotion at the front of the room as Frederick and Dominique chastise the Producer. They are indignant that he would show her this clip without warning or permission. They demand he offer an apology while he insists no wrongdoing. Anna hears all of this but pays it little mind. Because when she stands to leave the room she finds that the Producer’s assistant has been filming her reaction to the footage. This visit was a setup. They lured her here to get a tawdry clip they could add to their ridiculous film. They are charlatans, like all the others.
When her hands stop shaking Anna faces the Producer. “You do not have my permission to use the footage you just shot. Do you understand? Not in your film. Not ever.”
“I think you have misconstrued—”
“I will sign no papers. I will take no part in this. Not today. Not at any point. And if I find out you have violated my wishes you will be contacted directly by my attorneys.”
“Please, I beg you to reconsider—”
Dominique is cursing beneath her breath—an eye-raising amount of profanity from such a pretty mouth—and Frederick looks as though he has eaten something rotten. The two of them are angry and appalled. Ashamed. As though this were their fault somehow. And perhaps it is, Anna thinks; they should have known better. They should not have insisted she come.
“I am tired of being exploited,” Anna says and then walks from the studio.
TEN YEARS EARLIER
The High Court of Hamburg, Germany
March 30, 1958
“I don’t know what else they want!” Anna screams. “Haven’t I given them everything they’ve asked for?”
She feels like a toddler throwing a fit. Still, she cannot help herself. Overcome with exhaustion and fury, Anna grabs the closest thing she can find and throws it at Prince Frederick. He ducks as the small leather-bound journal goes sailing past his head. It hits the wall with a wet clapping sound, then drops to the floor, its pages fluttering open to some diary entry that Anna has abandoned after half a page. Her handwriting is jittery and so is her voice. They’re standing in a sparse conference room in the Twenty-fourth Chamber for Civil Cases in the High Court of Hamburg and Frederick has just told her that the court has asked for more evidence.
She is well over fifty years old, yet he insists on treating her like a child. His voice has the pained, gentle tone of a frustrated parent. “They need more photographs of you as a young child—”
“How, pray tell, am I supposed to get those? They’re in Russia, for God’s sake. With the rest of my family’s things. Assuming they haven’t been burned or stolen or pillaged like everything else.”
She does not tell him about the photo album hidden in her dacha. There is only one other person who knows about its contents, and neither of them can present it as evidence to the courts without jeopardizing her case at large. Judges tend to frown upon withheld evidence.
“They want handwriting specimens,” Frederick continues calmly. “And nearer proof of your relationship to the witnesses. They want every document we have that might give bearing on the case.”
“We gave it all to them. Years and years ago. I wrote pages for them. Even went to all that trouble to have my ear photographed. My ear of all things!” Anna runs out of steam and drops to the nearest chair.
Frederick squats down in front of her. She is so small that they are nearly eye to eye. “You know it was all lost during the war when your lawyer’s office was bombed in Berlin.”
“No. No,” she protests. “There was more. He had more stored at another building.”
“That too was lost.”
“How is that possible?”
“The Central District Court was in the Soviet sector of the city afterwards. Whatever evidence that could have supported your case has long since been destroyed. All of the original exhibits are gone. We have to do this over again. We have no choice. Not if you want this to be over. Not if you want to move on with your life. You do want that, right? Please tell me you want that. Please tell me this isn’t a game to you. We’re all too damn old for games.”
Anna isn’t ready to give up yet. She doesn’t want to go through this whole routine again. “Annette Fallows has everything. All of Edward’s files. He kept meticulous copies. Maybe we can—”
“Stop. Annette hates you. You know this. She hasn’t gotten over what happened.”
“Edward’s death was not my fault! Am I to be blamed for everything?”
“She doesn’t hate you for her father’s death. She hates you because Edward Fallows gave everything he owned—his entire estate—to advance your case and she was left to pay his debts. Annette is only now piecing her life back together.”
It’s been years since Anna allowed herself to feel guilty for the overwhelming sacrifice of her first attorney. She never asked him to spend his fortune in her defense and condemn his wife and daughter to poverty. “Perhaps if I speak wit
h her myself—”
“No. We cannot go to her again. We have to do this the hard way.” Frederick pinches the narrow stretch of bone between his eyes again. He’s been doing this all morning; the bridge of his nose will be bruised if he keeps at it much longer.
Anna snorts. “I didn’t realize there was a way other than hard.”
It is raining in Hamburg, a blistering, angry deluge that lashes the courthouse and makes the wind scream in outrage as it swirls below the eaves. Anna knew she shouldn’t have come. She knew better than to let Frederick talk her into this.
“I want to go home,” she finally says.
“I’ll take you home. But please, come to the courtroom first. At least listen to Pierre Gilliard’s testimony.”
“Why? So I can be tormented by yet another traitor?”
“He’s not a traitor, Anna. He’s old. And he’s confused. He suffered too.”
“I am not Christ. I cannot bear my own suffering, much less his.”
“Then come and learn. His testimony will give us an idea of how this case will go. We’ll know what tactic to try next.”
* * *
—
“Who is that woman in the front row?” Anna whispers, pointing at a gorgeous brunette seated right behind the prosecution. She’s wearing a black cashmere sweater, a pencil skirt, and lipstick the color of crushed raspberries. There’s a notepad on her lap and a devious grin on her face. Even from this distance she looks both formidable and provocative. Ah, to be French, Anna thinks.
They are sitting in the far corner of the upper balcony, partially hidden behind a large granite column. There are only a handful of people on the second level, and none of them pay attention to the small, fine-boned woman and her well-tailored companion. Instead, they’re watching the clamor below. The courtroom is filled with press and busybodies. Scandalmongers and tabloid photographers. European royalty and a pack of distant Romanov relatives led by Dmitri Leuchtenberg. He sits in the second row, looking smug. All of these spectators want to be as close to the action as possible and are crammed into the seats below, shoulder to shoulder. Frederick telegrammed the court a week earlier, letting them know that Anna would not be in attendance. So no one is watching for her. No one notices her at all. It is the only way she can relax enough to focus on the proceedings. Anna hates photographers. She hates cameras pointed at her and the bright, startling snap of a flashbulb. But most of all she hates giving statements to the press. They always want to know how she feels, and she always wants to poke them in the eye with a freshly sharpened pencil.