by Ariel Lawhon
I plop down beneath the tree to watch Joy and Jimmy chasing each other through the garden like puppies. They are covered in leaves and clumps of dirt, and we’ll have to brush them before letting them back in the palace, but it’s worth the trouble considering how it makes me smile. The dogs are rowdy today and they bolt toward the garden gate. The young dimpled guard is stationed there, and I see him lunge for Jimmy and catch him by the collar so he doesn’t run off through the grounds. The guard kneels down and rubs Jimmy’s ears, and then I see him sneak a bit of bread from his pocket and feed it to my dog. The little traitor wags his tail as though they’re friends.
“Just because you like him doesn’t mean I have to,” I mutter, picking at a leaf until it’s shredded in my palm.
I turn my gaze upward, looking into the branches at one pear that show signs of early ripening. I think of Sammi and wish I could go comfort my brother. Mother took him away and put him to bed the moment we left Father’s study. It will likely take him days to recover.
“Would you like me to fetch that pear for you, Tsarevna?” Gleb asks. He follows my gaze to the low-hanging fruit, ready to scramble up the trunk and across the branch.
I shake my head. “No. Let it be. And don’t call me that. I’m not a tsarevna anymore. Haven’t you heard?”
“I have heard nothing that will convince me otherwise.” And with that he offers one of his obnoxious bows.
Gleb is going to be a very handsome man one day and, I suspect, dangerously charming as well. But encouraging him at this age will only make him incorrigible, so I shake my head and roll my eyes and then I look for Jimmy, who is still at the gate seeking affection from the guard. I smile at the sight of Jimmy’s tongue-wagging joy, but when I turn back to Gleb he’s frowning at both the dog and the soldier.
Dr. Botkin sits down beside me, polishing the edge of his spade with an oiled cloth. “This stops it from rusting,” he explains, apropos of nothing.
I don’t bother to tell him that I’ve chucked my spade into the ditch beside the garden and won’t retrieve it until we come back tomorrow. Nor do I tell him that I don’t care one whit if it rusts.
“Gleb,” he says without looking up. His short, capable fingers continue rubbing oil onto the steel in small circular motions.
“Yes, Father?”
“The household staff was told about Kerensky’s decision a short time ago. Most of them are leaving before I send you back to your mother at week’s end. You’ll take the train with any who are left.”
Gleb splutters in disgust, then shakes his fist with righteous indignation. “How can they leave?” His eyebrows clench together in fury, and I think he’s trying, desperately, to think of an impressive insult. After a few seconds he says, “What an orgy of cowardice and stupidity!”
I can’t tell whether Botkin is going to laugh or choke. Mostly I try not to say anything that will get me in trouble later.
“Do you even know what an orgy is?” he asks.
“No,” Gleb says.
Botkin clears his throat and, in the driest, most wooden voice I’ve ever heard, says, “It is a wild gathering in which many people have sex together, often while drunk or under the influence of an opiate.”
“Oh.” Gleb is so instantly red that it looks at if his head might burst into flames.
“Not the definition you expected?”
I didn’t think it possible, but the boy’s face grows even hotter. He staunchly refuses to look at me. “No.”
“Then perhaps think of another way to phrase your outrage.”
Gleb wrinkles his nose in thought and after a moment says, “That is a sickening display of shabby, contemptible disloyalty.”
“Much better. I see that you’ve been minding your vocabulary, though I daresay your assessment is wildly unfair to the staff. Kerensky has ordered them to go.”
“It is cowardly of them to obey.”
“An unfortunate sentiment, considering you’ll be among them.” Botkin sets his spade down and turns to his astonished son.
A firm shake of his head and one quick glance in my direction. “I won’t,” Gleb says.
“You don’t have a choice. It’s no longer safe for you here. You will return to your mother and sister in Petrograd.”
“No. I won’t allow it. You can’t force me.”
Botkin laughs and ruffles his son’s hair. “I can, in fact, if it comes to that. But I appreciate your loyalty, and I’m certain you’d rather have me send you home than Kerensky. He’d be far less gentle about it. Nor would he care for your feelings.”
Gleb’s height suggests that manhood is fast approaching, but he still wrestles with the emotions of a child. He’s only twelve after all. Gleb stomps one foot, hard. “My duty is here.”
“And my duty is to protect you.” Botkin leans over his son and cups the boy’s cheek in his palm. “I would not have you end up like the elephant.”
THREE WEEKS LATER
Alexandrovsky Train Station, Petrograd, Russia
August 1
Kerensky stomps into the formal reception room before dawn and says, “Your train has arrived.”
But he doesn’t lead us out to the courtyard as we expect. Instead we are lined up, single file, and walked through the kitchen and out the side door where four motorcars idle quietly with headlights off. The trucks holding our belongings are nowhere to be seen, having long since been spirited away to the train station. We are hustled into the vehicles, in sets of two Romanovs and two staff, along with various frightened pets. I ride with Maria and Dova in the backseat. Botkin sits up front with the young dimpled guard while my sister grasps my hand and cries when we turn, not toward the palace gates, but onto the lawn and around the house. With the headlights off, I doubt the guard can see much of where he’s going. We creep as inauspiciously as possible through Alexander Park to avoid the crowd at the gates. Word spread during the night that there was more activity than usual at the palace, so three rows of soldiers were sent to fortify the palace gates and hold back the crowd.
“Why are we taking this route?” Botkin asks.
“Kerensky says we’d have to shoot the protestors just to get through,” the guard says. “I’d rather not do that if it’s all the same to you.”
“Nor would I.” Botkin tilts his chin and looks at the boy curiously. “What is your name?”
“Tomas Popov.”
We bounce our way around the park and exit through a service entrance and onto the main road only to find that it is lined on both sides, from the palace to the train station, by hundreds of guards. Only now does Tomas flip on the headlights and I turn away from the window, unable to meet the hostile glares of those soldiers, or the sight of their rifles. If we can simply get through this journey, I tell myself, then we will never have to see them again. Jimmy sits on the floor at my feet, his chin on my knee, eyes round and ears peaked, alert. I find his presence, the great shaggy bulk of him, comforting. Once I look up to find Tomas staring at me in the rearview mirror. He is looking at me, not Maria, and this surprises me so much that I return his glance longer than is appropriate. He turns away first.
When we reach Alexandrovsky Station we find that the train is parked, not at the entrance, but farther down the tracks, near an open field. A small but vocal crowd is gathered on the platform, held back by only a handful of guards. I can hear them shouting and cursing as we pull up beside the train and scramble out of the cars.
I stand beside my brother and wrap my arms around his thin shoulders. He is exhausted and confused, and I brush the hair away from his ears to soothe him. “Don’t worry,” I whisper. “We’ll be able to rest soon.”
“Do svidaniya, Nikolashka-durachok!” The crowd begins to chant from the platform.
Good-bye, Little Nicholas the Fool. It echoes down the tracks, and Father’s face turns to granite.
He is staring, not at the imperial train but at a long, ramshackle set of cars marked RED CROSS MISSION.
“What is this?” he demands. “Where is my train?”
Kerensky shrugs. “You no longer have a train. Or a yacht. Or a home. You have only the mercy I choose to extend you. So collect your family, board this train, and be grateful that I did not send you off in your normal transport. Because you can be sure it would’ve been stopped five miles down the tracks, boarded by your disenfranchised people, and all of you would be shot dead on the spot.”
I should be frightened by these words, having been yanked from bed and shuffled to the train station in the middle of the night. But I, like my father, am simply angry that I am here in the first place.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Father says.
“He’s telling the truth.” A man steps forward to join Kerensky, and I can feel Alexey shrink away at the sight of him. Unnaturally tall. Daunting. His skin is smooth and ageless. But his hair and beard are black and bushy, like one of the Chechen highlanders. He has strange slanted eyes that look as though they belong to an animal. A lit cigar rests in the corner of his mouth, and a red handkerchief hangs limp and macabre from the pocket of his military uniform. He puffs on his cigar and blows the smoke in Father’s face. “I saw the crowds beside the tracks, waiting, as we traveled from Petrograd.”
“This is Evgeny Koblinsky,” Kerensky says, motioning to the bizarre newcomer. “He will accompany you on this trip. His word is law in my absence.”
“We are to be passed off again?”
“You should thank me, Nicholas. There are worse people I could pass you off to.”
Poor Alexey, drained and overwhelmed. I can feel the sob building in his chest. So I hush him, rub his back, and say in a low voice, “Don’t be afraid. Look at him. Who does he remind you of?”
He braves a peek from beneath my arm. “A monster.”
I laugh. He’s gotten the answer right whether he knows it or not. “Yes. But which monster? Think.”
“I don’t know.” Alexey stares at our new escort. His long, gangly arms wave in disagreement, as he argues with Father.
“Do you remember the legends about a peculiar man who travels the forest provoking pilgrims?”
Realization clicks and Alexey looks up at me. “The Leshy?”
I grin. “And what does the Leshy look like?”
Alexey creases his forehead, trying to remember the old folktales our governess read to us. “He’s always smoking or stealing tobacco.” His eyes drift to that cigar and the trailing line of smoke. “His hair is wild and his eyes strange.”
“What’s the last thing? How do you know you’ve found a Leshy in the woods and not just an old man? What does he always wear?”
He smiles weakly. “Something red. Like that kerchief in his pocket.”
“Smart boy. So let’s not worry, okay? He’s just a Leshy. Harmless really. Some people even believe they’re guardians sent to protect the unlucky traveler. Do you remember how to drive one away when you’re tired of it?”
“By praying.”
“Or?”
Alexey giggles and pulls away from me. “Cursing.”
“We can practice cursing on the train, yes? I’ll tell you all of the words that Cook has taught me.”
There are dark circles beneath my brother’s eyes and he looks as though he could be blown over by the slightest wind, but the fear is gone, so I consider the lesson a success. “We’ll call him Leshy. Just the two of us. It will be our joke. Yes?”
Alexey nods, then gathers Joy in his arms. Mollified, he wanders off to join Father beside the tracks.
“You are a very clever girl, Anastasia.” Botkin’s voice, low near my ear. “And a damn good sister.”
I shrug off the compliment. “I don’t like to see him afraid.”
“He’s lucky to have you. They all are.”
“You might be the only one who believes that.”
“They know it whether they admit it or not.” Botkin tugs the end of my braid affectionately. “But let’s keep the cursing to a minimum, yes? At least if your parents are within earshot.”
The whistle blows, loud and urgent. Kerensky looks to the platform in the distance and the growing crowd. He motions us toward the train, urging us to board.
It is my brother who notices the obvious. Alexey scans the compartments and the legion of curious faces peering back at us. “Father,” he asks, “where are we going?”
“They say we are headed to England.”
“Then why are there so many soldiers on this train?”
· PART TWO ·
Friends and Enemies
And, after all, what is a lie? ’Tis but the truth in masquerade.
—LORD BYRON, DON JUAN
· 9 ·
Anna
HANNOVER
1946, 1943
Winterstein, Germany
November 1946
Anna has every intention of cutting the soldier’s throat. He has only to take one step closer and she will lunge. The serrated knife in her hand is meant to be used for slicing bread, but she thinks it will handle the soft skin of a man’s neck easily enough. He is a Bolshevik, an officer in the Red Army, and he has come, like so many others in recent months, to raid the castle. The war has made the soldiers bold and they pass through daily on their way to Berlin taking what they want and leaving chaos behind them. Occasionally it’s food or clothing they seek, but usually their hungers are of a more carnal nature. By the way he stares at the swell of her breasts, Anna doubts this soldier has crept into the kitchen for breakfast. Anna never once thought she would still be facing the threat of rape at this age. Nor did she imagine that she would still be running and hiding.
There are other, safer places where she could have sought refuge, but Anna had so little time when leaving Hannover, what with the bombs falling and the city burning and the earth shaking beneath her feet. She took only what she could carry and showed up here, on the doorstep of a sympathetic acquaintance. A practical choice, though risky and ultimately flawed. She was able to make the journey from Hannover to Winterstein on foot in less than a day, but here she is, staring danger in the face once again.
“Frau,” the soldier says, motioning her with his fingers. His voice is sticky with lust. “Come here.”
There is not the slightest tremble in Anna’s voice when she responds. She speaks clearly and confidently, but in German. Russian is too great a risk with the Red Army forcibly repatriating nationals to the newly formed Soviet Union. Anna has heard the rumors of how Romanov friends and sympathizers were systematically hunted down and assassinated after the revolution. She does not care to think what they would do with a woman who claims to be Grand Duchess Anastasia.
“If I come to you it will be to disembowel you on the threshold,” she says, raising the knife and holding it up so he can see the wicked points of the blade. “Or you can come to me and I will do it here, on the kitchen floor.”
She is stunned to see that her hand does not shake. Not even the slightest tremble.
This man wants her to fear him. He wants her to run and scream and cry, to beg for mercy. When she does none of this, his posture changes. He looks from her face to the blade, back and forth, measuring her resolve, her distance, his chances. The soldier straightens from his subtle, predatory crouch, his face awash with uncertainty. He does not look like a man who wants to bleed out on a cold November morning. Anna can see him decide that she is not worth the trouble. It’s there, on his forehead, as the lines of concentration smooth away, in his hands as they go from clenched to relaxed.
His shoulders drop.
He takes one step backward.
Then another.
And in five seconds he is gone, retreating out the kitchen door and onto the lawn, a dark, hunched form against the sil
ver blanket of frost.
Her hands shake, now, and the knife clatters to the floor. Anna raises her trembling fingers to the door and slides the bolt into place, then watches the soldier disappear into the tree line.
Damn those nightmares that haunt her dreams since Hannover. They are loud with the whistle of falling bombs and they shatter inside her head, keeping sleep at bay almost every night. She curses herself for rising early and making her way downstairs in search of coffee. For crossing the kitchen yard to collect a jug of cream at the springhouse. For leaving the door unlocked behind her. She didn’t consider that the light would draw anything other than moths.
She blows out the lantern on the counter. It was foolish, really, to fight the dreams and leave her bed at all. To come here in the first place. Anna is certain, now more than ever, that she cannot stay in Winterstein. Not with the lingering Soviet occupation and the constant threat of discovery and repatriation. It is time to go.
Anna slips from the kitchen in search of the one working phone in this castle. It is time to send word to Prince Frederick. He’s been in Altenburg for several years, waiting out the war like everyone else. He has done so much to help, and she hates to disturb him again, but Anna must find a place where she can disappear forever.
THREE YEARS EARLIER
Hannover, Germany