by Ariel Lawhon
The thing about being an inconvenience, Anna thinks, is that you’re easy to lock away. And if they call you insane or mentally unstable or, God forbid, crazy, they can toss away the key without feeling a shred of guilt. Annie Burr Jennings did so with alarming ease last July, and Anna suspects that she would not find herself being released from the sanatorium even now if this new doctor—she has not even bothered to acquire his name—had not taken over the institution earlier this month and ordered evaluations on every patient housed here. She owes her emancipation to him.
“This woman is no more insane than I am,” the doctor says, laying his clipboard down on his desk. “She is clearly upset and undeniably paranoid, but she does not belong in an asylum for the mentally insane. You need to make other arrangements for her.” The doctor looks, not at Anna, but at her former host, Annie Burr Jennings, or, as Anna has thought of her since their acquaintance, the Heiress.
“This woman has a long history of psychotic behavior. I should know; she lived with me for eighteen months and frequently blacked out, threw things, and locked herself in her room. And if that is not enough, she even concocted a fraudulent scheme with the intent of embezzling money from my friends. At least three of them fell for it before I caught wind of what was happening,” the Heiress says, also avoiding eye contact with Anna. “Arrangements have been made. Miss Anderson will return to Germany aboard the Deutschland in two days’ time. Her ticket has already been purchased.”
So it has come to this, Anna thinks. Miss Anderson. A demotion. It wasn’t so long ago that the Heiress was calling her Anastasia, or in one of her more generous moments, Your Majesty.
“I do not want to return to Germany,” Anna says. “I want to speak with Gleb Botkin.”
At this pronouncement the Heiress finally turns to address her. Anna is startled to see that the once-friendly gaze is now harder, almost cruel. “Haven’t you spoken with him during your stay?”
“No. He has neither called nor visited, and, as I’m sure you know, I have not been allowed to initiate contact.”
“Hhmmm. A pity. I think it’s safe to assume that if Mr. Botkin has not reached out to you it is because he does not want to.” She turns back to the doctor. “I am disappointed to hear that you do not agree with the diagnosis of my family physician. He believes this woman to be quite insane.”
“And I find it concerning that there is no record of his exam—either physical or psychological—in her file.”
“I believe that exam was performed in his private office. You would have to contact him for those documents.”
The doctor leans back in his chair and shifts his gaze between the two women. “I see. Well, by the time Miss Anderson reached us she was quite sedate. And she has remained so during her stay.”
“A stay I have paid for,” the Heiress says, “at quite significant financial cost.”
“We are not a cheap institution. We are not run by the government. I assume that is why you chose our facility for your friend.”
“I chose it for your reputation and your discretion.” This last word is stressed in such a way that Anna begins to fear there are strings attached to her release. The Heiress’s voice is calm and measured—almost pleasant—as she continues. “As you will see from your records, I have paid over twenty-five thousand dollars for Miss Anderson’s care. At my request she was placed in your best room—a four-room suite, in fact—and given a personal attendant. I have spared no expense for her care and treatment. Wouldn’t you agree?”
His eyes narrow. “Yes.”
“And would you also agree that such an investment in the mental health of a woman, someone who is not my blood relation, during the extreme financial crisis our country is currently experiencing is an act of extraordinary grace and kindness on my part?”
“You are quite benevolent,” he says, dryly.
“And so humble,” Anna adds, but neither of them acknowledges the interruption.
The Heiress leans a bit closer and holds out her withered, jewel-laden hand, palm up. “Then you will understand that I require all of her medical records to be turned over to me immediately.”
“I’m sorry, madam, I cannot—”
“This will of course include every detail of her treatment, a list of any visitors, and, most important, all notes and files acquired from my personal physician.”
“What you are asking is against the law.”
Her hand does not waver. “I’d be happy to bring the law into this if that’s what you want. But before we take such drastic measures, you may want to have your accountant look at your books. I think you will find that I paid more to this institution than any other account this year,” she says, as though the issue of mental health were a simple business transaction. The Heiress lets this settle in before she makes her final, most potent threat. “And you may also want to check the plaque beside the front door of your institution. You will see my father’s name engraved at the top. He was on your board of directors, and he was the largest beneficiary Four Winds has ever had. The trust he set up before his death still keeps the lights on here.”
The doctor looks at Anna and then at the inch-thick file on his desk. “What will happen to this young woman when she is returned to Germany?”
“That is not your concern, Doctor.” She reaches her hand forward again. “The file, please.”
And just like that, any proof Anna might have, anything she might be able to use in her defense later, is surrendered, no doubt to be destroyed by Annie Burr Jennings.
ONE YEAR EARLIER
Private Medical Office, Manhattan
July 25, 1930
Madness is as madness does. And though some would consider it pure insanity to cradle a dead parrot, to Anna this act makes perfect sense. How else will she remember her pair of Januses? She lost the first parrot some time ago, and the second has been crippled ever since. Unable to fly. Destined to spend the rest of its life hopping about the furniture and scooting around the floor. It’s no wonder she stepped on it. When the poor thing got caught in the folds of her heavy robe, Anna never saw it, never felt it until her bare foot snapped its fragile little neck.
A tiny crunch, no more than the breaking of a twig. A final, outraged squawk, and then silence. Anna picked up the bird but its head lolled sideways at a grotesque angle.
“No. No. No.” She shook the bird, but it nodded feebly, insisting that it was, in fact, dead.
This was many hours ago and she has been moaning pitifully ever since. Refusing food and company, ignoring the urgent pounding on her bedroom door. In the quiet, rational part of her mind, Anna knows that she must pull herself together. She knows Janus was only a bird— or, to be exact, a pair of birds. She knows the last few years have taken their toll, and she admits—to herself at least—that she has looked to the bottle far too often to soothe her nerves and her sorrow.
But this death, this small death, is one too many. And that creeping darkness that she has fought for over a decade begins to smother her again. It comes, as it always does, with a blurring at the edge of her vision. A tightness in her chest. Shallow breaths, heavy limbs, and violent, unwanted memories that assault her mind, that fly at her unbidden and unexpected. Tingling in her extremities. Dizziness. And then a sense of panic and fear so deep she begins to scream and pull at her hair.
There is chaos in the penthouse, and then a splintering of her bedroom door. It takes a moment to make sense of the loud, destructive chopping of a pair of fire axes. The heavy North American walnut is no match for the orderlies and their thick trunk-like arms, their single-minded tenacity. Eight whacks, maybe ten—it’s hard to count with the thunder in her ears—and the door rips apart. Anna howls again and scoots backward against the floor until she is pressed against the footboard of her bed, Janus in the crook of her arm.
The men make soothing noises as they ease toward her, and the last t
hing Anna remembers before sliding into total darkness is a white jacket dangling from one large, knuckled hand. It has comically long sleeves and an alarming number of belts and buckles.
* * *
—
“Where am I?” Anna asks when she wakes sometime later. Her voice is heavy and inarticulate. Her tongue feels thick, like a piece of saddle leather, and she can’t form the proper syllables. She sounds drunk. No, she sounds medicated. Even in this semiconscious state she remembers what this feels like. Anna bends her will to the simple act of forming three clear words. “Where. Am. I?”
Somewhere above her a calm male voice answers, “Westchester.”
Anna clears her throat. Tries to force her eyes open, but there is only a murky purple sort of light. Several minutes of confusion and looming panic pass before she realizes there is a mask over her face, thirty seconds more before she feels the restraints. She is pinned to a padded, reclined chair at several points along her body. Ankles. Knees. Waist. Forearms. Chest. Shoulders. Chin. And forehead. Anna can move nothing but her fingers.
As the sedation slowly drains from her bloodstream, she fights the desire to give way to hysteria. Instead she breathes slowly through her nose, in and out, until she is certain she can ask the next question without crying.
“Where am I exactly?”
Again that cool, disinterested voice. This time there is the scratching of pen against paper as well. “My office.”
“Why?”
“You have been given over to my care. After I collect a bit of data I will have you transferred to the Four Winds Sanatorium.”
She wants to ask this brisk, invisible man why she’s being committed, what the medical grounds are for this decision. But none of these words or their tricky syllables make themselves available to the lethargic lump of muscle that is her tongue. All she can manage, again, is “Why?”
“It has been determined that you have disordered nerves.”
Anna cannot remember seeing a doctor or being examined by one, and she tries to tell this man as much, but her argument is garbled and nonsensical even to her when it tumbles slurred and ungainly from her mouth.
“Calm down, Miss Anderson.” A warm hand on her cheek. “We’re going to give you a treatment to calm your nerves. It is experimental, you understand, but we expect it to become the leading cure for depressive disorders such as yours in the coming decade.”
Anna groans and tries to shake her head. She wants water and a bed and a cool, dark room, not whatever cure this man has concocted.
He ignores her protest. “Because this treatment is new, and under study, we will need your permission to administer it.”
“No.” This word comes out perfectly clear, forced between her clenched teeth.
The restraint that binds her forearms is loosened slightly and a pen is set between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand. It is held by this man’s hand, and he guides the pen across a piece of paper she cannot see. She can only hear the scratch, scratch, scratch as he forges her signature.
“There,” he says, with the first hint of inflection in his voice. “Now we can continue. I appreciate your cooperation and can assure you it is not misplaced. Let me explain the procedure I am about to perform.”
Anna tries to lash out with her arms, but the strap is yanked tight again and she gasps as the leather digs into the bare skin of her forearms.
“You are sitting in a device known as a Bergonic chair,” he says. “As you are aware, you are strapped down, but this is for your own safety. We have found that some patients do not respond well to the electric current and they twitch, especially as the voltage is increased.”
Whatever resolve Anna has previously maintained to keep the panic at bay quickly melts at this pronouncement. It is hard to scream and the restraints make it impossible for her to thrash about, so she begins to moan instead.
There is an almost gleeful note to his voice as he continues, “I have found in my research with soldiers during the Great War that electric treatment for psychological disorders is quite effective. I believe you will have a greatly improved disposition going forward.”
“No.”
“Oh, don’t be so negative. I think you—and Miss Jennings—will be quite happy with the results.”
There is a slight tugging at each of her restraints as he checks to make sure they are tight. Then he bends low, near her ear, and says, “Now, this shouldn’t hurt very much. At least not at first. We will begin with a low voltage.”
Like so many of the things doctors have told Anna through the years, it is a lie.
SIX MONTHS EARLIER
Manhattan
January 14, 1930
For us, the nearest relatives of the Tsar’s family, it is very difficult and painful to reconcile ourselves to the fact that not a single member of that family is still alive. How gladly we would like to believe that one of them, at least, had survived the murderous destruction of 1918. We would shower our love on the survivor. But in the case of the lady in question, our sense of duty compels us to state that the story is only a fairy tale. The memory of our dear departed would be tarnished if we allowed this fantastic story to spread and gain credence.
The statement was written almost two years ago, less than twenty-four hours after the death of the Dowager Empress, but it is reprinted in the Evening Post that day, along with a less-than-flattering article about Anna and her claims. The paper is brought to her on a silver tray, along with her lunch, by the Heiress’s butler. In time the declaration will come to be known as the Copenhagen Statement, but that day it simply feels like another slap in the face. By that evening, after Anna has drunk an entire bottle of champagne, it feels like a declaration of war.
Anna refuses to leave her room all afternoon despite repeated summonses by the Heiress. Preparations are under way for an intimate cocktail party to be held in the penthouse that evening, and Anna’s opinion on the flower arrangements is desired. Or so they’ve said every time they’ve pounded on her bedroom door.
Anna knows that, in reality, they are simply trying to draw her out of this lingering melancholy. Trying to coax her into forgetting that infuriating statement. Anna didn’t take the news any better when Gleb showed it to her the first time, and she has no intention of being docile about it now either. Instead of letting them in, she turns up the volume on her phonograph and opens the window. There is a ferocious bite to the mid-January air, but she’s wearing an ankle-length fur coat—albeit with nothing underneath—and the champagne gives her an illusion of warmth. The tip of her nose is soon cold and her cheeks are red, but still she stands there, persisting in the stubborn act of sending puffs of frozen breath out the window.
Behind her the birds squawk in their cage, beating their bright green wings against the thin metal bars. Anna sets the empty champagne bottle on the window ledge and turns to face them.
“I’m sorry, pets, have I not fed you today? I can’t remember.”
The parrots usually eat a seed blend she buys at the exotic pet store down the street, but they also love fruit—apples in particular. At the moment, however, she has nothing in the room but the dried end of a toasted baguette that came with her lunch, and it will have to do for now.
Why she opens the cage before she has closed the window Anna cannot explain. Perhaps the champagne has clouded her senses. Or maybe it’s seeing the Romanov betrayal again. Regardless, the deed is done, and before she has time to react, both parrots launch from their confines and shoot like arrows toward the open window.
“No!” Anna screams. She hears something large drop and then shatter in the other room.
Cursing.
The frantic beat of wings as both parrots fly, perpendicular, toward the window. They are separated by a mere six inches, one above the other.
Someone pounds on her bedroom door. One parrot crashes into the w
indowpane. The other glides smoothly out the window and into the frigid Manhattan skyline. Anna, only a breath behind the birds, lunges toward the open window, arm outstretched to grab the parrot, and knocks the empty champagne bottle from the ledge.
It falls, forever and ever, only to disintegrate on the sidewalk below, twenty feet from the nearest pedestrian, in a cloud of powdered glass. When she lifts her eyes again, the first bird—her Janus—is little more than a green smudge against the horizon, while the second is lying stunned at her feet, one wing bent at an awkward angle.
* * *
—
It is freezing on the rooftop. Anna has no idea how she’s lost her coat and really, she doesn’t care. Janus is out there in the cold somewhere, winging her way across the skyline in the dark, cold dead of night, so why should Anna be warm? Why should she be so lucky?
She screams the bird’s name over and over as she leans across the ledge, her bare skin pressed against the brick and her voice growing hoarser by the moment. An echoing chorus of Januses bounces off the buildings. The bird does not return, but the neighbors scream at her to shut-the-ever-loving-hell-up. Anna does not comply. Compliance is not in her nature.
Another bottle of champagne—the last from her room—sits half empty beside her, and she takes a pull from its long slender neck. The bubbles do nothing to warm her, but they help her forget she’s cold.
She is babbling and incoherent now. Beside herself.
The only reason Anna knows someone has come to collect her is because the coat is dropped over her shoulders, cutting off the wind.
Arms around her like a vise.
The scrape of concrete on her heels as she’s dragged across the roof and toward the door.
Cursing and muttering in her ear.
The Heiress’s enraged shriek somewhere off to the side.
Anna reaches for her bottle but her arm weighs a thousand pounds and will not cooperate.