I Was Anastasia

by Ariel Lawhon

  “Take her,” Semyon says to one of the guards behind him. And just like that, as if she were some discarded piece of luggage, he hands her off and I watch as my sister is dragged down the hall to some compartment out of sight. She thrashes and screams but it does no good. Seconds later a door opens and a group of unseen men cheer her arrival.

  Semyon turns to the other guard, face still shrouded in darkness, and points at me. “You can have that one. I want her sister.”

  He has always wanted Olga. That much has been clear since he painted the graffiti on the garden wall at Alexander Palace. He has wanted her and has waited for his opportunity. Tormented her. Mocked her. Semyon has molested her with his gaze a hundred times, and those eyes burn bright now, as he steps toward her bunk. He’s been patient. He’s been shrewd. This is why he ingratiated himself with Yakov and why he dismissed Leshy. He has finally manufactured the chance to put his fantasy into action.

  I hate myself for staying frozen and terrified as he reaches up and pulls Olga from her bunk. I hate how thin and feeble her arms look as they hit him. How perfectly useless they are. I hate myself for not grabbing my paper knife and slashing at his arrogant, cruel, hideous face. And I hate her screams because I cannot make them stop. They echo those of Tatiana down the hall, growing louder and more frantic by the second. But mostly I hate Semyon. Hate him like I have hated no one before. When Semyon cannot get a decent hold on Olga’s arms he hooks an arm around her chest, one hand gripping her breast, and drags her from the compartment while she twists and writhes and screams.

  In the chaos I’ve forgotten Jimmy. Forgotten that bulwark of canine fury between the door and me. He isn’t barking. He doesn’t need to. Jimmy’s entire body quivers with rage, as that last guard takes one tentative step, and then another, toward me.

  · PART THREE ·

  This Too Shall Pass

  The great enemy of the truth is very often not the lie—deliberate, contrived, and dishonest—but the myth—persistent, persuasive, and unrealistic.

  —JOHN F. KENNEDY

  · 23 ·

  Anna

  FRIENDS AT LAST

  1925, 1922

  Romanisches Café, Berlin

  January 1925

  “Thank you so much for getting me out of that house,” Anna says. “I couldn’t take it any longer.”

  “I don’t know how you’ve managed this long. Three years with Maria von Kleist would drive anyone to distraction. That woman is”—Tanya waves her hand around in a circle, searching for the right word—“devious.”

  “Oh, look at you, being polite this morning. I was going to call her a Harpy.” Maria is the wife of Baron von Kleist and together they are her benefactors. Russian émigrés deeply loyal to the old regime. Generous but meddlesome. Anna is grateful for the home, but sometimes it’s all a bit much.

  “You know, the Harpy is a mythical creature I’ve never really understood.” Tanya takes off her fur-lined cap and shakes the snowflakes from her hair. “Half woman. Half bird. Screechy. Smelly. Bosoms hanging out. Clearly invented by some impotent man hell-bent on subjugating his wife.”

  And this is why Anna has grown fond of Tanya Botkin. She has opinions. And she speaks them aloud. Frequently. And not only this, but she is funny and sure of herself and has an utter disregard for her own reputation. She is refreshing. Tanya can also be counted on in a pinch to rescue Anna from the confines of the Baron’s drawing room and his prim, scheming wife.

  It’s snowing in Berlin, but everyone knows this is the preamble to a ferocious blizzard. Before long the entire city will be locked indoors. But for now, the flakes are coming down like cotton balls, thick and puffy. They stick to the street and the lampposts and the cars parked outside the café. The snow is the only reason they could get a table. The Romanisches Café is known for its eccentric clientele. Artists and musicians and political dissenters, who gather for coffee in the morning, beer in the afternoon, and schnapps at night. It’s exactly the sort of place Tanya would like, and it is, with few exceptions, filled to overflowing. Apparently the artsy types don’t care for inclement weather. Tanya has secured them a coveted seat by the window without any trouble.

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about Maria von Kleist if I were you,” Tanya says. She takes a sip of her lager and then licks froth from her bottom lip. “She’s all bark and no bite.”

  “That’s just it. She doesn’t bark. Ever. She watches and listens and then slips off to whisper in her husband’s ear. I feel like I’m being kept out of some big secret. It makes me nervous.”

  Tanya waves this observation away and then peels off her heavy wool coat. “Maria imagines herself the puppet master in that relationship. If she were a smarter woman she would realize that the Baron does what he wants. Besides, you won’t be with them much longer regardless. Gleb has found someone sympathetic to your cause. You’ll be moving to Bavaria soon.”

  “Bavaria?”

  “Castle Seeon to be exact. It’s gorgeous. You’ll love it.” Tanya looks flushed now, suddenly nervous. She takes a deep breath and pulls two small packages from a deep pocket inside her coat and sets them on the table. “I have something for you.”

  “What is this?” The packages are wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

  Tanya pushes them across the table. “Go on. Don’t be shy.”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “Do I need an occasion to give my friend a gift?”

  “I don’t have anything for you.”

  “Oh, good grief. It’s not Christmas. Besides, these belong to you anyway. I thought it was time you had them back.”

  Now Anna is truly curious. “Which should I open first?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  The larger package is thin and about eight inches square. She pulls one end of the string and it unravels easily. Inside is a photo album with a cracked leather cover. She doesn’t look at Tanya as she lifts the lid. There are thirty stiff cardboard pages inside, each page covered front and back with black-and-white photographs. Anna sets her finger lightly on the first picture. Five little faces stare back at her. Four dark-haired, light-eyed girls and one chubby-cheeked baby boy. Slowly, carefully, Anna turns the pages, realization dawning. Each is filled with small moments of a private life. Amateur photographs taken by the Romanov family and their friends. These pages give quiet glimpses of a loving, tight-knit family and their closest friends. Gleb and Tanya are sprinkled across the pages as well, usually in the arms of their father. Beneath each picture is written names, dates, and sparse details in a tiny, precise script.

  Anna tries to speak but chokes on her own voice.

  “I have kept it ever since you gave it to my father in Tobolsk. Gleb and I would look at it sometimes when we thought you”—she clears her voice—“when everything happened. I wanted you to have it back. I know it hurts to see their faces. But I think it would probably hurt worse to forget them.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Don’t say anything. Just take it. Please. You gave it to me once and it brought great comfort. I hope it does the same for you.” Tanya nudges the long, slender package closer to Anna. “Open this one too.”

  She obeys because she does not know what else to do. The simple act of pulling string and ripping paper grounds her to this moment and she is able to keep the other, overwhelming emotions at bay. Tanya does not know, cannot know the importance of what she has just given her.

  The paper knife is heavy and ornate. It has a silver blade and a mother-of-pearl handle. Anna runs her hand over the embossed emblem of Empress Alexandra. She looks at Tanya again, speechless.

  “Gilliard gave it to me…afterward,” she says. “He told me how he always regretted taking it from you at the train station. He said he used to lie awake at night and wonder if he’d robbed you of your only means of protection. Not that a pape
r knife is much of a defense.” Tanya looks up, apologetic—this is not a thing they openly discuss—and her eyes are wet. She shrugs. “He said he was sorry. For everything. For being so hard on you in the classroom. And for not insisting they let him follow you into Ekaterinburg. He has never forgiven himself.”

  THREE YEARS EARLIER

  Borough of Nettelbeckstraße, Berlin

  June 6, 1922

  There is a gentle knock at the door and Anna shoves the hand mirror beneath her coverlet. She’s sitting up in the massive bed, alternately nibbling at a French roll and inspecting her new hairstyle. The Kleists insist on having their maid serve her breakfast in bed every morning. At first she found this strange and unnecessary, but she’s grown quite fond of the ritual in the week that she has lived with them. It gives her a few moments alone before being forced to spend the day with her benefactors. They love nothing more than talking and shopping and sightseeing. Anna finds it exhausting but suspects they’ve stayed so busy because they don’t really know what to do with her. Regardless, she has become familiar with Nettelbeckstraße and the surrounding areas. She now knows where to go if she needs to leave.

  If. Funny how she’s gone from must to if in a mere seven days. Anna isn’t stupid. She knows this newfound comfort has weakened her resolve. And why not? she argues with herself. It’s been a very long time since she had any comfort to speak of. Why shouldn’t she enjoy a warm bed and then breakfast the next morning? This new haircut, however, is a strange development. Anna has never worn her hair short, can’t remember a time that it didn’t drape well past her shoulders. Yet the Baron’s wife swept into her room the day before and announced that she’d procured an appointment with Monsieur Antoine and that Anna should put on her best dress and come quickly. And so began a surreal visit with a Polish hairdresser who went by a French name and was in Germany for only three more days before returning to America. Anna wasn’t sure how Maria von Kleist appropriated one of his three available appointments, but she did know that the haircut cost five hundred marks—a detail she attributed to her newfound penchant for eavesdropping. Maria hadn’t been so much complaining when she told her husband the cost, as adding it to Anna’s ever-growing tab.

  After an hour in Monsieur Antoine’s chair, her typically lank dark hair rested in thick waves against her chin. He explained that the style could be worn straight or curly, but he suggested she wear it curly given the natural wave of her hair. It feels strange and in the way, but Anna can’t deny that it makes her look older and sophisticated. She hasn’t been able to stop looking at the change, examining her face and the angle of her jaw in every mirror or window she passes.

  Again, the knock at the door, this time louder and more urgent. Anna realizes that it has been nearly a minute and she hasn’t yet answered.

  “Komm herein.”

  The Maid pushes the door open and ducks her head in respect. “You have visitors, Tsarevna.”

  She looks at the clock. “I didn’t think the mahjong party was until much later.” The Baron’s wife is oddly obsessed with the Chinese game played by removing tiles from a board. She has insisted that Anna join her and her friends in playing it twice this week already. There is another round scheduled for this afternoon. Anna cannot, for the life of her, think of a polite way to excuse herself.

  “These guests are not for Frau Kleist. They are for you.” She lowers her voice and whispers, “Russian émigrés.”

  The Maid walks to the wardrobe and opens it. She pulls out a beaded cream dress and lays it at the foot of the bed along with a petal-pink cloche and satin heels. She is so specific with these choices that Anna suspects that Maria von Kleist told her exactly what to choose. Just as well. Anna likes the way she looks in white.

  “May I help you dress?”

  The Maid asks this every day, and Anna refuses just as often. “No thank you. I can manage.” It’s bad enough when the girl stares at the scars along her temple and clavicles; she can’t tolerate the thought of her seeing the rest. “I’ll be out shortly.”

  As soon as the Maid steps out of the room, Anna rushes to finish the remainder of her breakfast and dress. If nothing else the Baron’s wife has good taste; the ensemble makes her look elegant. This new style of dress favors the tall, tubular woman, but Anna wears it well enough even though she is short and busty. There are some things not even a wealthy patron can change.

  She follows the Maid to the drawing room where a man and woman wait. It is clear that they are brother and sister, very close in age if not actually twins, and not that much younger than Anna. They gasp in unison when she enters the room. And then they are on their feet, bending at the waist and curtsying. Anna looks to the Kleists in alarm. The Baron is flushed with joy, while his wife is utterly stunned. Stupefied, actually, sitting there on the settee, her jaw completely slack at the response Anna has drawn from their guests.

  The way the young man bows reverently and whispers his greeting makes the hairs on Anna’s arm stand up. “Tsarevna.”

  And then his sister speaks. “Anastasia.”

  “We finally found you,” he says in Russian.

  And then there is a rush of words and chatter and joy. Anna holds up a hand and the room falls quiet. “In German, please,” she says, her voice strangled. “Russian is dead to me now.”

  A clearing of throats. Flushed cheeks. Apologies.

  “Of course,” the young man says. “We understand. Forgive us.”

  Anna is frozen to the spot as they step closer. She extends a hand—partly to stop the approach, partly to appear friendly—and the young man takes it lightly and turns it in his hand so he can kiss the back of her knuckles. He releases it quickly and steps back in deference.

  They are all looking to her, but she doesn’t know what to do, so Maria motions toward the furniture. “Please, everyone take a seat.”

  The guests settle back in their places and Anna chooses the chair closest to the open window. Maria von Kleist is smoking again, a Helmar Turkish cigarette tucked into the end of an ivory holder. Anna detests the smell of cigarette smoke. It reminds her of gunpowder and fire and death. Anna refuses to smoke, despite much cajoling. It has become one of those things society women do together in an effort to look elegant and prolong inane conversation. She wonders if all the drawing rooms in Berlin are filled with choking clouds of smoke.

  The Baron cannot contain himself. He leaps triumphantly from the couch. “You see it too, then? This is Anastasia! We found her. She’s alive!”

  “Only a fool would mistake her for anyone else,” the man says.

  “It could be no one else,” the girl says. Her hair is the same brown as her brother’s. Eyes the same green. But her face isn’t as nicely formed as his. She is pretty in a pleasant but forgettable way. Until she smiles at Anna, and then she is transformed. “Of course you don’t recognize us. It’s been so long. I am Tanya Botkin and this is my brother, Gleb.”

  Gleb Botkin is the sort of handsome that can make a woman stare. And this is exactly what Anna does, taking in his perfectly angled square jaw, straight nose, and long black lashes. There are observations she would like to make about his mouth as well, but she realizes that she hasn’t yet answered Tanya.

  “Of course.” Anna clears her throat. “Of course I remember you.”

  ONE WEEK EARLIER

  Borough of Nettelbeckstraße, Berlin

  May 30, 1922

  Anna is not asleep, but the Kleist family doesn’t know this. The Baron and his wife sit quietly in the front seat as their vehicle rumbles through the streets of Berlin, but it is their children, two young girls with almond-shaped eyes and a gift for incessant chatter, who make Anna uncomfortable. The girls aren’t twins, but they could be, given how close they are in age and appearance. Dark hair, brown eyes, pale skin, bright freckles. Tiny clefts in their tiny chins. They are pretty and strange, and they want to talk to Anna, to p
at her hands and offer their eager smiles. They want to please. Anna wants to pull away from their small, cold fingers and their desire to impress. But she can’t. They’re all crammed together in the backseat of the Baron’s car, so Anna has taken to feigning sleep instead.

  “Why is she asleep, Mama?” one of the girls asks.

  “She’s tired, darling.”

  “But it’s daytime.”

  “She’s tired on the inside. She’s been through a lot.”

  “But I want her to wake up,” the other girl chimes in. “Can I poke her?”

  “No!” Then softer, “No. She’ll wake up soon enough. Let her rest for now.”

  The situation isn’t ideal, of course. Anna would like to know where she is—where they are taking her. But she needs to gather her wits and determine how long she must endure their company before she can slip away. A week? Maybe a few days? Any sooner would be suspicious. She does not want people looking for her again. But Anna is without resources. She has only the clothes on her back and a small satchel with a nightgown and basic toiletries. No money. No papers. She doesn’t even have a map, much less a sense of direction. If she’s going to leave the Kleists she’ll need to go about it the right way.

  Anna’s cheek is pressed to the window and her hair hangs across her face like a drape. But still she persists in this facade. Anna watches bits of the city pass through slit eyes. A long, manicured hedgerow. Sidewalks. Manor houses. And then the street gets narrower and turns to cobblestone; the passing cars become more frequent and expensive on this artery that leads into the heart of the city. They pass a fish market. The buildings stretch taller. More brick, less stone. Lampposts and street signs and crowded corners filled with bistro tables and pretty women in spring dresses. Paperboys standing on milk crates and peddling the morning headlines. The clatter of a crowded omnibus. The Kleist girls slide into her when the car turns hard to the right into the Nettelbeckstraße—a wealthy district of Berlin filled with Russian émigrés, lesser noblemen, and the independently wealthy. It’s quieter here. Still vibrant, but moneyed and restrained.