“Once the grapes are ripe, we will press them and turn them into wine,” Charlotte continued. “Would you like to learn how to do that?”
“Why are you talking so fast? Why are we here?”
If only she could make him understand without scaring him. “It’s just for a short while, mon petit. Soon we’ll be on our way.”
“Then we’re going home?”
Charlotte heard the thud of heavy boots on wood from the hall outside. She gulped the stale air of the cellar, wishing she could walk, move, pace, do anything but sit there helplessly. “If the soldier asks you questions, hide your head in my shoulder.” She stroked the cross around her neck. “I’ll talk.”
The door swung open and the young gendarme strode in, beaming. A German officer followed, tall and slender, perhaps in his mid-forties. She saw at once that he ranked higher than most. He wore a black leather overcoat with a gold swastika affixed to the upper right-hand sleeve. He had a distinct profile, like a Roman senator. Under different circumstances, she might have found him attractive. He carried a large wooden box, yellowing with age, before him like a Christmas gift.
The German officer smiled politely and carefully set the box on the floor, near her. Then he drew his right leg back and placed his left hand over his heart. A red welt scarred his hand. He gave a curt bow.
“Madame Marchand? How terrible and cramped is this room. How unfortunate.”
Charlotte recognized his voice, the same formal and belabored French of the man who’d been at her flat three days earlier. Instinctively, she hugged Laurent closer. She focused on the officer’s large, flat ears, which pressed in closely to the sides of his head. “There must be some mistake.”
“There is no mistake, madame. You are not to run away this time.”
Laurent trembled underneath her. She caressed his hair to calm him. She forced her voice to stay strong. “What have you done with my brother?”
“He is safe enough for now.” The German made a slight wave to indicate he found this a small matter. Then to the gendarme, “Leave us.”
The gendarme gave a stiff nod and obeyed. Charlotte found herself staring after him. She wanted as many people in that cell as possible, no matter how hostile.
“I am Herr Krause,” the officer said. “This is my assignment to deal with the matter of your family.”
She didn’t answer. After another moment, she felt the full weight of his stare. But it wasn’t directed at her. He was looking curiously at Laurent.
“This handsome young man. I wish to see his face.” Herr Krause bent for a closer look, but Laurent had buried his face in her shoulder, as instructed. “You have a boy. What a wonderful surprise. This is your son? Where is his father?”
She and Luc had discussed the cover story before they left. “He died defending the Maginot Line.”
“Anything else I should know? Any other stories?”
Charlotte remained silent.
Herr Krause switched from French to Danish, a language that ran far more smoothly from his lips. “I wish you would be honest with me. Perhaps speaking in your native tongue will help? You are not French, not by birth anyway. Charlotte Marchand? That is your married name. But your papers say you were born in Copenhagen and your given name is Charlotte Pedersen. Be truthful, madame. I have a soft spot for the Danes.”
Charlotte stared at the polished steel toes of the officer’s boots, trying to catch her breath. How could he have known she was from Denmark? Maybe he had found her parents and hurt them. She felt tears threatening and pushed them back. “You seem to know me well.” She hadn’t used Danish in years, but it flowed naturally. She only wished she hadn’t been forced to use her family’s language in front of the German officer.
“I’m sorry, I could not hear?” He leaned closer.
“Why bother with these questions?”
“I am in the middle of an investigation. You are a guest of the SS.”
“These aren’t the quarters of someone you consider a guest.”
“I can change your situation. I can make life better.” He stepped closer. “Let me show you something. This might help.”
Herr Krause crouched, opened the box, and spread its contents out before her on the floor. None of the items seemed noteworthy: tattered bits of lace and linen, an ivory-backed hairbrush, a porcelain teacup with a large chip in it, tarnished metal toy soldiers.
“Does any of this look familiar?”
She shook her head.
“Our army found this in one of your churches, when we began the liberation of your country. It belonged to the White Army of Imperial Russia at one point. Thank God it has come under our care. We can offer it the proper respect and due diligence. You’re sure none of the items look familiar?”
“Why should they? What is this?”
“The box was taken from a house in Siberia in 1918. The Bolsheviks called it the House of Special Purpose. Didn’t your friend Matilda Kshesinskaya tell you about this?”
When Charlotte didn’t answer, Herr Krause shoved the contents back inside the box and slammed the lid. Then he rose to full height. “The conditions in this city are deplorable. How can you feed this boy? He is too thin. Think this through, madame. Nothing is changing anytime soon. The orders from above are one thousand calories per day. That is not enough for a growing child.”
“Perhaps now you’ll work to change that policy,” Charlotte said.
“If I were in charge, everything would be different. But I don’t have that power. Not now. Still, I can make life better for you and the boy. He is too important to languish this way.” He placed two fingers on Charlotte’s chin and she flinched as he forced her to look up at him. “Think about this. How long has it been since you have eaten steak? Smoked an actual cigarette? Slept through the night? All of this is within your reach.”
Unwillingly, Charlotte felt her mouth water. Laurent couldn’t resist looking at the officer. Herr Krause smiled down at him. “You like the sound of that, don’t you?”
Gently, Charlotte lowered Laurent’s head. “Don’t talk to him.” Turn away. Don’t look at them. Don’t acknowledge their existence. The practiced disdain seemed to come naturally to native Parisians, but she had struggled. She had been afraid.
Herr Krause’s voice cracked with anger. “We are here to help, to liberate you people. Don’t you understand? Look at what’s happened to your son because of your weak government. He is sick. He needs medicine. I can get that for him. I can send him to live with a fat family on a farm in the Ukraine. He’ll be happy there.”
Panic swelled in Charlotte’s chest. The Ukraine. The east. East to nowhere.
“He will have everything he wants. He will be healthy again. You can make this happen. You can go with him. We want you to go with him.”
Charlotte shuddered, but even through her fear she pictured Laurent at a table piled high with food. She felt faint. “I should like to talk to a lawyer.”
Herr Krause smirked. “No lawyers are involved, nor will they be.” He looked again at Laurent. Tears streamed from her son’s eyes, but he kept the sound of his crying to a minimum, just little sniffles. She was proud of him.
“You are a very important young man,” Herr Krause said. “Do you know that? You will make a fine leader for your country.” He extended his hand, as though he expected Laurent to shake it in friendship. The gesture was a knife to her heart.
“Don’t touch him.” She scarcely recognized her voice. The low growl seemed to originate outside her body and yet the terror burned so fiercely she thought it might kill her. It took all her strength not to strike the man’s hand away from her son. “If you touch him, you’ll die. I don’t know how or when, but so help me God I’ll see you dead.”
Herr Krause jerked her to her feet. Laurent let out a cry and grabbed her leg. “You people expect the worst of us. You think I would hurt a helpless child? You and your boy are vital to our interests. We will give you all the respect you deserve.”
“We will treat you far better than the Red Army if they get their hands on you. I can assure you of that.”
Herr Krause whistled and a minute later the gendarme reappeared, dragging Luc by the shoulders. Charlotte choked out a gasp. Luc’s nose bled and a purplish, waxy swelling marred his left eye. The gendarme flung him in her direction. Laurent released her leg and Charlotte stumbled back as Luc landed in her arms. He went limp and she braced her legs to support his weight.
“This is your brother?” Herr Krause demanded. “You’re lying. He is the boy’s father, isn’t he? They look exactly alike.”
“Why do you care?” she cried. “What do you want from us?”
Herr Krause frowned and addressed the gendarme. “I asked you to take care with him. He looks bad.” He turned back to Charlotte. “This man is a courier for the Maquis as well. A traitor to the Reich. Do you know what we found in the trunk of your car, madame? Does your boy?”
She looked at Luc and bit her lip to keep from crying out. He lowered himself to the ground, and stopped when he was bent down on his knees. But he managed to shake his head. Charlotte rolled her shoulders back, centered herself. “We don’t know.”
“We can kill the three of you on the spot. The evidence is damning.”
The fear, cold and clammy, slithered down her throat. Charlotte’s fingers balled into fists. If he wanted to kill them, he would have. She still had a chance. “What do you want from me?”
“You and your son will join us,” Herr Krause said. “We require full cooperation.”
“You can’t take him,” Charlotte said evenly. “I’ll go with you if you leave my son and let the two of them go.”
“You expect this man to take care of your son?” The German kicked Luc in the ribs and Luc slumped to the ground. Charlotte screamed. Laurent touched Luc’s shoulder and began to whimper.
“He seems a sorry excuse for a father to me,” Herr Krause said. “But if you and your son help us, we will let him free.”
“No.” Charlotte doubled over with agony. She could no longer fight the tears. “This is blackmail. A game. I understand. I have diamonds. I’ll give them to you. My flat, my savings, anything you want.”
It seemed impossible. Everything around her turned surreal, a nightmare. She heard a small laugh and then another. Herr Krause approached her and she could see, just barely through the fog of tears, his terrible smile. The gendarme stood smirking behind him and his smile was even worse because she could tell he didn’t care about her at all.
Her stomach twisted. She lowered her face.
“We’re not interested in any of that.” Herr Krause entered her field of vision once more, as he bent to pick the wooden box up off the floor. “We need you and your son. I am a reasonable man, madame. You will find that we are all reasonable people. I don’t wish to start our regime change in the Ukraine on a sour note. You have twenty minutes to get your thoughts in order and accept your destiny. Cooperate and we’ll let the boy’s father live.”
Eleven
NEW YORK CITY
PRESENT DAY
Veronica dashed down the stairs of Alexei Romanov’s building, clutching her coat tightly to her chest, gulping gas-laden fumes from the ancient heating system. Her pulse thudded in her ears in time to the shaky rhythm of her breathing. She burst out the lobby door, determined to confront Michael at once.
She spotted him on the bench in the park across the street, waiting for her, as he promised, still the loyal bodyguard. He’d pulled his wool hat over his ears, his cheeks were flushed red, and his breath was steaming in the chilly air. Behind him, laughing children in scarves and mittens played on a swing set.
A rubber ball landed in the bushes behind Michael and he bent to retrieve it. The shrubs rustled and he emerged a second later, dirt on his cheeks. He threw the ball back to a kid on the playground and wiped the dirt away. Veronica felt a catch in her throat. She remembered her dream the first night after she met Michael. All those happy Russians lined up along the banks of the Neva River, flags waving. The reptilian voices in her head began to hiss again. You can’t trust him.
Then Michael spotted her and rushed forward to greet her. “What happened?” He paused to catch his breath. “Did you meet Alexei Romanov? What did he say?”
Veronica pulled the hood of her coat down over her ears to protect them from the wind. She stared at Michael, at a loss for how to begin.
“He called me a liar, right?” She heard a tremor in his voice. “I told you he’d say that. What else?”
“I can’t believe it,” she said.
“I knew it.” Michael snorted and began to pace in front of the bench.
Veronica remembered all the accounts she’d read of the Romanovs under house arrest. The tsar had spent his last days in captivity marching back and forth across the cramped living room of the Ipatiev House in Siberia. She saw the same restlessness in Michael now. And Alexandra … she saw a resemblance there as well, despite the generations that had passed since. The height, the steady gaze, even the hint of sadness in his eyes.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she blurted. One of the little boys on the playground turned to look at her. “Alexei Romanov doesn’t trust you,” she said, quieter now. “I don’t think he knows what to make of it all. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”
Michael took a moment to study her face. “Can’t believe I didn’t tell you what?” he asked carefully.
“About the missing fifth daughter of the tsar.”
Michael grasped the back of the bench for support. “He told you.”
“You think Alexandra is your great-grandmother? Nicholas is your great-grandfather?”
“Wait.” Michael held his hand up. “He told you that?”
“Why didn’t you tell me? If this is true, no one else in his little club would have a prayer of crowning themselves tsar.”
She watched the movement of Michael’s shoulders as he drew in a deep breath. “I didn’t tell you because it’s nothing more than a family rumor. Something I looked into when I was younger. I’m surprised he mentioned it at all.”
The headache still thudded, jabs of pain tightening her skull. The wind blew her hair into her eyes. Michael touched her forehead and brushed the strands aside. Veronica stepped away. She couldn’t let him confuse her with his touch. “You know I’m writing a biography of Alexandra. You know I’d be interested, even if it is just a rumor. Besides, you told me you keep all those genealogical records around because they’re important to your mother and they were important to your grandmother. Right? If you want to honor them, you’ll learn the truth. There’s a simple way to know for sure.”
He scratched the back of his neck. “If you were seeing it from my perspective, you’d know it’s not simple.”
“It is,” she insisted. “Get your DNA tested. A swab from the inside of your mouth. A museum in Japan has Nicholas II’s blood on file. Some crazy policeman attacked him while he was visiting the country and split his head open. They saved the handkerchief he used to mop up the blood. It’s in a museum. Test against that.”
Michael touched his hand to his forehead. “DNA that’s over a hundred years old? That’s Alexei Romanov’s solution?”
“There are other relatives,” she said, frustration building. “Living relatives, plenty of other ways to have DNA tested. It will take seventy-two hours. And then you’ll at least be able to prove you’re a Romanov.”
Michael looked at the ground.
“I don’t understand. Why won’t you do it?”
“Veronica, these people are dangerous. I’ve been trying to tell you all along.”
“I’m trying to protect you,” Michael insisted.
That’s what Romanov had said to her as well. She gave Michael the same answer she’d given earlier. “Protect me from what?”
“Alexei Romanov wants to be the tsar. He’s wanted that all his life. It concerns me that he’s suddenly so interested in you. You’re a professor of Russian history.”
Veronica threw her arms up in frustration. “You’re repeating his words. Romanov said they’re trying to protect me from you. He said they’re suspicious because I’m a professor. And then he gave me some nonsense about how dangerous it is in Russia now. Who should I believe?”
Michael kicked a stray rock. Veronica no longer saw the tall, proud descendant of Nicholas and Alexandra Romanov before her. Instead, she noticed Michael’s graying temples and the slight paunch around his belly.
“Look.” Veronica tried to reach a truce. “I don’t get it. I’m sorry. I don’t see why a DNA test is a problem. And it concerns me. Maybe I should give you some time alone. I’ll take some time alone as well. We just need space.”
She pivoted, but Michael grabbed her hand. “Don’t leave like this.”
Veronica realized she was becoming the person she hated in any relationship, the person who walked away. But to think straight, to feel some relief from the hammering of her headache, she needed to distance herself from him. “I only want time to think.”
He released her and she headed down First Avenue toward the subway. She wanted to go back to Midtown, where she could disappear into a crowd and be alone with her thoughts. But Michael moved quickly and soon kept pace with her. “At least tell me where you’re going.”
The Secret Daughter of the Tsar Page 16