by Glenn Meade
I stared at the stone, stunned, and Connie said, “My father wanted to erect a memorial to remember her. What was it Freud once said? All depression is caused by the loss of someone’s love. To tell the truth, he had his share of dark days after he lost her. He never stopped missing her.” She knelt, placed a yellow rose on each of the two slabs.
I was tempted to tell her all I’d discovered, but something held me back. Not yet. Not until I finally know everything. “So he never knew what became of her?”
Connie stood. “No, but my father’s cousin Frank spoke about some U.S. government men who came to visit my father in 1919. He claimed they told him that Lydia had perished and her body was never found. After the men left my father was pretty shaken. Whatever else they may have told him, he never spoke about it.”
“Do you know anything more about the men?”
“Only what I recall among the notes I typed. One of them had an Irish name—Boyle, I remember that.”
It was a cold morning in Dublin when I took a cab from my hotel to the Blackrock Private Clinic, near the city’s southern coast. When I’d called Yakov’s home number his housekeeper answered and said he’d returned to hospital. I found him in a private room overlooking the sea.
He shook my hand warmly. “Dr. Pavlov. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
He seemed in good spirits, even if he did appear more gaunt, his eyes sunken, his bruised arms hooked up to drips. “Well, how did you get on?”
“It all fits together, everything you’ve said, each part of the puzzle fitting nearly into place. I’ll give you that.”
“But?”
“It’s just … I don’t know … mind-boggling. Don’t get me wrong. All those strands you talked about. They fit, almost too perfectly. In fact, I’ve discovered amazing coincidences—about Boyle, Andrev, Lydia Ryan, and other players in the rescue that completely flabbergast me.”
“Tell me.”
I removed a thick notebook from my briefcase. “Take yesterday, for instance. I spent it checking archives in Dublin and reading up on Lydia Ryan.”
“And what did you learn?”
“She certainly ran guns for the Irish republicans. And was much admired by the Irish rebel leader Michael Collins. In June 1918, after a skirmish with the British army, she vanished, and was never seen again. I’m still waiting for you to tell me what happened to her.”
“We’ll come to that. Please continue. What else did you discover?”
“Trotsky got what he deserved in the end. He fell foul of Stalin, was exiled, and later assassinated on Stalin’s orders. Lenin didn’t escape punishment, either. Six weeks after the events in Ekaterinburg, a woman named Fanya Kaplan shot and severely wounded him. Lenin’s health was badly affected and he later suffered a stroke and died in 1924.”
“And his assassin?”
“Lenin had her executed. And here’s another remarkable coincidence—the woman, Fanya Kaplan, was believed to be one of Joe Boyle’s Russian agents.”
Yakov nodded. “Perhaps another reason why Boyle got that DSO, and never admitted his involvement. Lenin’s Cheka would have hunted him down.”
“The coincidences don’t end there. In 1920 a book titled Rescuing the Czar was published in the United States. It claimed to tell the real story of the Romanovs’ disappearance and detailed a rescue using the tunnels that ran under the Ipatiev House, and even made vague references to Ireland.
“But here’s the astonishing thing: a deal was in negotiation for the film rights when the U.S. Secret Service had them mysteriously withdrawn from sale. As someone close to President Woodrow Wilson put it at the time, the withdrawal was ‘a matter of great importance to the nation.’”
“It gets stranger and stranger, doesn’t it?”
“It sure does. And then there’s the aircraft, the Ilya Muromets.”
“I was wondering when you’d get to that.”
I checked my notes. “One crashed thirty miles from St. Petersburg on July 8, 1918. Turns out it had the same chassis number as one of the aircraft taken by Igor Sikorsky when he fled Russia. Sikorsky emigrated to America, where he died in 1974, a successful aircraft manufacturer. And guess what? He knew Boyle.”
Yakov seemed faintly amused, but then his face became more serious. “And the nuns at Novo-Tikhvinsky—what did you learn about them?”
“The two young novices, Maria and Antonina, were later executed by the Reds. Sister Agnes was later murdered, too. The convent was closed and all the other nuns either shot or banished to labor camps.”
“Did you discover any motive for their murders?”
“None that made any kind of sense, except their involvement in the rescue.”
“And Hanna Volkov?”
“She survived her injuries but later sold her Irish estate.” I checked my notebook again. “For decades, each anniversary of Boyle’s death, a mystery woman would leave flowers on his grave. Some said it was the queen of Romania, with whom Boyle had a close relationship. Others suggest it was Hanna Volkov. She died of cancer in London in 1939.”
I flipped ahead a few pages. “And now it gets really interesting. A Philip Sorg joined the U.S. State Department in 1912. A man of the same name spent six months being treated for laudanum addiction in a private Swiss hospital near Lucerne, until he was discharged in February 1919.”
Yakov nodded silently and I went on. “A month later Sorg was listed as a passenger on the White Star Line, bound for New York. After that, he vanished off the face of the earth, never to be seen again. Just like Anastasia Romanov.” I looked at Yakov. “But I think you know where he went. You know how it ended, don’t you?”
“Yes, I know how it ended.”
Questions tumbled impatiently off my tongue. “Did Anastasia live? What became of her? How did Lydia die? And what’s the truth about Anna Anderson?”
Yakov put up a hand. “One question at a time. First, I should explain about Anna Anderson.” He sat back. “After Anastasia escaped, the Brotherhood was fearful the Cheka would learn the truth and hunt her down. So one of their members, a psychiatrist, came up with a simple but brilliant plan. What if they had a substitute, someone expendable they could pretend was Anastasia? That way, if anyone tried to kill her, the real Anastasia would be safe.
“It took many months of scouring the mental hospitals of Europe, until finally they settled on a suitable candidate. The woman the world eventually came to know as Anna Anderson. She matched their criteria in terms of looks, and certain bodily features, like her ears and feet, that she shared with Anastasia.
“Scars were deliberately inflicted on her skull during surgery, to be consistent with wounds Anastasia suffered at the hands of the Bolsheviks. After that, it was a case of making an impressionable, mentally ill woman believe that she was Anastasia Romanov. Their deception began with Anna Anderson’s supposed suicide attempt in a Berlin canal, and her amazing story was born.”
“Anna Anderson was a decoy?”
“Pure and simple. To deflect the world from the truth.”
“Do you really believe that?” I asked incredulously.
“My dear doctor, in over ninety years of mystery and intrigue concerning Anna Anderson, it’s the only explanation that makes perfect sense. Consider this: the woman was a simple, mentally disturbed peasant. How could she have challenged and confounded some of the best legal minds in the world, as well as the most experienced investigators and journalists, for six decades, if not with powerful help?”
“The Brotherhood?”
Yakov nodded. “Only they could have drilled into her such intimate knowledge of the royal family—details known only by the real Anastasia, that convinced so many that she was the real royal princess.”
“You’re saying Anna Anderson was programmed by them, brainwashed?”
“Exactly. And many of the former Russian nobility who sheltered her during her life were part of the deception. There’s no way she was just some insane imposter acting on her own.”<
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I felt stunned. Yakov’s proposition had a simple, but profound logic to it.
“And Anastasia? What became of her?”
A nurse appeared, ready to replace the drips.
Yakov hesitated, as if reluctant to speak further. “Perhaps you could meet me at my cottage this afternoon?”
“You’re being discharged?”
“For a few days, to get my affairs in order. My housekeeper’s coming to pick me up. I’m afraid the next time I leave here, it’ll be in a box.”
I felt jolted by Yakov’s frankness, but he merely smiled. “Please, don’t feel sorry. I’m an old man, ready to meet my maker. This afternoon, I’ll tell you how this mystery ended.”
When Yakov greeted me at Briar Cottage, I was again struck by how frail he looked. I wasted no time as he led me inside and gestured for me to sit by the fire.
“Tell me what happened to Anastasia.”
“She didn’t live a long life afterward, I’m sorry to say. Her wounds, mental and physical, caused her much ill health.”
“Sorg joined her?”
Yakov shook his head. “I honestly don’t know, even if I’d like to think so. Nor do I know where she was taken. All I’m certain of is that she was protected fiercely. And that her final years were a closely guarded secret.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Uri told me much of it. As did Leonid Yakov. And on that, you’ll simply have to take my word.”
A good part of me believed him. Perhaps, like so many others haunted by the mystery of Anastasia Romanov, because I wanted to believe. “You say you met Uri.”
“I arrived here not long before he died. Before my father passed away, he told me everything, you see. I was so stunned by his confession I was determined to try to track down Uri Andrev, if he was still alive. And that’s what I did. It was an emotional meeting for us both.”
“I can imagine.”
“Actually, I doubt you can,” Yakov said oddly, and went to add something but changed his mind.
“What became of Uri afterward?”
“He and Nina started a new life here, in Collon, among the small Russian community. She died some years before him. From what I hear, they lived quiet lives.”
“Do you think he loved Lydia?”
“You know what they say—what has been joined, never forgets. He was deeply affected by her death, just as he was by his son’s.”
My questions tumbled out. “How did Lydia end up in a forest grave in Ekaterinburg? Why didn’t Boyle rescue her?”
He hesitated, looked away into nothing a moment, before he replied, “For a time she hid out in Moscow with Yakov’s daughter, where they were contacted by one of Boyle’s agents. But Russia was in total chaos after the Ekaterinburg massacre. With the Red Army’s retreat and the attempt on Lenin’s life, Moscow became a city under siege. It was gripped by food shortages and disease. Thousands died. Lydia fell ill. To compound the problem she was carrying Uri’s child.”
I reeled, as if struck by a physical blow.
Yakov said, “Don’t look so shocked. In wartime, faced with so much death, people often choose to affirm their belief in life. It’s a natural, God-given instinct.”
Yakov paused, then went on. “When Boyle’s agent finally got in touch, Lydia couldn’t be moved. She had a difficult pregnancy, so Zoba’s wife took care of her. After the child was born, Yakov moved her to Ekaterinburg again, along with Zoba’s wife, for the Reds had retaken it.
“From there, they would flee south over the border once the time was right. Yakov arranged their accommodation and returned to Moscow. He intended to join Lydia, with Katerina and Nina’s parents, and for them all to escape together.”
“What went wrong?”
“Lydia went out one day to buy medicine for her child and was caught in a roundup. The Red Terror was in full swing by then, the Cheka killing everyone they suspected. Innocent victims were being picked up off the streets, murdered, or thrown into jails.
“Lydia was held prisoner with hundreds of others in a disease-ridden camp outside the city. When Yakov learned this, he traveled to Ekaterinburg to have her released. But he was too late. Lydia had caught typhoid and died. They buried her in a mass grave, where you found her, along with other victims who perished.”
I felt my throat tighten. “What happened to her child?”
“I survived, despite everything.”
I felt so stunned by Yakov’s words that my mouth fell open.
He saw my total shock. “I told you this was deeply personal, doctor. In many ways, my survival proved an irony. Yakov raised me—he was a good father to me—just as Uri’s father raised him. It came full circle.”
“Why didn’t Yakov continue with the escape?”
“After Lydia’s death, the Reds had the country in an iron grip. Even Boyle’s network of agents fell apart. Escape became impossible.”
I sat without speaking for several moments, thinking about it all. “How did Uri react when you told him who you were?”
“My revelations shocked him. It was a deeply emotional meeting, naturally. The knowledge that I was his son seemed to give him great joy. To know that his love for Lydia had a consequence, that it lived on despite her death—I think that meant a lot to him.”
Still dazed, I removed the locket from my purse. “Tell me what the inscription says.”
Yakov took the locket, rolled it between his fingers. “May I know you until the end of my days.” He looked up. “It seemed fitting. Sometimes broken hearts never truly mend, do they? Love’s wounds always twinge now and then, like shrapnel forever lodged in scar tissue. I think that’s how it was for Uri. He did the honorable thing and took care of Nina, but his heart, I think, part of it forever belonged to Lydia.”
Yakov stood with effort, one hand on his knee, his other hand gripping the fire mantel. “Let me show you something.” He shuffled over to a shelf, took down an old metal biscuit tin. He pried the lid with bony fingers and removed an old sepia-colored photograph and handed it to me.
I held the snapshot so it faced the sun filtering through the window, as it burst from between rain clouds. I saw a young woman seated in the stern of a small boat that was tied up to a wooden promenade. In the background was a wide river or lake, with thick forest on the far bank. It must have been a sunny day because she shielded her brow with a hand as she looked out at the camera. From the look of her clothes, I made a guess that the photograph was taken sometime in the 1920s.
As I studied her features I felt my heart flutter. The young woman looked not unlike Anna Anderson, with the same facial shape and strong features. Her eyes looked bright but she wasn’t smiling, a kind of detached calm about her.
“Turn it over,” Yakov said.
I turned over the snapshot. Written on the back in blue ink it said in English: “With deepest gratitude. To a man of great courage and compassion. Bless you always.”
Yakov said, “Now look again at the boat.”
When I turned the snapshot over again, I saw the name on the stern: St. Michael. Anastasia’s favorite saint.
Yakov said, “Uri gave it to me shortly before he died. He said it was passed on to him by Boyle.”
As I looked down at the image my mind raced. I can only tell you what I felt. The woman certainly looked like Anastasia—a little older, more tired, a torment in her eyes, for certain, but then I knew nothing could ever erase the terror and the agony she had endured that night.
Finally, I looked up. There seemed nothing more to say.
Yakov met my stare. “And now you know the truth. The bright, shining truth, as they say.”
Charcoal clouds threatened more rain as we drove to the graveyard. When we reached the tombstones, Yakov said, “Promise me that when the time comes you’ll see to it Lydia gets a proper burial?”
“I’ll do my best. Whatever I can.”
“I know you will, Dr. Pavlov. I greatly appreciate it.”
As we st
ood there together, I drew out the locket. I felt at that moment he needed this touchstone to the past far more than I did. “Why don’t you take this, for now?”
He accepted, clutched it tightly. “Thank you.”
Standing there, watching the old man bend his head in silent prayer, it finally started to rain again. The fine mist felt like velvet on my face.
I thought of Boyle. And of Sorg, and Yakov, and all the ghosts from the past. I thought about their bravery and their loss, their redemption and their self-sacrifice.
And I thought of Uri Andrev, and of Lydia Ryan.
And for some reason I thought how potent a creation love is—that although sometimes it exists for just a brief, glorious moment in our lives, the ghost of its giving and taking often weaves such an intricate pattern upon our souls, as delicate as lace, as strong as steel. That its spirit is something far too powerful for us mere humans to understand.
There was no complete answer to Anastasia’s disappearance. Maybe there never could be, but I knew in my heart that there was a seed of doubt about her death. I had lifted a veil and glimpsed the shadows of myths and lies.
And who can say? Perhaps the truth of it all is far deeper than any of us can ever know.
Watching the old man standing over the gravestone, alone with his ghosts, I suddenly felt like an intruder.
The dead had spoken their truth.
I turned and walked back through the cemetery in the rain.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In Moscow and Ekaterinburg, I’d like to thank Boris Nevaski, Leon Davis, John Wright, Pietor Ulyanov, Mariya Semenova; also Vadim Fomenko, Frank Evans, Maxim Petrovsky, and Peter Boyle. On the few occasions I had to twist arms to elicit help, I hope it didn’t hurt too much.
To that certain lady in Kentucky who provided the missing link—thanks alone will never be enough.
My gratitude also to Jim Sherlock, Ray Kelly, and Paul Deasy, in Ireland; to Paul Higgins in Canada; and to the many others who expressed their opinions and theories, along with their wishes to remain nameless—I can only offer my appreciation for helping me weave the many strands of this story.