Anastasia's Secret

by Susanne Dunlap

  I knew I had stung him. He was silent a moment. I was sorry, but I couldn’t take back my words. After a pause, he replied, “All right. If you think you can manage it. I’ll show you. Be here tomorrow before dawn, and I’ll have you back in time for breakfast.”

  I hesitated, but not for long. What harm could it do? Even if the secret police knew where I was going and with whom, I could make sure that Sasha was not blamed for anything. And I didn’t think the Okhrana had infiltrated as far as our bedroom, in any case, to spy on when we went to bed and when we got up in the morning. They were more interested in Mama and Papa. “What should I bring?” I asked.

  Sasha shrugged. “Some food, if anything. And dress as plainly as you can.” He said this with a critical look up and down at my starched white dress with its bright red sash. Almost all my dresses were white, but I had coats that were not. I wasn’t worried that I could look plain.

  We said our good-byes, and I returned to the palace with my head full of how I would manage to sneak away before dawn without letting anyone know, even Mashka. I decided that if she woke up, I would say that I was going to the toilet, that my stomach was bothering me a little. She would believe me. I often had such complaints.

  First, though, I had to secrete away some food, for the purpose, I presumed, of distributing to some worthy, hardworking family. What would be appropriate? And how would I get it? I knew there were vast stores of provisions in the kitchens, and I knew my way around the bakery from when I was younger and would sneak down there looking for pastries. But what excuse would I have now that I was thirteen and no longer a child in search of treats?

  The good thing about being the youngest daughter is that no one expects you to act very grown up. Even though by that time I had already started bleeding every month, I could run and play and be as rough and tumble as I was at ten and everyone would simply smile. That’s what gave me the inspiration for going down to the kitchens. “Let’s play hide-and-seek,” I said to Mashka, who, as usual, was reading a book of romances.

  “Nastya, you really mustn’t be such a child now,” she said, although I could tell she wanted to say yes.

  “Aren’t you bored with having everything the same every day? It’s been so tiresome since we came back from Livadia early. My legs need to run.”

  She cocked her head to one side and closed her book with an exaggerated sigh. “Well, I suppose if you must. But I’ll hide, and you look for me!”

  Mashka jumped up in a flash, and I laughed aloud to see her. “Count to one hundred!” she called over her shoulder as she skittered off in the direction of the public apartments. Our favorite place to hide was in the hidden access ways and cubbies where servants could duck away as the imperial suite or noble guests approached. Perfect, I thought. She would be waiting a long time for me to find her.

  When I went down to the kitchens, I discovered that it wasn’t hard to coax dainty pastries and biscuits from the French pastry chefs. But the things that would be really useful—bread and meat—were shut away in locked pantries. Pastries, I thought, would be better than nothing, and so I took a basket and filled it with confections: marzipan and chocolate, millefeuille and crème, little gateaux in the shape of flowers and animals.

  I had been so caught up in amassing my treats that I nearly forgot to look for Mashka. In the end I found her in a window seat in the small library, where she had pulled out a pile of books and was making her way through them.

  “I wouldn’t exactly call this hiding!” I said.

  She glared at me. “I wouldn’t exactly call what you were doing ‘seeking.’”

  At first I worried that she had seen through my deception. “It’s a big house,” I said, although the Alexander Palace was actually the smallest place we stayed.

  “You used to be able to find me in minutes. What were you doing?”

  “I simply forgot all the secret ways. It’s been a while.”

  “We played last year.” She snapped her book shut. “It’s time for tea.”

  Mashka marched off like an angry nursemaid. I was a little sorry that I had used her for my own purposes, but I somehow felt I was justified.

  It wasn’t hard to wake up early the next morning. I was so full of anticipation I barely slept. Which was a good thing, because although the dawn came all too soon at that time of year, the day turned out to be rainy and the sunrise was barely noticeable.

  I wore the coat I hadn’t wanted and that I was hoping would be given to the orphanage the next year, the one that had been handed down all the way from Olga and was beginning to show signs of wear. Armed with my basket of treats, I crept through the secret passages and turnings that I hadn’t, in fact, forgotten, and made my way to the garden to meet Sasha.

  He was there, waiting for me. His outline was indistinct in the mist, as if he had moved when his photograph was taken. Even though it was the middle of the summer, the rain and damp made me shiver. “You’re not afraid, are you?” whispered Sasha when I reached him.

  “No, I’m fine. Just a little cold.”

  “This way.”

  He took my arm and steered me firmly toward a towering yew hedge, and for a moment I panicked that perhaps instead of being my friend he actually wished me harm. And I had ensured that there would be no secret police or their spies around to rescue me if that were the case. But soon enough I discovered that the hedge hid a low gate in the iron palings that I had never noticed before. We crept through it and pulled it shut behind us. The gate led to an alleyway behind some small houses. I knew where these were; we passed them often enough on our way to visit the local hospital.

  Soon, however, we were beyond the part of the town that I knew, and the houses became poorer and shabbier. Some looked as though they might fall down. Their wooden sides had been propped up with rough poles leaning against them. I thought at first that they must only be sheds for animals—they had no windows, and gaps that surely let the wind whistle through in the bitter winter.

  “A family of ten lives in that one,” Sasha whispered. He was so close to my ear that he startled me, and I frowned at him.

  “Don’t exaggerate!” I snapped. He shrugged and gestured for me to follow him again.

  I was sure we would soon leave the town altogether, as the houses became more sparse, and here and there a goat or some chickens scratched about in the mud for a bit of food. We climbed a hill, beyond which I thought would be nothing but open fields. Yet when we reached the crest, I gasped.

  Spread out from the sides of the hill, sloping away for about a mile and a half was a filthy campground dotted with fires. People in rags slept on the open ground, curled up against the rain that fell steadily. A few had constructed lean-tos out of discarded blankets and old broom handles. I covered my mouth and retched. Even from this distance, the stench was abominable. Clearly there was no place for human waste other than among the people themselves. When I recovered myself enough to talk, I asked Sasha, “How many of them are there?”

  “It depends on the time of year. Two or three thousand just now I think. In the winter, more people try to come into town for shelter.”

  “I cannot believe that my papa and mama have any idea that this”—I swept my arm in an arc—”could possibly exist.”

  “I don’t blame them specifically,” Sasha said, “but I blame their ignorance of what’s really going on in this country. People are starving in the countryside and being worked to death in the factories.”

  I looked down at my pathetic little offering of cakes and pastries. “I don’t suppose these will do much good.” But I was at a complete loss as to what else I could do. Papa would be able to order the engineers to construct a field of stout, dry tents and dig latrines. But I was only the youngest grand duchess, hardly ever spoken to except to be congratulated on making everyone laugh, or for performing a piece well on the piano or the balalaika. My father would never believe I had seen such a thing; perhaps he would attribute it to my active imagination. And he had othe
r more important things to think about, including a possible war. “Tell me. What would fix this?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. The Bolsheviks say giving people the power to decide things for themselves would be a start.”

  At that time, I couldn’t really imagine what that would be like. Papa decided everything for the whole country. It would be Papa who would soon say that Russia would go to war. It would be Papa who would send thousands of young men away from their families to be killed. At that moment, I was very glad I wasn’t Papa. And yet, he also had the power to make things better for thousands, even millions of Russian people. Why would he not do that if he could? And if the people had all the power, would they use it for good or not? I had read enough history to know of many examples where the people took revenge when they tumbled a monarchy—the French, for instance. The Reign of Terror was bloodier by far than all that preceded it, and the French people ended up with another emperor in Napoleon.

  I put my basket down on a flat rock, hoping that someone would find it before ants or stray dogs did, but too embarrassed to go any farther and give it to one of those unfortunate souls down below. “Take me back,” I said. Sasha pressed his lips together in a hint of a satisfied smirk. I was annoyed at him for being right about me.

  CHAPTER 4

  A few days after that, Papa was late coming in for supper. It wasn’t like him to be late. Mama, who was beautiful, tall, and graceful with soft eyes and a straight nose, looked more tense and anxious than usual, even though Alexei—her Baby, her Sunshine, our Alyosha—was reasonably well; well enough in fact, to be sitting next to her in his military uniform, looking very self-important.

  “Tatiana, go and fetch your father,” Mama said. She always asked Tatiana to do things like that. We all knew that Tatiana was her favorite daughter, despite her attempt to pretend she had no favorites.

  Tatiana had just risen and taken two brisk steps toward the door when Papa entered. We froze when we saw his face, knowing that something had happened.

  “It’s war,” he said, standing next to his chair. “There’s nothing to be done. The Germans have violated Belgium’s neutrality, and we must honor our commitments—even if they hadn’t already declared war on us.”

  “Don’t worry, Papa,” Alexei said, standing and walking to his side. “I can help you with this war.” He looked so thin and frail in his uniform, which had been specially made to fit him. But he stood as tall and straight as he could, despite the lingering pain in his ankle. Alyosha could be a little brat when he wasn’t sick, but I supposed that was because he knew how important he was.

  Tears welled up in Mama’s eyes and rolled down her cheeks, and soon Mashka, Olga, and Tatiana were weeping too. Only I did not. Perhaps, because of Sasha, I knew more than the others, I don’t know. But far from a surprise, it seemed the logical next thing to me.

  From that day forward we barely saw Papa. He was too busy meeting with the generals and the ministers. When I passed by his chambers, hoping to hear details that were lacking in what Anya and the other maids of honor and the servants told us, I heard voices raised in anger and fear.

  “Your Majesty, you cannot lead the troops yourself! Leave it to your generals and remain in safety where you can govern.” I recognized the voice of Sukhomlinov, the minister of war.

  “How can I expect my loyal Russians to risk their lives if I do not share their suffering?”

  “But there are concerns here too. If you leave, who will take charge of everything?” That was Count Witte, an old friend and adviser of Papa’s.

  “The tsaritsa is my companion and shares my power. I trust her completely.”

  Silence. What did it mean?

  “But, Your Majesty. The tsaritsa… the people …”

  “What?” Papa’s voice was sharp. “What are you trying to say?”

  “You know what the rumors are. You have seen the cartoons.” The voice was Count Witte’s, soft and placating.

  “Nonsense. All of it! No one believes it. No one who has the slightest knowledge of Sunny would believe it for a second.” Although his words were strong, I thought Papa’s voice held an edge of uncertainty.

  “But that is just the point. No one knows her. The people think she is aloof and uncaring.” The old general was pleading. “You kept the tsarevich’s illness a secret for so long, and the grand duchesses are sheltered away. They could do much if you would only permit it.”

  “I will not parade my little girls in public until they are of age! Olga and Tatiana do their share. And as for Alexei, he may come with me to the front. He has been quite well for some time thanks to … our friend.”

  I gasped. The idea of Alyosha going anywhere near a battle horrified me, despite his uniform, and I knew my mother would be distraught.

  “Please, I beg you, Nicky.” That was the voice of my uncle and Papa’s only living brother, the Grand Duke Michael.

  Silence again. Then Papa sighed aloud. “Very well. I will bow to your wishes for now. I shall let my uncle, Grand Duke Nicholas Nicholaevich, command the armies. But I make no promises for the future.”

  “You must go to Moscow. It is important, to ask God’s blessing for the war.”

  Moscow! I loved Moscow. It was so different from Petrograd. The onion domes and colorful buildings, the ancient history from the days before the tsars. If Papa went, then we all would. We always traveled together.

  I heard footsteps approach the door, so I quickly ran down the corridor and around a corner. Grand duchesses were not supposed to eavesdrop. But my head was buzzing with everything I had heard. I didn’t dare share it with my sisters because they would go straight to Mama. I needed Sasha. But I had not been able to see him since the declaration of war. I wondered if he would be sent to the front.

  Sasha at the front, being shot at by Germans. The idea sent a knife into my stomach. At the time I thought it was because he was my only friend outside of the family, and the only person who could make the idea of war real to me. I didn’t realize it was the beginning of something else, that there might be more to my caring about him than friendship.

  Besides, when it came to things such as this, things that were far outside our life in the palace, I suspected that Sasha was the only one I could count on to be honest with me. I wanted to know what people were saying about my mother. What cartoons had been drawn? What did they have to do with her? And who had allowed them to be published?

  I ran down to the kitchens and left a note for the egg girl, Varenka. I hoped Sasha would get it.

  Varenka managed to find Sasha, although he had moved from the guards’ barracks. His note began: “We cannot meet in the gardens. You’ll have to find a way to get to camp.”

  Leaving my family for more than an hour—it sounded impossible. But something told me it was important to try. Maybe I took it as a challenge, a dare. Or maybe it was a chance to become closer to Sasha, who was still a mystery to me. He had come into my world, but I knew nothing about his. So I made a big decision, and took my first step alone out of the closed circle that had kept me safe and secure for my entire life.

  CHAPTER 5

  So it was on a hot, sultry morning at the beginning of August, 1914, that I found myself wearing Varenka’s rough scarf and brightly colored skirt, carrying her empty egg basket through the streets of Tsarskoe. I was certain someone would recognize me. Varenka and I looked nothing alike. But I was surprised to find that the passersby hardly noticed me. Although I felt very much like a normal person, I assumed after my conversations with Sasha that I would stick out like a mountain peak wherever I went. Of course, my parents had been very careful to keep us out of the public eye. The only photographs taken of us were for family albums, except the occasional official portrait. And for those, we were so dressed up and posed that none of us looked like ourselves.

  Of course, in those days when status and rank mattered so much, no one looked very far beyond clothes. Dressed as I was in Varenka’s simple skirt and blouse, a mere glan
ce was all it took to label me insignificant. And since my basket was empty, I didn’t have to worry that anyone would approach me to buy eggs.

  I did attract a few whistles as I walked by the military barracks, however. I was well aware that, clothes or not, women and girls could be the object of unwanted attention. The whistling told me right away that these were not the elite guards to which Sasha had been attached in peacetime. His note had said: “I’m with Thirteen Corps now. You won’t believe what’s happening. I can’t get away. If you want to see me you must come to me.”

  I realized from his tone that more than his location had changed, but I was unprepared for what I found. It was almost like the makeshift campground for the poor, only here were all men, mostly peasants, some younger than Sasha, some who looked too old to fight. The only things that made them look like soldiers were their coats and boots, and the fact that they all cradled rifles in their arms or leaned on them like pitchforks. It was still early. Most of them were scooping porridge into their mouths, and a man with a wooden leg passed among them, distributing rations consisting mainly of hardtack.

  “Excuse me, I’m looking for Junior Officer Alexander Mikhailovich Galliapin,” I said to the man with the rations.

  “Over there.” He jerked his head in the direction of a tent. Its flap was closed, but I walked over until I could hear what was going on inside.

  “You’ve had your training. All you have to do is receive orders and follow them.” It was the voice of an older man, and it sounded stern, reproachful.

  “But I never intended to be an officer!” It was Sasha. His voice was tearful and if I did not know him I would have thought he was little more than a boy.

  “There are not enough trained officers to manage our army. Everyone with experience is being called upon to head a platoon. Count yourself fortunate to have only one. The officers with real training get several.”