‘Irritable?’ said Mr Gibson. ‘Not at all.’
‘It’s the thought that something might happen to you. I should be dreadfully upset.’
‘So should I,’ he said.
She wanted to be indignant at such flippancy, but burst into sudden laughter. ‘Oh, why am I laughing?’ she cried. ‘It isn’t funny.’
‘I agree,’ said Mr Gibson. ‘By the way, do you have relatives in England? On your mother’s side?’
‘She never spoke of any, except her parents, who died during the war. She was a children’s governess. She came to Russia to look after the children of a rich merchant. She met my father and married him. Later, she taught in the school. When the Revolution came, how was she to know the Bolsheviks would be so cruel? How was she to know they would shoot people who stood up to them?’ Natasha, very upset, bent her head to hide her tears.
‘I’m sorry, Natasha.’
‘Perhaps I could go to England, my mother’s country. Mr Gibson, do you think I could do that, go to England and get work looking after children?’
‘Certainly, you’re not going to be left penniless in Berlin,’ said Mr Gibson. ‘We’ve already agreed on that.’
Her eyes misty, she said, ‘All the time you are here, I will help you. One should not always be running away.’
Chapter Nine
In company with Natasha, Mr Gibson spent the next two weeks seeking, finding and interviewing a number of people whom she knew he considered interesting. He had more than a few names in his notebook, and she added others. He concentrated almost exclusively on those whose position in pre-revolutionary Russia had been of a kind to enable them now to make positive comparisons between the Grand Duchess Anastasia and the woman in Berlin. He was not successful in tracing all the names he had originally noted down, but Natasha was able to point him accurately in the direction of those she supplied herself. She knew Berlin well. With her, he discovered the dubious quarters of the city, as well as the respectable and the fashionable. He interviewed émigrés who had descended from riches to rags, and others whose sumptuous standard of living had changed little. During the fortnight of investigative sorties, he and Natasha were received by a dozen interesting people. Only two of them said they thought the woman was Anastasia, and they both added a cautious rider to the effect that they would only make public declarations if Anastasia’s grandmother, the Dowager Empress, expressed herself in favour of an official inquiry.
Several others insisted that whatever their first impressions had been, they had come to the conclusion that the woman was an impostor. These people were fidgety under Mr Gibson’s questions, and plainly wished the interviews to be brief.
The rest were quite dismissive, refusing to admit they had ever found any similarity between the woman and Anastasia. When Mr Gibson, referring to his notes, politely suggested their memories might be at fault, he was requested to leave. Natasha, acting as interpreter during most of the interviews, eyed Mr Gibson anxiously on the occasions when he made points or put questions obviously based on disbelief. And whenever they were out and about, she had taken to looking over her shoulder. She felt they were both vulnerable. People who were completely opposed to recognition of the claimant as the Tsar’s youngest daughter, had their ears and eyes. They would violently dislike the interfering efforts of an outsider from England, especially if they thought he knew more than was good for him. Berlin teemed with all kinds of criminal characters, the worst of whom could undoubtedly be hired for the purpose of murder. Mr Gibson was fortunate in that so far he was unknown to the newspapers. But once a paper did find out he had come from England to investigate the story of the woman in the clinic, he would assume an importance and a significance that would make him far more than just a nuisance to people like the monarchists.
However, she did all she could to assist him, and at the end of the fortnight took him to meet a person very important to the welfare of the claimant. This was a lady by the name of Harriet von Rathlef, a divorcée from the Baltic province of Russia.
Harriet von Rathlef had been the closest friend and confidante of the woman since July, and she was firm and immovable in her belief and support. There was no question in her mind that this sick woman was Anastasia. To Mr Gibson she poured out a hundred details relating to visits by three people whose knowledge of the Tsar’s youngest daughter had come from the closest kind of contact. These three people were Anastasia’s aunt, Grand Duchess Olga, her Swiss tutor, Pierre Gilliard, and Gilliard’s wife. They had visited the claimant several times, and their emotional reactions alone had been intense. Madame Gilliard had been so positive that the claimant was Anastasia that she had wept, and Grand Duchess Olga had conducted a touching and affectionate correspondence with her from Denmark. But Grand Duchess Olga and Pierre Gilliard had subsequently recanted, and Madame Gilliard had lapsed into silence. Pierre Gilliard was now the mouthpiece for his wife, and a hostile mouthpiece at that.
It was tragic, and it was also outrageous, said Frau von Rathlef, that so many people of importance in the matter should have acknowledged the true identity of the claimant and then turned their backs on her. Mr Gibson said he wished he could find some factor that would enable him to decide whether recantation was sincere or suspect.
‘It is a question of judgement,’ said Frau von Rathlef, and then asked him if he would like to meet the Grand Duchess Anastasia.
‘The patient?’ said Mr Gibson.
‘The Grand Duchess,’ said Frau von Rathlef firmly.
Mr Gibson did not pursue the question of identity. ‘Yes, I would like to meet her,’ he said, ‘even though I shan’t be able to express any opinion. I never knew Grand Duchess Anastasia, and never saw her. But it’s time, I think, that I met the lady you yourself are sure about.’
‘You must. Tomorrow at two thirty?’
‘Thank you,’ said Mr Gibson. ‘You’ll allow me to bring my young lady friend?’
Frau von Rathlef smiled at Natasha. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said, ‘but you must understand the Grand Duchess has uncertain moods. She may be happy to see you, she may not.’
‘We understand,’ said Mr Gibson. Natasha was silent, her mouth a little tremulous.
‘You cannot tell me for whom you are acting?’ enquired Frau von Rathlef.
‘I’m sorry, no.’ said Mr Gibson.
‘Would it be possible to have a copy of your report and your conclusions? I’d welcome anything that might help the Grand Duchess.’
‘And if it didn’t help?’ said Mr Gibson.
‘I’ve talked at length with you, Mr Gibson. I’m impressed. You have been charming in your frankness.’
‘I only know I’ve taken up a lot of your time,’ said Mr Gibson.
‘You are also a fair man, I think,’ said Frau von Rathlef. ‘I am sure some of your conclusions will be helpful.’
‘I’ll record your request,’ said Mr Gibson, ‘but it’s not possible for me to make any promises.’
‘I understand. Would I be correct if I suggested you are representing the Grand Duchess’s English relatives?’
‘Such is the way of things,’ said Mr Gibson, ‘that it might be more correct to suggest I don’t precisely know who I’m representing.’
‘Ah,’ said Frau von Rathlef, ‘a department of the English government, perhaps?’
‘British,’ said Mr Gibson, which was neither a confirmation nor a denial, merely a reference to a common mistake among foreigners.
‘I see,’ said Frau von Rathlef, smiling.
Mr Gibson smiled too, but obliquely. ‘I must thank you for giving us so much of your time,’ he said.
‘It has been a pleasure to receive you and talk to you.’
Mr Gibson and Natasha left. On their way back to the apartment, Natasha said, ‘There, now you have met a very nice woman, and have charmed her. Well, one cannot mind Frau von Rathlef. She is not a person who will eat you.’
‘You are only opposed to those who might?’
‘Your Excellency, I am o
pposed to anything which might result in Berlin swallowing you up. If, after all your many kindnesses to me, I allowed you to disappear, never to be seen again, I should go miserably to heaven.’
‘Well, we must do our best to guard against that,’ said Mr Gibson, walking briskly to counteract the raw cold of late November. Natasha swung along beside him, warmly wrapped in her new winter coat.
‘It will be very emotional tomorrow, meeting the lady who says she’s the Tsar’s daughter,’ said Natasha.
‘Emotional?’ said Mr Gibson.
‘Emotion is not something the English allow themselves?’
‘Oh, I think we allow it, Natasha,’ said Mr Gibson, sidestepping a large and bustling woman, ‘but only in moderation.’
‘You will not be affected by meeting the lady?’
‘I shall be extremely curious and interested,’ said Mr Gibson, ‘I don’t know if I’ll be affected. I think I’m required to remain impartial and detached.’
‘Oh, but you have a very kind heart,’ said Natasha.
‘Shall we find a little restaurant and lunch out?’ asked Mr Gibson.
‘I don’t at all mind preparing lunch in the apartment,’ said Natasha. She had practically taken over the kitchen, particularly in respect of their evening meals. She felt it was safer to stay in at night, and during the last two weeks Mr Gibson had discovered she could serve very appetizing suppers. The atmosphere at times was cosy and intimate, and Natasha supposed, in a confused and uncertain way, that it was like being married to him. They were living together in the apartment, having breakfast together, and other meals, and on the occasions when he was writing his notes, she attended to all the little domestic tasks she could find. Sometimes she felt extremely sensitive about the situation, while he always seemed cheerfully casual, as if he gave no thought at all to the nuances of her living here with him. She was sure his wife would be outraged. She did not say so. That would have introduced an uncomfortable element. It would not last very long, this unconventional situation. He would depart from her life all too soon. But while it did last, it gave her happiness. ‘I am very willing to do the lunch,’ she said.
‘I know you are. You’re a gem in the kitchen, Natasha. But allow me the pleasure of taking you to a restaurant today.’
‘To allow you is a pleasure for me too,’ she said, ‘although I wish only a light lunch.’
‘Of course,’ said Mr Gibson. Natasha had gained much-needed weight. She had filled out. Her thin, starved look had vanished, her facial hollows had gone and her features were surfaced with light, not shadows. She was beginning to look beautiful. As they entered a fashionable shopping avenue, he said, ‘Natasha, have you no friends in Berlin?’
‘I have many acquaintances,’ said Natasha. ‘I have given up friends.’
‘Why?’
‘Because in Berlin, friends borrow from you or steal from you. Or spy on you.’
‘Spy?’
‘Perhaps so that they can tell certain people I am still here, still in Berlin. Perhaps they tell Bolshevik agents I am still here. Who knows what friends will do to you in Berlin?’
‘If I didn’t think it would distress you, I’d demand your full story from you, young lady. Have you no young man?’
‘What young man would have been interested in a miserable bag of bones?’ said Natasha, and laughed a little mirthlessly.
‘Well, you’re no longer in that state, I assure you. By the way, I’ve written to a close friend of mine in England. Out of it, I hope, will come the offer of a job for you, a suitable job.’
‘Oh,’ she said.
‘You don’t care for the idea?’
‘Oh, yes – yes.’ Her eyes suffused. ‘Might it mean that when you go back to England, I would come with you? Might it mean that?’
‘I think that would be best, don’t you?’
‘Best? Mr Gibson, kind and dear sir, I should be so happy. How could I ever thank you?’ Natasha, visibly radiant, drew the glance of a short-skirted Berlin flapper, and the flapper thought that anyone who could look like that on a cold November day must have inherited an ocean of bliss. ‘Always, always,’ said Natasha, ‘I shall be your most devoted and grateful friend. If I do come to England, it will be permissible for us still to be friends?’
‘Of course. There are no laws against it. Come along.’ He began to cross the wide street with her. As they did so, a column of political activists approached at a stamping, rhythmic run, after the fashion of the famed Italian bersaglieri. They were chanting political slogans and flying a banner, the banner of the National Socialist Party. Their boots pounded the surface of the street, and they drew catcalls from some people. The column came on, taking no notice of Mr Gibson and Natasha crossing the street in front of them. Natasha ran for the pavement at a moment when Mr Gibson checked and held back. Hard-faced activists bruisingly shouldered the Russian girl. She tumbled and fell, without one of them paying her the slightest attention. She had been in the way. Get out of the way, that was the impression they gave.
Outraged but unhurt, Natasha lay breathless for a moment. A man, stepping from the pavement, stooped over her and extended a helping hand. Natasha looked up into hard grey eyes shaded by a hat brim. She saw a swarthy face marked by a scar on the left cheek. The grey eyes searched her. They flickered. Her blood froze.
‘Are you hurt, Fräulein? Allow me.’ The German was thickly accented. The hand on her arm attempted to bring her to her feet. Mr Gibson appeared.
‘Thank you,’ he said to the swarthy man, and Natasha’s frozen blood thawed in surging, thankful relief. The hand released her arm, and it was Mr Gibson who brought her to her feet. A small group of bystanders had gathered, and there were mutterings about political ruffians.
‘Are you all right, Natasha?’ asked Mr Gibson, bringing her to the pavement.
‘Yes – yes – thank you,’ said Natasha, and Mr Gibson brushed her coat down.
‘Certain political creatures have always lacked manners,’ he said.
Natasha made a compulsive search of the scene. But the man with the stony grey eyes and facial scar had gone. She could see him nowhere. Her blood became cold again. Mr Gibson took her gently by the arm and they resumed their walk.
‘He has found me,’ she said.
‘Who has found you?’
‘The Bolshevik commissar.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘He hit me. He broke my finger. He murdered my family. Now he is here, in Berlin.’
‘But not because of you, Natasha, not after all these years. And how do you know he’s here?’
‘You have just spoken to him. You said thank you to him. Didn’t you notice him? He has a scar on his face, and eyes like grey, frozen snow. He will come after me now that he has seen me.’
Mr Gibson had not taken any particular notice of the man. He had just been someone who had stepped from the pavement to give a helping hand to Natasha. A brimmed, felt hat and a black, belted raincoat, Mr Gibson remembered those things, and a dark-hued face, casually glimpsed.
‘Stop a moment, Natasha,’ he said. She stopped. He took hold of her left wrist and ran a hand along her arm, as if testing the limb for injury. It allowed him a look back. Among the pedestrians there was no one in a felt hat and black, belted raincoat. ‘He doesn’t seem to be coming after you at this moment.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Natasha, resisting the temptation of looking back herself.
‘Yes, quite sure,’ said Mr Gibson, giving her arm a light rub. ‘Are you certain, Natasha, that a commissar who was cruel to you seven years ago is actually in Berlin now?’
‘Yes.’ Natasha spoke quietly but firmly. ‘It was him. I could never make a mistake about such a man as that.’
‘And you think he recognized you?’
‘Yes.’
‘You feel he means you harm?’ said Mr Gibson, as they walked slowly on.
‘That is why he is here. He has been following me for years. Always I had
to keep running because people who were kind told me a man with a scar was asking questions about me. But although it made me shiver to see him a few minutes ago, I’m no longer afraid of him. I am not alone any more. You are my friend.’
‘Why does he want to harm you?’
‘It is a feeling I have.’
They reached the restaurant Mr Gibson had in mind. He took her in. It was true they were not being followed by a man in a felt hat and a belted black raincoat. There were, however, two men who from a distance watched them go into the restaurant. One was hatless and coatless, with wintry grey eyes. The other was carrying a bundle under his arm, the bundle made up of a raincoat rolled around a hat. They crossed the street and seated themselves at a table outside a café opposite the restaurant. They ordered drinks, and they sat waiting and watching.
Over lunch, which was so appetizing that Natasha ate more than she had intended, Mr Gibson took her mind off Bolsheviks and commissars with some very light and cheerful conversation. She became vivacious with laughter. Overriding so much that was unpleasant in her mind were thoughts that gave her bliss, thoughts of working in England, of earning enough money to keep herself, of being far away from Berlin, but still being close to Mr Gibson, her friend and patron and shield. Perhaps she would be allowed to visit him and his family occasionally. She would have to be careful in front of his wife, who was bound to be curious about her. For everyone’s sake she must never show she had come to love Mr Gibson, although it was not possible not to love him. One could worship from afar. That would harm nobody, and his wife need never know about it. Imagine the sheer pleasure of being married to him, of being kissed by him and loved by him, and having his children. There could only be one wife, of course. Other women must be content with their dreams.
‘What’s on your fascinating Russian mind now?’ smiled Mr Gibson. ‘You look as if you’re not sure whether to laugh or cry.’
‘Your Excellency—’
‘Drop that,’ said Mr Gibson.
‘Dear sir is permissible?’
‘Drop that too. Mr Gibson will do.’
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