Once Upon a Time in December

by M J Marstens

  I watch Olishka and Tatya—the Big Pair, as they are referred to at court. Only a year apart, they are the oldest and closest to being married. In truth, their marriage should have been arranged and taken place years ago but, again, the war has upended so much in our lives.

  My heart squeezes to see both bestow radiant smiles on their dancing partners. Soon, the Big Pair will be gone and only the Small Pair2 will remain—but not for long. I imagine as soon as Olishka and Tatya are married and settled, father and mother will press for engagements for Mashka and me.

  I know that Olishka hopes to marry Grand Duke Dmitri Pavlovich of Russia3, our first cousin once removed. Currently, Father is pressing for an in-country marriage, but Tatya, Mashka, and I will get no such reprieve. Our marriages must be advantageous and meant to strengthen the European monarchies. If only I could marry a Russian man like Olishka’s intended. . .

  And if only he could be a commoner.

  That reminds me of my purpose and I steal a quick glance at Anya, who dances prettily with a distant cousin of mine. She has a star-struck look on her face and, for all her initial reticence, she appears to be enjoying herself. No one else is paying her a second look and I’m reassured that no one suspects her not to truly be me.

  I silently blow everyone a kiss.

  To my beloved Olga—may Father grant you the marriage that you wish so that you can live forever in our mother country.

  To my dearest Tatiana—may you find a studious husband that will read for hours by your side.

  To my sweet Maria—may you find love in someone as caring and compassionate as you are.

  To my parents—my you find joy in this night, the first in many with true frivolity.

  To my brother—may your life be long and rich, despite your sickness, and may your reign as future Tsar be supported by all.

  To my country—may you find peace soon.

  I end my prayers with another kiss and slip off. Someone bumps into me and orders me to carry more plates to the dining room. I hurry to abide, not a stranger to labor in my home. Servants have always been here to help, not act as salves to our every whim. My parents pay them well for their hard work and expect everyone—including my sisters and me—to help in the household.

  It’s another half an hour before I can make it back to the deserted hall with the grandfather clock, but there’s still no sign of my secret. My heart sinks with dismay. My old insecurities come flooding to the forefront of my mind—stupid, futile, and hurtful values entrenched there from infancy.

  Another daughter, another girl, another disappointment.

  At least the older three are prettier.

  Thinner.

  Meeker.

  Politer.

  The list goes on and on of how my sisters are far better than me.

  And, then, there’s my brother. . .

  Well, he’ll always be the apple of my parents’ eyes. He’s the coveted heir—not that I envy him his title, just his gender. Father often sighs, lamenting what a wonderful boy I would have made but, as a girl, my disposition is a lot less delightful or desired.

  We all dote on Alyosha4, who is three years younger than me. He’s often so sickly, it’s hard to be truly envious of him and he treats his sisters with such dear affection, calling us OTMA5, instead of our individual names. For him, we are all equal.

  A scream rips me from my mental depression. It’s coming from the ballroom. I rush as quickly as I can in Anya’s dress and apron through the kitchens and to the side door where I stood not an hour before. Everywhere, people are running and yelling. Servants dash to escape the scene before me.

  I blink twice, hoping it’s just a nightmare.

  But my eyes don’t deceive me.

  The ballroom is no longer a place of gaiety and laughter, as before.

  Now, it’s a bloody massacre.

  * * *

  1 The nicknames for Anastasia’s older sisters: Olga, Tatiana, and Maria

  2 Refers to Maria and Anastasia, only two years apart.

  3 This betrothal was just rumored and never officially announced.

  4 Tsarevich (the Russian heir) Alexei’s nickname

  5 How the Grand Duchesses signed their names together. OTMA is the first initial of each princess’ name: Olga, Tatiana, Maria, and Anastasia.

  Chapter Three

  Strewn about the floor in macabre poses are my cousins, aunts, uncles, and other extended family—all members of the Russian aristocracy. Some are still alive and moan pitifully, but most are already dead. The only ones left standing are my parents and siblings and I send a quick guilty prayer of thanks.

  Even from a distance, I can see my sisters quaking in fear. My brother clings to my mother, who is standing slightly behind my father. A surge of pride rushes through my body to see him towering over everyone on the dais. Although his eyes are crinkled with concern, his face remains stoic. He will do anything to protect his family.

  I finally look at poor Anya, standing where I should be instead. Surprisingly, her eyes are locked on me—begging. I think it’s because she wants me to come relieve her of this nightmare. I barely step into the ballroom and her eyes widen in horror and she begins fervently shaking her head.

  “The time has come to run, Anya!” she screams, earning her a vicious slap from one of the men.

  Everything inside of me stills at her words—those were Father Grigori’s words to me in my dream.

  I realize then that she doesn’t want me to come and save her—she wants me to run away. Over the years, many words and names have been used to describe me, partly from my family and partly from the world constantly watching my every move.

  I’m told that I’m very funny, charming when I want to be, extremely intelligent—perhaps the most intelligent of all my parents’ children, but I’m also mischievous, disobedient, and egocentric. I will begrudgingly admit to all of these traits, but the one that people whisper that I am most proud of is courageous.

  Whereas my sisters are dainty and simpering, I am clumsy and oafish. Where they are meek and submissive, I am loud and forceful. My father wasn’t joking when he lamented that I was not a boy—I have all the trappings of becoming a great Tsar, if not for the body I inhabit.

  But, my gender has never stopped me from being me. I cannot change who I am and, instead of trying, I embraced myself. For all my inner moments of doubt and torment, I’ve never stopped being me, and Anastasia Nikolaevna is no coward. So, Anya’s cry for me to run away astonishes me.

  In truth, I would have ignored her and already marched over there if not for her wording—the same as Father Grigori’s.

  Why would my wise mentor tell me to flee my family when they are in danger and need me the most?

  I get my answer not a second too soon. A heavily armed man steps up to the dais, knocking the butt of his gun hard into my father’s groin. Even I know how tender this area is for men and, regardless of my father’s noble stance, he falls to his knees with a grunt of pain.

  Then, the man slams the end of the gun into the side of my father’s head, making him sway. A thin line of blood trickles from my father’s temple and I can see my mother trembling from here. The armed man smiles nastily at her.

  “No one can save you now. Only Lenin knows where you are to be sent. Once your husband abdicates, we will erase all Romanov blood from the Earth and you shall never rule again. Dasvidaniya1 and good riddance,” he cackles maniacally.

  My stomach turns at his words, but I know my mission now. I know why God has spared me. Only I am brave enough to run, to hide, and to seek out this Lenin. I will find where he is taking my parents and I will save them.

  I will save them all.

  I stare deeply into Anya’s eyes and nod my head to tell her that I understand, and I see a small measure of relief flit across her face. She knows that I will not fail her. Turning my back on my family is one of the hardest things that I have ever done, but I will myself to run.

  I carefully dodge other
servants and, now, armed men trying to capture us. I realize that they are rounding up everyone in the palace. I manage to break free and sprint blindly to my mother’s sitting room. Two men chase me, shouting angrily, but I pay them no heed.

  If I can just make it to that room.

  The men curse when I round the corner of one hall and knock over the tall plants the decoratively edge the walls. No matter how well-trained these men are—I am better. I know this palace like the back of my hand and years of running from my parents, nannies, tutors, etc. has lent me an athletic skill most cannot compete with.

  Of course, my egocentricity gets the better of me again because just as I reach the drawing room doors, strong arms haul me up forcibly. I struggle like a manul2 to get free. These men have underestimated my ability to fight. And I will fight—to the death if I have to—too much is at stake.

  Using the man holding me, I lean my back against his chest and swing upwards with my feet. Kicking viciously, I connect my heel into the other man’s nose, making him drop his gun and moan. The man holding me attempts to spin me around, but I use the motion to bring my knee up into his groin. Like my father, he drops heavily to ground where he writhes in pain.

  I pick up his gun and swing it like a bat across his temple and the other man’s. Both men fall at the force of my blow and I take a deep breath to calm my heaving stomach. I can do this—but I’m not inherently violent. In fact, I can barely handle hunting with my father, although I am an excellent markswoman.

  Yet, this is a matter of life and death—mine and my family’s. I have no time to be squeamish. I leave the now unconscious men on the ground and run into my mother’s drawing room, locking it behind me—not that it’s stopping anyone.

  Using all my strength, I shove my mother’s ottoman out of the way and push mightily against the heavy bookshelf behind it, lining the inner wall of the room. When I finally get it wedged far enough from the wall, I get down on my hands and knees to the secret door hidden behind it.

  Opening the heart locket at my chest—a gift from my parents—I take out the key that will open the door. I quickly unlock it and scramble in, not bothering to relock it. The bookshelf sitting askew in the room will be evidence enough of something awry, but I’m not worried. Only an exceedingly small woman or child could escape out of this secret tunnel.

  By the time anyone finds it and someone who can traverse it, I will be long gone.

  Silent tears stream down my face as I escape the palace into the cold, bitter Russian night. There is a place I can go for warmth and a change of clothes—somewhere I can formulate a plan. As I flee, I look back at my childhood home.

  I can still hear screaming and parts of it are on fire. So many of my loved ones have perished in there this night, but I’ll be damned if any more of my family is taken from me. The dissidents might try to eradicate the Romanovs, but they have severely underestimated my determination.

  I am Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova, tsarevna, and I will stop at nothing to save my family and avenge our name.

  * * *

  1 The formal way to say ‘good-bye’ in Russian

  2 A type of wildcat in Russia, also called the Palla’s cat

  Chapter Four

  Dr. Botkin’s house is dark when I enter. I pray that our family physician isn’t at the palace, but it’s a futile wish. My parents generally kept him on hand in case Alyosha had an episode1. The good doctor kept a residence in the heart of St. Petersburg since he also volunteered at the hospital for wounded soldiers—my sisters and I frequently helped under his direction.

  Often, he would take my sisters and me, with our entourage of guards, back to his house for a break and quick meal. One interesting thing about the key hidden in my heart locket is that it also will open Dr. Botkin’s back door—something my parents planned in case. . .

  In case something as unbearable and horrible as tonight happened.

  At the onset of the war, my father presented each of his daughters with a pure gold locket but insisted that the real treasure was hidden away inside—a key that could unlock many doors. The key itself isn’t special; rather, my father went to extreme lengths to ensure that certain locks were the same so that one key could open them.

  One of these places was the good doctor’s home—a place that I have visited thousands of times, but never at night and never for the key’s intended purpose. Dr. Botkin showed my sisters and me, all those years ago, a special armoire packed with just our clothing and some supplies. When I light a lamp and make my way to the chest, it gleams brightly.

  It’s not a dusty forgotten relic, further justified when I open it to find fresh clothing in my current size. My father and the doctor must have updated items frequently considering how all of us girls have been growing like weeds. Luckily, we are similar in size and can share clothing.

  The thought dampens my spirits.

  I wouldn’t be sharing anything with my beloved sisters if I didn’t get to them in time.

  I shake my head at the thought. I refuse to fall down the rabbit hole of negativity. My sisters need me—my family needs me. I cannot fail them. Grabbing a satchel, I fill it with the bare necessities. Then, I go to the Doctor’s kitchen for some other provisions and to formulate a plan.

  Ultimately. . .

  I come up blank.

  I realize that my mind is numb—lethargic even—not the creative whirlwind it usually is. And underneath the shock and quiet is my fear. I smile wryly into the darkness. I’ve learned something new this night—even the courageous can be afraid.

  A wounded soldier once told me this when I was attending to him. Instantly, my brain sparks with an idea—the soldiers might be able to tell me who stormed the palace and where I might find this Lenin. It’s risky since I don’t know whose loyalties lie where, but it’s the best lead that I have.

  There are a few men currently at the hospital that have been there for months in rehabilitation that I trust well enough but, first, a disguise. I walk over to the Doctor’s fireplace and poke at the ashes resting there coldly. Dipping my fingers in, I gently begin to comb the blackened soot through my hair.

  There’s nothing that I can do to dampen the bright cornflower blue of my eyes, but my reddish hair is another tell-tale sign of my heritage. The black ash should help conceal its unique coloring. I also wrap a scarf around my head. This, coupled with the simple dress that my father provided, guarantees no one will blink at me walking through the city.

  I make sure to hunch my shoulders forward and keep my head bowed as I leave Dr. Botkin’s house. Another sign of the aristocracy is our regal posture bred into us from infancy. But, I’ve always been a graceless monkey, according to my governess, and I’m happy to skulk away into the night.

  The hospital is only a few miles from the good Doctor’s home. I can see my breath puff out of my mouth. St. Petersburg in winter is very cold—all of Russia in winter is very cold, but having grown up here my entire life, I am used to it. My poor mother, though, never adapted to the bitter temperatures—even her German winters could not compare.

  I’m much warmer now, layered up in clothing, but I barely even felt the iciness before when I fled the palace. I barely feel it now. My body and heart are too numb for the chill to truly penetrate the fog in my brain. All I have is my purpose and my plan. I go through all the soldiers still recovering at the hospital that I might talk to. . .

  That I might trust.

  When I reach the hospital, I go to the nurses’ quarters and grab my uniform and hat. I make sure no one is in the room because everyone knows that my sisters and I share a locker. I don’t want anyone seeing me grab something from it and realizing who I really am. Thankfully, the room remains empty—eerily quiet even.

  I’ve only been to the hospital during the day and it’s always bustling with people. I’m not sure if it’s naturally this silent at this time or something else is amiss. I get my answer when I exit with my uniform in hand to snoop. Most of the wounded are sleeping
soundly, but there are two men lingering in the ward where my favorite soldier rests.

  They instantly come marching over to me and I tense up, preparing to run, but I force myself to remain calm. Running would be a red flag and I mustn’t give anyone the impression that I have something to hide. Unless these are bad men in general, and I should be running regardless. . .

  “Excuse me, Miss. Are you a nurse?” one asks me politely.

  “Yes,” I answer firmly, showing him my white dress with a red cross embroidered over the chest. “Can I help you?”

  “We are asking that all medical personal come with us,” he answers.

  “And who is ‘us’?” I inquire blandly.

  “Why are you coming in so late?” the second man asks suspiciously.

  “I missed my afternoon shift because my mother was ill and needed attending to; this is the soonest I could come to work,” I reply frostily.

  I remind myself to temper my responses with less. . .ice. No one questions a Grand Duchess, but I’m just a commoner now—and a woman, at that. However, both men nod at my words.

  “We are from the Beloye Dvizheniye2,” the first man offers.

  I recognize the name as one of the revolutionist groups trying to overthrow the Russian monarchy.

  “And we’re trying to rescue medical personal before Lenin can imprison you,” he continues.

  Lenin!

  “Why would Lenin imprison nurses and doctors?” I wonder.

  “To use only at his beck and call,” the second man replies grimly. “If he has all the healthcare staff, then no one can attend to the wounds of his enemies. Meaning—they die and he survives.”

  “And your purposes are any less nefarious?” I probe.

  The second man shrugs and answers honestly.

  “This is war. Either he wins or we do, and I’m on my side. So, will you come with us or not?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “No,” the first man grunts.