Lost and Found

by Lynda Bellingham

  The producer and director were already there and were very solicitous. The producer handed me an envelope with my expense money; how good was that? Not only was I being paid a salary but on top of that they paid for my hotel and all my meals. It was a pity this facility did not extend to my mobile phone bill. One week it was £750. I just kept ringing home because I was so homesick and worried about the boys. We all went out for dinner and drank lots of vodka; I found that when I drank vodka my knowledge of the Russian language improved remarkably! I fell into bed in a wonderful state of euphoria and fell deeply asleep, dreaming of those little wooden Russian dolls, one inside the other.

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING Rebecca and I were driven out to Barrandov Studios. As we left the old town of Prague, with its beautiful churches and bridges, the landscape became much bleaker. Sixties concrete apartment blocks were stark against the steely sky.

  The studios looked like a prison. There was concrete everywhere, and long dark corridors that led seemingly nowhere. My dressing room, in contrast, was all decorated in Versace and had a bathroom with a sunken bath – bright glaring Versace tiles, with bling gold taps on the bath! The seating area, by contrast, was quite small with a dressing table and easy chair. I later discovered that my dressing room was in the bathroom section of a suite of rooms that had been Tom Cruise’s dressing room while he was filming Mission Impossible.

  The director had summoned Pat and a Russian make-up designer to discuss the idea of contact lenses. Alexandra had had very distinctive grey eyes and mine were hazel, so Gleb wanted me to wear coloured lenses. He was obsessed with the idea that all the actors looked exactly like the real people or as near as damn it. All round the walls of the make-up room were photos of the real Romanov family and, over the next few weeks during filming, we all seemed to morph into their likeness. It was scary.

  Pat had brought a selection of contact lenses and proceeded to try them in my eyes. It was hopeless; I just couldn’t deal with them and my eyes became redder and redder. To make matters worse, when they were actually in my eyes, they gave my face a dead look. You could see no emotion. The lenses hid my soul! Thank God, the director agreed and they were discarded.

  The hair proved more of a problem. Pat had brought lots of hair pieces and bits to put in my hair, but the director wanted a full wig that would fit to the front of my head, with my own hair combed through the wig hair to disguise the hairline. The lovely Russian make-up lady, Olga, could speak no English, and Pat could speak no Russian but somehow they managed to communicate, and the upshot was I was whisked away to a hairdresser and spent the next five hours having my hair dyed blonde at the front. Again! Thank goodness Pat was on hand, because at the first attempt, we watched aghast as my hair turned orange.

  The final result made me look like an old hooker (which didn’t really go amiss in Prague because there were a lot of them about). Olga arranged to meet us the next day and have a wig ready to show the director. The next morning, she produced an incredible wig that she had made virtually overnight. She then sprayed my new blonde hair and combed it through the wig. You couldn’t see the join at all – it was fantastic!

  The costumes were equally amazing. They fitted me for three hours, bringing out endless swathes of silk and swatches of velvet. There was hundreds of pounds’ worth of material and everything was being made by hand. I was fitted with shoes with incredibly high heels to make me taller. My mother was right as usual.

  By the time I arrived back in the UK on Christmas Eve, my head was buzzing. It was so good to see the boys and because I felt so much better about myself, I was good company that Christmas. I felt hopeful for the first time in months.

  I was back on the plane after Christmas without Pat. My dear friend had been offered an amazing job, as make-up designer on a film, Richard III, starring Sir Ian McKellen. She was so worried about letting the side down, but it was an opportunity not to be missed, and when we discussed it, we decided that Olga was a genius and would look after me a treat. I had been to John Lewis and Marks and Spencer at Christmas, and stocked up on sweaters and jackets for Olga, and Pat had doubled up on all her make-up, so she could leave Olga a set of everything. Money was tight for the likes of her.

  Back out in Prague, filming began straight away. I had no idea what to expect. Rebecca and I had got on the coach in the dark and freezing cold at 5 a.m. All around us were the unfamiliar voices of the Russians. But it is amazing how the language of film is international. It took no time at all to pick up what was going on and learn some words. Cameras and microphones and lights are all the same. They had given me a man to translate for me but he got in the way in the end: it was irritating to have this shadow permanently at my shoulder and I preferred to find my own way. I had spent a long time over Christmas, and now in my room, reading all the books I could get my hands on about the Romanov family, steeping myself in all the stories, both real and hearsay.

  The girls playing the daughters arrived. They were stunning: they all had long, beautiful hair, but it was going to be cut off! This had happened to the daughters in real life, because when Alexei, their little brother, got chickenpox, he had to have his head shaved, so they all did the same to give him support. Rebecca and I had to stand in that first scene and watch these gorgeous girls have their heads shaved. It was not difficult to cry real tears for them. The girls then had to wear wigs for the rest of the film. It was bizarre. But as all the actors sat in their chairs in the make-up room it became obvious just how clever the director had been. His vision, and Olga’s talent, had combined to make those people come alive again.

  Filming was magic. We worked strange hours but it didn’t matter. Sometimes I would be acting at midnight. Then, the next day, at eight in the morning. There were no union rules here. Sometimes the director would talk about a scene and I would worry that I would not be able to grasp what he wanted, but we seemed to be perfectly in tune and each time he called ‘Cut!’, he would beam at me and give me the thumbs up. I spoke the dialogue phonetically and learned the other actors’ lines so I could recognise my cues more easily; I hardly ever slept as there was so much to absorb before a day’s shoot. But I didn’t care. I loved every moment. I lived the character.

  All the crew were very kind to me and, bizarrely, they seemed to think I was royalty. They were always so careful round me. Nodding and bowing. Of course, if this had been a British film, I would have spent the whole time telling dirty jokes in the pub, but I couldn’t do that here. The best thing I could do was act like a queen. I felt like one.

  Every Sunday I took all the actors out to lunch. They were earning so little money, the girls especially, they could hardly afford to eat properly. We would all assemble at a wonderful restaurant below the Charles Bridge. It had a buffet and you could eat as much as you could pile on your plate; the girls would stuff food in their bags for later. They would drink and laugh and end the afternoon with a singsong. The snow outside would sparkle from the lights in the trees, and I used to walk back to the hotel feeling magical and happy.

  I missed the boys terribly, but they were able to come out every other weekend, so it wasn’t so bad. Robbie was still quite young, only nine, so Alena came with them and I paid for her to bring her son who was ten. When they did come it was often very hard, because I had to forget the film when I got back to the hotel, and be Mum again. But it was worth the exhaustion. Prague has a tradition of puppetry; there were puppet shops on every corner, selling beautiful, hand-made figures. The boys adored them and over the six months they acquired quite a collection. It was wonderful to have them with me: emotionally, I was still very vulnerable and I was also very alone. While I was away, Nunzio had taken the boys to live with him in his flat, and would not let me ring them there.

  One evening, we were finishing a scene in the house where the family were imprisoned. When they had been there, there were guards with them all the time and even as they ate their evening meal, they had had to endure snide remarks and taunts from their captor
s. As a family they were incredibly close and that helped them to be strong.

  It was a very moving scene and, as often happens with a cast, there was a great sense of togetherness by now. I looked up at the camera at one point, and my eye was caught by a movement just to the other side of the camera. Suddenly, the director shouted ‘Cut!’ and turned and gave the young man standing there a hug. There was much kissing and hugging and we were all introduced to Ivan Panfilov, Gleb’s son. He was very handsome, but too young for me! He came across and shook my hand and gave me a radiant smile. What a charmer.

  We all had dinner that night and, to my delight, Ivan spoke perfect English. It made things so much easier when talking to Gleb. Over the next few days, Ivan would come to my dressing room to chat about England. He loved London, and wanted to study there, eventually. He also used my room to smoke in, something he was not allowed to do in the presence of his father. He told me he was planning a birthday party in two weeks’ time, as he was going to be eighteen. I told him about the restaurant where we all went on a Sunday and invited him to join us. ‘The girls will love having you there,’ I told him. He laughed shyly.

  The following weekend all the young actors and some of the crew were going clubbing. I bumped into them all in the bar. Ivan seemed to be in charge. He was like the Pied Piper, being followed by a happy band of girls. I envied them their youth and energy. There was no way I could do that and get up and film the next day.

  My boys had come to visit, and brought me some videos to watch. Ivan was very interested in them and, the following week, he turned up at my door with a bottle of champagne and asked if he might join me to watch a film. I was rather taken aback, but agreed. We watched a video and had some dinner and it was fun. He was good company. Very bright and with a wicked sense of humour. I told Rebecca about the evening and she gave me a knowing look.

  ‘It doesn’t mean anything. You’ve got a dirty mind,’ I laughed.

  But later in my room, I wondered. He did flirt with me sometimes and he was always very attentive. I decided I was being ridiculous; I was old enough to be his mother. And, in fact, we stayed in touch and he is good friends with my son Michael today.

  GLEB CAME TO me one morning, with Ivan to translate. He was preparing to film the scene where the whole family are herded into a small room and shot. He smiled sadly as Ivan explained to me that his father had put off this moment for as long as he could, because he did not want to kill off his beautiful family.

  I was very touched by Gleb’s very real involvement in the film. To him, this film was a personal mission. He wanted to show the world, but especially the Russian people, that the Csar Nicholas may have been a fool, and naive about the state of his country, but he was not a bad man. He loved his country and, most importantly for this film, he loved his family.

  The room in the house in Yekaterinburg where the executions took place had been recreated in the studio in Prague. The morning of the shoot, Gleb had handpicked the soldiers who would shoot the family. He was emphatic that none of these soldiers, all played by Czech actors, must talk to any of the family before the moment they saw them in that room. He wanted them to feel the moment they looked into the eyes of these people, and shot them in cold blood.

  There was an air of anticipation over the studio that morning, a sense of imminent disaster that was palpable to all. I felt anxious and jumpy. The girls were unusually quiet, waiting to start. In the make-up room, everyone was talking in whispers and giving each other hugs. I sat in a corner with the boy playing my son, Alexei, and waited for the call.

  Before the scene we all had to be wired with small explosives. As we were shot, tiny capsules would explode on our bodies like gunshots. No one spoke as the firearms technician worked on the devices. Across the other side of the studio, the soldiers were being given a lesson in how to shoot their rifles. I could hear the guns being locked and loaded.

  Then we were led across the vast wide floor of the studio to the place of execution. We walked through a long, low corridor to get there, and the walls seemed to press in against us. As we passed the crew no one spoke. Everyone seemed to look away, frightened to break this amazing atmosphere.

  We had rehearsed the scene the day before so we all knew what we were doing. In all the books I had read about the Romanovs and their history, this story was the most emotive. The family doctor had been told by the rebels, the night before, that the family would be called together early in the morning for a group photo before they were taken on the next part of their journey. However, this was simply a way of getting them all together without arousing suspicion. The plan was actually to shoot them. The rebels had given the doctor the choice to stay or leave. His loyalty to the family was absolute. He stayed.

  The young princesses had prepared for the journey, and all the women had sewn their jewels into small cushions that they always carried with them. So, as they gathered for the photo, each girl had a small satin cushion on her lap. The family group prepared for the photo. Very quietly, the photographer arranged them. Moving an arm here or a hand to a shoulder there. The Empress was seated with her son on her right and her husband behind her with his hand on her shoulder. To their left was one of her daughters. The photographer retired behind the black cloth over the camera. Someone counted to three and as the camera flashed the doorway was filled with faces. Eyes wild and staring.

  It was a real shock, and made me jump, even though I knew it was going to happen. I looked up and happened to catch the eye of one of the soldiers. Time stood still. He was so young and looked so scared. He almost tried to speak and in his eyes I could see his apology hovering, but it was gone in a moment and, suddenly, the room was filled with tremendous noise and smoke. I felt my device pop and, as rehearsed, I fell forwards to the floor. I could hear screams and shouting all around me as I lay there. It seemed to go on for ever. Then, suddenly, complete silence and, through the heavy, smoke-filled air, came the sounds of whimpering and moans. It was heartbreaking. One of the girls was jerking violently, her body in spasm. A single gunshot and then nothing, just a pile of human carnage. Blood was everywhere. Splashes all down the walls, and pools forming on the floor. When the scene had happened for real, shots had hit the jewels in the cushions, and the bullets had ricocheted off, causing devastating mess and making the deaths of several of the family more painful, because the bullets did not enter their bodies cleanly.

  After Gleb had cut the scene, I got up slowly and looked around. It was, indeed, a blood bath. The director came into the room and just held out his arms. We all went to him as one. Some of the girls were crying quietly. I just felt drained. I saw the handsome young Czech actor, who played the soldier whose eye I had caught at that last moment, and went over and kissed him. He seemed to be grateful that I hadn’t taken it personally. It was only a film, but it was a very special moment and we all felt it.

  THAT NIGHT THE whole crew went clubbing. I decided to hell with it, and joined them. I had not danced for ten years, never mind been to a club. I drank vodka and danced and danced. It was fantastic. Filming that scene had made us all aware of death, and death makes the living want to feel alive. Here I was, surrounded by gorgeous young men and women. Perhaps the vodka had made me crazy but I grabbed the handsome Czech guy who had played the soldier and we danced and danced. He was an actor who worked mainly in the theatre and spoke quite good English. It felt as though we had a kind of bond between us after the day’s filming and got on really well. It just felt so great to be free. The music was pounding in my head and the bass was throbbing through my body, down to my toes. Suddenly, the lights dipped very low and I found myself slowly going round the floor with my head pressed to the guy’s chest. I sneaked a look up at him and there was his beautiful face. I had an overwhelming desire to kiss him. I lifted my face towards his and found myself in a tight embrace. It made me feel giddy.

  I ran to the toilets and went to the basin and ran the cold water. I doused my face and looked up at the mirror. All
around me girls were laughing and giggling and jostling each other for space to redo their make-up. I looked shell-shocked, but there was something else in my eyes. Hope. I was alive, so very alive, and I was going to bloody well stay alive! I clenched my fists and mouthed, ‘Yes!’ to myself before going back to the dance floor. My lovely young man was waiting for me and we walked back to the hotel as dawn was breaking. He kissed me once more, very gently, and said goodnight.

  I sat on my bed and tried to make sense of it. There was nothing to make sense of, Lynda. He had been a charming date. I was bloody lucky to get a kiss from the lad. What more did I want?

  Quite unexpectedly, my young man became quite a regular thing while I was on the film. We were very discreet and spent a good deal of time in my hotel room. He made me laugh and he made me feel special. I had no expectations of anything long term, but for those few weeks my faith in myself was restored. It was perhaps the simplest and purest relationship I have ever had. When I finally returned to the UK we said our goodbyes without any drama or tears. It was a perfect, natural end to an amazing experience, and the beginning of a new life for me alone. From now on it was just me and my boys.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  HANGING ON BY THE SKIN OF MY TEETH

  IT IS 20TH JANUARY, 2000 and Nunzio leaves court with a £4,000 fine and an injunction against him not to come anywhere near me, or my home, for seven years.

  There was no sense of relief for me. I knew it would not end here. The last three years had become one long nightmare of fear. In the press release it says that in court, the prosecutor said: ‘It was a violent marriage. Miss Bellingham was forced to call the police several times after he [Nunzio] threatened to kill her. She believed his threats would be carried out.’