Anastasia's Secret (20 page)

Alexei’s thirteenth birthday was August 12, the day before we were scheduled to leave Tsarskoe. I didn’t know whether that was coincidence, or whether Kerensky had anticipated this request by my mother, and built an excuse for a religious observance into his plans.

But however clever Kerensky had been, the Soviet, in the end, nearly had their way. We had packed everything, and the moment came when our departure could no longer be hidden from the guards. A mountain of luggage, including our camp beds, linens, kitchen supplies, and much more sat in the courtyard of the palace, waiting to be taken to the imperial train station.

I have replayed the scene of the night we left Tsarskoe so often in my mind, like viewing a film over and over again, the motions devoid of color and sound, like the movies we used to watch at Livadia, the newsreels and bits and snatches of whatever Volkov considered suitable fare for us children. Sometimes I even dream about it. The whole experience was half-lit, nightmarish.

It began in the semidarkness, no candles being brought because we thought we would soon be leaving. We were all gathered in the semicircular hallway, just as we used to gather to go out to take the air, only it was already evening on August 13. Our scheduled departure time was ten o’clock, and we were told to be ready an hour earlier. We wore our traveling clothes, and the trunks and valises with our personal possessions surrounded us. The problem, we were first told, was that there weren’t enough servants left to load the luggage. But that apparently wasn’t the real reason for the delay.

Damadianz, who had become increasingly surly as we packed in the previous weeks, came in and announced, “The Tsarskoe members of the Soviet are meeting to decide if you will be allowed to go.” He folded his arms across his chest, daring us to object. But we knew better. Papa made Mama sit down in her wheelchair, and the rest of us stood or sat as comfortably as we could in the hall, not saying a thing.

Hours passed. My back began to hurt from doing nothing. At 11:30 there was a commotion at the door. The guards unlocked it, and I thought perhaps we were finally being allowed to go, but we were all surprised to see Kerensky enter, accompanied by my uncle, Grand Duke Michael. It was he, my father’s dear brother, who had refused to accept the crown from him and paved the way for the Provisional Government to be established.

“Mishka!” Papa said and ran to him. They embraced. I saw tears in both their eyes. Kerensky ushered them quickly away from the hall and into Papa’s study. Papa returned a short while later without Uncle Mishka.

“Kerensky was there the whole time,” he said in a hushed voice to Mama. “But he apologized and said he wouldn’t listen. Mishka wanted to come and bid his farewells to everyone when we were done, but he was not allowed to. It is for me to convey his fondest good wishes to you and his nieces and nephew.”

At that moment Damadianz, who had gone away for a while to see what was happening with the Soviet guards, returned. “Your departure, by permission of Kerensky, has been set at midnight.” He said it as if he was disgusted with the whole thing. “Had it been my decision, you would not be going, but the men have chosen to ignore me.”

So that was the problem. The men alone were not trying to keep us. Damadianz and Kerensky were engaged in a power struggle over the matter. Damadianz was naturally on the side of the Soviet. Having control over us gave him importance he might not otherwise have. He left without a word, possibly to go and stir up more trouble. We waited and waited. Every time someone came in to say we would be going soon, we would once again prepare ourselves, putting on the traveling coats we had removed as the delay stretched on, picking up our small parcels of books and the valises that contained our brushes, combs, and other toiletries, and our jewel cases. And then time would pass and nothing would happen.

Guards streamed in and out in small groups, announcing yet more excuses for the delay: The luggage was too heavy—although mostly it contained bedding and items from the kitchen and pantry, and therefore was all necessary. There would not be enough room for everything. The train was not yet ready to receive us.

The train. I looked forward to the comfort of that rolling palace, so familiar from better times. Train rides had nearly always been happy occasions, as they meant we were going to Livadia or Poland or to the port where the
Standart
awaited us for a cruise to the beautiful waters of Finland. And when we again boarded it after those delightful holidays, it meant that we were returning to the comforts of Tsarskoe Selo or Peterhof.

“Perhaps we should get out the cards,” suggested Olga, one eye on Papa who took small, pacing steps back and forth past a window to the courtyard.

“There is no point. We shall be going soon,” said Mashka, gesturing her head toward Alexei. Poor Alexei. He was so exhausted that he looked gray. He sat on a trunk, holding Joy’s leash, who alternately lay down and slept at his feet, then roused herself when someone came in. Joy acted out what we all felt. Alternate relief and weariness. The other dogs and the cat were in crates with the luggage, and probably felt as confused and tired as we did.

By the time the signal came that we were actually to leave, we almost didn’t believe it, and the guards had to practically yell at us to get us going. It was six in the morning and none of us had slept. Mama was paler than I had ever seen her, and Alexei had deep blue circles under his eyes.

We were hurried into small, dirty automobiles. Several of the guards mounted horses to escort us. Mashka and I sat in the backseat of a tiny motorcar, clutching our things. We pulled away very quickly. I turned to look out the back window as the familiar sight of our home became less and less distinct in the gray morning. There were Isa, who was better but still not well enough to travel, Count Benckendorff, and Count Fredericks by the front entrance, leaning against it as if they were not capable of supporting their own weight. Isa would follow us when she was better, but Count Benckendorff would probably return to his own country, Austria, despite leaving his stepson, Prince Dolgorukov, to remain with my father. Count Fredericks would return to Petrograd.

It had never quite been real to me before then. Our captivity, as vexing as it had been, hadn’t removed us from the scenes of happy times. And when I wanted to, if I remained on the children’s floor where the soldiers rarely ventured, or we spent an hour or two in the Mountain Hall with its wide, built-in slide, I could forget for a while that things were not as they once had been. But now, I somehow knew that I would never see my bedroom, or the schoolroom, or Mama’s mauve boudoir again. I had to turn away to keep from crying.

We arrived at the station and boarded a train that was comfortable enough, but I was disappointed to see that it was not the imperial train. That had apparently been requisitioned by the Provisional Government, just like the limousines. And we were traveling incognito, under the guise of being members of the Japanese Red Cross. Were we really in such danger? I wondered. It seemed odd to think we would cut through the countryside, and no one would know it was us.

“You must not reveal yourselves at all when you pass through towns and cities,” Kerensky was telling us. “Stops for exercise will be in remote areas. You should have all you need, and Colonel Kobylinsky will manage any requests for papers. Makarov and Verchenin are also traveling with you to take care of any difficulties, should they arise.” Makarov was commissar to the minister of the court, and Verchenin was a deputy of the Duma.

We listened to Kerensky, too tired to think. He gave us a short bow, kissed my mother’s hand, and said, “Farewell, Sire—you see, I use the old address.” There was something very touching about that gesture from someone who believed so wholeheartedly in the new order. But it didn’t surprise me. Everyone who really knew Mama and Papa loved them for who they were, instead of wishing they would be different.

We were all shown our compartments, and Kobylinsky explained how the guards would be arranged.

“Tell me, Commander,” Prince Dolgorukov said. “Are all these sharpshooters and soldiers here to protect us, or to keep us imprisoned?”

“Both,” answered Kobylinsky.

The idea that we needed such protection against the citizens of our country affected me deeply. All my life, even recently, had been passed in isolated security and safety. Now we would travel through a hostile wilderness that was once our country. Somewhere in that wilderness, I knew, were a few who would have done anything to preserve us from harm, but they had no power to reach us.

More important than that, somewhere in all the vastness of Russia was one whose heart held a piece of my own.

The train lurched into motion sometime before seven in the morning. As we picked up speed and the rhythm of the wheels became regular and determined, the thread that bound Sasha and me to each other stretched tighter, and soon my heart ached with longing. He had been a part of that life in Tsarskoe and Peterhof, even as he opened their doors and guided me to a strange outside world.

None of us could say a thing to each other. The government—or rather Kerensky—had obviously taken great pains to see that we were comfortable. The carriages were first-class, and we had a dining car. The soldiers who accompanied us remained largely outside of where we were, so that we had the illusion of being free. We sisters had a carriage to ourselves. Mama, Papa, and Alexei shared one. And what remained of the suite and the servants were distributed among three more carriages. We watched the village of Tsarskoe pass by us, the tower of the cathedral, then the outlying farms. It was the last time I would see any surroundings that belonged to my earlier life.

About an hour outside of Tsarskoe, it became clear that we were traveling east, not south to Livadia, or even Moscow. A Soviet guard came through the train and announced to us where we were being taken.

To the Governor’s House in Tobolsk, Siberia.

C
HAPTER
24

Our rail journey lasted three and a half days. We stopped each day for half an hour to take walks and get some fresh air. It was always far away from any village, and Papa was told not to get too near the engine because they didn’t want the engineer to recognize him. The guards who accompanied us were mostly the kinder ones, and they stayed largely in their own cars. We had our own excellent cook along, Kharitonov, who prepared meals that were much more ample and delicious than those we had lately been receiving at Tsarskoe. And I will never forget crossing the Urals, the massive range of mountains and hills that separates the more densely populated part of Russia from the wild, desolate steppes of Siberia. Every curve revealed a magnificent new vista of forbidding, snow-covered rock rising above the dense fir forests that stretched for miles. Despite the fact that we were little more than captives now, I felt my heart surge at the sight. This was our Russia. This was what Papa had made his sacrifice for. It would always be here, no matter what happened to us.

We passed along gorges that sheered away from the edge of the railway. I would look out and have a thrill in my stomach, imagining what would happen if we failed to round the bend and plunged hundreds of feet to the frothing rivers below.

Not long after the hills flattened out on the other side of the Urals, we arrived at Tyumen, a city on the Tobol River. Tyumen was the nearest station to Tobolsk, but we still had a journey by boat to reach our final destination. We all boarded the
Rus
, a small but comfortably appointed steamboat, to continue on by river for several more days.

For a while, on the
Rus
, it felt as though we were on holiday again. The fresh air blowing across the open, rolling steppes made my lungs feel healthy after the sooty, enclosed train ride. We were given the run of the vessel. They obviously didn’t expect us to risk our lives in the swirling waters of the Tobol. And no one objected when we all gathered on deck as we passed the village of Pokrovskoye, the native home of Grigory Efimovich Rasputin.

“He foretold this, you know,” I heard Mama say to Papa. “He said, ‘Willingly or unwillingly, you will someday pass my house.’”

“We must not dwell on the past. Anything may yet happen.”

Mama did not look at Papa when she answered. “He said that after he died our dynasty would be destroyed with violence, and Russia would descend into chaos.”

Papa said nothing, only taking hold of Mama’s hand and patting it. I couldn’t help recalling what I had seen on that macabre night at Tsarskoe, watching while the coffin containing the rotting flesh and bones of Rasputin burned to ashes. Perhaps the starets had been right. Perhaps his existence had been the one thing that bound Russia as it had been together.

When we reached our destination of Tobolsk, Colonel Kobylinsky, Prince Dolgorukov, and General Tatischev went to inspect the house we were to occupy.

“It is not fit for pigs to inhabit,” said the prince when they returned. “It has been used as a barracks, and the men obviously took the opportunity to show their disdain for their betters by destroying a fine house.” I knew it must have been true, because the colonel did not contradict him.

“I assure you, we shall remedy the situation,” Kobylinsky said, and went off to the town again.

We never saw the Governor’s House in that state. We remained in our quarters on the
Rus
for another week while the house was cleaned and painted, and our furnishings moved in for us. What we didn’t have, they purchased from people in town, we later discovered. And although we were anxious to be settled, we didn’t mind staying on the
Rus
a little longer. The weather was glorious, and we had always enjoyed sailing.

“Perhaps now that we are so far away from all the trouble they will forget about us,” Mashka said as we went on one of our walks in the beautiful, wild countryside, having steamed some way down the river on a fine day. The guards hardly followed us, only watching from the ship and the shore nearby. After all, where would we escape to? We were nearly a hundred and fifty miles from any other city, and the countryside was bare. We would be seen for miles.

“Perhaps,” I said. Everyone seemed a little more relaxed than at Tsarskoe. “Perhaps they will at last allow us just to have a private life in Russia, and life will change, but go on.” Even as I said those words, they felt impossible. But for that moment at least, I had the illusion of being free and contented, and so did not listen to the warning in my heart.

The detachments of guards that had traveled with us on the train and on the
Rus
would be augmented, apparently, by others. The prince gave us the information that the balance would not be dissimilar to that at Tsarskoe, with those who were respectful and pleasant toward us, and those who treated us with suspicion and disdain. “They have recruited some from other cities nearby, from Omsk and Tyumen. The antitsarist sentiment is stronger there than out in these provincial towns.”

Prince Dolgorukov, as an aide-de-camp to Papa, always made it his business to be as informed as possible. I assumed he used his private fortune to bribe people to tell him things, because I could not imagine how he would manage otherwise.

It was as we were disembarking to move into the newly painted and cleaned Governor’s House that one of these additional guards, who had not been among those traveling with us from Tsarskoe, approached me. He fell into step beside me and did not look at me, but something in his manner made me think he wanted to tell me something. I was not wrong.

“Comrade Anastasie,” he said. “I bring you greetings from one who has been transferred to a regiment not far from here, and who assures you that he will find a way to contact you soon.”

As soon as he finished his message, he quickened his pace so that he was no longer by my side.

From that moment, my future opened and I felt my spirits take wing. No longer was I facing more extended captivity with my family, whom I loved with all my heart but who, since one particular night in a pantry at Tsarskoe, were no longer everything to me. There was no question what the soldier meant: I was going to see Sasha again. The blood tingled in my fingers. He was not far away. He had found me. I walked along the street to our new prison, hardly noticing where I went. I ended up walking next to Mashka.

“What is it, Nastya?” she whispered to me.

“Nothing. I’m just glad to be settling at last,” I said, and I squeezed her arm.

The Governor’s House at Tobolsk turned out to be quite comfortable inside—at least during the summer—thanks to the efforts led by Prince Dolgorukov. We had the entire main floor to ourselves, so that we could see out to the countryside over the high fence that had been built to surround it. But these quarters were not large enough to house the suite as well. They stayed instead at Kornilov’s house, a smaller merchant’s house across the road from ours.

“I like it here!” said Mashka, the most optimistic of us. “Look! Our beds and everything are all set up, with our pictures and clothes in the chests. And we’re all together, just like we are on the
Standart
.”

We each claimed our corners in the room that had been assigned to us. Mashka was right: it was comfortable and companionable. Mama and Papa each had a dressing room and a study or parlor. There was a great hall where we could gather for games and where we would eat our meals. The prince and General Tatischev shared a room on our floor. Zhilik and his servant shared a room on the ground floor, and Demidova, Zanotti, the valets, and Tegleva also had small rooms down below. The other half of the ground floor was occupied by kitchens and maids’ rooms. There was a door that was not locked leading out to the yard where we could take our exercise.

It was wonderful to be able to go outside without having to wait for the guards to open the door. The only really vexing thing was how small the space was. It consisted of a tiny kitchen garden plus a barricaded street that ran alongside the house. To make matters worse, the guards’ barracks overlooked us, so we never had any privacy when we were outdoors. Still, we had the illusion of greater freedom just because we could go out whenever we wanted to.

And still more surprising, the suite and the servants could come and go as they wished: to visit us, or even to go to the village alone and bring us delicacies and news. This freedom gave me an idea, and I immediately started to concoct a plan to find Sasha, and perhaps to get out of the Governor’s House myself to meet him. I had to choose my messenger very carefully, though. None of the valets or maids were to be trusted. They would immediately inform my parents if I did anything untoward, since their loyalty was entirely to them.

And Zhilik too was out of the question. I wished I could have trusted Dr. Derevenko, who lived in town with his wife and son—they had followed on another train and joined the doctor within a few days of our arrival. But no, I would have to find a lower servant who might be made to trust me, who was neither deeply involved with my parents nor a possible Soviet spy.

I spent a few days not doing anything about my plan, simply observing those who came and went. The servant who built the fires and took out the garbage from the kitchens was a sour older woman named Magda whom I remembered as rather surly in Tsarskoe. We had all decided that she must be a Soviet spy, as she would turn up in places where her work would never have taken her. She would not do. Likewise, a handyman whose job it was to hang pictures and rearrange furniture had the look of someone who only performed his task because it gave him a means of reporting our conversations back to the Soviet. Any of my mother’s ladies were likewise not an option: although they could come and go into the town, they were too loyal to Mama.

Finally I decided on a young boy who took out the trash and swept the paths outdoors. I didn’t recognize him from Tsarskoe, so I thought perhaps he was a local fellow, the son of a peasant. He had that almond skin and dark, oval eyes of the Siberians that made them seem to belong more to China than Russia. I saw him watching us with curiosity but not contempt, and so one day, when no one was around, I spoke to him.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Igor,” he said, but I could hardly understand him because of his strong accent.

“I’m Nastya,” I said. “I have white bread here. Would you like some?”

He opened his eyes wider. I wondered how old he was. Perhaps older than he looked. I held out a crust that I had tucked in my pocket at breakfast. He took it, then nibbled on it like a little bird before stuffing it inside his shirt.

“I’d like to be your friend,” I said.

He leaned in a little and looked over his shoulder, checking to see if anyone was there. “But you’re a princess,” he said.

“Not anymore.” I sighed.

“The tsar is always the tsar. A princess is always a princess,” he said, with a duck of his head.

I had made a lucky choice. Clearly his family was loyal to the monarchy. “Would you be willing to help me?” I asked quietly. I felt very guilty. If anyone discovered he had taken messages for me, who knew what punishment he would face. He nodded. “You must promise me that if it looks like you are going to get in trouble, you will run far, far away. Don’t worry about us.” His eyes changed expression. A sadness well beyond his years passed across them. I reached out and touched his cheek tenderly. “I need you to take a letter from me to Alexander Mikhailovich Galliapin. He’s a soldier.”

Igor looked frightened and took a step back.

“Not a loyalist,” I hastily added. “He’s with the Soviet.” Now the boy’s expression changed to confusion. “You must trust me. He is my friend too.” I took the tiny, folded piece of paper I had kept in my pocket ever since I had a moment to write a message and pressed it into his hand. “You may find him in the barracks, or someone who knows him. Say a lady friend is looking for him and they will probably tell you where to find him. Do this, and I will make sure there is more bread for you, and perhaps some sausage.”

I heard steps approaching and went and sat in a chair, taking up a book someone had left on a table nearby. The house was well stocked with things to read in addition to what we had brought with us, which was a blessing, since once the weather changed we were condemned to more inactivity here than at Tsarskoe. The door to the room opened and I saw that it was only Mashka, who had come in with her knitting. We still made socks for the soldiers, knowing that few of them would ever reach those who fought in the war against the Germans. By the time I had greeted Mashka, little Igor had left so quietly he might never have been there.