Natasha's Dream (12 page)

‘I can only say we have all made compassionate allowances,’ he said. ‘Under the circumstances, who would not? Fits of temper and moments of irritation, yes, perfectly understandable, but not ingratitude, pettiness and insults. These are no reflection of royal qualities, ingrained from birth.’

Natasha having translated, Mr Gibson said, ‘There’s still the effect of her terrible ordeal. If I were in her shoes, and my closest living relatives were rejecting me, I think I’d go berserk.’

‘I agree,’ said Captain von Schwabe, ‘but this woman’s shoes are not the Grand Duchess Anastasia’s.’

‘How long after identifying her as Anastasia did you decide you’d made a mistake?’ asked Mr Gibson.

Captain von Schwabe looked uncomfortable. ‘That question is more tiresome than relevant,’ he said.

‘It’s simply that I’d like to make my report as detailed as possible,’ said Mr Gibson.

‘Your report, whatever it covers and whoever
it benefits, is your affair, not mine,’ said the captain.

Natasha, busy translating, advised Mr Gibson he was beginning to irritate the Russian.

‘Dear me,’ said Mr Gibson.

‘You must excuse me now,’ said the captain. He managed a pleasant smile. ‘I really must return to my wife. I promised I would not be too long. Frankly, I’m sorry for this sick woman, but the matter really has become rather farcical and tiresome. There are a few people who still support her, but I think you’ll find they’re chiefly interested in her as a commercial proposition. I’m afraid they want to make money out of her. Goodbye, Herr Gibson. A pleasure to have talked to you.’

Natasha translated, and the two men shook hands again. Mr Gibson thought the Russian still looked a little uncomfortable. They all went back into the restaurant, where Captain von Schwabe rejoined his wife at a distant table and Mr Gibson paid his bill. A few moments later, in their hats and coats, he and Natasha left the restaurant. The night was damp. A light rain was falling, and the streets were glistening in the lights of moving traffic.

‘A straightforward gentleman, Captain von Schwabe,’ said Mr Gibson.

‘Likeable, I think,’ said Natasha.

‘Yes. He became a little uncomfortable. A likeable man, with a conscience, would become uncomfortable if he himself did not believe what he was saying. At home, there are only newspaper reports or stories on which to base one’s feelings and opinions. Here in Berlin, one is much closer to the undercurrents. I find it disturbing, this contradictory factor. Captain von Schwabe isn’t the only one who has turned his back on the claimant after identifying her as the Grand Duchess.’

‘You should finish with it, and go home,’ said Natasha, walking through the night rain with him. Then, realizing life would be a desperate emptiness again if he took her advice, she said hurriedly, ‘No, no, you must stay as long as you need to, of course. But I am very upset.’

‘Upset?’

‘Yes. Someone tried to kill you. That terrible bludgeon he used, he could have killed you with just one blow.’

‘Oh, usually a blackjack is for dealing a knockout. That allows one to have one’s pockets picked without too much fuss.’

‘How can you make jokes like that?’ Natasha said hotly. ‘I told you asking questions could be dangerous. Berlin is a bad place, full of hungry refugees from everywhere. If you are killed because of asking questions, the police may think it’s because you were attacked by starving thieves. You must stop asking awkward questions. You must simply ask people like Count Orlov and Captain von Schwabe to tell you what their opinions are, and then say thank you. You must not ask questions that make it look as if you are calling them liars.’

The light rain pattered. People on their way home from the theatres had their umbrellas up. Taxis were swishing over the wet street. And Mr Gibson was smiling.

‘Opinions are not the same as answers to questions,’ he said.

‘Well, I am not going to take the blame if your head gets in the way of dreadful blows,’ said Natasha. ‘And really, Your Excellency, to take up with a woman like Princess Malininsky – I did not expect that of you. It is like a death wish.’

‘A death wish?’ said Mr Gibson, overcoat glistening with raindrops.

‘Princess Malininsky devours men,’ said Natasha.

‘Really?’

‘You know what I mean,’ said Natasha stiffly. ‘And I’m getting my new coat wet.’

‘We’ll find a taxi.’

They could not talk much in the taxi because of the ears of the driver, but the moment they were inside the apartment, Natasha said, ‘Because of the man who tried to kill you, we shall have to be even more careful.’

‘We don’t know he intended that.’

‘Ha!’ Natasha was scornful. ‘You think he meant only to tickle you? Never. Someone sent him to kill you, someone who knew you were in the restaurant. This is terrible.’

‘Captain von Schwabe had very little to say about it. And all he really said about the woman was that he didn’t like her behaviour at times. You hadn’t met him before tonight?’

‘Oh, I have seen him at places, but never met him. Tonight, because I have promised you my help, I made myself known to him. He was really very nice and did not seem surprised when I mentioned you and how I was sure you would like to talk to him. But he’s a monarchist, of course, and—’ Natasha broke off, and Mr Gibson realized she always bit her tongue when she was worried.

The monarchists – were they the people who frightened her?

‘You’re suggesting Count Orlov has warned the monarchists I’ve come to ask questions, Natasha?’

‘Perhaps.’

Mr Gibson nodded, then declared himself in need of coffee. Natasha immediately announced she would prepare it. Her tidying hand was already evident around the apartment, and she had become very well acquainted with the amenities of the kitchen. Mr Gibson thought there was more than willingness about her when she was exercising her domestic arts. There was a happiness also, as if it had been far too long since she had known the homely, comforting aspect of four walls and a roof.

She made the coffee. He pronounced it excellent, and that put her into a less prickly mood.

‘I am sorry I’ve been so irritable,’ she said.

‘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.’

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 opposed 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.’