Chapter 11
Anastasia
19 May, 1937
The previous day, Anastasia had entered riding on a horse side-saddle. Every church bell in the city rang like mad, filling the air with their noise. As per tradition, a three day holiday had been called, and most of the city seemed to have shown up. Soldiers, armed with rifles, bayonets at the ready, lined the streets, while mounted escorts followed behind her. That had all happened the day before, and it ended quieter than Anastasia might have expected.
But now it was coronation day.
Already they had gone through much of it. Anastasia was very thankful she had managed to recite the Nicene Creed from memory, and now she was clothed in a purple robe. It felt heavier than she imagined over her shoulders, and for a moment she almost came to tears. She had remembered that her father, once upon a time, had worn these same robes. With the Patriarch’s hands on her shoulders, she listened to the first prayer of the coronation, and then the second:
“To Thee alone, King of mankind, has she to whom Thou hast entrusted the earthly kingdom bowed her neck with us. And we pray Thee, Lord of all, keep her under Thine own shadow; strengthen her kingdom; grant that she may do continually those things which are pleasing to Thee; make to arise in her days righteousness and abundance of peace; that in her tranquility we may lead a tranquil and quiet life in all godliness and gravity. For Thou art the King of peace and the Saviour of our souls and bodies and to Thee we ascribe glory: to the Father and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever, and unto the ages of ages. Amen.”
Words of ritual that had been said many, many times before – of this, Anastasia was well aware. Yet two things struck her as she heard these words. First, all uses of “he” and “his” had been replaced with their female alternatives. This was something Wrangel had been eager to ensure happened, and while he was aware the church was still hesitant to have a woman crowned a monarch (arguing that some of the prayers, especially with ties to a male Christ, would make little sense), he reminded them that the Empress would be the biggest protector of the church against Bolshevik threats. Second, though these words had been prewritten long ago, they sounded as if they were written for this very time period. Strengthening the kingdom? Granting the Russian people tranquility and quiet? These were all things that Russians had been praying for since the end of the last war.
Next came the actual crown. As it rested on her dark hair, Anastasia was surprised by how heavy it actually felt. When she was handed the scepter and orb, it struck her again that, decades ago, her father had taken the same scepter and orb in his hands. What would he think if he were here? Would he have laughed? Perhaps he would have appreciated the irony, since when she was born, it had caused him stress from the demand for a son. Either way, as she stood there, clothed in purple, crowned on the head and beholding a scepter and orb, the symbols of her earthly power, a very important fact struck her:
She was now the most pious Autocrat and great Sovereign, Empress of All the Russias. Before this day, she was well aware that she would be, of course. It had been planned for months now, and every moment of planning reminded her of that reality. Yet never did the nature of that reality sink in – never did the emotions strike her – until now, as she stood there, before the Patriarch and metropolitans, as she was decked in the royal coronation gear. Even as she turned, and found her husband, Mikhail, knelt before her, ready to take part as tsar-consort, everything took on a surreal fashion. When she took off her crown, placed it on her husband’s, then returned it to her own head, she barely remembered doing a single second of it. Everything seemed out of place in her world. She didn’t even remember giving the oath or taking communion – it was like her senses sought to pull her away from what was happening.
It hadn’t been this surreal since… since the night when her family was murdered.
The Communists had desired to eliminate her family. To end the tsar’s line. Yet here she was. They had failed to kill the Tsar’s youngest daughter, and yet even that was utilized by the army. It was, in some ways, like the situation Russia was in: an utter mess, and yet with a small ray of hope. Wrangel had described it in similar terms when they first met, and now Anastasia realized just how right he was.
Where are you now, Lenin? came a bitter thought.
You’re dead and rotting… while a crowned Romanov still draws breath.
Later that night, they had the special coronation banquet, although it was done differently than normal. Wrangel and others recognized that the institution of a formerly thought-to-be-dead Romanov to the throne was a major event for European politics, if not the world, and were permitting foreign dignitaries from around the world to attend. Most of them were ambassadors and foreign ministers, but they were all given seats in the dining room of the Granovitaya Palata. When Anastasia and Mikhail entered, the entire room stood and erupted in applause. Anastasia smiled passively to them all, intending to take note of who was present. There truly were representatives from all over the world, but she noticed most of all some dignitaries from neighboring countries. Namely, in one section stood representatives of the Pact of Petrograd: Hetman Pavlo Skoropadskyl of Ukraine and his family, President Vasil Zacharka of Belarus and his family, and Roman von Ungern-Sternberg of Mongolia with a few of his staff.
Joseph Edward Davies, the American ambassador to Russia, stood with his wife, Marjorie Merriweather Post, beside him. He grinned wide, showing pearly white teeth as he watched the couple pass by. He leaned over to his wife and remarked, “Willickers, can you believe it? A royal, then a peasant girl, now an empress? I could get a script out of this and sell it to Hollywood for a million!”
Marjorie, however, seemed disinterested in Anastasia herself. She was holding up the fork that they had been given at the table, and was carefully examining the detail in the craftsmanship. Her attention was similar to that of a jeweler examining a diamond. “How much do you think these utensils would be worth?”
“Jeepers, I wouldn’t know, honey. Probably quite a bit.”
“Imagine what her dress must cost. Do they have dresses for sale, these royals? Some of them are dead now, as I recall.”
When the Empress and Tsar-Consort were seated at their special table, all of the guests sat back down and began their meals. At one table, Konstantin von Neurath, the German Minister of Foreign Affairs, sat beside the German ambassador to Russia, Friedrich-Werner Graf von der Schulenburg. Schulenburg remarked to the foreign minister, “If she can get Russia off the ground, then mark my words, their industry will be something to speak of.”
“And their military?” Neurath asked.
“Virtually impossible to beat. And I don’t exaggerate on that, either.”
Neurath chuckled. “Hitler will not like to hear that. I know how he feels about Slavs.”
“I’m well aware of that. That’s why Hitler will
need to hear that.”
Neurath shook his head. “If Hitler wants war with Russia, let alone
anyone, then he’s a fool.”
Though food had been served before her, Anastasia kept her attention on the various guests. She took note of her two children, seated at different tables. She couldn’t help but notice a few young girls from the Bulgarian nobility were shooting glances towards Alexander, and continually giggling as they whispered to each other. Another young girl, from a table serving the Dutch royal family, seemed to be glancing Alexander’s way every now and then, as if intentionally trying to meet his glance, should he ever look their way. For his part, the poor boy was completely oblivious to the gawking, and seemed to be having some trouble holding his fork in the proper, polite way, despite his training under Brother Isaac. At another table, Olga was flanked by some young officers whom Anastasia was fairly certain hadn’t originally been seated there, and was talking excitedly about some subject while the men listened with unflinching attention.
The sight caused some brevity in her heart, but Anastasia still had a nervousness within her. There had been something on her heart, placed there a week ago. It had been firmly planted, and she had been unable to remove it despite her best attempts. If her old friend Rasputin had been alive, he might have said the Holy Spirit laid it there, and hence she should follow it. Either way, she knew that she would have to say it. Yet… fear remained. She wasn’t a commander like her father, and she didn’t have the strong personality that her mother had, let alone the strength her sister Masha had. She’d always been the silly little squirrel, running around the palace and sticking her tongue out at people she didn’t like. Here she was supposed to be strong, at a critical moment. And yet… where would she find that strength?
And then she remembered Mikhail sat beside her.
Oh Lenin, you rotten bastard… not only did I bring my father’s throne back, but I took one of your soldiers with me! She continued to stare forward, looking into space, and held her peace there. At last, she whispered:
“I wish to speak.”
“Then speak,” said Mikhail.
“I will say things many will not like.”
“Speak anyway, Nastenka. Or you’ll never forgive yourself. You are the Empress now.”
Anastasia stared forward. “I am the Empress… but I’m still frightened.” She paused a moment, then added, “Promise me that you’ll never leave my side.”
Under the table, Anastasia could feel Mikhail’s fingers glide over her knuckles. Just like that time long ago, when he knelt by her in the British consulate, he clutched her hand. “I promise… I will always be here, inseparable from you.”
With that, Anastasia stood up. Already some of the party guests were turning their heads, noticing her movement. However, when she grasped her spoon and tapped it a few times on the glass before her, all discussion ceased, and all eyes turned to look at the Empress of Russia. Anastasia scanned the room to make sure all were truly paying attention to her, and then began:
“I thank you all for coming – many of you from quite a ways away. Before the night is through, I would like to give a word on what the future of Russia beholds.”
An officer leaned over to Wrangel and whispered, “Did you tell her to do this?”
Wrangel shook his head. “I’m not aware of this at all.”
“For the first time in almost two decades,” Anastasia continued, “a Romanov sits once again on the throne, thus putting an end to the chaos that has enveloped our nation for so long. From now on, Russia is once again an Empire. However, it cannot be only a name. We are not a paper tiger to be laughed at. No more will Russia be seen as a sick man of Europe. Therefore, it must act from here on as an empire, and not a robber barony. Henceforth, the army cannot do as it wishes. The illegal tolls and taxes shall end. Soldiers may no longer extort for money. Any who extort our people to pay them, shall in turn pay with their lives. There will be no clemency for this banditry! And any general who fails to carry out this justice, will in turn receive justice.”
Wrangel smirked and leaned back over to the officer. “I wish I’d thought of this…”
Anastasia continued. “Furthermore, we will eliminate all threats within our nation, and exterminate all which we hold dear. Our heritage, our church, our families… all those who wish to distort or eliminate such things will be toppled down and shattered to reveal them as the false idols that they are. Russia will be an empire and not a tyranny, but we will not forgive nor forget those who wish to do our nation harm. On this, we must stand, for how can a nation be strong without if it cannot be within.”
Aretas Akers-Douglas, the ambassador to Britain, turned and smirked to his colleagues. “A young empress with delusions of an empire. How quaint. Perhaps our prime minister will be more than happy to hand his over to her?”
Anastasia continued. “Yet we must be strong nonetheless. We must be united altogether – but how can this happen when Russia’s borders do not all contain her people? There is land that rightfully belongs to the Empire, and which has fallen outside of our borders. This must be fixed. From the borders of Germany to the borders of Japan, all which formerly belonged to the Empire shall return to her borders.”
Vasil frowned at that, and leaned over to the Hetmanate. “She is speaking of taking our land.”
“Oh? You think so?” Pavlo whispered back.
“Yes, of course. What else lies within that realm? Mark my words: she will come for our nations.”
“You’re exaggerating,” Roman retorted.
Vasil glared at the warlord. “That’s easy for you to say. Russia doesn’t see Mongolia as Russian land.”
Nearby, the Japanese minister of foreign affairs, Hachirou Arita, smirked and said to one of his staff members, “Will she be content with the Russian land in the east, I wonder? Once upon a time, Port Arthur was Russian land.”
Over the whispers and murmurs, Anastasia continued. “Regardless of how long this all may take, or how it may be carried out, I want to make one thing clear. I am a daughter of the Romanov tsars. Let those who have opposed us in the past know that, though our blood was shed, yet does it flow. I have taken my vow before Christ Himself to lead my people to prosperity, to tranquility, and to peace. Let all those who accept this do so as friends of all Rus – let all those who stand in this way, through hate or malice, know that Russia is weak no more. She is blessed by Christ, and headed by her Empress, who shall fight and die for her children. Amen!”
At that, Wrangel stood.
God Save the Tsar came from his lips as soon as he was on his feet. Bit by bit, the other Russians in the room began to stand, and to join in the song. Those who were not Russian soon stood and, though not singing, showed their respect. Only Vasil did not stand.
As she looked about the room, Anastasia grinned, and thought to herself:
I am Empress...