Chapter 6
Anastasia
November 29, 1936
The smell of the stew rose up from the cauldron. The steam seemed to dance as it swerved through the air, swirling about in dignified patterns. The large spoon in her hand stirred about, shifting the contents of meat and vegetables inside. It made her tummy rumble, and she was thankful that, soon, it would be time to eat.
Olga, her daughter of sixteen years, was seated in a chair nearby, helping to cut up the carrots. The sliced chunks would fall into her apron, where a pile had already formed. Finishing up with one, she gathered them together and brought them up to the table where Anastasia had collected her ingredients. As Anastasia stopped to gaze at her daughter, it struck her how much she was starting to look like her namesake. She had never told her of how she obtained her name, of course. Oh, Olga knew about the Civil War, that the Tsar’s family had been killed, and that Russia was still living in the consequences of that war even today, but that was all. She never told her children about where she got her own scars, or what her and Mikhail had done during the war. All her children knew was that her and Mikhail had met, they had gotten married, and they had children. They lived out in a rural farm, rather than in the city, because they had always lived on a rural farm, and that was the easiest way of life.
It had been an easy way of life. Mikhail was already used to living rough, while Anastasia was able to adapt quickly. Her mother had raised her daughters to live meekly and humbly, despite their royal upbringings, and since it didn’t behoove Anastasia to make a bed or two, it also didn’t behoove her to do other household chores. She had been transformed from Anastasia the Grand Duchess into Anastasia the peasant girl, and a quiet life it had been. Rare was it that she ever saw anyone from the village, aside from a few trips, and even then it was usually with family, and with her head covering on. It had been not only easy, but quiet… and after events from her past, she was thankful for it.
“Mama, when will papa and Alexander be back?” Olga asked.
“I think they will be here soon.” Anastasia looked out the window, and saw two figures in the distance, trudging through the snow. The taller one she recognized as Mikhail, her husband. He had cut a log into several bits of firewood, which he tugged along on a sled behind him. The smaller figure was her son, Alexander. On his shoulders he carried a massive piece of wood, perhaps as tall and thick as he was. Though fourteen years of age, the boy showed immense strength.
Just like his great grandfather, Anastasia thought. The two made their way up to the house, then began to pile the wood alongside the other firewood to the side of the house. Alexander plopped the big piece of wood from his back onto the ground, then wiped his brow in a comically theatrical fashion.
The family had been forced to be as self-reliant as possible, especially in recent years. After the war, the army had begun to set up shop in various parts of the country, creating almost little mini-countries. It was difficult to head into the city or any deeper into the countryside, because you might get stopped by soldiers who demanded you pay a toll. Sometimes they would even harass you and take some of your supplies. In some areas, they just took anything you had that they wanted. It got to the point that it was just easier to stay in one area and not do much traveling. It made things harder for those who wanted to move and look for more work. Mikhail and Anastasia had spoken about moving eastward, or even westward, perhaps towards Ukraine… but with things as they are, it was easier and cheaper to just stay put. Either way, they had grown content with their life here, especially after having two children.
“Your father and brother are here,” Anastasia said. “Let’s get the meal ready. They’ll be hungry.”
“Is Alexander showing off again?” Olga asked.
“Of course he is. He likes to show your father how strong he is.”
Olga giggled. “If they went to the village, I think he’s just showing off for Nadia.”
“Oh? Who’s Nadia?”
“A girl in the village. I think Alexander is smitten with her.” Olga held up the carrots up to her chest and stared off into space. “Can you see it? Alexander and a wife, in a wedding ceremony? Perhaps Alexander can wear a strapping military uniform. And ah, can you think of his wife in a beautiful white dress? And the look of love as they gaze at one another?”
Silly Olga, Anastasia thought,
ever the romantic. I should have named you Maria. If they had given birth to two other daughters, Anastasia might have gotten around to naming one one of her children Maria.
The door opened, and Mikhail and Alexander both stepped in. Their cheeks were red from the cold, and their clothes covered in white from the knees down. Anastasia could feel the chill of the outside air from the brief moment the door was opened. “Whew! That smells good, what did you make for us, Olga?” Alexander asked. He walked over and grabbed a carrot. “Ah, thank you!” Anastasia used her spoon to wack the boy on the wrist. He winced and dropped the carrot, which comically landed back in Olga’s lap. “Ow!”
“You will wait for dinner to eat, like the rest of us, young man,” Anastasia said.
Mikhail took off Alexander’s cap, which he still had on, and dropped it atop his son’s head. “Yes, I didn’t have a dog for a son, so you can eat whenever you want.” He continued walking, heading out the back door for a brief errand.
Alexander frowned. “I worked hard today. I’m hungry.”
“Then work your way to the table, so you can increase your appetite even more,” Anastasia said.
“It’s the feast day of the Holy Apostle and Evangelist Matthew,” Olga said matter-of-factly. “Can we read from the Gospel of Matthew at dinner?”
“We shall see,” Anastasia said. The back door opened and Mikhail came back in, shutting it behind him. At once he walked over and planted a kiss on Anastasia’s cheek from behind, which made her smile. “You’re cold, love.”
“And you’re very warm, my darling,” Mikhail said. He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Anastasia’s waist, then pressed his head against her shoulder. His wife smiled at that all the more, and leaned her head back.
Olga let out a happy sigh as she watched the two. From the table, Alexander’s voice cried out, “Yeck!” Anastasia looked over and stuck out her tongue.
After dinner, the children were sent to bed, up in the loft of the house. Mikhail and Anastasia retired as well, getting into their night garments. Anastasia was in her night gown, and seated at a small desk, with a mirror in front of her. As her eyes lifted up, she caught sight of herself, and pondered how some things had changed, while others had not. After all, she was 35-years old now. Yet even then, some of her youth was still on her face, though her eyes looked more tired now from the work she did every day. And as she sat there, in her nightgown, she caught sight of the upper part of her chest. Two large, round scars were there. She knew underneath her dress were some more, including one on her leg. Her lips pursed as she gazed at the wounds. The flesh there was tarnished, and gnarled, and small lines scattered out an inch or two from them. The small marks of stitching could still be seen around the edges. Soon the sight disgusted her too much, and and she reached up to tug her neckline up in vain.
“Are they bothering you again?” Mikhail asked.
Anastasia was silent a spell before asking, “Do you still think I’m beautiful?”
“Of course I do. I think you look beautiful, Nastenka.” Mikhail grinned wide. “And I like every inch of you. Even those scars.”
“I can’t bare to look at them.” Mikhail turned his face away as she said this. He knew the reason why, but Anastasia continued to speak. “They remind me of that day. Every time I look at them, I can see my father falling to the ground. I can hear my sisters screaming. I can hear the whimpering of my brother. I can smell the blood and smoke in my nostrils, and feel the pain in my body.” She held up a hand towards her chest. Those long, slender fingers that had become worn from work traced over the gunshot wounds, until they were covered by her palm. “I… I think on how I should have told my family goodbye. I should have told them I loved them one more time. I should have told them I was sorry for all…” Anastasia’s lip quivered, and her eyes welled with tears. The hand flew from her chest to her face, and she fought the sobs that wanted to come out. “But… I can’t. It happened so fast. I didn’t have… a chance…” Tears fell on the palm of her hand, dripping over and falling onto her dress.
“Nastenka...” whispered Mikhail. He walked over and hugged her from behind. As those big, strong arms wrapped around her head, clinging her to his chest, Anastasia felt safe. Just as safe as she did far back in 1918, when those big, strong arms had carried her from hell into freedom. “They know… and one day, you’ll have an eternity to tell them.”
There was a sudden noise of snow crunching outside. It was a small, erratic rhythm. Mikhail blinked and looked over. He could see nothing through the pane but the night sky of the horizon and the white of the winter floor. Despite this, those crunching sounds on the snow could still be heard, moving around the house.
“What is that?” Anastasia asked. Her fingers clutched the neckline of her gown again, though now from a sense of dread. Something inside her told her this sound was not a good thing. Her heart was beginning to beat rapidly. Inside her mouth, her teeth began to chill. She swallowed as her eyes scanned the windows, trying to see if anything would appear. Nothing did.
“I don’t know. It’s probably those wolves again.” Mikhail walked over to the windows and looked around. “I don’t see anything. Let me check. If it’s them, I’ll scare them away.”
Yes, just the wolves, Anastasia said. They’d seen them plenty of times. Small dogs, really. Mikhail would run outside and wave his arms, and they would disperse. Even Alexander, at seven years of age, managed to scare them off. Yet never before had they gotten this close to the house. As she stood up and followed Mikhail out the door of their room, Anastasia repeated to herself that it must be the wolves. Her husband walked into the main room of their house and approached the front door. He opened it wide.
And was kicked to the ground by a snow-covered boot. As soon as he was down, his assailant planted the other boot on his chest and pointed a rifle to his face. Mikhail looked up to see a bearded, grinning mouth decorated with yellow teeth. Beady eyes stared at him from under thick eyebrows. “Don’t move a muscle,” said the man. “Or we’ll kill your children.”
Three more men poured in, each of them carrying rifles. Mikhail opened his mouth to cry out, only for the man to stick the rifle in his mouth, silencing. Anastasia had frozen in place when the first man appeared, and shrieked now as the saw the others. One grabbed her by the hair and threw her to the ground by her husband. “Get down, little sparrow!”
“Get the kids,” ordered the bearded man.
The three others went up the steps. Anastasia crawled over to Mikhail, who now clutched her head with his hands. She heard her children upstairs screaming, and saw the men forcing them down. Alexander was held at his arms by two of the men, and even for a boy of his youth, the men twice his size and strength seemed unable to hold him.
Like his great grandfather, Anastasia thought bitterly. The two men held him down to the ground, cursing at him to hold still. Olga came next, pulled and yanked by the third man. She screeched and called out for help before being thrown down to the floor. When she saw her parents, she rushed for them on all fours. Mikhail and Anastasia both hugged her close.
The bearded man peered at Anastasia, then reached into his pocket. He pulled out a crumpled photo and studied it. Those beady eyes squinted as the thick eyebrows furrowed. Slowly, those yellow teeth came into appearance as his lips curled into a Cheshire cat grin. He looked over to Anastasia, and a light chuckle left his throat. “It
is you. We found you, little sparrow.” That light chuckle became a deep, breathy laugh. “Or do I call you Grand Duchess?”
Mikhail winced. Olga looked between the man and her mother. “Mama? What does he mean?”
“Didn’t tell your little brats, eh?” the bearded man asked. He grabbed Olga by the shoulder and yanked her away. Mikhail rose up in protest and was batted away with the butt of a rifle. Anastasia was yanked by her hair onto her knees. “Sit up! Sit yourself up, your highness.” He backed up a bit, then lifted up his rifle. Anastasia looked in terror as the barrel was pointed in her head.
“Mother!” cried Alexander. The two men pressed him down to the floor.
Olga rose up, but the third man shoved her back down. Mikhail tried to get up again, but the third man grabbed him by the throat with the rifle and held him back.
No, it can’t be, Anastasia thought.
They’ve come for me… after all these years… this is how I’m going to die…
The bearded man laughed again, then said, “I gotta say something to you, your highness. I bet it’ll sound
mighty familiar.” He cleared his throat, then said, “Anastasia Alexandrovich… in view of the fact that your relatives are continuing their attack on Soviet Russia, the Ural Executive Committee has decided to execute you…”
Mikhail, Alexander, and Olga all let out a scream. Anastasia closed her eyes.
This is it. Mama, papa, Olga, Tatiana, Maria, Alexei… I’m coming…
The bearded man now took aim. Anastasia gazed up, sad eyes awaiting the end…
…as the sound of a whirring engine was heard outside.
The bearded man lowered the rifle and peered around. “What’s that noise?”
The third man, holding Mikhail, now pushed him down and stood up. He rushed over to the window and peered out. His eyes squinted a moment, only to grow larger. “A snow automobile’s coming!” The bearded man walked over and, peering out the window himself, cursed at what he saw. Sure enough, a large vehicle with tractor engines in the back and sled-like legs on the front was headed their way. It was going down the path, headed towards them.
“What do we do?” the third man ask.
“Bother it all!” cursed the bearded man. “Shoot it!”
Both the bearded man and his accomplice lifted up their rifles and broke the windows of the house. Swirling their guns to aim outward, they opened fire. Olga and Alexander screamed as the loud shots filled the house. Shell canisters landed about the ground. Outside, the windows of the vehicle shattered as many bullets found their mark. The car careened off, then rammed into against a carriage outside. The carriage toppled over, and the automobile came to a standstill. The engine continued running, but the vehicle, now with shattered windows, rested still.
The two men looked at each other a moment and grinned, then turned to look back outside.
That’s when the other man blinked in astonishment. “Hey… I don’t think anybody was driving the vehicle.”
“What?!” cried the bearded man. As he gazed at the automobile, he realized there were no blood stains on the window, which would have happened had someone inside been shot. Neither was there any sign of a body slumped over in the chair, nor anyone attempting to get out the door. Yes indeed – no one had been steering the automobile. “Then where’s the dr-”
The back door was kicked open.
Leonid rushed in, pistols raised.
Shots flashed across the room. Bullets plugged the bearded man’s chest. The second man jerked about madly. The two men holding Alexander now rose up. Leonid swung his aim and fired three shots each at them. Both men toppled backwards. Off to the side, the bearded man and his partner slumped down to the ground, dead before their butts touched the floor.
For a few seconds, there was silence in the house. Olga, Alexander, Mikhail, and Anastasia were frozen in place, all of them staring at Leonid. The man continued to stand there with his two pistols, studying the four Bolsheviks, as if challenging each man to rise up again. When they remained still, he grinned, then put his pistols back in their holsters. His eyes now turned over to Anastasia, who looked at him unblinkingly with wide eyes. With a few measured steps, he walked over to Anastasia and held out a hand. “Anastasia Alexandrovich, I’m Agent Leonid, of the Okhrana. I’m here to escort you to General Pyotr Wrangel.”
Suddenly it dawned on Anastasia that she hadn’t breathed in quite a while, and now she took several deep breaths through her flaring nostrils. Her mind spun as she stared up at Leonid. The past several minutes had seemed so surreal, and she had gone through so many emotions that she was unsure what to say, let alone feel. Her eyes stared like a deer caught in headlights.
“Are… are we safe now?” Olga asked.
Leonid grinned at Olga. “Yes, you’re safe for now. However, once the Bolsheviks find out their assassins are dead, they’ll be sending more.”
“Bolsheviks?!” cried Alexander. He looked at the four dead men. “Father, they were Bolsheviks! Real Bolsheviks! What did they want with mother?”
“I think we can do the explaining on the way there.” Leonid looked to Anastasia again. “For now, I must insist you let me take you all to Tsaritsyn. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Bolsheviks have some men nearby to swoop in if there’s trouble. I can only hold off so many, and I can’t guarantee I can protect you all. However, I can guarantee your safety once I get you to General Wrangel.” Once again, he held out his hand towards Anastasia. “Will you come with me?”
Anastasia was hesitant. At last, she took his hand and stood herself up. “Yes. Take us, please.”