Dalldorf Asylum, Berlin
May 30, 1922
Anna once lived through a night so long and so excruciating she thought it would last an eternity. Each minute seemed to stretch like taffy softened in the sun, pulled to its thinnest, most tender strand. She believed that if she was lucky enough to survive that night, she would live in slow motion forever. The experience became a door in her mind that, when pushed too hard, swings toward madness. In the years since, as her episodes have become less frequent, Anna still distrusts time itself. She suspects that it is in league with the enemy and the wretched memories embedded in her mind. She fears that time will forever be slower for her, that each injustice and hardship and cruelty will have to be lived through at half speed. So it comes as a surprise to her how quickly her days at Dalldorf slip away. First a handful. Then dozens at a time with her barely noticing them. Weeks. A month. A year, then two. Each day falling into a predictable rhythm.
In the years that Anna has been housed within these walls there have been very few surprises. She wakes and dresses and goes to eat in a small communal area with the other residents of her ward. She is often allowed to work on the grounds or in the sewing room. The staff is careful not to give her scissors or anything else that could be transformed into a weapon. Anna finds it infuriating to sit and wait for a length of cloth to be cut for her, or to have the needle in her sewing machine replaced. But she likes the work. There is a therapeutic rhythm to the rocking of the treadle beneath her feet and a satisfying burn along her calves after she has been working the machine for several hours. She likes taking scraps and remnants and turning them into something useful, whether a table runner or a shirtsleeve. Anna isn’t stupid. She knows that the staff at Dalldorf take the best work and sell it to vendors. She knows that they are profiting from her labor. She also knows that if she protested they would say that no one is funding her stay at the asylum and this is how she earns her keep. Worse, she knows that if she makes trouble they will move her to another ward with less freedom. On still, quiet nights Anna can hear the screaming from across the courtyard. She knows what happens in other parts of the asylum. If not having scissors is the price she pays for this relative freedom, then so be it.
Anna suspects that the gauzy pieces of fabric she’s sewing today are meant to be women’s undergarments. Most likely slips. The material is a gray, raw silk and it bunches beneath the needle if she works the treadle too fast. So she is bent over her machine, very carefully rocking the paddle with her foot and feeding her fabric through the needle half an inch at a time. She doesn’t see the nurse, the one she has nicknamed the Duck, enter the workroom or stand beside her. Anna is so focused on the clatter of the machine that she doesn’t hear her name spoken the first time.
“Fräulein Unbekannt!”
Anna jerks in surprise and the pad of one finger is pulled beneath the pounding needle. When the needle is raised a second later, there is a smear of blood on the silk and another bright red bead dripping down her thumb. Anna puts her thumb in her mouth and sucks, trying to numb the sting.
“Why did you yell at me?” she asks.
“You didn’t answer me.”
“I didn’t hear you.”
“Come with me. You have visitors. Again.”
It’s been a week since the Baron left and the bright thread of hope Anna felt after his visit has begun to fade. It flares to life again now, a white-hot undercurrent to her pulse. But she won’t let the Duck know, won’t give her that advantage.
Anna wraps the cuff of her shirt around her wounded thumb and carefully drops her hands to her lap. She lies. “I don’t want to see any more visitors.”
The Duck gives her an exaggerated bow and sweeps her arm toward the door. “And yet you must.”
Anna knows she’s being mocked, but there is uncertainty in the nurse’s voice. Nothing came of the events last week other than a general sense of unease sweeping across the ward. The staff stares at her now. So do the other patients. Anna doubts the Duck or Dr. Arschloch believe her, but they aren’t about to abuse her in any way either. Not with émigrés sniffing about.
Anna tidies her workstation slowly, forcing the Duck to wait, enjoying the subtle noises of impatience behind her. Finally she allows the Duck to lead her out of the workroom and through the maze of narrow halls and into the tidy reception room.
Baron von Kleist and Dr. Arschloch are waiting for them. The Baron is brimming with euphoria. Dr. Arschloch looks as though he’s being asphyxiated. The Baron bows slightly and says, “Tsarevna.”
The two men continue whatever heated argument was interrupted by her entrance, and it takes Anna a moment to realize that her discharge papers are being discussed.
“You will get them ready immediately,” the Baron says. “I am not leaving here without Anastasia.”
“I’m afraid it’s not that simple—”
“Of course it is. You said yourself that she is neither a criminal nor insane—”
“I’m afraid there’s some disagreement on that point—”
“And that the only thing required for her immediate release was a statement declaring her identity and a written notice of my willingness to care for her upon discharge—”
“Yes, however—”
“You will see that I have provided both in writing”—the Baron pulls two folded sheets of paper from a pocket inside his suit coat—“and that they have been notarized by the local magistrate.”
Dr. Arschloch’s face is torn between competing expressions of fury and fear. He looks to Anna, trying to gauge her reaction, desperate to see if she will officially confirm this claim. Terrified that she will.
Anna smiles at the doctor, her face lighting up with every ounce of vindication she feels. She takes a step closer to the Baron, and this is all the consent he needs.
“Collect your things,” the Baron says. “You’re coming with me.”
Dalldorf Asylum, Berlin
May 21, 1922
A woman has come to visit her but she isn’t alone. She’s been escorted by a man so wealthy and so striking that Anna cannot help but stare. The woman is pretty in the way all wealthy women are pretty—because of great care and attention to detail. She drips with the scent of expensive perfume, but the man smells of cedar and leather and fresh air. He’s older than all the women in the room. Late forties, most likely, and the very sight of Anna brings a look of triumph to his face.
“See! I told you. The likeness is unmistakable. It’s just as Clara said.”
Anna says nothing and this seems to unnerve him.
He tilts slightly at the waist—a near bow—and says, “My apologies. Of course you wouldn’t recognize us. It’s been so long.” He extends his hand and Anna takes it cautiously. “Baron Arthur von Kleist.” He tilts his head to the left. “And this is my wife, Maria. We got here as quickly as we could.”
This strange, well-heeled woman glares at the Baron. She does not reach for Anna’s hand. She offers no greeting but radiates uncertainty instead. If the Duck had been interested in Anna’s visitors before, she is dumbfounded now.
“I’m very glad to see you again,” Anna says, and watches with great pleasure as the Duck lifts one eyebrow in a high, curious arch.
Baron von Kleist offers such a bright grin that Anna cannot help but give him one of her own.
“No,” Maria says suddenly, loudly. “It cannot be her. I do not believe it.”
“But it’s obvious. Just look at her.”
“I have.” Maria shakes her head. “She is too short to be Tatiana.”
The woman gathers her purse and walks to the door without another word. The Baron, confused, moves to follow her.
“Wait!” Anna says, taking a step toward him. He reaches for his wife and pulls her to a stop. “How do you know Clara Peuthert?”
“She is the daughter of a friend,” the Baron says. “And she tells me you are the daughter of the tsar.”
“And you believe her?”
“I do now,” he says, and then the two visitors are gone.
They have been alone for less than a minute, and Dalldorf’s head nurse is staggered. “Who are you,” the Duck asks, “to get such a reaction from a man like that?” The questions come quickly. “Am I right in assuming those people believe you to be Tatiana”—she clears her throat—“Tatiana Romanov?”
“Clearly not. You heard them.”
“I heard her. The Baron believes something else entirely.” The Duck is furious, in a pure, holy rage as she rises from her chair and takes three cautious steps toward Anna. Her words are careful and measured, spiked with indignation when she asks her next question. “Why did Clara Peuthert tell them you were Tatiana? Why?”
“I did not say I was Tatiana. Not one time. Not to Clara and not to them.”
“Who are you then? What is your name? That”—she points to the door—“can never happen again. Do you understand?”
Anna has held on for so long. She has kept the truth of her identity wrapped tight against all prodding, pleading, and threats. It has been the one thing that no one could take from her. But sitting here before the window, bathed in a perfect rectangle of light, she is transfixed by a single name. The one name that can free her from this prison. All because of Crazy Clara’s aggressive reverence. Thanks to Clara, and to the Baron, there is the possibility of freedom now. All she has to do is speak. So she does.
“My name,” she says, “is Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanov.”
Dalldorf Asylum, Berlin
May 14, 1922
“Don’t be a fool,” Anna says. She wants to shake Clara, to rattle her teeth, but she doesn’t. Physical contact is prohibited between patients, and the scolding isn’t worth spending her day in the small, dank room in the basement used for punishing rule breakers. “You’re the only person in this whole godforsaken place who doesn’t want to leave.”
“But you are here.”
“Oh, good grief. Not this again—”
“You need me.”
“No. I don’t. I’ve gotten along just fine without you for many, many years. Go home, Clara. Your family misses you.”
Clara’s eyes are big and glassy on a good day, when she’s happy, but at the moment they are huge gray pools that threaten to overflow. Anna hates it when Clara blubbers. Hates it for reasons she doesn’t even understand. The poor girl can’t help it. She’s fragile and emotive, but Anna only sees weakness. Someone who is easily manipulated. Clara is the sort of woman who doesn’t know how to think, only what to think.
“What about your family?” Clara whispers.
Anna looks away, whispers, “My family is gone.”
And then Clara is weeping into her shoulder, unconcerned about rules and policy or any threat of punishment. They’ve been allowed into the courtyard for a few glorious minutes, and Anna doesn’t want the time to be cut short by Clara’s hysterics. It rained earlier in the morning, but the sky is clear now and the air smells of warm grass and damp soil. Anna was enjoying herself immensely before Clara plopped down next to her on the bench and complained about being released. Anna shakes her off, afraid that the staff will see the outburst and blame it on her.
“Hush. Enough. You’ll get me in trouble.”
“No.” Clara shakes her head, determined. “I’m going to tell them who you are. That will fix everything.”
Anna laughs. “You’ve been telling them for months.”
“Not them.” She points to the Duck and two orderlies who keep watch over the courtyard. “Important people. On the outside.”
Anna sighs. The chances of Clara knowing anyone important are as good as Anna waking up with brown eyes in the morning. But it won’t hurt to let her try. “That would be great. Very helpful.”
She squeezes Anna’s hand and drops her voice to a whisper. “I promise. You’ll see. I’ll get you out of here.” The simple, foolish girl laughs, like they’ve shared some confidence. She pats Anna on the shoulder. “It’s okay. You don’t have to pretend anymore. Good-bye, Tsarevna.”
Dalldorf Asylum, Berlin
October 3, 1921
One day Anna is consumed by silence and boredom and then the next she is summoned twice by the Duck to be inspected by strangers. From then on the visitors come in streams, one or two a day. Sometimes three. Men and women who have misplaced a loved one and have seen Anna’s photo in the paper. They hope against all reason that their daughter, sister, wife, or mother has been found. Every day Anna is ordered to dress and go sit in a small waiting room. Every day Anna sees hopeful, desperate, broken families, and every day she breaks them a little bit more. This is the worst of it for her, being an unwilling participant in their personal tragedies.
The waiting room is deceptively warm, furnished with plush couches and framed by a large window overlooking the manicured lawn facing the entrance. It feels comfortable and calm, nothing like the stark, cold reality within the wards themselves. The Room puts families at ease when they come to visit their loved ones, but like everything else at Dalldorf, it makes Anna angry.
Most of the visitors turn away immediately upon seeing her. They shake their heads, wipe their eyes and leave, muttering their apologies to the Duck. Only one man has tried to claim her, and it was clear to everyone that he was crazier than any of the patients housed within these walls. The orderlies dragged him from the room after he lunged at Anna and tried to tear off her blouse. “My wife!” he screamed as they promptly removed him from the premises. “I want my wife back!”
The Duck had the decency to apologize for that one at least. “They told me he seemed normal enough at the gate,” she said afterward.
“Pity you weren’t at the gate yourself,” Anna said. “Since you’re so good at making judgments based on appearance.”
Even after that, others come, only to be devastated to learn Anna is not the daughter who slipped out of an open window to meet her lover and never returned. Or the wandering prodigal or the straying wife or the feebleminded cousin. Day after day she remains unclaimed.
Fräulein Unbekannt. Miss Unknown.
She sits, yet again, in a chintz wingback chair beside the window, waiting for today’s visitor. The fog has descended, shrouding the lawn and the long drive so she doesn’t see the black truck until it pulls up in front of the building. The man who emerges looks determined even from this distance. But when he lifts his face to take in the enormity of the square brick building she sees something else beneath the brim of his worn hat. A hardness along the jaw line. An impatient gait as he slams the truck door and disappears beneath the awning. It’s not long before she learns that he has come looking for his sister, some woman who wandered away from a boardinghouse in Berlin. The Duck says that this man saw her picture in the paper and read how she had jumped from the bridge. This is the first Anna has heard of the newspaper’s publishing that detail. That’s all she’s told. But it’s enough to put her on edge, and the Duck notices the way she fidgets nervously with the hem of her dress while they wait.
“Do we have to keep doing this?” Anna asks.
“Has it occurred to you that I don’t enjoy playing babysitter? That I have to stop what I’m doing every time someone shows up at that gate to speak with you? That I’m required to record the details of your time together? If you want to stop this, tell us your name. But if you’re not willing to do that, shut up and quit complaining.”
This is the harshest the Duck has ever been with her, and Anna is taken aback. “I’m sorry to be such a burden.” A sarcastic tone punctuates each syllable.
“Then stop being one.”
Not that sorry, apparently, because she is sullen and uncooperative when the guards escort the man, slightly older than Anna, into the waiting room. He is considerably taller than she is but they are similar in appearance— dark hair and blue eyes. The Duck sits up a bit straighter to make a note of this in Anna’s file.
“Felix Schanzkowska,” the guard says by way of introduction.
When it comes to poker faces, his is every bit as good as Anna’s. He stares at her, head tipped slightly to the side, and gives no indication at all of what he’s thinking. Anna doesn’t break eye contact, but she does pick at her cuticles— one small show of nerves that she can’t disguise.
“Why don’t you introduce yourself to this young man?” the Duck says. It’s a test and Anna won’t fall for it.
She studies this Felix instead and finds a very sad face regarding her in return. Unlike the others he doesn’t ask questions or try to touch her. He simply looks at her. At her clothes. At her face. At her hands, her fingers, and raw cuticles. And, for quite some time, at the ragged scar that deforms her right temple. He seems to be reading her mood. Her thoughts. The temperature in the room. She stares at him, defiant and quiet, willing him to leave.
This exchange is so different from the others that the Duck glances at them—back and forth repeatedly—scribbling notes on the page without looking down.
Finally, he curls his lip. Then clenches his jaw. Sighs. “I do not recognize this woman.”
And he’s gone that quickly. Anna feels both triumphant and oddly bereft. She belongs to no one. “Can we stop this game now? Please?” she asks.
The Duck closes her folder and tucks the pencil into the pocket of her shirt. “Last I checked, Fräulein Unbekannt, you were the only one playing a game.”