Istanbul, 1922
Dmitri dragged himself through the next two years, morose and self-hating, often seeking release from the thoughts and images that tortured him in the bottom of an arak bottle. His time with Tatiana seemed a distant dream, a fairy tale from a past life in which he could distantly recall he had once been happy. He found it hard to be around his sister Vera, with her two adorable children and attentive husband, because it reminded him of what might have been. Instead he spent his evenings with Valerina, a clever, creative woman, who had never found a husband but who occupied her time painting charming pictures of the Turkish landscape.
One morning in March 1922 Valerina came rushing to his office to show him a story, just a few paragraphs long, on the inside of the front page of her newspaper.
‘A woman in a Berlin asylum is claiming to be Grand Duchess Anastasia,’ she cried.
Dmitri grabbed the paper. There was no photograph, and no details about where she had been since 1918, but he was elated. ‘If it is Anastasia, then she might know where the others are – where Tatiana is. And surely if Tatiana is alive and reads the same story, she will travel to Berlin to be reunited with her sister?’
It said in the newspaper that the woman in question had lost her memory but Dmitri was sure he could prompt her to regain it. He had spoken to Anastasia several times in St Petersburg and she would certainly know him. For the first time in years, there was positive news and he allowed himself to become excited – although it was tinged with anxiety because there was always a chance that Anastasia could be the bearer of bad tidings.
He resigned from the carpet business, apologising to Vera’s husband, packed a small brown leather suitcase and bought a ticket on the Orient Express to Munich, then another ticket to travel onwards to Berlin. On board he willed the train to go faster. He couldn’t wait to see Anastasia, couldn’t wait to hear what she might have to say.
It felt odd arriving in a country whose soldiers he had been attempting to kill just six years earlier. He spoke only a few words of German and had difficulty making himself understood when he asked directions to the Dalldorf Asylum, mentioned in the news story.
It was a wide, three-storey sandstone building with ivy climbing up the front, set in neat, extensive gardens. He walked up to the front door, knocked and addressed the matronly woman who answered in English: ‘Might I see Grand Duchess Anastasia? I am an old friend of the family, from Russia.’
The woman replied in German and he could only catch the word ‘Anastasia’ but from her gestures she appeared to be asking him to leave. He tried speaking to her in French but got the same reaction.
‘I must see Anastasia,’ he repeated, looking up the stone staircase beyond, wondering where she might be. He could easily rush past this woman, but wouldn’t know where to go next.
A doctor came by who spoke some French and he explained to Dmitri: ‘Our former patient, who is known as Anna Tschaikovsky, has moved out of the asylum and is living with a Russian émigré by the name of Baron von Kleist.’
Dmitri asked if he had the address, but the doctor said it would be unprofessional of him to give it, although he added, ‘I suggest you ask around.’
‘But where would I ask?’
The doctor wrinkled his forehead: ‘Try the cafés of Charlottenburg, where there are more Russians than Germans. Good luck, my friend.’
Everything was a struggle in this foreign land. Trams trundled past on electrified lines but none of them had the name Charlottenburg on the front, and when Dmitri asked for directions he found few who understood him. Eventually one woman directed him onto a bright yellow tram and told him to ask for Prager Platz.
Night was beginning to fall when the conductor called out that they had reached Prager Platz and Dmitri descended into a bustling square with a grassy area in the centre. All around brightly coloured electric signs were being illuminated outside cafés and restaurants. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry.
He chose the busiest café, called the Prager Diele, and immediately heard a group of men conversing in loud Russian.
‘Excuse me …’ he interrupted, ‘but do any of you know where Baron von Kleist lives?’
‘Another one looking for Anastasia.’ A man in a purple cravat rolled his eyes at his companions then turned to Dmitri. ‘They won’t let you see her. The Baron is fiercely protective. But I have a friend who spoke with her while she was in the asylum and he swears it is not her. She doesn’t even speak Russian, for God’s sake.’
Dmitri’s spirits plummeted. ‘She doesn’t?’ He had pinned too much hope on this meeting, full of optimism that he might soon find his wife. What a fool he was.
‘Come, have a glass with us. My name is Boris.’ The man poured a generous measure of ruby wine into a glass and handed it to Dmitri. ‘You’ve just arrived in Berlin, I suppose.’
Dmitri nodded his head and accepted the wine, feeling devastated. The men scraped their chairs closer together to make room for him. ‘All the same,’ he continued, ‘I’d like to see her for myself. I knew Anastasia in St Petersburg when I …’
Boris held up a hand to stop him. ‘The first rule here is that you must be careful not to identify yourself as a monarchist. Keep your counsel. There are many Bolshevik spies in town and you can never tell who you are speaking to, especially after a few glasses of good Burgundy.’
‘Thank you. I appreciate your advice.’ Dmitri introduced himself and learned the names of the other four at the table, all of them Russian. He could tell from their accents that two were from the St Petersburg area, one from Moscow, two from Siberia, but he did not ask their backgrounds. They refilled his glass and when the bottle was empty Dmitri bought the next one.
At around midnight, when Dmitri’s words were slurred and his head spinning, Boris took him to a nearby apartment block and introduced him to the landlady, who fortunately had a small apartment available. Before he left, Boris pushed a piece of paper into his hand. ‘The address you wanted,’ he whispered. ‘But don’t get your hopes up.’
Next morning, after Dmitri had held his head under a cold tap to clear a thumping headache, then eaten a filling breakfast of sausage and sauerkraut in a café, he set off to find Baron von Kleist’s apartment. Boris’s note said it was on the fourth floor at number 9 Nettelbeckstrasse, which he found with the help of a street map borrowed from his landlady.
He rang the bell and when it was answered by a black-suited butler he asked, ‘I wonder if I might see Anna Tschaikovsky? Tell her it is Cornet Malama.’ His stomach was twisting with nerves. Was he about to learn the truth about what happened to Tatiana?
‘I’m sorry, sir. She is unwell and not seeing anyone.’
‘If I write a note, will you give it to her?’ he asked, and the butler agreed with a slight shrug.
Dmitri scribbled a message then and there, saying he was delighted to hear Anastasia was alive, and wondering if she had any news of the others. He said he would be happy to perform any services she might require of him and signed it ‘Malama’. ‘I’ll wait in the park across the road in case she changes her mind about seeing me,’ he explained.
He paced up and down, checking his pocket watch, looking up at the windows of the Baron’s apartment. Would she glance out to see if it was him?
An hour later, when there had been no word, he rang the bell at number 9 once more. ‘Did she read my note?’ he asked.
‘As I said, I’m afraid she will not see anybody,’ the butler repeated, expressionless.
Dmitri felt shattered. He had come so far and invested so much hope in this encounter that it was unbearable to have hit an impasse. There was nothing more he could do so he stopped in a café down the street to ease his disappointment with a tumbler of vodka.
Chapter Thirty-Nine