The Secret Wife(67)
Your Tom xxx
It was pitch dark now and there were bats gliding overhead, while frogs croaked a night-time symphony. Kitty drank another glass of wine and suddenly she began to cry. What am I crying for? she wondered, and had no answer, but the compulsion had taken hold. She grasped the letter and hugged it tightly to her chest as she wept like a child, with complete abandon. There was a painful spot deep inside and she hoped the crying jag might shift it but when she clambered up to the cabin and pulled herself into bed fully clothed, it was still there.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
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.’