The Secret Wife(69)
He was sent to interview musicians and choreographers, writers and artists, men who had been prominent back in Russia but who struggled to find work in this modern city. Many were living in poverty, having spent any money they managed to bring with them on the journey. Some were working in menial jobs simply to feed their families: counts served as waiters, princesses as secretaries. Dmitri wrote about the sights of Berlin through the eyes of an émigré, describing the men who dressed as women to work in cabaret shows, the skinny prostitutes with sunken cheeks and haunted eyes, the street sellers with goods that looked too good to be true and broke at first use.
Gradually he began to trust Burtsev and asked him if he might write a story about Anna Tschaikovsky. He explained that he had known Anastasia in St Petersburg. Could the editor perhaps arrange an interview?
Burtsev eyed him thoughtfully. ‘All my requests for an interview with Miss Tschaikovsky have been refused but I hear that Princess Irene of Hesse, the sister of Tsarina Alexandra, is arriving in town to visit the girl. Did you ever come across her?’
Dmitri had to say no, he hadn’t.
‘But can I say you are a family friend?’
Dmitri nodded. ‘Certainly.’
‘I will ask if you can talk to her after she has met the girl. There is bound to be a story in that.’
Somewhat to Dmitri’s surprise, Princess Irene of Hesse agreed to be interviewed by him, asking that he come to her suite at the Adlon, the town’s most luxurious hotel. He dressed with care, polishing his shoes and getting a close shave and a haircut in a barbershop.
On arrival, Dmitri was kept waiting for over an hour in the sumptuous hotel lobby, with square marble columns and a fountain of water gushing from the trunk of a stone elephant.
At last, he was shown up to Princess Irene’s suite and found her sitting by a window sipping tea. She was a stout woman in her fifties, her brown hair streaked with grey, and her Germanic features bore a strong resemblance to those of Alexandra. Dmitri was overcome for a moment: this was Tatiana’s aunt! He had written to her two years earlier asking her to let him know if there was news of the family but had received no reply.
‘Please sit.’ She waved him to an armchair, and began to speak. ‘I assume you wish to hear of my meeting with Miss Tschaikovsky, and I must tell you I am afraid to say she is not Anastasia. There is no resemblance with my niece. The position of the eyes, the bone structure, both are quite wrong.’
‘When did you last see the Grand Duchesses?’ Dmitri asked, scribbling in his notebook in an attempt to hide his disappointment.
‘I admit it’s been nine years, but Alexandra used to send me photographs right up until they were taken into captivity’ – she spoke the word with distaste – ‘and I am quite certain. This girl is rude and thoughtless, in a way my nieces would never have been, and what’s more she spoke no Russian. Not a word.’
‘How did she explain that?’ Dmitri asked.
‘Baron von Kleist told me that she suffered some kind of trauma that caused her to lose her memory, and along with it her mother tongue.’
‘What kind of trauma?’ Dmitri reddened and his pulse quickened.
‘I presume he means the murder of the rest of the family.’ She took a sip of tea.
‘You believe they are dead?’ Dmitri held his breath.
‘I have it from very credible sources that they all died in the Ipatiev House at the hands of the Red Guards.’
Dmitri opened his mouth to speak but instead a sob burst from his throat. Princess Irene regarded him with surprise as he struggled to regain control.
‘Did you know them personally?’ she asked.
He nodded, unable to speak at first, then managed to say, ‘I was a good friend of Grand Duchess Tatiana.’
The Princess peered at him through narrowed eyes. ‘Are you Malama?’ He nodded. ‘Alexandra thought very highly of you.’ Dmitri covered his face with his hands. ‘Come, come. Pull yourself together, man.’
She rang a bell and asked for a cognac, which was quickly supplied by a uniformed servant. Dmitri took a gulp and felt it burn its way down.
‘Have you entirely given up hope?’ he asked in a strangled voice.
‘I’m afraid so. If my sister were alive, she would have found a way to get word to me over the last four years. She could have asked someone to send a note. None of the family has heard: Nicholas’s mother and sister in Denmark, the English family – no one knows any more than I do. We’re all furious with Bertie, of course. He could easily have brought them to London back in 1917 but he got cold feet. He’s such a coward. He worried about who would support them, how the order of precedence would work – Lord knows what went through his selfish brain, but the upshot is my sister is dead.’
‘You just assume the worst because there has been no word; you haven’t heard this from people in Ekaterinburg, have you?’ Dmitri asked, clutching at straws.
‘I had a letter from the British Consul Sir Thomas Preston. He has spoken to many local people, including Mr Sokolov, who has escaped overseas and is still preparing the report that he was commissioned to produce by the leader of the White Army. I believe it will be published within a year or so.’ She offered Dmitri another cognac but he shook his head.
‘Will you please let me know if you should hear any more news of Tatiana, or the family?’ he begged.