The Secret Wife(73)

What if it was her? He would feel compelled to ask what had happened to the rest of the family, to Tatiana. As if reading his mind, Rosa remarked, ‘Seemingly she speaks no Russian and very little English. Do you think you can converse with her in German? You’ve improved a lot.’

‘I thought Klara didn’t want me to speak to her?’

‘But if it’s her, I’m sure you will.’

Rosa seemed sad but he didn’t have time to wonder why before they reached the hospital building and followed Klara’s directions down a side alley to the workers’ entrance.

She appeared at the appointed time carrying an overall and broom. Dmitri thanked her.

‘I’ll wait here,’ Rosa promised as he hurried inside.

He felt strangely calm once he was in the hospital, about to meet the woman for whom he had left Constantinople and travelled to Berlin. Klara pointed down a corridor and told him to take the first staircase on the left, climb to the second floor, then go into the fourth room on the right. He thanked her and walked off, broom and dustpan in hand.

He hesitated outside the door of the private room, gathering his nerve, then pushed it open and saw a young female patient lying back on the pillows, eyes closed. He did not look at her directly at first, but when he did his heart leapt. It could be her. It might be. His face burned.



He swept the other side of the room first, around the window with its view across the rooftops of the city. When he turned to sweep near the bed, Anna Tschaikovsky opened her eyes suddenly. Her hair was short and brown, her eyes blue, and she had a wide mouth and a long nose. The similarity was definitely there. His heart beat faster.

‘May I sweep under your bed, ma’am,’ he asked in German and she nodded her consent.

‘Do I know you?’ she wondered, watching him work.

‘Perhaps,’ he replied. ‘Do you think you do?’

She sighed. ‘Oh, I can’t tell. I see so many people from the past and have no memory of them. You are Russian, are you not? You look Russian.’

‘Yes, I am. There are many of us in Berlin.’

‘Did you know my family? The Romanovs, I mean?’ Her voice was deeper than Anastasia’s but that could have happened with age.

‘I did, and was horrified to read speculation that they were killed. But perhaps if you have escaped, then some of the others might too?’ This was the moment. This was when he would know. He held his breath.

‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘They were all butchered. Brutally butchered. Apart from me.’

‘So you remember a little bit now? I heard you had forgotten …’

‘I remember flashes of scenes, people’s faces, but nothing links up. It’s all a muddle.’ She swept a hand across her forehead. Her other arm was heavily bandaged.

‘And Tatiana? Was she killed?’

‘Yes, I watched Tatiana die.’

Dmitri flinched and stopped sweeping, for a moment unable to breathe. ‘When did she return to the Ipatiev House?’ he asked. ‘The night before she was killed?’

There was a moment’s hesitation before Anna answered, puzzled, ‘But she never left. None of us were able to leave after we arrived there in the spring. We couldn’t even go to church.’



Blood rushed to Dmitri’s brain, making him giddy. This was not Anastasia, but an impostor. Just to be sure, he asked: ‘What happened to Yelena, the cleaning girl?’

‘I don’t know who you’re talking about. Who are you anyway? Why are you here?’ She grew alarmed.

‘I’m a cleaner. Don’t worry. I have finished my work. I’ll leave you now.’

He hurried to the door and out into the corridor, where he leaned against a wall to breathe deeply. Were she genuinely Anastasia, she would remember that one of the cleaning girls took her sister’s place for the second to last night they were in the Ipatiev House. He felt angry with Anna Tschaikovsky for pretending, but his anger didn’t last long. She was a poor creature, very nervous and hesitant, and clearly mentally ill.

Most of all he felt a huge sense of deflation. Had it been Anastasia, he might have learned what happened during the family’s last twenty-four hours, might even have learned what became of Tatiana. But now he was back at the start, with no leads at all. He had come to Berlin for nothing … Although he supposed that wasn’t entirely true. The journey had been valuable in that it made him start writing, and he found a sense of peace when engrossed in his novel that had been lacking from his life in Constantinople.

Once he recovered his composure, he retraced his steps downstairs to the side entrance, slipped off the overalls and left them in a corner with the broom. He pushed open the door to step outside, and somehow the sight of faithful Rosa waiting for him in her red wool coat and man’s grey trilby hat brought tears to his eyes. If only he could love her the way she deserved to be loved.

‘Was it her?’ Rosa asked, rubbing her hands and stamping her feet against the penetrating cold.

He shook his head and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

‘Now will you tell me what this is all about?’ she asked. ‘I think you owe me, don’t you?’



Dmitri and Rosa went to the nearest café and sat at a corner table. They ordered hot chocolates and a slice of Black Forest cake with whipped cream to share. Outside it was starting to snow, light flurries drifting past the window making passersby turn up their collars and pull down the brims of their hats. Rosa was uncharacte?ristically silent, blowing on her hot chocolate to cool it while waiting for him to talk.