Natasha's Dream (5 page)

It was rumoured that the contradictions came about because of the attitude of the Dowager Empress Marie Fedorovna and the Grand Duke Ernest Louis of Hesse, the relative the woman said she hoped to see when she travelled to Germany. The Dowager Empress refused point-blank to see the woman. It was her stated belief that the execution at Ekaterinburg had never taken place, that the Tsar and his family had escaped and were in secure hiding somewhere. And the Grand Duke of Hesse, who also refused to see the woman, declared it was absolutely impossible for any member of the Imperial family to be alive.

Grand Duke Kyril, who considered himself heir to the throne, maintained a stony silence throughout. The possible existence of a daughter of the late Tsar, a daughter who had
given birth to a son, was something Kyril did not wish to know about.

The Supreme Monarchist Council suddenly announced it had no further interest in the matter. This seemed to discredit Captain von Schwabe, the Council’s liaison officer, but he too began to be in apparent doubt of his original convictions. Members of the Council said that as the woman did not speak Russian, she could not be Anastasia. But Captain von Schwabe knew, as did others, that she understood everything said to her in Russian, even though she nearly always responded in German. She simply said she did not want to speak Russian, and never would, for it was the language of her family’s murderers.

Rejected, she became utterly melancholy. It was then that Inspector Franz Grunberg took her under his wing. Later, Harriet von Rathlef became her closest friend and adherent.

The sick woman had marvellous blue eyes, as blue as the Tsar’s and as blue as Anastasia’s. And, in her happier moments, she showed a great sense of fun.

Anastasia had possessed an irrepressible sense of fun.

‘Natasha?’

It entered her dreams, the warm, masculine voice, and out of her dreams she murmured her response.

‘Papa?’

Her sleepy eyes opened, and the dreams dissolved. She gazed up at Mr Gibson, her loose hair blackly draping the white pillow. A sigh came, and he felt a deep sense of pity for her.

‘Natasha—’

‘I’m sorry, I was dreaming.’

‘Would you like this tea?’ Mr Gibson, standing beside the bed in a woollen dressing gown, had a mug of piping hot tea in his hand. ‘I thought you would probably prefer it without milk, so I’ve put none in.’

Natasha sat up, the large pyjama jacket slipping off one thin shoulder. She took the mug.

‘Oh, thank you many times,’ she said. He was a comfortable-looking figure in his dressing gown, his hair not yet brushed and his chin not yet shaved. ‘I’ve met no one kinder, no one.’

‘I think you’ll find I’m as imperfect as the next man,’ said Mr Gibson, and sat down on the edge of the bed in a companionable way. He took a close look at her. She seemed considerably improved. Her night’s sleep had given her a little colour. The bruise on her face still showed, but faintly. Her eyes, with their violet hue, were striking, even though the night had not shed the dark rims. His pyjamas were far too large for her starved body. There was, however, a suspicion of surprisingly round breasts, as if in their pride they had refused to yield to privation. The loose jacket seemed to be lightly resting on curves. ‘You look as if you slept very well.’

‘I did, yes.’ She sipped the hot, clear tea.

‘When did you last eat a good meal?’

‘I cannot remember,’ she said, then flashed a delighted smile. ‘But yes, of course I can. Last night.’ He was an easy man to talk to, and she felt no awkwardness with him. ‘The bread and the soup were so good.’

‘You’ve no money?’ he asked.

‘Not even a single pfennig, Your Excellency.’

Mr Gibson shook his head. ‘I’m not Your Excellency,’ he said.

‘Oh, but one must speak as one feels,’ she said earnestly, ‘and I feel you are a most respected gentleman in England. Truly, I have no money, only my papers. And a few belongings. The keeper of the house looks after them for me. Some clothes, that’s all, the kind other people would throw away. Oh, that doesn’t mean I’m the poorest Russian in Berlin. Many are even worse off. You can’t blame some of the women for what they do. I could not do it myself, never, but I can understand their desperation.’

‘As well as no money, you’ve no work, either?’

‘Every evening I go into the kitchens of cafés and restaurants,’ said Natasha. ‘Cafés and restaurants always have customers, so they are the best places to look for work, just a little work, that’s all, for an hour or so, perhaps, washing dishes or scrubbing pans. Sometimes there’s a little unwanted food one is allowed to eat or take away. There are no good jobs, you see, so evenings are the best time to look for what work there is in kitchens. There has been no work at all lately, because things are so bad.
Last night, I walked and walked, going into all the places I know, but everyone told me to go away. Go away, go away. But I have many gifts, sir, truly I have. I am good at figures, and can read and write in the most superior way. In a house, I am invaluable. I can sweep floors, beat carpets, dust rooms, polish boots, clean the silver, cook appetizing meals, wash, starch and iron gentlemen’s collars or ladies’ lace – oh, and I can look after chickens and do very fine needlework.’

‘You also speak perfect English,’ said Mr Gibson.

‘Oh, yes.’ Natasha showed pleasure at the compliment.

‘Is that due to the excellent teaching methods of the English lady at your school?’

Her eyes lost their animation. ‘She – she—’ The mug trembled in her hand. She stared at it. ‘I talked with her many times. In English. I – I learned many things about England.’ She lifted her face and forced a smile. ‘But I learned nothing about Your Excellency.’

‘You’re throwing “Your Excellencies” about very carelessly,’ said Mr Gibson. ‘As to your English teacher, why on earth should she have taught you anything about me?’

‘Yes, it’s strange she did not mention you,’ said Natasha, ‘when everyone in England must think very highly of you.’

‘Do you imagine England is no bigger than a postage stamp, then, and that everyone knows everyone else?’

‘But it is very small,’ protested Natasha, ‘and I am sure someone like you must be very noticeable.’

Mr Gibson laughed. ‘Natasha, the bathroom is yours,’ he said. ‘Join me for breakfast as soon as you’re ready. I’ll shave afterwards.’

‘I am to eat breakfast with you?’ she said, showing delight.

‘If you’re strong enough.’

‘Oh, I am very strong this morning,’ she assured him. ‘I have no headache, and am ready to work like a horse.’

Getting to his feet, Mr Gibson said, ‘Who is asking you to work at all?’

‘Your Excellency, you need not ask. I am very willing to clean your windows, sweep your floors, tidy your rooms – anything you wish, truly.’

‘I think you’re designed for something better than cleaning windows,’ said Mr Gibson, and disappeared. But Natasha hoped she had
planted a fruitful seed. He did not seem to have a servant. She would be happy to fill such a position.

She realized, after she had washed and dressed, that the apartment was really very comfortable. There was another bedroom, the bathroom was spacious, so was the living room, and the kitchen was splendid. It had a windowed recess that was most attractive, and in the recess stood a dining table and chairs. What was he doing in Berlin? Where was his family? Such a man would have a lovely family. A beautiful wife and adorable children. Imagine leaving them to live in an apartment in Berlin. What brought an Englishman to a city that was not really the best place for visitors at the moment? There were all kinds of rowdy political factions and many political agitators. And there was so much poverty and greyness. Mr Gibson would hardly have come to Berlin to enjoy himself.

‘Sit down, Natasha,’ he said, and she seated herself a little shyly at the table in the window. She was very conscious that the atmosphere was a little intimate, and that her clothes were awful, her brown dress so shabby.

Mr Gibson produced boiled eggs, a mountain of toast, and a pot of coffee. Natasha,
embarrassed by her shabbiness and her lack of cosmetics, kept her head bent as he ladled four hot eggs on to her plate.

‘Four? Four? I am given all these?’ Her hunger sharp again, she stared at the eggs.

‘Can you eat them all?’

‘Oh, yes. Will you forgive me? You are eating four too?’

‘One,’ said Mr Gibson, sitting down and pushing the dish of toast and a pot of terribly expensive butter towards her.

‘But to give me four, and only one for yourself—’

‘One’s enough for me. I’m not as down on my luck as you are. And mine’s soft-boiled. Yours are hard-boiled. I think that’s how you eat them for breakfast over here.’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’ He smiled at her. His companionable manner endeared him to Natasha. She watched him crack the shell of his egg and neatly take the top off, revealing the soft yolk. She watched him spoon and eat it, with buttered toast.

Cracking one of her own eggs, she said, ‘How strange, eating it not properly cooked. Oh, but of course. My—’ She stopped and did not go
on. Silently, she peeled her egg and buttered some toast.

‘Yes, Natasha?’ said Mr Gibson gently.

‘Of course,’ she said brightly, ‘everyone knows the English like soft eggs.’ She bit into her hard-boiled one, and followed it with toast. Her hungry stomach received the food gratefully. ‘Your Excellency, you have given me a banquet for breakfast.’

‘This Excellency nonsense really must stop.’

‘No, no,’ she said, peeling another egg. ‘Truly, you are superior to princes and Grand Dukes. Not one prince or a single Grand Duke would come to the help of penniless Russians.’ She bit the peeled egg in half and ate rapturously. ‘You don’t mind that I’m miserably poor and that my clothes are dreadful?’

‘I mind that you look so thin,’ he said, ‘but I admire the spirit you’re showing this morning.’

She crunched toast with vigour and enjoyment. In her hunger she had no false modesty. She needed the food, and was frankly unreserved in her approach to it. Mr Gibson liked her unaffectedness. But there was a little shyness in the sudden glance she gave him.

‘Dear sir,’ she said, as if about to dictate an awkward letter, ‘have you no servant?’

‘I’m renting this apartment, I haven’t rented a servant with it,’ said Mr Gibson, buttering more toast. ‘I managed to arrive in Berlin under my own steam, and am still surviving.’

‘Oh, you are much to be complimented,’ said Natasha, ‘but it’s quite wrong for a gentleman to have no servant. What will people think?’

‘They can think what they like.’

Natasha, peeling her last egg, shook her head. ‘I should be ashamed to find fault, Your Excellency.’

‘But you’re going to?’ enquired Mr Gibson in his grave way.

‘No, no.’ She chewed on egg and toast, her white teeth busy. ‘Except, of course, the apartment is a little untidy, and some sweeping and dusting needs to be done, and the beds to be made. If you wish, I would willingly look after everything, and do your cooking, and for the smallest wage.’

‘Certainly not,’ said Mr Gibson, and her face fell. ‘You are a young lady of courage and intelligence, and I think you can help me. I’m in Berlin to make contact with certain people who have met the woman claiming to be the Grand Duchess Anastasia. Most of these people
are Russian. I’ve some comprehensive notes about them, and have spent the last few days trying to find out how I can get to see them. I think you may be able to lead me to them. The Russian émigrés here are a close community, I imagine.’

Natasha tensed. ‘Your Excellency, have nothing to do with this woman or the Russian monarchists,’ she pleaded.

‘Yes, the Russian monarchists,’ murmured Mr Gibson. ‘They’re the people, according to my information, who promoted the first important contacts with the woman. Now, I don’t speak Russian, and I’ve found it would help if I did. I’ve enquiries to make, a report to prepare and conclusions to form. My one advantage is that I’m an outsider, with no axe to grind. I hope I can form impartial conclusions, for that’s what I’m supposed to do.’

‘You’ve come to enquire about the lady, but haven’t been to see her?’ said Natasha, who did not seem at all happy with the subject.

‘Not yet. What is the point at the moment? I’ve never seen the Grand Duchess Anastasia. I’ve seen photographs, of course, but photographs taken of her as a girl wouldn’t mean very much now. How could I judge the issue, never having
met Anastasia in person? No, I have to talk to people who’ve interviewed the woman and have formed impressions about her.’ Mr Gibson refilled the coffee cups. ‘I’ve managed to talk to two gentlemen, ex-Tsarist officers, but I’m not sure I got a satisfactory picture from either of them. They spoke no English and their German was hard for me to understand. You’d be perfect as a colleague and interpreter. Incidentally, my commission is highly confidential. Even the British Embassy knows nothing of why I’m here, and I’ve been forbidden to say anything to them. You probably know where I can find certain Russians. That would be of invaluable assistance. Even if you don’t know where some of them live, you may know which places they patronize, which clubs or restaurants they use. You may even know exactly what they say about this woman—’

‘I know nothing.’ Natasha was making agitated patterns with her eggshells.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked, regarding her bent head thoughtfully.

‘Yes.’

‘A pity. I’ll have to find someone else, then, a more knowledgeable and more helpful Russian.’

‘Ha!’ It was an exclamation of contempt from Natasha.

‘What does that mean?’ Mr Gibson was beginning to be very intrigued by her.

‘It means that if you believe there are Russians in Berlin who will help you without picking your pocket, you are much to be pitied, Excellency.’

‘Really?’ said Mr Gibson.

‘Yes,’ said Natasha. ‘First they will ask you for money for themselves, then take you to a friend, who will ask you for more. Then you’ll be given information that will sound as interesting as they think you want it to be. Most of it will be lies, of course. Many quite nice Russians would rather tell a good lie than the simple truth. The simple truth can be very dull, and Russians do not like being dull. I beg you not to think I’m this kind of person, although much to my shame I did earn a little money when I was very hungry by telling a French visitor that if he would go to a certain address and ask for a certain man, he would be shown the house where the Tsar’s son, Alexis, was in hiding from the Bolsheviks.’