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Chapter Thirty


President Theodore Roosevelt

President Theodore Roosevelt



Washington D.C., USA

Anastasia drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Roosevelt patted her softly on the shoulder.

“Have courage,” he murmured under his breath. With a wink, he added, “Remember they’re just a bunch of old men.”

She was sorely tempted to scowl up at him for that comment, but the heavy wooden doors in front of her were already opening, and someone she couldn’t see was announcing her name and “recognizing” her.

They’d been planning this moment for over a month. Anastasia had done the preliminary groundwork in the newspapers to get the public interested in her cause. Roosevelt had pulled the strings and called in the favors to get her here. And now the time had come. She straightened her spine, forced herself not to look at the American leader who had become her mentor and father-figure, and proceeded to walk slowly forward to take the podium at the center of the room.

Roosevelt had explained to her the stylized and formal rules that went along with making an address to the United States Congress. In a way, it wasn’t terribly different from some of the court appearances she’d learned about as a child. Only instead of appearing to beg for the favor of an autocrat, she had a much more difficult task.

She had to convince a roomful of old men that it was in their interest to help her.

Remember who you are, she told herself. Remember who Tatiana needs you to be.

With every step she took, light glinted off the crystal beads scattered across the surface of her gown. She knew that if she moved just right, the gems in her jeweled tiara would throw rainbow fire in a halo-like effect around her head. The grand sapphire nearly the size of her palm sat in the hollow of her throat, the centerpiece to a five-strand pearl choker. Her long satin gloves covered her arms up to the elbow. She presented a perfect picture; a picture of the Imperial Grand Duchess she’d once been.

That was the starting point.

“Gentlemen of the United States Senate,” she said, once the formalities had been observed and it was time for her to begin. “I thank you for the honor of your welcome and I appreciate the opportunity to speak with you today.”

One of the men, a rangy, skinny fellow with a sallow face and a frown, stood. The man in charge—she couldn’t remember what he was called, though Roosevelt had told her—recognized him, and he leaned forward.

“Before you start, Duchess,” the sallow-faced man said, his voice almost, but not quite a sneer, “you should know that it doesn’t matter how much you beg, this assembly will not vote to send American resources to take sides in your civil war!”

Anastasia met his eyes as coolly as she imagined Tatiana would have done.

“Thank you for that information, sir,” she said. “But I assure you. I have not come here to beg at all. I have come to tell you a story.”

“We’re not children, to need to listen to stories—” sallow-face began, but the leader of the assembly rapped a gavel on the bench before him.

“We are obviously going to listen to what the Grand Duchess has to say,” the leader said, his deep-timbred voice quelling in tone. “That is, after all, the purpose of this inquiry. However, it will take much longer than it should if we do not let her begin. I move that any further commentary or questions be held until after she has said her piece.”

“Seconded!” another man called out from the gallery. This led to another round of formalities: voting, counting . . . Anastasia stood motionless and silent through it all. Roosevelt had warned her that something like this might happen. Not all of the men in the crowd were friendly to her cause. Maybe not even most of them.

Finally, however, the leader of the assembly recognized her once again and invited her to tell her story. He stated that none of the men there would interrupt her. She inclined her head with a tiny smile toward him in thanks.

“Gentlemen,” she said, her mind working quickly. “I find I have even further reason for gratitude, especially toward you, sir.” She made eye contact with sallow face, who scowled back at her. “What a wonderful demonstration of the inner workings of your republic! Thank you for allowing me to see the mechanisms by which you resolve disputes in a wise and civil manner.

“I had planned to begin my address to you tonight by telling you of how I have been studying the documents of your heritage. The Declaration of Independence, and your Constitution. I have been studying them, for they are fascinating and inspired works . . . but I find that I would like to begin with something else, tonight.

“When I first arrived in New York City,” she said. “I was taken on a private tour of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. If you have visited there, you know that it is a treasure trove of beautiful masterworks from many lands and many eras. I confess, I was quite affected by the art I found there. Now you must understand, I grew up surrounded by beautiful things. My many-times-great-grandmother, Yekaterina II, known to history as ‘Catherine the Great,’ collected art from all over Europe, as have several of my other ancestors.

“But what I saw in New York was different. It had something that those beautiful, ornate family treasures I once knew did not have. It had a soul. Its purpose was neither to impress, nor overawe, nor was it created in an act of sycophancy.

“The art I saw there was art for the people. It was created for the enjoyment not of one family, but for everyone who experienced it. It was not locked behind some guarded palace walls, but it was in a beautiful building that welcomed the people of New York City, and indeed the people of the United States, if they could get to it.

“I was so moved by this experience. I thought, surely, this is a unique place! But no. I have learned that right here in Washington D.C., there is a series of museums dedicated to art, history, and industry, which all are welcome to explore!

“And I thought back to my ancestors’ treasures and thought, wouldn’t it be wonderful if every Russian citizen could come and see these beautiful things whenever they liked?

“In the time that I have sojourned here in your republic, my eyes have been opened to so many new thoughts and ideas. Not just about art, but about government, and culture, and science, and economics! And I confess to you gentlemen, in every case there was one fevered, passionate thought that seared its way through my brain.

I want that for my people as well! The Russian people are very like you Americans, you know. We are each a strong, proud people inextricably linked to our vast nations, with all of their diverse regions and resources. We are a people who value strength and laugh defiantly in the face of death. And we fight, oh, how we fight for what we believe to be right!”

Anastasia took another deep breath and cast her eyes theatrically down to her hands in front of her on the podium. She let her voice thicken slightly as she said the next words.

“My father was a good father, but he was not a particularly good ruler. He had the chance to make things better for our people, yes. But, the prejudices of his past haunted him, and he saw it as his duty to preserve his autocracy. He did not have, as you gentlemen have, the benefit of an inspired Constitution to guide him in his role. Perhaps if he had, things would have gone differently for him . . . but we will never know.

“Because a cancer has taken root in my beloved home, Gentlemen. The cancer of Bolshevism, which lies so contrary to the free market principles that I see in practice everywhere I go in America, has taken my home and turned it into a war-torn wasteland.

“The Bolsheviks have taken those treasures that once belonged to my family. They say that they are the property of the Russian people . . . but I ask you, where are they? Where are the priceless masterworks my ancestors collected? They have not been seen, they have not been enjoyed by anyone but the Red leaders squatting in my family’s former homes while they burn and pillage and murder their way across the land they claim to be fighting for!”

Anastasia paused then, tilted her head to the side, and gave a small smile. A quick scan of the room showed that a good portion of the men’s eyes were riveted to her. A few of them whispered among themselves or looked down at papers they held. Roosevelt stood across the room, near the door she’d entered. He gave her a smile and slow nod of encouragement. She inhaled and continued on.

“But none of that really matters,” she said, shrugging one shoulder. “In the long run, of course, art matters a very great deal, but when one lives in a war zone, it is often not one’s first concern.”

A few dry, appreciative chuckles rippled through the audience from some of the older men. Veterans of the U.S. Civil War, two generations ago, perhaps.

Conscious that those whispering had stopped, and those doing their paperwork had looked up, Anastasia reached to the nape of her neck and unfastened the clasp of the choker she wore. It came loose in her hand, and she held it there, staring into the sapphire’s depths for a long moment before she spoke again.

“Two years ago, my father abdicated his throne. Shortly after that, my family was taken into custody. For our protection, they said.” Anastasia emptied her voice of all emotion as she said these words. She let her eyes go dark and cold, and she felt the effect ripple through her now-riveted audience.

“Little by little, they took everything we had. They moved us from our home in Tsarskoye Selo to a house in Tobolsk. They took our own guards and replaced them with angry men, evil men, who wanted nothing more than to harm us.

“My mother, who was, like my father, blinded by her love for us, bade us girls to take our jewelry and hide it, sew it into the fabric of our clothing.”

She turned the sapphire over in her hand, letting it glint in the lights that focused on her.

“She thought we would be rescued, you see.” Anastasia let her voice go wistful and sad, and she glanced up from the gem with a tiny smile that matched her tone. “She knew it would happen, and she wanted us to have some means of exchange when it did. I remember sewing this sapphire between the ribs of my stays, so that it sat directly over my heart.”

In point of fact, it had been just below her heart, up hard against the ribs beneath her breast. She remembered feeling its bulk pressing against the bone.

“When the rescue did come, it did not come easy. My little brother—” She stopped, her voice and throat genuinely thick as she thought of Alexei’s sweet, determined face. She closed her eyes, let one glistening tear fall, and then inhaled sharply and soldiered on.

“When the rescue came, the evil men who held us knew their time was short. They activated a grenade and tossed it into the room where they’d herded us for control. My brave, doomed little brother gave his life to save us. He said . . . he said that though he could not live like a boy, at least he could die like a man protecting his family as he threw his wasted body atop the thing to absorb the blast.”

A ripple went through the crowd. Roosevelt had said that it would be a good sign if they reacted that way, but Anastasia couldn’t think about that right now. She had to keep going, or she’d never finish the tale.

“Finally, the rescue force found us, but while they were preparing to extract us from the house, one of them, a Bolshevik spy, opened fire on my whole family, spraying bullets wildly from side to side. My father died instantly, mother too. My oldest sister Olga was hit in her beautiful face, but the rest of us . . .”

Anastasia lifted the sapphire high and angled it so it would flash blue in the light.

“Tatiana, Maria, and I lived. Saved from the hail of lead by the fortune in gems and jewelry we had sewed into our clothes. This sapphire stopped the bullets that would have ripped through my heart!

She stopped, panting for breath after that last, passionate cry. No one moved, no one spoke, not a paper rustled as she slowly lowered her arm and laid the sapphire dead center on the edge of the podium.

“But how many little girls,” she whispered without looking up, hearing the acoustics of the room carry her voice to the back corner. “How many little girls did not have sapphires to wear as armor? How many little boys?” She circled the front facet of the gem with her forefinger and then stopped, frozen for one single heartbeat.

Then she looked up, letting all of her rage and fear and intensity blaze in her blue eyes.

“How many of your children don’t have jewels to sew into their clothing? Because make no mistake, gentlemen of the United States. If we do not stop them, the Bolsheviks will not be content with raping Russia.

“They are coming for you as well.”

Anastasia let that dire sentence hang in the air of the room as she let her fingers trail once more over the jewel’s chipped facets. Then she stepped back and away from the podium before she spoke one single sentence more.

“A gift for you, and for your children.”

Without another word, she curtseyed as she would to leader of a foreign nation . . . for wasn’t that what these men were, collectively?

And then she turned, head held high, and exited the chamber.





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