Posted in 1910s, Aleksey Romanov, alternative history, Russian culture, Russian history, Russophilia, Writing

A Sad Anniversary

Because 17 and 18 July are the 104th anniversary of the murder of Russia’s last Imperial Family, I’m sharing Chapter 15, “A Sad Anniversary,” of my alternative history And Aleksey Lived. It closes Part I, “The Boy Tsar.”

A gallery of pictures follows the chapter.

In the middle of the night on 17 July, Aleksey awoke with a sharp, bitter feeling crushing his entire being. When he turned on the bedside lamp and looked at the little clock Mikhail had gotten him for his name-day in October, he saw it was a bit after one in the morning, about the same time he’d been awoken exactly a year ago today. A year ago, he’d still had parents, a complete family, somewhat more of a sense of innocence. The shattered innocence of captivity was preferable to the completely destroyed innocence which had descended in the cellar. Now he had no choice but to forever live with the images of his parents being murdered in front of him, and being shot at himself.

He threw off the covers and stood up, almost forgetting there were calipers encasing his legs. After taking a few minutes to adjust to the darkness, so he wouldn’t trip or bang into anything, he carefully walked around the room and turned on every light. He also lit a few candles, though they were only supposed to be used for emergencies or religious purposes. Even after the entire room had become flooded with light, the nightmarish images wouldn’t be chased away as easily as the light had chased away the darkness. He still saw his father picking him up and carrying him out of their bedroom, out of the house, through the courtyard, down the stairs, and into the cellar, with his mother and sisters following behind, along with their servants. Even his sisters’ two dogs had come into the cellar. Only Joy had been spared that cataclysm, though had Aleksey been able to walk, he would’ve brought his dog there too.

Aleksey clomped over to the easel and uncapped a container of black paint, not caring which particular type of paint it were. Paint was paint, even if his new art tutor was trying to teach him the differences between each medium. He then found the largest brush in the tin can stuffed full of brushes, plunged it into the paint, and frantically moved it around the canvas. After filling about half the canvas with black swirls and streaks, he opened a canister of dark grey paint, found a new brush, and added that slightly different color to the painting. A little bit of space was still left, so he found the darkest red possible and maniacally jabbed the brush into the white spaces. As he shoved the dripping brush all along the bottom of the canvas, his throat tightened and he began hyperventilating.

Hoping to open the windows for fresh air, he went to stand up, but was paralyzed in place. He could feel his legs, but couldn’t compel them to move. His hands shook as he rolled up his pajama pant legs and fumbled for the buckles on the right caliper. This wasn’t successful either, as his fingers were shaking too badly to perform any fine motor operation.

“What’s happening in here?” Mikhail asked. “Why are there so many lights on in the middle of the night? I heard odd noises and went to investigate, thinking there might be a rodent.”

Aleksey opened his mouth to respond, but his throat was too dry to speak, and his tongue was just as paralyzed as his legs. He struggled to raise his arm and point at the calendar.

Mikhail’s eyes softened. “It’s been a year since you lost your parents, hasn’t it?”

Aleksey could only nod.

“What are you painting? That’s a lot darker and more abstract than anything I’ve ever seen you draw.” Mikhail looked down and saw his nephew’s rolled-up pant legs. “Were you trying to remove your calipers? You’ve made too much progress to suddenly reverse it all now.”

“It’s the cellar.” He barely managed to utter these words. “If I put it on paper, it might leave my mind forever.”

Mikhail strode over to his nephew, knelt by him, and enfolded him in his arms. “Those memories will live as long as you do. You can’t compel them out of your brain by painting them, drawing them, sculpting them, or writing about them. If I could, I’d put all your bad memories in a sealed iron box and throw it into the bottom of the ocean, but memory doesn’t work like that. We have to live with all our memories, both good and bad, our entire lives. We can’t just remember the happy times. Ugly memories are part of who we are, and shape us into the people we become.”

“But I have more bad memories than most people. Not just the cellar, but all those times when I almost died before that. Why couldn’t I die with my parents in the cellar, or any number of times before that? I was never destined for a long life. God should’ve taken me long before then, so I wouldn’t have to become a prisoner and be shot at so many times.”

“We can’t understand God’s reasoning for keeping you alive so long, in spite of your disease. Maybe it means God really wants you to become Tsar, and has destined you for great things beyond your imagining.” Mikhail released his nephew and stood up. “If you want, I’ll spend the rest of the night here, so you’ll feel better if you have another nightmare. There’s a special memorial service for your parents in the morning.”

“In the Palace Chapel?”

“It’s in Saint Catherine’s Cathedral, since we’re expecting a very large crowd. You can walk there and back without crutches, can’t you? Thank God you’re no longer a shadow of yourself as you were when all this madness happened. Maybe taking a longer walk than usual will help to restore more of your strength.”

“I guess I can walk that far, though I prefer to pray in the Palace Chapel and Fyodorovskiy Cathedral, if I have to leave palace grounds.”

“I wouldn’t make you walk that distance if I didn’t think you could do it. We never really understand what we’re capable of till we’re right there in the moment. The bounds of a human being are something we can never comprehend, no matter how much we’re astounded by them.”

Aleksey clomped back to bed as Mikhail went around turning off all the lights and extinguishing the candles. Before Mikhail put off all the lights, he turned the easel around, just in case that image might frighten his nephew even more upon awaking.

“You’re my favorite uncle, Dyadya Misha,” Aleksey said after Mikhail shut the door and got into bed. “I bet my other uncles would think I were a baby if I asked them to spend the rest of the night with me. I’m almost fifteen.”

“You can’t know for sure unless you ask them, but I can’t imagine anyone, family or not, volunteering for that duty.” Mikhail patted his nephew’s shoulder. “Now try to go back to sleep, and conserve all your strength and emotion for the memorial service.”

2

Mercifully, Mikhail decided to go to St. Catherine’s Cathedral in one of his luxurious automobiles instead of walking all the way there. No one wanted to walk when they could drive, particularly considering this church wasn’t as close as Fyodorovskiy Cathedral, so Mikhail took out his dark green Chalmers and two Peugeots. Aleksey’s sisters and their husbands would take the Peugeots, and everyone else would ride in the exquisite Chalmers.

“Your uncle’s always falling asleep at the wheel,” Natalya said as she climbed into the car. “If I don’t poke him in the ribs when he nods off, he’d land in a ditch or roll over in the middle of the road.”

“I won’t nod off when my own nephew is a passenger,” Mikhail said. “How could I risk the life of our only hope for the future? That would be so hypocritical, after I’ve been so strict about the management of his health.”

“You nod off no matter who’s in the car or where you’re going. Actions speak louder than words.” Natalya reached for her almost-three-month-old baby Vera as she was handed over by an English governess.

During the brief drive to the church, Aleksey sat between his cousins and looked at the passing scenery. He’d always loved riding in cars, and driving his toy Mercedes Benz and his father’s cars. It was horrid to be forbidden from driving again, but at least Mikhail hadn’t barred him from being a passenger. So long as he was in a car, he could try to live vicariously through the driver and pretend he were the one driving. When he was older, he might have a nice collection of cars like Mikhail, from faraway places like Italy, France, England, and America. Perhaps when a few more years had passed, he could acquire German cars. The taboo against anything and anyone German would have to eventually dissipate.

Mikhail brought the car to a stop near the church, and let Natalya out before opening the passenger doors. The usual crowd milled around, waiting for a glimpse of their ruling family. Aleksey took his uncle’s other arm and stayed close to his side as they walked through the crowd into the church, though people still reached out to touch them and pronounced blessings.

“Behave yourselves,” Mikhail barked inside the church. “My nephew and I aren’t circus animals to be gawked at. We’re normal people, not just the Regent and Tsar.”

While the crowd was distracted with looking at Aleksey’s three obviously expecting sisters, Mikhail found his nephew a chair close to the ikonostasis. By the time everyone moved into the church, Mikhail, Natalya, and Vladimir blocked the view of the seated boy Tsar, and no one was any the wiser.

The priest began chanting the prayers for the dead and swinging a censer. As always, Aleksey couldn’t bring himself to follow along or respond. As much as he still believed in God, the God he’d believed in had died in the cellar along with his parents. It was impossible to go back to that innocent, overly pious faith. He knew too much, and couldn’t pretend everything was the same. Even his nun aunt Ella hadn’t resumed exactly the type of faith she’d had before her captivity.

“Don’t clutch the sides of the chair too tightly,” Mikhail whispered. “You don’t want to bruise your hands or fingers.”

Aleksey called to mind images of his parents in happier days, on Shtandart, at Livadiya, watching films and slideshows on Saturday evenings at home, as they appeared in the picture inside his Fabergé egg. Then the ugly, hateful images returned, of his parents’ shocked expressions right after the evil ringleader had pronounced the death sentence on his father, how they’d looked as enemy bullets entered their bodies and killed them instantly, their lifeless, bloody bodies lying on the cellar floor as a thick haze of gunsmoke drifted through the room and his sisters screamed. No one came to comfort him during the mêlée, as his sisters had comforted one another. He’d been all alone in that armchair, his father’s lifeless body slumped in front of him, his mother’s lifeless body off to the side, no one to hold him during his threatened final moments. Only a last-minute reprieve from the Angel of Death had saved him from the grave.

Aleksey stood up from the chair and put his arms around his uncle, as the final words of the prayer for the dead filled the air. He shut his eyes to try to stave off the thick grey clouds threatening to rupture, but to no avail. They still trickled from behind his eyelids, so copiously his uncle’s shirt had to be getting drenched.

“Why couldn’t the last year have been a nightmare? I wasn’t supposed to lose my parents like that, and I don’t want to be the Tsar when I’m so young.”

“You’ll be okay, no matter what’s going on in your mind and heart now,” Mikhail reassured him. “I’ll always have your back and give you all the love, protection, and normalcy your parents can no longer provide. You’ve got me and your sisters to grieve with, and we’ll never abandon you.”

“My sisters abandoned me in the cellar. None of them came to hold my hand, hug me, or anything. They knew I was too sick to move, and they only cared about themselves.”

“Don’t be upset at them for that. Who could think straight in such a terrible situation? You probably weren’t thinking straight either.”

“I was too scared to do anything. At least I never screamed or cried. I wish I hadn’t let myself get so emotional now. You must think I’m really babyish.”

Mikhail patted his nephew’s auburn hair. “I’ve told you, there’s nothing to be ashamed about. This is a sad anniversary, and even if it were just another day, men are allowed to cry.”

“You really think of me as a man?”

“No matter how young you are, I don’t think anyone can deny you’ve become a man in your heart. The people might consider you their boy Tsar, but as far as I and everyone in our family are concerned, you’re more of a real man than other people your age. Your heart has a special maturity and sensitivity that don’t come to just anyone, and those precious characteristics will help make you into a great Tsar, just as they made you into such a special young man.”

*************************************

Murdered on 17 July 1918:

Tsar Nicholas II (Nikolay Aleksandrovich), born 6/18 May 1868

Empress Aleksandra Fyodorovna, née Princess Viktoria Alix Helena Luise Beatrice of Hesse and by Rhine, born 6 June 1872

Grand Duchess Olga Nikolayevna, born 3/15 November 1895

Grand Duchess Tatyana Nikolayevna, born 29 May/11 June 1897

Grand Duchess Mariya Nikolayevna, born 14/27 June 1899

Grand Duchess Anastasiya Nikolayevna, born 5/18 June 1901

Tsesarevich Aleksey Nikolayevich, born 30 July/12 August 1904

Dr. Yevgeniy Sergeyevich Botkin, born 27 May/8 June 1865

Anna Stepanovna Demidova (lady-in-waiting), born 14/26 January 1878

Ivan Mikhaylovich Kharitonov (cook), born 2/14 June 1870

Aloiziy Yegorovich Trupp (footman), born 5 April 1856

Murdered on 18 July 1918 (though most took several days to die):

Grand Duke Sergey Mikhaylovich, born 25 September/7 October 1869

Sister (formerly Grand Duchess) Yelizaveta Fyodorovna, née Princess Elisabeth Alexandra Luise Alice of Hesse and by Rhine, born 1 November 1864

Sister Varvara Alekseyevna Yakovleva, born circa 1850

Prince (né Grand Duke) Ioann Konstantinovich, born 23 June/5 July 1886

Prince Konstantin Konstantinovich the younger, born 20 December 1890/1 January 1891

Prince Igor Konstantinovich, born 29 May/10 June 1894

Prince Vladimir Pavlovich Paley (really a Romanov), born 28 December 1896/9 January 1897

 

Second from left above and second from right below is Grand Duke Sergey’s secretary Fyodor Semyonovich Remez, birthdate unknown

Posted in Books, Russian history

One Imperial pretender, two very different books, Part VI (Final thoughts)

Rereading Kurth’s book, over 22 years later, in tandem with rereading King and Wilson’s book, was such a study in contrasts. I wanted to see if I’d interpret all these things much differently, now knowing the truth. So many things uncritically presented as factual by Kurth are reported far differently, and more damningly, by King and Wilson.

King and Wilson make it clear, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the claimant was one and the same as Franziska Schanzkowska. Not only that, they show how she seemingly pulled off this charade for so many decades and fooled so many people who supposedly knew the real Anastasiya very well.

She relied on her incredible memory (which was never as shattered as she pretended it was), taking advantage of all the books, magazine articles, captioned photos, and personal stories that were offered up to her in good faith. To avoid blowing her cover, she carefully controlled whom she interacted with and what she said.

After such a dark, bleak life, Franziska saw in the Romanovs the kind of ideal, loving family she’d been denied. She wanted, needed to identify so strongly with their happiness, privilege, close-knit bonds. Taking on this pretended identity, even with the dark cloud of Yekaterinburg, was preferable to her own real life.

People who quickly, unthinkingly dismiss her, without knowing much else about her, fail to understand how complex her story really was. Franziska was more than just another pretender. Once she realised the enormity of what she’d set in motion, she knew she could never back out of it and return to being Franziska.

Not only was she guilty of fraud, but so many good people had become personally involved. They’d opened their homes, paid for her medical care and legal bills, given her priceless mementos, publicly and prominently defended her. She wasn’t like any of the other countless Romanov pretenders, whose claims quickly fizzled out and who never became international celebrities.

Countless DNA tests, from multiple labs, genetic samples, and countries, have proven over and over again she wasn’t a Romanova, nor a maternal descendent of Queen Victoria. Instead, her mtDNA has always matched Franziska’s sister’s grandson.

Though U.S. and Russian forensic scientists disagree on which daughter was missing from the mass grave and finally found in 2007, DNA tests have proved all seven members of the Imperial Family are now accounted for.

Taken together with all the unarchived documents disproving so much of what the world was led to believe for decades, the truth is obvious. However, there remains a small, committed band of Anastasians, still clinging to wild conspiracy theories and refusing to accept new evidence.

The most bizarre conspiracy I’ve heard is that she was a chimera. A. Freaking. Chimera.

People in the immediate aftermath of the Revolution wanted, needed to believe someone survived. Even today, people without any monarchist leanings or Russian blood are struck by the heartbreaking tragedy. This gave them hope to cling to, however delusional.

Thus, they were able to overlook troubling things like her refusal to speak Russian, blatantly false memories, obvious mistakes, strikingly different physical appearance, lack of response to things the real Anastasiya would’ve been deeply affected by or at least recognised, all the holes in her rescue story.

Of course it’s wrong to steal the identity of a girl who was murdered when she was barely seventeen, and to take advantage of so many good people for decades. But given the harsh life Franziska came from, this role of a lifetime was a golden ticket to go from a nobody to a somebody.

She probably didn’t think it would ever go so far, but once she was so firmly ensconced in it, with so many other people involved, it was impossible to end things. Admitting her fraud would’ve made her life even worse.

At the time of the Revolution, Tatyana (left) was the most famous and popular of the Tsar’s daughters, because of her prominent nursing work and exotic, regal beauty. Thanks to Franziska’s decades-long pretending act, Anastasiya is now the most famous by far.

If Franziska hadn’t claimed her identity, it’s very likely Anastasiya would’ve remained a footnote in history. Had she lived, she would’ve married a foreign prince and led an ordinary royal life, even if she’d married a prince from a country that fell under Nazi occupation or fascist rule.

Franziska had a much more interesting life than Anastasiya seemed destined for, precisely because of her pretending act.

There’s a Jewish teaching that parents have a moment of prophecy when they name a baby. It’s indeed eerily prophetic how Anastasiya means “resurrection.”

Posted in Books, Russian history

One Imperial pretender, two very different books, Part V (Who really was she?)

Peter Kurth made such a strong case for establishing this most famous of all pretenders as Grand Duchess Anastasiya, denied by her family and rejected by the courts, I couldn’t believe she was anyone else. I dismissed her real identity as ardently as he did. It was a ridiculous conspiracy or bizarre case of mistaken identity.

Many years later, I very reluctantly began to concede perhaps she really wasn’t Anastasiya after all. But surely she couldn’t have been a supposed Polish peasant, since she knew too much about the Imperial Family.

And then I discovered the mountains of newly-unarchived evidence dashing any lingering false beliefs. This new evidence goes far beyond DNA in proving, without a shadow of a doubt, this person was one and the same as Franziska Schanzkowska.

FS was the only other identity ever ascribed to her, besides the one she lay claim to for almost 64 years. Her positive identification as FS was first reported in 1927, yet her supporters have always framed it as a cruel conspiracy by Grand Duke Ernst Ludwig of Hesse and by Rhine to rob her of her inheritance.

Many people considered the matter settled, despite the fact that Franziska’s brother Felix quickly reneged on his positive identification of her. But thanks to the powerful, carefully-presented voices of her supporters, and the public’s preference for a fairytale story about a lost princess rejected by her family and fighting to reclaim her identity, falsehoods carried the day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her supporters are loath to compare the only known pre-1920 photo of FS with any of her later photos, because the similarities are so obvious. Comparing any of her photos with those of her birth family reveals great similarities too, whereas she doesn’t have much of any family resemblance with the Romanovs.

I won’t spoil all the stunning new revelations reported by King and Wilson, but suffice it to say, FS was no Polish peasant. She was Kashubian (a West Slavic group in Poland), and descended from minor nobility. Franziska got a rather good education, and was very intelligent.

Franziska had a rather bleak, dark childhood, and didn’t fit in with most of the people in her hometown. They resented how she wanted to “get above her raising” instead of matter-of-factly accepting her station in life.

Franziska’s life in Germany wasn’t any better. After she went missing in 1920, her hosts, the Wingenders, didn’t immediately alert the police. She came back to them in 1922, when she ran away from the von Kleists, but the Wingenders never attempted to look for her in all that time.

When she was pulled out of the canal, she had nothing to live for. In a way, FS really did die, since she never lived as Franziska again, apart from those four days in 1922. Once the idea of impersonating Anastasiya was planted in her head, and heavily encouraged by the émigrés she met, she ran with it.

Pretending to be Anastasiya meant she never had to work again, and was able to live rather comfortably, even after her height of popularity. She always had a place to live, friends in high places, money, her needs taken care of.

Her brother Felix recognised as much, and thus reneged on his earlier identification. He wanted to leave her to her new friends and “career.” When a meeting with all four of her siblings was arranged in 1937 (demanded by Hitler), they ultimately had to deny her to protect both her and Felix from serious legal consequences. Franziska was guilty of fraud, while Felix had lied on a legal document.

Doris Wingender, middle daughter of Franziska’s former hostess, was virulently attacked just as much as Pierre Gilliard, for daring to accept money and an exclusive newspaper contract for this story.

Kurth describes Dr. Wilhelm Völler, the attorney of major supporter Harriet von Rathlef-Keilmann, taking Doris to dinner by a hotel and stealing her newspaper contract from her purse while she was in the powder room.

Kurth doesn’t mention how Franziska very much recognised Felix when he came to see her by Castle Seeon, nor does he give any credence to the Wingenders’ account of Franziska coming to visit them, wearing clothes the von Kleists themselves recognised.

Decades later, during the trials, Doris submitted a photo of herself in those very clothes. It was discovered she’d drawn in buttons and a belt, and erased a figure. Kurth is horrorstruck the court ruled she didn’t do that maliciously or knowingly submit falsified evidence.

By summer 1927, eleven people had identified her as Franziska, yet her supporters continued to dismiss the evidence. Some spun conspiracy theories about what had happened to the “real” Franziska.

But no matter how much people wanted to believe this romantic fairytale and riveting conspiracy theories, DNA had the final say.

To be continued.

Posted in Books, Russian history

One Imperial pretender, two very different books, Part IV (How did she pull it off?)

Going only by Peter Kurth’s biography, one can be led to believe this most famous of all pretenders never slipped out of her role, always behaved, spoke, reacted like the woman she claimed to be. Every good, decent person accepted her claim and had sympathy for less than Imperial behaviour, understanding it was due to trauma, a strong personality, amnesia, etc.

Except that’s not how it happened at all.

While Franziska may have grown to believe she indeed was Anastasiya by the end of her life, after almost 64 years of playing the part, there were so many clues lying out in the open for decades. They either weren’t widely reported (due to not wanting to spoil the fairytale story the public preferred), or were brushed aside as unfounded accusations from people with agendas.

The claimant was famous for frequently covering her face or mouth, hiding under bedcovers, turning her back to her guests, running away, refusing to meet people she suspected wouldn’t believe her claim, and holing herself up in her room instead of interacting even with sympathetic hosts.

She told the von Kleists not to observe the etiquette normally demanded of her supposed position. Other times, she just refused to speak.

In the first photo, one can clearly see Franziska copying the angle and pose of a photograph of Anastasiya. In the second, the blurriness works to her advantage. The third is a photo of a drawing, printed in international newspapers in 1935 when she began her decades-long German legal battle. They all deliberately obfuscate glaring differences between the two women’s facial features, and don’t give many details for comparison.

If one carefully examines a lot of Franziska’s photos, it also quickly becomes obvious she’s sucking in or biting her lips to hide her large mouth. Anastasiya had a small, thin mouth, and Franziska knew it. In some photos, like the middle one, her bottom teeth can clearly be seen bulging through the skin!

As mentioned in previous posts, none of the people who accepted her claim knew the real Anastasiya very well, a fact they all admitted. While some of the people who rejected her likewise hadn’t known her very well either, more weight should be given to the fifteen people who knew her very well and rejected her.

Yes, most of the surviving Romanovs and other people from their extended family never met her, but that’s hardly a horrible slight. Some, like the Dowager Empress, refused to believe the Imperial Family had been murdered, while most of the rest were emotionally and mentally scarred, and wanted to get on with their lives as best they could.

There were also many Romanov pretenders who sprung up in the wake of the murder. Why should anyone be bothered to entertain all these people’s delusions, and constantly revisit that anguish?

Much blame goes to the Soviet government for not ending this charade when it started. They could’ve nipped it in the bud at any time by announcing, “We murdered the entire Imperial Family, and here are their bodies to prove it!” They kept a tight veil of secrecy for decades, creating fertile breeding-ground for conspiracy theories and vain hopes.

It also wouldn’t have mattered which of the five Imperial children anyone impersonated. Because their mother kept them in a gilded cage, they had no real friends outside of one another and some very trusted courtiers and servants. They didn’t even know many people in their extended family very well. Thus, it was harder to find people who knew the real Anastasiya very well, and could authoritatively state that wasn’t their friend, classmate, pupil, regular customer, etc.

Some supporters, like Gleb Botkin and his sister Tatyana, admitted they were forced to search for physical similarities, since the claimant didn’t resemble the person they remembered (and admitted they hadn’t known very well). Others, like Lili Dehn, Xenia Leeds, and Prince Sigismund of Prussia, only met her after years of studying and practicing.

Had everyone who knew the real Anastasiya well met the claimant, they would’ve rejected her just as the other fifteen close relatives and courtiers did. Also, neither side wanted to call in Anna Vyrubova, Empress Aleksandra’s best friend, who saw Anastasiya almost every day, because she was a fervent disciple of the late Rasputin. No one wanted to introduce that spectre into the case!

To be continued.

Posted in Books, Russian history

One Imperial pretender, two very different books, Part III (Selective reporting)

One of the many good things about King and Wilson’s book is that it documents all the reasons why this most famous of all pretenders wasn’t whom she claimed to be. One of those reasons was the selective reporting of information.

If one only goes by Peter Kurth’s book (which is an excellent biography on its own merits), and other sympathetic sources, as I did for many years, it seems like there’s a very strong case for this woman having been Grand Duchess Anastasiya. But now that many documents have been released from archives, the historical evidence paints a much different picture.

Take the famous list of 18 questions Prince Sigismund of Prussia (nephew of Empress Aleksandra and the only non-hemophiliac son of Princess Irene) and his brother-in-law Prince Friedrich of Saxe–Altenburg gave her in 1932. They all related to the Imperial Family’s stay in Spała, Poland in autumn 1912 (when Aleksey almost died of a very serious injury).

The princes refused to make these questions public, claiming the pretender’s opponents would accuse them of giving her the answers. They also believed none of the answers had appeared in print. King and Wilson provide all 18 of the questions, some of which answer one another, and others which point towards the answers.

Not only that, two-thirds of the answers had appeared in at least two memoirs, which the claimant had in her possession. She kept the list for five days, and when she returned it, not all the questions were answered. Other answers were wrong.

Pierre Gilliard, French tutor to Nicholas II’s children, went to Berlin with his wife Shura and Grand Duchess Olga Aleksandrova in 1925 to meet the claimant, and they all came away convinced she wasn’t Anastasiya. Gilliard was so convinced, he wrote a book laying out the case against her.

Unfortunately, twelve months prior, a book promoting her claim had been published by Harriet von Rathlef-Keilmann. The latter never hesitated to publish or report anything casting her in a favorable light. Not only that, her book stayed in print much longer. Gilliard’s book was also only published in French, and hasn’t been widely available for much of its history.

Gilliard was viciously attacked for daring not to accept the claimant and correctly pointing out errors (e.g., the claim that the Aleksandr Palace had a room with malachite windowsills), while Keilmann conveniently left out or reworded such damning evidence of fakery.

A lot of her supporters like to compare photos like these, since they have similar angles, lighting, or blurriness. They conveniently ignore all the myriad of photos where they look absolutely nothing alike. Even if Anastasiya had survived and sustained damage to her face, she would’ve looked like a deformed version of herself, not an entirely different person.

Additionally, she famously, repeatedly refused to speak Russian, though she understood the spoken language. She spoke wonderful German until Aleksey Volkov, an elderly groom of the chamber who escaped execution, expressed great surprise and confusion about her “exceptionally good German” and refusal to speak Russian. Overnight, her German deteriorated!

Still other things she allegedly remembered, or comments allegedly referring to things only the real Anastasiya would’ve known, never happened. They were invented by die-hard supporters, or took on a life of their own. For example, she was said to have perfect English and French, based on single brief sentences.

She had a convenient excuse for everything—memory loss, not paying attention, bad memories of Russian, feeling insulted her relatives were introduced under false names, covering her face, turning to the wall, not wanting to constantly recite names, dates, and facts to prove her identity.

She claimed, e.g., she knew who Princess Irene of Prussia (pictured above) was all along, but was very hurt Irene pretended to be someone else. Then why show zero recognition and run away? When Irene followed her, she found the claimant in bed, her back turned.

Other things she sussed out from leading questions and comments, and from all the White Russian émigrés she met in Berlin. Some of these visitors, like Feliks Dassel, are now known to have regularly visited her long before their supposed first meetings!

To be continued.