Anastasia: The Autobiography of H.I.H. the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nicholaevna of Russia

It was June 5th, 1901, by the Russian calendar, June 18th by the new. Suspense and excitement abounded at Peterhof. The accouchement of the Tsarina was momentarily expected. The fourth child, surely this time it would be a boy. Russia bowed to the little Grand Duchess Olga, then to the baby Tatiana. But Marie, a third daughter in succession, had been entirely too many. However, all would be righted if this fourth child were the long-awaited Tsarevich.

At last, the guns: the baby had arrived; a three hundred gun salute would announce an Imperial Grand Duke and heir to the Russian throne. One hundred and one guns would announce a Grand Duchess. The guns saluted a second time. The people paused to count—three, four, five, on and on, came the rhythmical booms. The populace stood breathless. Twenty-three, on and on, one hundred, one hundred and one, the guns stopped. No, it could not be. It was not possible. Alas, yes. The fourth child of the Tsar and Tsarina of Russia was another daughter. Caught in an anticlimax, the man in the street went his way, but diplomatic Russia said “Bah” and resented the Tsarina who could not fulfill her function. The Tsar and the Tsarina accepted the inevitable and said, “It is God’s will.”

All the while I, the unconscious cause of this frustration, had lain peacefully in the same little crib which had cradled the three sisters before me. It was not long however before the unwelcomed wee one won the hearts of its parents and I was christened Anastasia, but to the world outside I was number four, almost forgotten beyond the family circle.

As a child, my tomboy spirit predominated and I was permitted to indulge this urge until I became something of a novelty in a court reeking with formality. Nothing pleased me more than an audience, especially when they nodded and whispered “cute.”

My next older sister Marie and I were inseparable. At an early age my greatest delight was to arouse her curiosity. Often when we were at the height of some make-believe, I would suddenly dart away. Marie was as slow to action as I was quick, so I would slip out of sight into one of my hiding places. Then began the hunt I revelled in. The searchers went around, as I listened from my vantage point, purring with satisfaction when I heard the call, “Anastasia, where are you? Be a good girl and give us a hint.” These games began good-naturedly, but often when the hunt dragged on, I lost patience and felt compelled to reveal my whereabouts.

Secret hiding places became an obsession with me, especially tiny ones so snug I had to squeeze into them. There I often stayed gloating over the bewilderment and eventual rage of searchers. Once when I was quite young I slipped out of the nursery onto the balcony. It was late in the afternoon and the long shadows fascinated me, so that I must have remained there quietly for a long time. Suddenly I heard excited voices and I decided to keep perfectly quiet. At dusk, in the uncertain light, I flattened myself against the shadowed wall. The sentries were spreading over the park; the worry was growing. I was thrilled when I knew they were searching for me, but I was a little frightened of the gathering darkness. I ran quickly down the stairs and to the main floor. Mother was talking to one of the officers when her eyes suddenly fell on me.