[The Grand Duchess Anastasia and Marjorie Hanson]
THIRD GROUP
[Cameos of the Grand Duchess Anastasia Through the Years]
Author’s Preface
A few weeks after my arrival in Bukovina—after I had had time to recover from the emotional and nervous shock and body wounds which I had suffered at the time of the tragedy on the night of July 16-17, 1918—I decided to write about my home life with my beloved family, about our arrest, about our exile in Tobolsk and Ekaterinburg, about the assassination of the family in Ekaterinburg, and about my rescue and subsequent escape across the frontier.
I made many, many notes, totaling over three hundred pages. I spent hours and hours in the writing, days and nights of introspective experiences, of grief and horror. I wrote in a peasant cottage in a lonely village dotted with thatched-roof houses. I wrote at night in the candlelight, agonizing over my story. At times the only relief I had from my misery was the howling or barking of a dog. I remembered my beloved Father’s words, “Dearest children, are you awake?” Tear after tear dropped as I labored.
I remembered also my Father’s desire that a history of Russia should be written by a member of our family. My Father had had in mind that such a history might be written by my two oldest sisters and, to that end, he gave them much valuable information. As it has turned out, it is the youngest sister, the one least prepared to do so, upon whom devolves the task of writing such a book, if it is to be written. That is something for the future.
In 1918, after my escape, I thought that the book I had decided to write about my family and myself might include historical data and interpretation which would be of interest to the world and would be of benefit to the Russian people and to their, and my, native land. I particularly wanted to let the world know the facts about the arrest, exile and murder of my parents, sisters and brother, and about the nature of the Bolshevik regime in my country. It was the notes for this book that I produced so painfully and painstakingly.
These early notes unfortunately vanished in 1919 when I was on my way by train from Rumania to Serbia—second homeland to us Russians—while in the vicinity of Turnu-Severin. I had accepted from another traveller—I thought he was an Italian—his kind offer of a slice of bread and a piece of ham. Three or four hours later I became ill and had to leave the compartment. When I returned some time later, the heartless traveller, who had no pity for a young woman travelling alone, had disappeared along with my suitcase and a blanket. The suitcase contained not only my precious notes, so laboriously produced, but also some personal belongings, some letters, and a list of about one hundred names of the men who had done most of the harm to Russia, and to my family. These names I had written down from memory, based upon information furnished by my rescuer, Alexander. Most of these names were already familiar to me.