I jolt awake, my hand flying to my mouth to compress a sob, my heartbeat matching the gunshots I had just heard. Silence. It must have been a dream…No, a nightmare. I glance around and confusion envelops me as I take in the bunks surrounding the room. As I struggle to remember where I am, I find myself thinking back to Frau Schmeid’s Dance Academy and I’m immediately transported back in a haze of memory from not too long ago.


Munich, Germany. The place I see as my childhood, though I grew up elsewhere. I was 6 when I got sent off to Frau Schmeid’s Academy. I had been there roughly 6 years before all of this happened. There was around 15 girls of my age, we lived in the same dorm, had the same dancer-like build, we had spent our lives together and were as close as sisters. When I first arrived, they never questioned me, and I know my accent was quite thick. They accepted me as one of their own and now you couldn’t tell the difference. I sound the same, I act the same, and “Anastasia” hangs on our door just like any of their names do.


It was November 1939, a little more than 6 years after I arrived when everything changed. We were all in our dorm preparing for bed, not even 10 minutes after we had finished ballet lessons. Deep voices began shouting from the foyer, not too far down the hall. Frau Schmeid came into our room soon after, her face as pale as chalk dust. “Girls, please pack a suitcase, you’ll be going on a small journey.” She barely choked the words out before she slowly shut the door. It may have been my young imagination, but I thought I had seen a tear slowly trickle down her cheek before the door completely shut. I opened it not long after and removed my bright nameplate from the front, hiding it among my clothes. We filed out of our room to find five soldiers staring harshly at us. “Marsch”, one of them shouted, and we silently began to march, fear gripping at our hearts.


We marched for miles. The cold November wind ripping at our leotards and tights, not many of us had been able to change before our “guests” had oh-so-politely interrupted us. I walked behind Isabelle, keeping a sharp eye on her. She had asthma and I knew she wouldn’t hold out for much longer. I was right. After hours of walking, she abruptly stopped, doubled over, her lungs gasping for air. One of the soldiers ordered us to stop and walked over to Isabelle, who was still struggling to breathe. Out of nowhere, his open palm collided with her cheek and she fell to the ground. “Marsch” he ordered, I didn’t move. The soldier turned to me, his cold eyes boring straight into mine. “Marsch.” I stared for a second longer, then, gathering Isabelle in my sore, stiff arms, I marched. For a few minutes I heard nothing but the cold, whipping wind, then, a loud pop and Isabelle’s scream. I felt a sudden warmth spreading through my stomach. I continued to walk until I heard another loud pop, this time only a moan escaped Isabelle’s lips, her lifeless body tumbling from my arms like a cold weight. I began to sob, my legs like gelatin as I fell to the ground. Hands clamped onto my arms and lifted my to my feet as I heard another order to march, I didn’t move, I couldn’t. The butt of a rifle soon connected with my jaw so hard I heard a crack, the taste of metal filling my mouth. I stood in shock but silently willed my legs to obey the stringent command. I walked in complete silence from then on, tears stinging my cheek, convincing myself not to dare look back.


After walking for about a day, we arrived at a huge gate with the words, “Work will make you free.” written in German above our heads. Our bags were taken, the faint outline of “Romanov” illegible on the side of mine. Then we were forced to strip down to nothing. They inspected us, and then sent us on where they tattooed a string of numbers onto our arms.


That was six years ago. I still wake up in gasps of breaths from the nightmare of that journey, from the first death I had ever witnessed…maybe even caused. It’s early spring, 1945 now, I am almost 18. Many of the girls I arrived with are gone, there were 15 of us, but only 5 remain. I’ve seen a few of them get killed, the rest just disappeared; I haven’t seen them since the first day we got here. Marie is the only girl in my bunk; we’ve stayed close since the first day.


This morning when I woke up, I felt as though something would happen, something felt wrong. Marie and I were doing our daily work when out of nowhere; a soldier ordered many of us to form a line. He randomly selected 20 of them, skipping over me, my body flooding with relief. I then glanced over and saw that he had chosen Marie, my heart stopped. He immediately ordered them to follow him, and they marched obediently behind him. Though everything inside of me told me not to, I snuck quietly after them and hid myself in the shadow of a building nearby. Those who had been selected were silently ushered into a dimly lit room, and my eyes soon found Marie’s. Our eyes stayed glued together as the green-yellow smoke poured into the chamber. Then the doors shut. The men around the chamber were strapped up into their masks and suits. Oh, of course. They sure wouldn’t want to get hurt now would they? I know for a fact that not a single person inside has a mask. I know for a fact that each person inside wears the same threadbare clothes as those of us out here. I know for a fact that not a single person inside is coming out.



That afternoon I returned to the bunks to find Marie’s suitcase opened on her bed, the contents strewn out across her thin sheets. As I put my hand on my bunk I felt something collide with my fingertips, I grabbed a hold of it and pulled it down to see what it was. It was a picture, a black and white photo of Marie and her family, happy, smiling. I resisted the urge to gag as I stared blankly at the photo. They saw me. The soldiers knew I was watching Marie go into the chamber. Their black, inhumane hearts must have lit up when they found this photo. They must have been filled with glee as they got the idea to lay it on my bunk. They must expect it to get to me, but it won’t. My heart, my soul, all the feeling I have is as thin as the clothes on my back. They can take what they can from me, they can try to take who I am, but they can’t, they won’t. I look over to see one of the guards smirk and prod the other. They’re waiting for me to break down, to cry. Instead, I crumble the picture into a ball, drop it, and walk out.


Not very long after I left my bunk, that very soldier found me, his face red and tight with hard fury. He raised his rifle as if to bring it down onto my head, but just then the sirens began to wail. My heart unclenched with relief at the welcomed distraction. Seconds later I felt the butt of his rifle collide with my temple and I fell, the world turning into a blurry haze, time stopping. The last thing I heard was “Amerikaner” being shouted over and over, terror in the voices of the soldiers. Then, it all stopped, it all went black.


I woke to find myself in a cot, and oddly, a comfortable one. I took a good look around and saw soldiers who were not in the right color uniforms as those normally around the camp. After looking on quite puzzlingly, a man next to me explained that the Americans had come and that we were free. I watched the new soldiers make their way around to the prisoners until one approached me. He asked a few questions in broken German, the only one I understood was, “What is your name?” I pondered his question for a while until finally answering, “Ana.” Though I barely understood him as he jabbered on, I was able to understand that I would be going home. No one truly knew where my home was; they thought that I was German, though I am not. I caught a glimpse of a newspaper lying on a table nearby. “The search for Czar Nicholas’ lost Princess continues.” Now I know, it’s time to go home. I must return to Russia, where I was born, where I was raised, my home.