City of Shadows
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A cultured city scarred by war. . . . An eastern émigré with scars and secrets of her own. . . . A young woman claiming to be a Russian grand duchess. . . . A brazen killer, as vicious as he is clever. . . . A detective driven by decency and the desire for justice.
. . . A nightmare political movement steadily gaining power. . . .
This is 1922 Berlin.
One of the troubled city's growing number of refugees, Esther Solomonova survives by working as secretary to the charming, unscrupulous cabaret owner "Prince" Nick, and she's being drawn against her will into his scheme to pass a young asylum patient off as Anastasia, the last surviving heir to the murdered czar of all Russia. But their found "princess," Anna Anderson, fears that she's being hunted—and this may turn out to be more than paranoia when innocent people all around her begin to die.
were unhooked from her garter belt. Anna, her upper body and head still covered, did not move. Peering over Mycielcka’s shoulder, Nick, Esther, and Natalya stared at Anna’s bare feet. They were small and rather ugly. If hallux valgus meant bunions, Anna had them. Marie Ivanova studied them through her lorgnette, then passed her hand over them. She was crying. “I am here, my child,” she said. “I am with you.” Anna’s head appeared like a tortoise’s from the carapace of bedclothes. “Tante Swanny?”
harassed by the Russian Orthodox Church. He’d employed, and listened to, ministers who regarded liberalization as a senseless dream— an immediate challenge to the revolutionaries. “They warned him, Anna. Time and again he was told what would happen.” 90 Ariana Franklin Anna wasn’t interested. “Was a good man,” she said. “You think Russia better now, under Bolsheviks?” Forcing Natalya’s memory of those precarious days was disturbing areas of it she’d suppressed for her own good. “Getting as
Film people. Esther became angry. Nick had found money enough to pull out the stops for Yusupov. They pushed their way through the crowd, to be barred by a large man in an astrakhan hat and a uniform heavily frogged in gold braid. “Only invited guests,” he said. “Oh, hello, Esther.” “Let us in, Gricha, we’re on business.” The foyer was full of people handing in their coats and wraps. Esther tapped one of the cloakroom girls on the shoulder. “Where’s Nick, Vera?” “Just gone upstairs.” Esther
get him. Think of the publicity. I can see the headlines now: ‘Murderer of Mad Monk Strikes Again.’ Pictures of the arresting ofﬁcers, Inspector Schmidt and Sergeant Ritte, looking stern but modest.” “Bismarck Allee ﬁrst.” If Yusupov was their man, the case against him would have to be watertight. The six years since the Russian Revolution had done nothing to abate interest in the Romanovs or the peasant monk believed to have been their evil genius—nor the man who’d assassinated him. Yusupov
Romanovs say she’s not Anastasia?” “They’ll have to. New teeth, plenty of coaching . . .” He began tapping his own teeth with his fork and then waved it at her. “Listen, Esther, there’s a hole in the market just waiting for her. People want a happy ending, I’m giving them one.” Another thought struck him. “What a movie it’d make. I could get rich out of the ﬁlm rights alone.” “And Little Miss Unknown has agreed to all this, has she?” “Anna Anderson,” he said. “What?” “Anna Anderson. That’s who