This novel is extraordinary, and not in a good way. I've struggled with how to rate and review it since I finished it last night. My feelings about it are multi-layered and complicated, so I'm breaking it up into two parts: What I thought of the novel itself, and what I thought about the Author's Note at the end. Usually author's notes are pretty innocuous, but this one altered entirely how I viewed the work itself, so I have to include it.
The Novel
If I were rating the novel itself, I would give it three stars. As an evaluation of how the narrative was crafted, this is what it deserves. I liked it pretty well until about three-fourths of the way through, where it stumbled big time, and then took a swan dive. This is unusual for me; usually I know more or less how I'm going to react within the first hundred pages, or else the decline is longer and steadier. This one was rather well-crafted until around the last hundred pages, when the author admittedly (in said Author's Note we'll discuss shortly) hit a huge roadblock with how she'd set up the story, and veered wildly into melodrama and plot twists that defied the much more careful logic of the earlier sections.
First, however, I need to give credit where it is due: the premise and structure of this novel is difficult and ambitious, and until above roadblock, I thought she was handling it deftly. Told in not only alternating points of view but alternating timelines – one moving forward and the other moving backward – I Was Anastasia is a take on the "mystery" surrounding the murder of Russian Grand Duchess Anastasia Romanov and the woman who spent decades claiming to be her, Anna Anderson. I say "mystery" in quotations because in 2018, the year this book was published, there's not much of a mystery anymore: DNA evidence disproved Anderson's claims decades ago, and as of 2007, all of the Romanov remains have been recovered. Anna Anderson was not Anastasia, and Anastasia did not survive the brutal slaying of her family at the hands of the Bolsheviks. Regardless of this, the author set up the story so that Anastasia's plotline, beginning with the arrest of her family in 1917 until the 1918 execution, moves forward in time, while Anna Anderson's sections work backward by decades, starting with her as an old woman in the 1970s. This provides an interesting narrative tension: as Anastasia and Anna inch closer together in time, will they ever line up? Are they the same person? Do they somehow cross paths? Is Anna faking her claim to being Anastasia, does she truly believe it, or is this some magical alternate universe (ala Don Bluth's Anastasia) where they are actually the same? These are all compelling questions, and for the majority of the book, the author is adept at doing the backward narration for Anna, putting us in her head but never tipping her hand one way or another. That's difficult to pull off, and I commend the author for being able to do it as long as she does.
The problem comes when the two inevitably must cross paths or the deception must be revealed. Fair warning, because of the nonlinear narrative structure, everything from here on out is spoiler territory. I usually put these behind spoiler tags, but I can't properly discuss the novel overall without going pretty heavily into it, so I'm just going to note it here and move on.
I'll be honest: I was fine with everything, even some of the more glaring factual errors (like how the Romanovs were celebrating Christmas Eve on December 24th when in the Russian Orthodox Church, Christmas isn't until January), until the rape scene of Anastasia and her sisters. When that happened, I let out a big sigh and nearly gave up entirely. I'm not one to flinch at graphic or controversial subject matter, but with a topic like rape, if a writer chooses to engage with it, they fling themselves out onto a tightrope in order to avoid seeming garish, cheap, or downright lewd. In this case, it felt entirely arbitrary – there were some strange logistics in a previous scene that seemed to isolate Anastasia, Tatiana, and Olga from the rest of their family for the sole purpose of a gang rape at the hand of Red Army soldiers. The scene does not go into detail, and instead meanders weirdly into some contemplation of art and feminism and the Rape of the Sabine Women(????) that read more like the musings of a modern female American writer than a sixteen-year-old Russian princess in 1918, but I mean... yikes. Worse, days later, the girls are acting like nothing happened, and Anastasia is even wrapped up in a budding romance with one of the army soldiers who didn't rape her... I just. What. As a writer, if you're going to do something like this, you need to commit to dealing with the fallout of that kind of trauma. (As an aside, the author, in her note, claims this incident really happened. I've done some study into the biography of the Romanovs, and sexual assault of three of the four sisters definitely never comes up, so I'd like to know what her source was.)
And then. And then. In the last few pages, it turns out – Anastasia was not raped after all! It's a rape fake out! The soldier she "spent the night with" was her beloved Tomas, who protected her from assault while... they laid in a train car bunk and listened to Olga and Tatiana get gang raped all night. Um. Okay. Oooookay. Anastasia's sections get less believable from there, to the point where the shooting scene and the last one of her lying at the bottom of a mine shaft dying are just uncomfortable, not tragic. Because of course she's not Anna Anderson. She dies in the mineshaft, and the previous three hundred pages of Anna Anderson's struggle to get legally recognized as Anastasia are delegitimized.
Anna Anderson's sections fare about as well. The entire narrative is book-ended by an (in-character, I think?) Preface from her warning the reader that we're not going to like the story she tells us, and the title of the Afterword doing the same is literally titled "I Told You So." It's as if Anna – and by extension the author – know full well the story is going to piss off the reader. In the Afterword, Anna is indignant, claiming yes, she did set up the whole ruse, but it's really our fault for wanting to believe she was Anastasia in the first place. Ah yes, that defense will surely hold up in court.
This sort of haughty triumphalism might be in character for a "vulgar adventuress," as Anderson was famously categorized in the press. The issue with this is that aside from these two sections, the Anna characterized in the book is not like this at all. I often felt bad for her, because she seemed like she was shuffled from one supporter to another, each one with an angle for wanting to get at the Romanov fortune, when she just wanted to live her life. This worked for the sections of "older" Anna earlier in the book, but as she grew younger, the number of times she was repeatedly victimized became tiring, especially in the sections in the mental asylum where none of the authority figures showed any sympathy for her at all, despite her just surviving a suicide attempt. I know mental health care was poorer back then, but jeez, the constant suspicion she was under despite doing absolutely nothing felt unwarranted. It was clear the reader was supposed to be in her corner, but her lack of any agency or motives at all – hidden from view from the reader because, ostensibly, revealing them would also reveal the deception – grew frustrating. By the end, I couldn't tell if Anna truly believed she was Anastasia due to the trauma she experienced, if it was a desperate bid at reinventing herself into a new life once she had lost everything, or whether she was supposed to be more devious on the inside, as the narration in the Preface and Afterword suggest. (Plus, logistically, how did she go from some undisclosed location being operated on after a munitions factory explosion by non-doctors to a refugee camp in Romania giving birth?? I'm so confused.)
All in all, I Was Anastasia collapses under the weight of its own scaffolding at the end of the novel. Because of this, the last 50-100 pages was a big mess, and really ruined my enjoyment of the preceding chapters.
And then I got to the Author's Note.
The Author's Note
Full disclosure here: the mystery of Anastasia is something I've long harbored an interest for. When I was younger, it was the first historical event that really captured my interest, and I've gone through phases researching it myself, thinking: one day, I'll write a novel about this. To date, I never have, but hey, maybe one day. Regardless, I've realized my fascination with the Romanovs and their fate is what sparked my interest in Russia and Russian history, something I'm currently pursuing in graduate school. I imagine there's plenty of other people out there who feel similarly (or who at least spent a decent time in their childhood being captivated by the animated film Anastasia) – and that's probably why they picked up this novel in the first place.
So, when I read a book like this, I didn't exactly expect to get personally insulted for it.
Lawhon's author's note is a perfectly bizarre and frankly infuriating coda to a mediocre novel. As if "Anna's" Afterword wasn't enough, the author herself felt the need to weigh in on her subject matter, and make it clearly known that she doesn't care for the long-lived enchantment with Anastasia or entitled royals in general. "For the most part," she writes, "I have little interest in reading about the aristocracy or the privileged rich. I grew up with dirt floors, kerosene lanterns, and no indoor plumbing." She goes on to insult Russian history on the next page: "I spent the better part of a year up to my armpits in Bolsheviks – not a thing any decent woman would sign up for." As I finished this novel on the eve of my Soviet history class final, that sure was nice to read!
So why write this story at all? Lawhon says it was Anna Anderson she was interested in, a Polish peasant – real name Franziska Schanzkowska – who captivated and repulsed the world for decades by her claim to the fallen Russian aristocracy. It was her story Lawhon wanted to tell. Well, okay, sure. But then my question is: why didn't she just write that story? Why include half a novel of first-person narrative from Anastasia? This is the question I can't figure out an answer to. However, it does explain an issue I had with the novel that I couldn't quite put my finger on until I read the Author's Note. I had trouble pinpointing what unnerved me so much about the rape scene and the graphic violence depicted in the scene of the family's murder. I realized that often in the Anastasia chapters, despite being in the first person, I felt a strange distance from Anastasia. In particular, she seemed to regard her own mother, Alexandra, with distaste for her entitlement and frivolous attitude. I realized this must have been the author's dislike of "the privileged rich" bleeding through – and it put the violence depicted against them in a different context. Likewise, it explained why I had such a hard time telling all three of Anastasia's sisters apart from each other. Then there was the rushed, hackneyed romance plots, sexual trauma that is not given the gravity it warrants, and cartoonish villains in the form of the Romanovs' captors (particularly Semyon). Considering all of this, I am left with the unsettling implication that instead of caring about a young woman who really lived – who suffered and tragically lost her life through no fault of her own, the author tacitly believes Anastasia and her family got what they deserved. And if we, the readers who probably picked up the book because of the events it was based on, were taken in by Lawhon's premise and thought she would treat such a historical subject fairly, well, we're the fools, just like the people who believed Anna Anderson was Anastasia.
In general, if your novel needs a personal defense at the end, maybe you should have written it differently. Or not written it at all. Lawhon calls it a "tangled, sentient, malevolent novel" and that during the writing it, she "would wish, a thousand times over, that I'd chosen to write about the history of barbed wire instead." Well, that makes two of us. Two stars it is for wasting both of our time.