Finding My Own Way by Peggy Dymond Leavey Page B

reading some Russian history books that Alex was reading and thinking what an interesting story the Countess must have told. She was married to a minister in the last Tsar’s cabinet, you know.”
    Marjory Thomas was spooning coffee into a shiny, electric percolator that sat atop one of the filing cabinets, listening with interest.
    â€œI did know, as a matter of fact,” said Mr. Thomas.
    â€œThe Anastasia theory really intrigues me.”
    â€œOh, me too,” enthused Marjory.
    Her husband frowned. “That’s your angle, is it?”
    â€œDon’t you think it’s fascinating?” I persisted.
    â€œIf it weren’t so highly unlikely,” Mr. Thomas admitted. “But you’re right. It remains a popular interest.”
    I continued. “I was thinking. What if the whole story about the Countess having been married to the cabinet minister was concocted to cover her real identity?”
    â€œWhich is?”
    â€œThe Grand Duchess, Anastasia!”
    I heard Marjory Thomas gasp.
    â€œShe’s still alive, you know,” said Mr. Thomas, removing the cover of his typewriter.
    â€œWho is?” I demanded. “Anastasia?”
    He laughed and shook his shaggy head. “No, not Anastasia. I don’t subscribe to that theory. The Countess, I mean. I covered a garden party at the nursing home a week or two ago. The Countess’ name was listed among the residents.”
    â€œDid you see her?” I asked eagerly.
    â€œYes, although I didn’t speak with her.” The water had begun to bubble up to the glass knob in the lid of the percolator.
    â€œDo you think she’d talk to me?” I wondered out loud.
    â€œCan’t see why not,” the man shrugged. “Your mother did a second interview with her just last year. Although I don’t think she ever finished the article.”
    That was news to me. I glanced at my watch and saw to my dismay that it was almost nine o’clock. There was so much more I wanted to hear, but I’d run out of time. Promising to join the Thomases at their place for supper sometime soon, I hurried on down the street to Savaway.
    I hadn’t known that Alex had done a second interview, years after the first. Could it have been the books she was reading that had rekindled her interest in the Countess? Or something the Countess had told her that piqued her interest in Russian history? Something like Anastasia’s hiding place?
    Alex used to take notes in a series of spiral notebooks, the kind stenographers used, and these had always been kept in the top drawer of the oak buffet in the front roomat home. I thought the day would never end. I couldn’t wait to get back, dig out her notes and read what Alex had written during her last interview with the Countess. What more had she discovered?
    When I was finally free to leave, I pedalled home as fast as my legs would go, splashing through potholes filled with water, oblivious to the steady rain. I dropped my raincoat inside the back kitchen, pushed off my sodden shoes without untying them and hurried through to the front room. Gripping the two metal handles on the front of the buffet, I jerked open the top drawer.
    I removed all the notebooks, leaving in the bottom of the drawer a layer of Nan’s forgotten tablecloths. Each notebook was numbered with the period it spanned written on the cover. I chose number eleven, the one with all the blank pages in the back, and took it out to the kitchen. Even before I sat down, I began to read. I was so stunned by the Countess’ revelations that it took Ernie’s persistent nudging of my elbow, reminding me that it was past his suppertime, to drag me back to the present.

    Countess Galina Balenskaya had been in the last stage of pregnancy when she arrived in Canada in 1919. The manager of the mining camp had taken one look at her and turned her down flat for the job. Her brother Dimitri was able, just in time,