I Was Anastasia

by Ariel Lawhon

If history were taught in the form of stories, it would never be forgotten. —RUDYARD KIPLING, THE COLLECTED WORKS

Not the angry, hard, blistering shards of snow she is used to in Germany, but fat, lethargic flakes that drift and flutter and take their time getting to the ground. Lazy snow. American snow.

Virginia in August feels very much to Anna as though she has taken up residence directly in the white-hot center of Satan’s armpit.

The thing Anna has always hated most about being a small woman is the disadvantage she has in situations like this. People assume they can touch you, pat you, shake your hand without permission. They assume that if your size is little more than that of a child, you must be one. That you can be talked down to or coerced. It is hard for a small person to be intimidating or to be taken seriously. This lack of stature has forced Anna to develop other skills through the years: to sharpen her wit, to treat her tongue like a blade and her mind like a whetstone.