PREFACE
This amazing story began in December 1995, when a man showed up at the Odessky Vestnik newspaper office and introduced himself as Yevgeny Rivilis, Bonaparte’s great-great-grandson. I was skeptical about his statement. Ever since humanity started documenting its history in writing, every civilization has witnessed the birth of imposters who have tried to take advantage of someone else’s name and glory for selfish or political purposes. One after the other, the world has seen the appearance of false gods and false messiahs, false Christs and false prophets, and after them, a long parade of swindlers, opportunists and adventure seekers passing themselves off as dead or slain emperors and kings (or members of their families).
The temptation of fame and power is great. Russian history, which is relatively young (compared to world history), has not escaped invasions of pretenders. There have been three false Dimitris, several pseudo-Peter the Thirds (the most famous was Yemelyan Pugachev), and numerous false children of Tsar Nicholas II, who supposedly escaped after the royal family was shot (pretenders claiming to be Anastasia, Tatiana, Olga or Alexei). These were followed by the swindlers of modern times, people of lower rank who became false veterans and false heroes of the Great Patriotic War in order to receive social benefits. The atmosphere of the Soviet land encouraged their «glorious deeds».
But in a way, the history of the USSR itself is an imposter. The original pages have been rewritten many times, events and facts have been freely re-interpreted, and political and military leaders have shamelessly appropriated the military exploits and deeds of people they themselves have eliminated. Only in an Orwellian country could there be this type of literary parody so close to reality: literary satire depicting fictitious imposters fighting among themselves «for a piece of the Socialist pie,» such as Ilf and Petrov’s «thirty sons and four daughters of Comrade Lieutenant Schmidt, Hero of the Revolution.»
Yevgeny realized that he would be taken for a swindler trying to get some sort of benefits for belonging to a noble family, and he asked me to read a story he had brought along that described several generations of his family. I changed my mind when I read through the narrative, and I asked my friend’s wife, who was a senior researcher at the regional history museum, to act as a reviewer (or to debunk the story, if in fact the author turned out to be a clever opportunist). Once I had received a positive review (the researcher was dumbfounded), I presented this unusual story to the newspaper editor, and I came up with a catchy headline: «Napoleon's Great-Great-Grandson Speaks.»
The story/testimonial was published in the two January issues of Odessky Vestnik. As it turned out later, I was actually doing Yevgeny a great disservice by assisting in the publication. He ran into troubles that forced him to emigrate – and I had no idea that this was happening, since I was absorbed in my own problems during my first years of life overseas.
Eight years later we happened to meet each other in the USA (if I remember correctly, in April 2004). We reminisced about Odessa, his appearance at the editorial office, and the long-ago publication. Yevgeny was preparing to leave for Vanuatu, an island in the Pacific Ocean. He gave me the address of a bank in Manhattan and the number of a safe deposit box that was paid for ten years in advance, where he kept the story of his life in America. He gave me the key and left instructions that if he did not return, the safe should be opened when the payment expired, on December 31, 2014. I don’t know why he decided to trust me; I suppose it had to do with the long-ago publication in which I was involved. Or maybe he wanted to leave something to be remembered by in case anything happened to him, or he wanted to settle a score with someone in hindsight – and it seemed to him that when I turned up at that time, I was suitable for this purpose.
Unfortunately, I have no information about what happened to him after he left for Vanuatu, and I have not the slightest idea whether he is alive or not. However, I am taking advantage of his authorization to dispose of Yevgeny Rivilis’ memoirs as I see fit, and with a minimum amount of conjecture where there are logical gaps in the text, and with some small literary changes that allow me to put my own name on the cover, I am publishing his amazing reminiscences. They may seem incredible and fantastic, just like the long-standing stories of Napoleon Bonaparte (skeptical readers can find them in the newspaper archives), with which I am introducing these memoirs.
Rafael Grugman
NAPOLEON'S GREAT-GREAT-GRANDSON SPEAKS
My grandfather's notebooks, translated from Yiddish to Russian with my mother's assistance, have given me no peace for many years now. This may be difficult to believe, but I am a direct descendant of Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte.
For many long years, this secret was kept «behind seven seals» in our family, for its disclosure bore the threat of exile-and by no means on the exotic island of Saint Helena. Rather, somewhat farther off…say, in Solovki Prison.
With the passing of two centuries, the world has become a different place. The illegitimate offshoots of crowned families-once seriously feared by the powerful of the world, lest they encroach upon their thrones-today may sleep in peace. They are not put to death, nor are they confined in fortresses. They don't find themselves under lifelong surveillance by secret police. Nowadays, they lead ordinary lives, exciting, at best, the interest of journalists.
None of this makes it any easier for my forebears, who all swallowed their bitter portion in life. I will give their sufferings their due, and, two centuries later, reveal the secret. Of my family, of Napoleon, and of France. No matter what life throws their way, let my descendants not be ashamed of their name; and let them be proud of their pedigree, which has roots extending back to the shores of the Mediterranean Sea.
One more remark, no less important, but obligatory under today's circumstances. In order to avoid possible speculation and conjecture, I hereby give notice in advance: I am pursuing no political ends whatever, and entertain no pretensions to the French throne.
The sole reason for my decision to publish is a desire to pay homage to the memory of my forebears. Let historical justice make amends for the sacrifices they bore.
Now, after these explanations as to why I have decided to break a silence of almost two centuries' duration, stubbornly kept by my family, it is time to tell with what, strictly speaking, the story began. I am supplementing my grandfather's notes with references to the universally accessible diaries of Bonaparte's ministers, Fouché and Talleyrand.
In August, 1807, unexpectedly for everyone, the Emperor disappeared. His headquarters was on the estate of one of the most distinguished Polish princes, and his courtiers did not worry, supposing that the Emperor, being in excellent spirits after the brilliant victories he had sustained on the battlefield, had decided to transfer his military maneuvers to the bedrooms of Polish countesses.
Only one pair-Minister of Secret Police Fouché and Foreign Minister Talleyrand-while outwardly maintaining their peace, even to the point of supporting the retinue's opinion about the Emperor having a romantic intrigue, were perturbed.
Fouché, observing Talleyrand's impenetrable visage, was trying to understand: either the old fox was bluffing, and was also concerned by Napoleon's disappearance; or, after the conclusion of the Peace of Tilsit with Russia, the Emperor had fallen to thinking of the succession again, and had gone off to Petersburg to seek the hand of some grand duchess in marriage.
Although, mused Fouché in his diaries, in spite of the fact that royalist attempts to reinstate the monarchy have been crushed long ago, anything may happen: some fanatic might suddenly decide to repeat the same joke on the Emperor that they played on the Duke of Angiens and the Prince of Condé. Conspirators supported by England have still not given up on schemes to reinstate the Bourbons on the French throne.
To say that Talleyrand was furious is to say nothing. It was thanks to his efforts that Russia's long resistance after the battles of Putulsk on December 26 and Preussisch Eylau on February 6, and the Battle of Friedland on June 14, had ended on July 7 with the touching Peace of Tilsit.
Napoleon and Alexander I had kissed. Alexander, forgetting the epithet «usurper,» bestowed not so long ago by his Empress mother, had called Bonaparte «brother,» embraced him tenderly, and drunk to brüderschaft…
For