Читать книгу Napoleon Great-Great-Grandson Speaks - Рафаэль Гругман - Страница 3

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 the Emperor to disappear without informing him, the main «culprit» in the Peace of Tilsit, did not bode well for Talleyrand. He did not trust Napoleon. The Emperor's decampment, without even wishing to consult him, was additional evidence of the correctness of his thoughts.

It seemed as though no one could disturb the Peace of Tilsit, which promised both sides not inconsiderable acquisitions.

Although Russia, in signing the agreement, ceded its Mediterranean conquests and evacuated the Ionian Islands, in return, she gained the vast Belostok Region. And, in return for Alexander's promise to support Napoleon in the war against England and join the Continental Blockade, Napoleon had promised to support him in the fight against Sweden and Turkey. Although, as he admitted that same day to Talleyrand, he was by no means prepared to yield either Constantinople or the Bosphorus to Alexander.

This, then, was the reason for the next steps taken by the Emperor, who never did become accustomed to unhurried diplomacy. His gaze was turned toward the northern shores of the Black Sea. There, where since 1803, Armand-Emmanuel du Plessis, better known to the world at large as the Duke of Richelieu, had settled as an emigrant.

Richelieu, grandnephew of the well-known cardinal who had governed France during the reign of Louis XIII, had fled after the revolution to Russia and Alexander's protection. From the hands of the Tsar, who affably welcomed the distinguished refugee, he had received a charter to open up new lands, becoming Governor of Odessa and Governor General of New Russia, the area between the Dniester River and the Caucasus.

The Emperor's daring might have been envied. He ought not to have occupied himself with feats of personal bravery as well. His reckless acts, which another might call insane, possibly were just that. But if Napoleon had been lacking in these qualities, he would scarcely have become a marshal, let alone an emperor.

Thus, the ink was hardly dry on the Tilsit Agreement, when, somewhere between July 20 and 25, 1807, the Emperor visited Odessa. He was dressed in women's clothing and bore documents in the name of his sister's governess.

It is difficult to say how his negotiations with Richelieu went. They lasted two days, after which the Emperor, wearing the same clothes in which he had appeared in Odessa, departed whence he came.

From Richelieu's letters to the King's brother in London, it is known only that Napoleon offered the Duke the title of King, should he, in case of a possible war with Russia, side with the Emperor and proclaim the territory under his control the Kingdom of Odessa.

Richelieu answered with a decided refusal. He did not arrest the «usurper»: the nobleman's code of honor did not permit it. Besides, he had always disdained the secret police, and did not want to besmirch his name…Having reaffirmed his loyalty to the crown and explained to the count his motives for not deciding to perform the functions of a policeman, the Duke requested that the contents of the letter not be divulged. So as, later on, not to place himself in an ambiguous position at Court.

Richelieu's devotion was generously compensated. Upon the Bourbons' restoration to the throne, as a reward for his faithfulness, the grateful King gave him the post of Prime Minister of France; and Alexander I, the highest order in the Russian Empire-the Order of Saint Andrew the First-Called.

Be that as it may, during his secret visit to Odessa, while he was incognito, Napoleon found himself holed up in the Governor's residence. And, naturally, he spent the night in the women's quarters. As it turned out, his time there was not wasted.

Nine months later, on April 10, 1808 (at every point thereafter, this day would exert its influence upon our family in a most unexpected manner), 19-year-old Italian servant girl Luisa Ravelli gave birth to a son.

He was christened by a Catholic priest and, according to the young mother's wishes, entered in the church registry under the name of Joseph. Incidentally, this was the name of Bonaparte’s older brother. When, two years later, Luisa chanced to discover that on that very day, April 10, 1810, the Emperor had married the daughter of the Emperor of Austria-Maria-Luisa-she was terribly upset, seeing this as a bad omen. She confessed to her priest; and the latter, having pardoned her sin, counseled her to tell no one of her meeting with the Emperor, and, henceforth, to name her son in the Russian manner-Yosif.

Until the age of thirty-eight, Yosif lived in total ignorance of his true father, firmly believing the story told him by his mother, that his father had died in Odessa in 1812, during a plague epidemic that broke out in the city and carried off a quarter of its people.

But in 1848, through rumors that reached Odessa, Luisa found out that the Bonapartist party had acquired unprecedented influence in France; and nostalgia for the empire outweighed all other feelings. Hoping that her son's fate would take a decided turn for the better, she told him the truth about his real father.

What could Yosif change in his life, having found out the truth? Precisely nothing. Even if the story his mother told him were true, which he doubted, it could reflect in no way on his situation. For to demonstrate the fact of the Emperor's having visited Odessa was impossible.

For this reason, he continued his tranquil life, without taking any steps to change it.

As for the Emperor's many offspring, the French secret police began thinking seriously about them after, in the 1848 presidential elections, three quarters of the French electorate voted for Bonaparte's nephew, Louis-Napoleon; and the latter, taking over as head of the Republic, brought into government service his own cousin, Bonaparte's extramarital son Count Alexandre Walewski.

Four years later, following in his uncle's footsteps, Louis-Napoleon abolished the Second Republic and proclaimed a new empire, taking the title of Napoleon III. This happened in November 1852.

However, the next year began with an attempt on his life. An unsuccessful one, luckily. But, recognizing the danger that could come from the descendants of the Bourbons, Louis decided to insure his life-to save himself from foreign pretenders to the French throne. And at this point, the Minister of Police placed a document on his table-a long-ago dispatch from the dean of the Catholic church in Odessa to the Pope, intercepted at some point by French agents in Rome…

The Emperor demanded a detailed report. It turned out that Luisa Ravelli had died back in 1850, but her son, Yosif Ravelli, was even now alive and well. Moreover, soon after his mother's death, he had married; and three years ago, he had become the father of a son-Grigory Ravelli.

Tension mounted in relations with Russia. The Emperor understood: the presence in Russia of a pretender to the French throne would allow the Tsar to carry on a double game with respect to France, provoking intrigues and coup attempts.

His immediate response was France's joining the Anglo-Turkish coalition and a declaration of war on Russia. The combined army landed in the Crimea and began the siege of Sevastopol. However, Napoleon's primary goal, known only to the most trusted people, was Odessa. Parenthetically, let me say that a year later, the peace treaty announcing the conclusion of the Crimean War would be signed, on the French side, by none other than Foreign Minister Alexandre Walewski. Bonaparte's extramarital son was one of the few who knew the true reason for the war's beginning. Once he became President of the legislative assembly, Alexander Walewski would apply no little effort to searching out and arresting his Russian brother. But this would happen only in the following decade.

A month after the start of hostilities, on April 8, 1854, the powerful Anglo-French navy, consisting of twenty-seven warships, appeared on the Odessa roadstead.

On board one of the French vessels was a group of specially trained police agents, who were supposed to secretly land on the shore, kidnap the family of Yosif Ravelli, and carry them off to France. Should the second part of the operation become endangered, the agents were under orders to kill both Ravellis. Oversight of the operation was entrusted to the Commander of the French Navy, Admiral Hamelin.

On the morning of April 10 (again that fateful day!), the bombardment of the city began. Several thousand cannonballs damaged fifty-two stone houses and produced about fifty-two casualties. The six shore batteries (Lieutenant Shchegolev's battery especially distinguished itself, repelling the fire from seven enemy boats for seven hours), did not permit their opponent to approach the shore and unload a landing party.

Having achieved nothing, the enemy fleet turned around and set sail for Sevastopol. But the French had not abandoned their primary goal, for which they had gone to war. On April 30, under cover of a thick mist, the English frigate «Tiger» and a French gunboat had torn themselves away from the squadron and made a new attempt to land a group for the kidnapping.

However, on that day as well, success did not smile on the French. Having no local navigational charts, the captain of the frigate made an error; and, not far from Station 10 of Bolshoi Fountain, he ran the ship aground.

The motionless frigate became an excellent target for the Russian artillerymen, who, in revenge for the recent bombardment of the city-during which one of the shells had even hit the monument to Richelieu-pulled out all the stops.

The frigate was set afire with several well-aimed shots, and afterwards (and this was a first in the history of world wars!), the cavalry attacked the ship. The valiant hussars saddled their horses and, before the ship managed to sink, captured it with a swift assault, and even carried off a trophy or two.

While the «Tiger,» ripped to shreds, slowly sank beneath the waves, half a mile away, a boat approached the rocky shore.

Three brave men dragged it ashore and, seizing their luggage, began to ascend the rocky precipice.

A short time later, a stagecoach on its way to the city fell victim to their attack. At pistol-point, the stalwart Frenchmen forced the passengers to leave the carriage; and they ordered the coachman to take them to Odessa immediately, waving a pistol and a wad of hundred-ruble notes under his nose as incentives.

The Frenchmen were out of luck: the coachman valued patriotism over currency. He urged on the horses and, with a sharp tug on the reins, sent the poor animals, together with the equipage, off the cliff, while he himself managed at the last minute to leap out on the side of the road.

Upon inspection of the bodies, besides money and arms, a map was discovered on which a house on Novoselsk Street was marked with a cross, and two words were written in French: «Yosif Ravelli.»

For the Odessa police, it was no trouble at all to search out the house marked on the map and arrest the French spy.

At the police station, where poor Yosif was held for several days, he argued in vain that he had nothing to do with the scouts and had absolutely no idea why his good name was mentioned in their papers.

Convinced of the futility of trying to make sense of the case, they let him go, under police surveillance; meanwhile, the occurrence was mentioned in a secret dispatch to Petersburg-an appendix to a report from the Governor-general addressed the Tsar.

Soon, a secret order was received in Odessa from the police administration in Petersburg: to keep Ravelli under close observation.

In order to exert psychological pressure on the «spy,» he was ordered to appear every week at the police station.

For several years, poor Ravelli conscientiously carried out this order from the authorities, until, convinced at last of his honesty, the counterintelligence officers left the merchant in peace.

Hardly had Ravelli acquired freedom of movement, when, at the very first opportunity, he moved away from dangerous Odessa, settling in a small town not far from Akkerman.

There, he changed two letters in his documents, becoming Rivilli; and after that, so as to thoroughly confuse his trail, dropped one «l» from his surname.

He survived to the age of seventy-two (his wife had died still earlier)-one year too few to see his son's wedding-in constant terror of falling once again under police surveillance.

It is hard to say how Old Man Ravelli-Rivili would have looked upon his son's action, but the latter chose as his bride the daughter of a grocery store assistant, a Jewish woman named Rakhil.

I think Rakhil's parents would not have been happy with their daughter's marriage to an Italian, either, and probably wouldn't have given their consent; but the prudent girl explained to her father that Grigory was a Jew.

His hair, which was curly, thanks to his Italo-French ancestry, could absolutely be passed off as Jewish. And his poor knowledge of the laws of the faith she explained by his coming from an assimilated family, in which they didn't study Torah or send their children to Hebrew school. True, Rakhil taught him some things: first off, not to cross himself; not to eat pork; and, provided no important deal was in the works, to observe the Sabbath.

And, in order that her fiancé's manifestly non-Jewish surname should not arouse her father's suspicions, Rakhil counseled him to add an «S» on the end.

The deception succeeded. All the more so, because in Tiraspol-and it was there that Rakhil's family lived-nobody knew him.

In 1886, a son was born to Grigory Rivilis and entered in the synagogue book under the name of Shmuel. Shmuel (Shmuel is sometimes pronounced Shimon, but Grigory privately took note of the French sound of his name, Simon)-was my grandfather.

Since his mother was Jewish, under Hebrew law, Shmuel Rivilis is considered a Jew. And on his father's side…all of us, in the final analysis, are children of Noah. So, what is there to argue about?

There is not much to tell about his subsequent life. Shmuel grew up in the manner prescribed for boys from respectable Jewish families: he went to the synagogue, studied the Torah, married a girl from a Jewish family-Sara, my grandmother, who, though illiterate, nonetheless had sekhl-or, in Russian, «brains.»

Of his genealogy, he also knew little until a certain time, for his father, fearing exposure, carefully hid the truth from his children-his son and three daughters.

But, if Grigory Rivilis dreamed of being forgotten, the French Secret Service was conducting a careful search for the Emperor's vanished descendant-supposing that, possibly, they had gotten wind of him already in Petersburg, and were only waiting for the right time to play the card they held in their hands.

All the more so since, after the overthrow of Napoleon III-ending with the bloody Paris Commune-people in certain circles had begun to talk again about the necessity of restoring the monarchy.

The efforts of one secret service do not go unnoticed by another. Having pinpointed the location of French Intelligence activity in southern Russia, they took alarm in Petersburg.

The Russian agents in Paris sat up and took notice. After lengthy efforts, which cost the Third Department no small sum, it became clear: this all had to do with the descendants of Napoleon Bonaparte, no more, no less. The news was improbable. They decided not to believe it.

Common sense whispered to the aces of counterintelligence that the story about Ravelli was most likely a cover for some other, more refined operation. But if the efforts of one secret service were directed toward the abduction of Ravelli, then it was in the interest of the other to protect him until circumstances were fully clarified.

These were precisely the instructions that the police chief of Odessa received. But, to find the true reasons for the French Secret Service's anxiety and the recruitment of Ravelli, the head of the Third Police Department himself, trusting no one, traveled in person to Odessa.

But Ravelli had disappeared. A preliminary interrogation of his business associates yielded nothing. Ravelli had dissolved into thin air, and had not reappeared in Odessa.

The search for him went on for more than a year, and what a surprise it was for the chief of the Secret Police, Colonel Zubatov, when it was reported to him that Yosif Ravelli, firstly, was no longer a Ravelli; and, secondly, had given up the ghost three years since. And Colonel Zubatov decided to interrogate his son, Grigory.

This is how Grandfather Shmuel records Grigory Rivilis' talk with Colonel Zubatov in his diary. The translation, I repeat, from Yiddish to Russian was done with Mama's assistance. And polished by his grandson-that is, by me:

«Wouldn't you like, young man, to go to Paris?» in an insinuating voice, the Colonel began his talk with Grigory Rivilis. «The Lord Emperor is preparing to go there soon on an official visit…hunh? Wouldn't you like to associate with Himself?»

Grigory's heart sank into his boots. He felt as though he were just about to fall off his chair.

«Why have you turned so pale?» the colonel inquired politely. «Do you smoke?» He popped open a silver cigarette case and proffered a cigarette.

Grigory started to stretch out his hand, but then refused.

«Thank you, Your Excellency, but I don't smoke.»

«As you know, as you know…perhaps you'd like some water?» and, without giving him time to catch his breath, he inquired with seeming carelessness, «And, by the way, why did your late father change his name?» He bored into Grigory with his gaze. «We, of course, are guessing…,» he added, and fell silent.

«Y-your Ex-excellency,» stuttering in his agitation, Grigory at last managed to say sorrowfully, «how should we know that?»

«Well, think it over. I won't hurry you. Try to remember, if you don't want your wife and father-in-law to find out the honest truth. That you are not a Jew, but a respectable Christian. A Catholic, what's more.» He felled Grigory with this last sentence. «So, let's work together, if you don't want complications for yourself and your family.»

«Y-your Excellency,» Grigory quickly began crossing himself, «I swear by Christ the Lord, by the Blessed Virgin Mary, this is all a mystery to me. Spare me- and he began to cry-I have a son-,»

«By the way, about that son,» continued the Colonel, «why did you make a Jew out of a Christian? And there was probably a circumcision, according to their laws…»

Grigory nodded in agreement.

«I love her, Your Excellency. And, after all, emperors have married commoners before. Nicholas the First's older brother, Grand Duke Constantine, the heir to the throne-,» he babbled, but the Colonel made a face and interrupted him:

«Stop. We will not touch the imperial name. We are talking about you. So, Mr. Ravelli, I am waiting for explanations. And soon. I've wasted too much time on you as it is.»

Grigory arrived home only the next morning. Rakhil, catching sight of him, simply threw up her hands.

«Gotenu, why do I have such tsures! Girsh,» she called him by his Jewish name, «what have they done to you?»

Grigory collapsed wearily onto a chair and, slowly enunciating the words, got out: «Things are bad for us. Bad,» and repeated the conversation.

Women are usually more resolute than men. And, without thinking about consequences, they make decisions rashly.

«Girsh, get all our documents in order, and let's go to America. They're never going to leave us in peace.»

After deliberating, the couple decided that Grigory should go to Kishinev and begin petitioning to get a passport for foreign travel. And, at the same time, try to find out whether it would be possible, in the near future, to secretly get on any ship leaving Odessa, and illegally travel abroad. And, once he was there, send for his family.

That very day, without waiting for another summons for questioning, Grigory headed for Kishinev; and a week later, sad news made it back to Tiraspol.

According to eyewitnesses, he was walking down the street. Not far away, students had come out onto the thoroughfare. They were shouting antigovernment slogans, smashing glass in wealthy stores, and breaking signposts.

Cossacks, gathered in the side streets to break up the student demonstration, came out unexpectedly. If Grigory had known about riots, he would have managed to dodge them and run into an entryway. But the janitors, expecting the dispersal of the rioters, had prudently locked the gates. When the Cossacks burst out in an avalanche onto the street, smashing every living thing beneath them, he was unable to hide and was trampled by their horses.

Zubatov found out about it sooner than Rakhil. Ravelli's corpse happened to be recognized by a doctor in the city hospital, who had once known, not only Grigory, but his father as well.

That was how it came about that Grigory was not buried as a nameless victim. As for the fact that no family members were present at the funeral-no one is to blame for that. Where Tiraspol is, and where Kishinev is…you have to understand.

For lack of a prime suspect, Zubatov closed the investigation and went away to Petersburg. Ravelli's widow, as he supposed, was ignorant of her husband's secret. And his sisters… Two had died in childhood. The third was a revolutionary. A fugitive. And had long ago severed family ties with her brother.

Zubatov was mistaken. Probably because he had never really loved anyone. And, therefore, had never trusted anyone. Rakhil knew Grisha's secret. If she could make up her mind to deceive her father and marry a Catholic, passing him off as a Jew, then she could keep a secret.

She understood that the police would leave neither her, nor her son, in peace; and, as soon as an opportunity arose, she went away with Shmuel to Gaisin.

At the police department, she represented herself as the victim of a fire, in which all her documents had burnt up; and, in return for a small bribe, she obtained new ones. (In this, she was helped by her cousin, the owner of a barbershop). In any case, she wrote down a different person as Shmuel's father. Her own cousin. Thus my grandfather became Shmuel (Samuil) Solomonovich.

The family's subsequent history was not as unclouded as might be wished, but the police did not trouble them.

The French Intelligence Service, having rooted around for an unspecified amount of time in the Odessa area, and spent no small sum of money, received information regarding Ravelli's death. And calmed down…until 1912…

That year, the centennial of the Battle of Borodino was celebrated. In one of the Petersburg newspapers information appeared-obtained, God knows where-about Napoleon's secret visit to Russia-that is, to Odessa. They wrote about the appearance in 1808 of an heir, who later lost himself in Russia's vast spaces.

The author (his pseudonym was very soon exposed) was fighting for the establishment of a constitutional monarchy in France; and Russia, as France's ally, ought to assist her in this endeavor…

By the time the article had reached Paris; by the time they had become alarmed in the Élysée Palace and given orders to the Secret Service to carefully, so as not to quarrel with an ally, verify its authenticity-a world war had begun… The problem was set aside until a better time.

On November 11, 1918, at twelve noon, the first of a hundred and one shots rang out through Paris, proclaiming that the First World War, which had lasted four years, three months, and twenty-six days, was over. This permitted the French government to renew the search for the imperial heirs who had vanished in Russia.

With this goal in mind, a military expedition was quickly thrown together, apparently directed towards the protection of French interests. In a secret commission, given to the head of the expeditionary corps, were orders to begin an active search for the Ravelli family along the whole Black Sea coast of Russia.

Less than two weeks later (the new premier, Clemençeau, really hurried his generals), on November 23, the first French vessels visited Novorossiisk. After another three days, on November 26, troops landed at Odessa and Sevastopol. The search for the Ravellis led to a large-scale military operation. After a hundred and six years, a French soldier once again stepped onto Russian soil.

Soon, in all the newspapers printed in cities under the control of the occupying forces, there appeared announcements inviting all Ravellis, in connection with the discovery in France of the enormous legacy of Count Ravelli, to appear at the Commandant's office with documents verifying the ancestry of the bearer of the papers.

The approach was an original one. Russian Ravellis themselves responded to the honey-coated cake, providing the opportunity for the professionals, without arousing suspicion, to root around in their biographies.

In order to speed up the search, bait was placed in the prepared cage: the one who helped to find the lucky owner of the enormous fortune would also be generously rewarded. Thanks to this clause, all those who had dreamed in childhood of treasure hunts were brought in on the search for the Ravellis, and now were provided with an excellent opportunity to realize their distant dreams.

Several Ravellis, nibbling at the bait, whose biographies excited particular suspicion among the counterintelligence agents, were even conveyed on board a ship. But each time, when the engineers were ready to start the ship's engines, it was discovered that this Ravelli was not the right one.

Grandfather Shmuel did not read newspapers, and no citizen, excited by the generous reward, guessed that Shmuel Rivilis was that «heir» to Count Ravelli, for whom the occupying powers were unsuccessfully searching.

I don't know why, over the course of two centuries, precisely on the10^th of April, events have occurred that reflected in one way or another on the fate of our family. That day has been both joyous and sad: each time, like the flip of a card, producing a significant outcome.

So it was in 1919. Just before dinner, Shmuel picked up boot-hose, carefully wrapped in a newspaper, from the cobbler. When he got home and opened it, he read the announcement put out by the French. He was terribly upset, being four days too late.

On April 6, the French squadron had left the Port of Odessa, abandoning hope of finding Napoleon's descendant.

That year, God was merciful, preserving my grandfather from temptation. This he came to understand later. But at the time, he cried bitterly. The opportunity to pull himself out of beggary had been so close…

By that time, he had two daughters-Khaya and Golda…but his firstborn, his only son, had died after living less than one year…

Twice more, April 10 has proven memorable. On that day, in 1944, while living as evacuees, our family found out about the liberation of Odessa. Forty-five years later, on April 10, 1989, Golda, my mother, was buried in Odessa in the Third Jewish Cemetery. Grandfather had wound up there quite a bit earlier. But he managed to leave her two notebooks, written in a minute hand.

In a language unknown to me (Grandfather, although he learned to write Russian in his old age, fearing the evil eye, preferred Yiddish), he handed down to his grandchildren the history of the family. Two years before his death, Mama translated it into Russian; and now I, Yevgeny Rivilis, have taken the liberty of telling you all about it.

Yevgeny Rivilis, great-great-grandson of Bonaparte

Rafael Grugman: After this lengthy introduction, it is time for the reader to get familiar with the manuscript. I cannot vouch for whether everything in it is accurate. It is possible that its author, Yevgeny Rivilis, deliberately changed some of the names; after all, the earth-shattering historical events he describes are not that distant, and he could not disclose the true names of existing FBI and CIA agents, which are a state secret in the United States of America. Or perhaps he chose not to do this, because he was not thinking about publication. But since I am not able to address this question to the author of these memoirs, and since I do not wish to become the next Edward Snowden by accident, I have at least changed the names of U.S. intelligence officials mentioned in his manuscript. However, the events described are authentic, with the exception of a few minor details in which I had a hand, as I mentioned previously, in order to fill the gaps in the narrative. And since the main events did in fact take place in New York, I have left the title the same as the one chosen by Rivilis: Coney Island Laughs Last.