7B Plemzavodskaya St., Kholmogory, Arkhangelsk, Russia, 164530
At the end of August 1744, Empress Elizabeth’s personal envoy, Major of the Guards Baron Nikolai Korf, arrived in Ravensburg. Before this, the baron had already completed two highly responsible tasks: he brought to Russia from Holstein the Empress’s nephew Karl Peter Ulrich, and then he brought from Zerbst the bride of the heir to the throne, Princess Sophia Augusta Frederica, who later became Empress Catherine the Great. Now he was entrusted with a secret operation resembling a military one. He brought with him a new secret decree of Empress Elizabeth dated July 27, 1744. It was a cruel, inhumane decree. Korf was obliged to take the ex-Emperor Ivan at night, remove him from the fortress, and hand the boy over to Captain Miller, who was waiting for him three versts from the city. Miller was to transport the four-year-old child in a closed carriage to the north, under no circumstances showing the boy to anyone or letting him out of the carriage even once. Notably, from that moment Miller was required to call Ivan by a new name — Grigory. Perhaps the name was chosen at random, or perhaps not — in the dynastic history of Russia, the name Grigory has a negative “trace” — it was the name of the impostor Otrepiev, who seized power in Russia in 1605 and whose adventurism condemned the country to unprecedented suffering and severe devastation. By this, Elizabeth seemed to reduce the former emperor to the level of such an impostor. The final destination of the journey was the Solovetsky Monastery. A day after removing “Grigory,” the former ruler, her husband, and children, along with the necessary minimum of servants, were also to be secretly sent at night under guard in the same direction. The rest of the courtiers who had served Anna and Anton Ulrich were ordered to remain in Ranenburg under the guard of Major Korf, the baron’s brother. They had to move quickly to “reach Arkhangelsk by at least mid-September, to travel by sea to the designated place.” Absolute secrecy was required everywhere, everything had to be done under the cover of darkness — traveling at night, not allowing the prisoners to go out, not letting them see anyone, not answering strangers’ questions: “...place the prisoners there and settle them at night,” “...put the infant (on the ship) at night so no one sees,” “...at night, closed, bring to the prepared... rooms,” even for reports to the authorities “come at night so that no one knows Miller.”
In the historical consciousness of the Russian people, there are many geographical points whose memory evokes a whole gamut of conflicting feelings. The Solovki Islands, where the prisoners from Oranienburg were to be delivered, belong to this group. The huge monastery served as a place of confinement for both ordinary and famous prisoners. This reflected the will of the secular state, which paid little heed to sanctity or monastic rules and saw monasteries only as prisons. In our case, the archimandrite of the Solovetsky Monastery was not even informed about what kind of prisoners would be held within the walls of his monastery: “some people appointed by Her Majesty.” The Solovki were considered the most terrible monastic prison. Upon learning that they were being taken to Solovki, the unfortunate prisoners confessed and took communion as if before death — life in narrow cells where one could not straighten up, in deep pits, in cold, darkness, and silence was not long, and it was no longer really life.
But, sending the Brunswick family to Solovki, Elizabeth still worried that they might escape. The specially sent ahead convoy emissary, Colonel Chertov, who supposedly was traveling to pray at the Solovetsky Monastery, was ordered to check if there were other gates or secret passages in the monastery; any such gates or passages were to be immediately sealed, the monastery’s plan taken, and sent to the Cabinet for further improvement of its regime.
Judging by his letters, Korf was not a dull, obedient servant. He had a kind heart and understood that an evil deed was being done by his hands. Therefore, while still in Moscow, together with the Empress’s Ober-Secretary Cherkasov, they requested the sovereign whether it was possible to send with Major Miller a nurse and wet nurse assigned to the boy from Oranienburg, so that, finding himself among strangers, he would not cry or scream. Otherwise, it would be difficult to keep the secrecy of the delivery of prisoner Grigory as prescribed by the decree. The document was sent to Vice-Chancellor Vorontsov, who accompanied the sovereign on a trip to Ukraine. From Oryol, Vorontsov sent a reply: the Empress, having read the document, “ordered it to be torn up, declaring that Mr. Korf should act according to the previous permission of Her Majesty, which must remain unaltered.” Having familiarized himself with the situation in Oranienburg, seeing Anna Leopoldovna again pregnant and lying in bed, and her faithful Julia nearby, Korf hesitated again and on the first day did not even dare to tell the prisoners the purpose of his arrival, but in a report asked the Empress what to do if the princess’s illness worsened, and at the same time noted in the report that the news of the separation of Anna Leopoldovna from Julia would be a terrible blow to the princess — Korf, of course, knew about their relationship and the Empress’s promise. Korf entrusted Gurev to inform them about the move to a new place. In response, there was a general cry, sobbing, and assurances that they all submitted to their fate but mourned the sovereign’s next displeasure. Korf never dared to tell Anna Leopoldovna that she was being separated from Julia and resorted to deception. He only said that due to a lack of horses, Mengden would move after them later. The former ruler almost guessed what Korf meant and, thinking not about herself but about her friend, replied: “I simply do not know what will happen to her when she learns of the final separation.” On the road, seeing that Mengden’s carriage did not catch up with them, Anna Leopoldovna fell into such despair that they had to stop and bleed her — at that time, this was considered the most radical treatment for all diseases. Over muddy roads, in bad weather and cold, and then under snow, the prisoners were slowly taken north.
Elizabeth could not come to terms with the existence of Anna Leopoldovna and her family, secretly hoping that fate and nature would free her from Anna or the former emperor. At the beginning of 1745, already in Kholmogory, where this unfortunate expedition had arrived with great difficulty, Anna’s time to give birth came. Korf, worried about her condition, asked the sovereign to allow a midwife and wet nurse to be admitted to the parturient, and requested the necessary medical instruments to be sent. At the same time, he asked what to do in case of the death of Anna Leopoldovna or her youngest daughter Elizabeth, who fell seriously ill on the way. No orders followed from the sovereign regarding instruments, midwife, or wet nurse. Looking ahead, the same happened in 1746 when Anna Leopoldovna gave birth to Prince Alexei in Kholmogory, but in the decree of March 29, 1745, detailed instructions were given in case of the death of the former ruler and former emperor: “If, by God’s will, the death of known persons occurs, especially Princess Anna or Prince Ivan, then, after performing an autopsy on the deceased body and placing it in alcohol, immediately send the dead body to us with a special officer, and deal with the others in the same way, only do not send them here but report to us and await instructions.” Thus, the Empress wanted to see these people in such a form — gutted and in alcohol. Apparently, this topic occupied her very much. In the summer of 1745, Gurev was also ordered: “In case of the death of Prince Ivan (if it happens before his father and mother), we command you to immediately show his dead body to the father and mother so that they see him and know that he died, and then (as it will be shown to the father and mother) to deal with the dead body according to the decree,” given to Korf [497]. Apparently, this was done so that the parents, separated from their son, would have no hope for a favorable outcome for him and, along with him, for their own fate. Ultimately, all these contradictions in Elizabeth’s soul only exacerbated the prisoners’ torment, sometimes making them tremble at the thought that they could be treated even worse, sometimes luring them with the ghost of hope for release or exile from Russia.
Meanwhile, the birth approached, and Korf, not waiting for the decree, allowed a midwife and wet nurse to be admitted to the parturient. Thinking that this permission was given by Elizabeth, Anna Leopoldovna, after giving birth (she gave birth to a son Peter on March 19, 1745), wrote a letter of thanks to the Empress on behalf of herself and her husband. For more than two months before this (from the end of August to November 9), Korf had been transporting the Brunswick family to the White Sea. But their entire route was over impassable roads, and Korf did not manage to deliver the prisoners to the pier before the end of navigation to transfer them to Solovki. The sea froze. He begged Elizabeth to at least temporarily stop this exhausting journey for everyone — prisoners, guards, and Korf himself — and temporarily settle the prisoners in Kholmogory — a large fishing and trading village on the Northern Dvina, located above Arkhangelsk. The place chosen for the prisoners and guards was a spacious, vacant house of the local bishop.
The initially assigned place of their settlement — the Nikolsky Korelsky Monastery near Arkhangelsk — according to the report of the envoy sent there, Vyndomsky, was completely unsuitable for living: the buildings were dilapidated and there was not enough space for everyone. By decree of December 5, the Empress allowed the prisoners to remain in Kholmogory until spring, until the navigation opened. No one even suspected that the house of the Kholmogory bishop would become their prison for a long thirty-four years!
There is no doubt that Korf played an important role in the Brunswick family remaining in Kholmogory and not being taken to Solovki, striving in every way to ease the fate of the prisoners. Even before leaving Kholmogory in June 1745, he managed to convince the Empress and her entourage that it was not worth taking women and children to Solovki: the route was inconvenient, it was impossible to feed so many people on the island, the long break between navigations (seven months) would make regular reports on the prisoners’ maintenance impossible. And the prison in Kholmogory had many advantages: it was convenient and capacious, and supplying the prisoners with provisions and everything necessary posed no difficulties. Korf gladly left Kholmogory — the task given to him by the Empress was extremely difficult, and one of Korf’s subordinates, Major Gurev, fell into such a depression that they even considered recalling him. In short, the decree of Elizabeth dated March 29, 1745, ordered the prisoners to be kept in Kholmogory until a new decree.
Thus, the forced multi-year journey of the Brunswick family across Russia ended, and a long imprisonment began. In the first months of their stay in Kholmogory, the authorities headed by Korf and Gurev actively set about adapting the complex of the bishop’s residence (two stone buildings) into a prison, or rather — into two separate dungeons. In one — the two-story bishop’s house itself — Anton Ulrich, Anna Leopoldovna, and princesses Catherine and Elizabeth were settled. In the second, also two-story building, whose windows did not overlook the bishop’s house, the infant “Grigory” was settled with Major Miller. The guard (almost one hundred people!) was placed in wooden annexes to the stone buildings and in houses located around the fenced yard of the bishop’s residence. The cathedral church on the bank of the Dvina, part of the bishop’s courtyard complex, was not closed to worshippers from outside, but it was separated from the prison itself by a fence. All premises and passages from the yard were carefully guarded, but unlike in Oranienburg, the prisoners were allowed to walk, although not in the yard facing the building with Ivan Antonovich’s dungeon, but on the other side of the main building — there, near the monks, a garden was cultivated and there was a narrow but long pond with a bridge.
Anna Leopoldovna was destined to live at the new place for less than two years. On February 27, 1746, she gave birth to a boy — Prince Alexei. This was the last, fifth child of the couple. The birth of all these children only intensified Elizabeth’s hatred of Anna. According to the decree signed by Anna Ioannovna before her death, if Ivan “dies before his age and leaves no legitimate heirs,” the throne should pass to “the first prince after him, his brother from our beloved niece... Anna and from the most serene Prince Anton Ulrich, and in case of his death” — to other legitimate princes “born from the same marriage.” These children were princes and princesses who, according to the will of Empress Anna Ioannovna, had more rights to the throne than Elizabeth. The birth of children to Anna Leopoldovna and Anton Ulrich was carefully hidden from society, and the prison commandant was strictly forbidden even to mention Anna Leopoldovna’s children, their number, or gender in correspondence. And although it was within the power of Empress Elizabeth Petrovna, nevertheless, news of the birth of another potential rival irritated the Empress so much that, upon receiving news from Kholmogory about the birth of Prince Alexei, Elizabeth — according to the courier’s report — “ordered the paper to be torn up after reading.”
Apparently, the health of 28-year-old Anna Leopoldovna was weakened by illnesses and frequent childbirths. The last two births were difficult — no wonder Korf asked to send surgical instruments to Kholmogory. Anna Leopoldovna did not survive the birth of her son Alexei: on March 5, as Gurev reported to Petersburg, “Princess Anna fell ill with a high fever.” Most likely, she developed postpartum inflammation and sepsis, and on March 7 she died.
Upon learning from Gurev’s report of Anna Leopoldovna’s death, the Empress demanded from the commandant: “Tell the prince to write only what disease she died of and not to mention the birth of the prince.” At the same time, a rather courteous letter from the sovereign herself to Anton Ulrich was attached, in which she demanded “detailed information about what disease the princess, your wife, died of.” One can agree with Korf’s opinion, who wrote that a handwritten letter from the prince describing his wife’s death was important for Elizabeth Petrovna as “proof that the princess died not violently, but of natural death.” But at the same time, Gurev had to make the prince describe the death of his wife without mentioning that she died after childbirth. Since then, in official documents, the fact that Anna died after childbirth was concealed, and the cause of death of the former ruler was presented as “fire fever,” a fever, some general inflammation of the body. However, as often happened in Russia, everything about princes and princesses could be learned at the Kholmogory market, as evidenced by numerous documents from the Secret Chancellery.
Gurev acted according to instructions he had received long before Anna’s death. The body of the former ruler was autopsied by Doctor Manze, who drew up a report “on the diseases of the said princess after childbirth as observed during the autopsy.” On March 10, Lieutenant Lev Pisarev took the body to Saint Petersburg, directly to the Alexander Nevsky Monastery, where a place for Anna Leopoldovna’s burial was urgently prepared. Upon arrival in the capital, the body was again examined by doctors, which was done with the same purpose — to eliminate possible rumors of violent death of Anna Leopoldovna. After that, the coffin was placed in the church, monks began reading over it, and General Prosecutor Trubetskoy was instructed to inform the public of Anna Leopoldovna’s death from fire fever and that all who wished could “come to say farewell to the body of Princess Anna.” In the official notice of Anna Leopoldovna’s death, she was called “Anna, the pious princess of Brunswick-Lüneburg.” Neither the title of ruler of Russia nor that of Grand Duchess was recognized for her, nor the title of emperor for her son. In official documents, they were most often mentioned neutrally as “known persons.” And now, after death, Anna Leopoldovna became again, as in youth, a princess for everyone.
She was not buried in the Peter and Paul Cathedral but in the Alexander Nevsky Monastery as a secondary member of the Romanov family. The requiem and burial were scheduled for 8 a.m. on March 21, 1746. The highest-ranking state officials and their wives gathered at the Alexander Nevsky Monastery — everyone wanted to see this woman, about whose dramatic fate so many rumors and legends circulated. Empress Elizabeth stood near Anna’s coffin, as did the wife of the heir to the throne, Catherine Alexeyevna. The Empress wept — possibly sincerely. Anna Leopoldovna was laid to rest in the Annunciation Church. There, two other women had long been sleeping the eternal sleep — the widowed Tsarina Praskovya Fyodorovna and Duchess Catherine of Mecklenburg. Thus, on March 21, 1746, three women connected by kinship and love — grandmother, mother, and granddaughter — were united forever in one grave.
It is unknown whether Anna, dying in the bishop’s house in Kholmogory, knew that her firstborn lived nearby, in another carefully guarded building. I think it was no secret to her — guards and servants were talkative and surely told her about her son. The meaning of the Empress’s order to keep Ivan separate from his relatives remains unclear. Perhaps Elizabeth thought that in this way she would not allow the parents to raise in the boy, so to speak, “an emperor in exile.” At least, renaming him Grigory, the strict rules of isolating the child, the veil of secrecy around him — all this indicated that the tsarina wanted the boy never to know who he really was. But, looking ahead, she was late — the four-year-old child already knew about his origin and title. We do not know how Captain Miller transported the boy and what he told the child, taken away from his parents, wet nurse, and nanny who had become close and dear to him during those long weeks they spent together in one carriage, but it is known that Ivan was brought to Kholmogory before his parents. Ivan’s cell-room was arranged so that no one except Miller and his servant could reach the emperor. The former emperor was kept strictly. When Miller asked Petersburg: “When his wife comes to him {Miller}, should the infant be allowed to see him?” he was refused. Apparently, Ivan was destined never to see any woman for the rest of his life except two empresses — Elizabeth Petrovna and Catherine II.
Many facts indicate that, separated from his parents at the age of four, Ivan was a normal, lively boy. From Elizabeth’s decree to the guard of the prisoners in Dinamund, Saltykov, dated November 11, 1742, we learn that two-year-old Ivan was already speaking, and his intention expressed during play with a dog to cut off the head of the family’s chief jailer, Saltykov, says a lot — above all about the undoubtedly normal, perhaps even too early development of the child. Colonel Chertov, who prepared a dungeon for the boy on Solovki, received instructions to watch Ivan so that “he does not leave through the door or jump out the window out of playfulness.” Later, in 1759, when Ivan was imprisoned in Shlisselburg, Officer Ovtsyn reported that the prisoner called himself Emperor and said: “I obey no one, except the Empress herself.” There is also a story about a many-hour conversation between Ivan and Peter III in 1762. When the emperor asked the ex-emperor: “Who are you?” he answered: “Emperor Ivan.” “Who put these thoughts in your head?” Peter continued. “My parents and soldiers,” replied the prisoner, who remembered his mother and father. He spoke about Officer Korf, who was kind to him and even allowed him to go for walks. Indeed, we already know that Korf was quite liberal toward the prisoners and indulged them in every way.
It is clear that maintaining complete isolation of the boy according to strict decrees and instructions for many years was impossible for the guards. These were simple soldiers, poorly educated officers, who, languishing and bored for years in Kholmogory, gradually forgot the strict orders, did not stand guard as prescribed by the regulations, violated discipline, and drank. Apparently, contrary to prohibitions, they talked to the boy, and from them he learned a lot about his life. No one took care of Ivan’s education and moral improvement. Communication with the guard soldiers replaced proper education, which children received from professionals in those years, and surely this communication could not compensate for school and family.
Of course, Empress Elizabeth would have been glad to know that the body of her young rival would be brought to Petersburg following the body of the former ruler. The Empress’s doctor Lestock authoritatively told the French envoy Chetardi in February 1742 that Ivan was small for his age and that he “would inevitably die at the first serious illness.” Many thought so. But nature proved more humane than the tsarina — it gave the infant a chance to survive. In 1748, the eight-year-old boy contracted smallpox and measles. The commandant, seeing the severity of his condition, asked Petersburg whether a doctor could be admitted to the child, and if he was dying, a priest as well. The answer was unequivocal: admission was allowed, but only a monk and only at the last hour for communion of the Holy Mysteries. In other words — do not treat, let him die!
One foreigner relayed the story of Panin, who saw Ivan. At that time, Ivan was over twenty years old, he was “very blond, even red-haired, of medium height, very pale-faced, with an aquiline nose, had large eyes, and stuttered. His mind was impaired; he said that Ivan was dead, and he himself was the Holy Spirit.” He aroused compassion, was poorly dressed.
Ivan lived in Kholmogory until early 1756, when suddenly, on a dark night, he — then a fifteen-year-old youth — was taken to Shlisselburg, and the soldiers and officers in Kholmogory were ordered to strengthen surveillance over Anton Ulrich and his children: “Watch most strictly so that no escape occurs.”
Sources:
Igor Vladimirovich Kurukin: Anna Leopoldovna
Evgeny Viktorovich Anisimov: Secrets of the Forbidden Emperor
