The Lost Daughter Page 11

  Svetlana kissed her cheek and squeezed her shoulders. “I am no lover of the Bolsheviks and their countless rules. We are supposed to abandon religion because it is old-fashioned and anti-Communist, but I still perform obednyas every day, in secret. We have a local priest you can trust. Perhaps you would like to worship with me?”

  Maria hesitated. “I will ask my husband,” she said, for they had told the farmer and his wife that they were already married in order to secure the job and the cramped living quarters in a room above a barn. The words “my husband” had a ring she liked.

  * * *

  “Might we ask the priest to marry us?” she asked Peter later. “I want my baby to be born legitimate.”

  Peter smiled indulgently. “I think you will find that Bolsheviks set little store by such formalities. But let us meet this priest and decide if we trust him, then if you want us to be wed it shall be done.”

  “You don’t want to?” she asked quickly, anxiety in her voice.

  He pulled her close for a hug, and kissed her forehead. “In my mind and in my heart we are already husband and wife, but if a priest’s blessing will make you happy, then so be it.”

  Two weeks later, Maria could not stop the tears flowing as the priest intoned the sacred words of the Orthodox wedding ceremony: “O Lord, our God, who hast poured down the blessings of Thy Truth according to Thy Holy Covenant upon Thy chosen servants, our fathers, from generation to generation, bless Thy servants Peter and Maria, and make their troth fast in faith, and union of hearts, and truth, and love . . .”

  When the crowns were held above their heads, it was almost too much to bear. The old man stopped and asked, “Are you all right, child? Do you want to continue?” and she nodded and blurted out, “Yes, please.” Peter squeezed her hand tightly but still she could not stop sobbing.

  All her life since she was tiny, she had dreamed of her wedding day and of the dashing man she would marry and raise children with. But in those dreams she had always imagined her husband-to-be asking her father’s permission for the betrothal, her mother helping to plan her trousseau, and the rest of the family celebrating the happy day. Now she had none of these—just Peter. He was all the family she had left.

  Chapter 17

  Outskirts of Perm, winter 1918–19

  THE FIRST SNOW CAME IN NOVEMBER, AND LAY IN A powdery sprinkling on earth that was already hard as flint and glittering with frost. The days grew shorter, so it wasn’t light till eleven in the morning and was growing dark again by midafternoon. Soon the snow got heavier so the trees disappeared beneath thick winter coats. Svetlana lent Maria and Peter some blankets, and Peter made sure there was always a fire burning in the grate to keep their room cozy when wintry gales blasted outside.

  As well as caring for the farm’s livestock, Peter rode into the woods to hunt elk, whose meat could be cured to last the winter months, and he caught fish through holes in the iced-over lake. The farmer and his wife were delighted with his prowess but Maria proved less useful: she never did get the hang of milking cows, though she learned to feed the chickens, to weave baskets from reeds, and to pickle chopped vegetables in Svetlana’s kitchen.

  One day she borrowed a halma board and pieces from Svetlana, and that evening she taught Peter the rules of the game. It was relatively simple: you had to move all your pieces to the opposite corner by the fastest route possible, leaping over your opponent’s pieces on the way.

  Peter followed her lead during the first game, but by the second he was winning hands down.

  “How can you beat me when you have only just learned?” she asked, baffled.

  “You have no strategy,” he laughed. “You move your pieces on a whim. I, on the other hand, am thinking several moves ahead. That’s the fun of the game.”

  Maria smiled. “Would it not be more gentlemanly to let a fat pregnant lady win?” She patted her belly. By now the child was moving inside her, kicking out. Sometimes she could see the shape of a tiny foot under her skin.

  “You would like me to play badly? Is that the grand duchess talking? Pray, forgive me for being so presumptuous as to beat you, ma’am.” He tipped an imaginary hat.

  She giggled and grabbed his hand to pull him over for a kiss, then placed his palm on her belly. “I think our son is going to be strong, like you,” she said.

  He stroked her bump thoughtfully. “Yes, it certainly looks that way,” he said, a faraway expression in his eyes.

  * * *

  On the night of the second of April, when it was still pitch black and wintry outside, Maria woke to an unfamiliar stabbing sensation. “Peter,” she cried, then the pain grew so intense she could only grip the blanket in her fists and moan through gritted teeth.

  He leaped to his feet and lit the oil lamp, then bent to examine her. For a moment she felt normal, and then the gripping pain came once more and she screwed up her face, trying not to scream out loud.

  “What’s happening to me?” she asked when the wave of pain passed.

  “The baby is coming,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’ll fetch Svetlana. And I’ll be right outside.”

  It was all very well for him to say “don’t worry,” but she could see in his eyes that he was worried. The baby was too early. There must be something wrong with it. Her worst fear was that it would have hemophilia, the bleeding disorder that had stunted her little brother Alexei’s short life. Peter did not know the disease ran in her family, as the Romanovs had always kept it to themselves and a few trusted advisors, but he must have seen with his own eyes that Alexei was a sickly child.

  Another wave of pain came and she stood up to pace around the room. Where was Peter? Where was Svetlana? Suddenly she longed for her mother, for Olga or Tatiana—just one of them. She needed her family more than she had ever thought possible. Tears came and she was sobbing hard when Svetlana bustled in with a pot of boiling water and some fresh towels.

  “There, there,” she said, placing her hand on Maria’s brow. “It’s normal to be scared, but I have not lost a baby or a mother yet and I’m not about to start.”

  * * *

  The pains lasted through the night, waning for a while then coming back stronger than ever. Sometimes Maria screamed for Peter, but Svetlana would not let him enter the room, saying it was bad for a marriage.

  “I’m here,” he called through the door. “I’m not leaving, not even for a moment.”

  By the time dawn broke, Maria was overcome with exhaustion. “I can’t go on,” she panted. “It’s too much.”

  Svetlana was calm. “You can and you will. That child can’t stay inside, but he will not be born before he is good and ready.”

  She lifted Maria’s shift to feel the baby’s position and suddenly exclaimed, “Good God, what is this?”

  Maria looked down. Svetlana had spotted the jagged purple line of the bayonet scar. “An accident,” she murmured. “At home. I fell . . .”

  “You’re lucky to be alive!” Svetlana was aghast. “What on earth did you fall onto?”

  Maria struggled to think of something sharp. “The blade of an ice skate,” she said, and saw Svetlana frown and touch the scar as if not entirely convinced, but she did not question further.

  In the late morning, Maria suddenly felt a huge pressure, as if her internal organs were being expelled from her body and ripping her apart. She could not even try to muffle her screams as Svetlana pulled the baby’s head from between her legs. She looked down and saw blood and began to sob hysterically. “I’m dying. Please save me! I don’t want to die.”

  “Silly girl,” Svetlana soothed. She pulled the baby clear and held it in the air, where it gave a gasp and then a thin, reedy wail. It was covered in white waxy mucus with streaks of bright blood, its tiny face screwed tight. “It’s a boy,” she said. “Did I not tell you? I’m never wrong.”

  She snipped the cord, washed the child in water she had boiled earlier, and swaddled him in a soft white blanket before handing him to his mother. Maria gazed
down at this creature who had grown inside her, and all of a sudden the memory came back to her of the first time she saw Alexei. She was five years old and had been led, with her sisters, into her mother’s bedchamber, where he lay in a crib by the bed. She remembered her awe at the daintiness of his clenched fists, and the feeble squawking noises he made. This child was making the same noises now—“Mm-wah, mm-wah”—with doggedness, as if demanding something from her.

  “Why don’t you let him feed?” Svetlana asked, and Maria was momentarily stunned. Her family had used wet nurses to feed their babies, but it dawned on her that they could not afford such a luxury here. She was poor now, and must do as countrywomen did.

  Svetlana loosened the neck of Maria’s gown and showed her how to position the baby so he could suckle at her nipple. She felt a tickling sensation as she watched his tiny jaws working, and was overwhelmed with such joy it felt as if she was floating.

  “Can Peter come in now?” she asked, not wanting him to miss this.

  “Wait till I’ve cleaned you up,” Svetlana replied. “Then I will call him. I think the child has his chin, don’t you?”

  Maria looked down, but to her the baby resembled her little brother, Alexei, with his round features and his sparse wisps of hair. Pray God the resemblance was only superficial and he did not carry the dreaded bleeding disorder. She shuddered, trying to remember how long after Alexei’s birth he was diagnosed.

  * * *

  Peter was awestruck at the sight of his son. He took the bundle from Maria, and as soon as he cradled him, the boy stopped squawking and peered up, boss-eyed and curious.

  “Can we call him Nicholas?” Maria asked. It would be lovely to remember her father that way.

  Peter glanced at Svetlana, who was making a bundle of the soiled sheets and towels. “Let’s discuss it later,” he said. “He can be little No-name for now.” He ran a finger along the baby’s brow and kissed his button nose. “Everyone says newborns are beautiful, but this one—he is a miracle child. Looking at him, I can tell he will do something very special with his life.”

  Maria beamed. “Once we find her, I will ask his aunt Tatiana to be godmother.”

  Peter put a finger to his lips and shook his head slightly, warning her not to say more. The baby had fallen asleep in his arms.

  “I’ll leave you in peace,” Svetlana said, smiling at the vision of father and son. “Keep the room warm, and call if you need anything.”

  “We will be forever in your debt,” Peter told her, and Maria added, “Yes, thank you a million, million times over.”

  After Svetlana had gone, Peter sat on the bed by Maria, still cradling the baby.

  “I think we should avoid giving the boy a Romanov name,” he said. “And beware of mentioning your siblings in front of our employers. They are good people, but we cannot expect them to keep our secret, should it come out.”

  “What do you think we should call our son?” Maria asked, unable to take her eyes off his little face, trying to memorize every inch of it.

  “A good honest country name. How about Stepan?”

  That felt right. She smiled. “Stepan it is.”

  * * *

  Maria recovered quickly from childbirth and threw herself into caring for her baby. She loved the sensation of breastfeeding, the idea that she was providing vital nourishment for Stepan. She loved bathing him and spent hours lying on the bed watching him sleep. Svetlana showed her how to fashion a sling to carry him next to her body as she went about her work, so she hardly ever had to put him down.

  In the early weeks she kept a close eye out for any signs of hemophilia, but his cord healed normally and dropped off, and there were no odd bruises or unexplained marks. Even as a baby Alexei had been sickly, but this boy seemed hale and strong, like his father.

  One of the greatest pleasures for Maria was watching Peter with his son. His large, work-roughened hands were tender as he cupped the downy head, his voice low as he whispered to him, his eyes brimming with emotion. It made her love for her husband deepen as she watched him with the child they had created together.

  “I hope Stepan will have your cowlick,” she mused.

  “My what?” He was mystified. “I have been licked by a cow?”

  “That tuft of hair at the front.” She pointed to his hairline. It was a phrase used in English, but perhaps there was no Russian equivalent.

  “You say the oddest things sometimes.” He smiled.

  It was hard to think that Stepan would never know his Romanov grandparents, and had lost almost all his relatives before he was born. Her grief still lurked, and sometimes the tears fell while she cared for her child. He was a serious soul, who looked up at her as if wondering about the source of her sorrow. Having him to look after helped to distract her, though. Sometimes an hour or two went by when she did not think of Anastasia or Alexei, and then she felt guilty, because it was still less than a year since they were murdered. If only they could have met their miraculous nephew!

  “Why was he early?” she asked Peter one day. “I had thought he would be born in June.”

  “He knew you needed him,” Peter replied. “Look how much he has helped you. Before he arrived, I had never heard you laugh.”

  Maria couldn’t help but smile at his words. “Will you write to your mother and tell her of the birth of her grandson?” she asked.

  He made a face. “I imagine the authorities will be keeping watch on her mail deliveries. They know that I ran off with you and I’m sure they will be trying to find us.”

  Maria felt sad at that. “Is there no way we can get word to her?”

  “Perhaps I will post a letter from some faraway place, so that if they search for us there, they will not find a clue to our whereabouts.” He nodded to himself, mulling it over.

  “And you must tell her that we are married. I want her to know that.”

  “She and my sister will want all the details . . . I will write a letter and mail it next time the farmer sends me to a distant market.”

  A day later, he showed Maria the letter he had composed. It was the first time she had seen his handwriting, and it was better than she had expected from one who had received little schooling. His spelling was poor, but she had no trouble making out the words. He told his mother that he had fallen in love with Maria while guarding the Romanov family at the Ekaterinburg house. He explained that he had seized the chance to rescue her and that they were now married and had a beautiful son together.

  At the end of the letter there were two sentences that moved Maria to tears: I miss you badly, Mama, and my sister too, but I want you to know that I am happy. If I could turn back time to that July morning when I pulled Maria from the truck and ran into the forest, I would do exactly the same thing again.

  Chapter 18

  Outskirts of Perm, June 1919

  NEWS OF THE CIVIL WAR DID NOT OFTEN REACH THE REMOTE farm where Peter and Maria lived, but Peter heard snippets when he took farm produce to markets around the region. He and Maria had pinned their hopes on the White Army advancing and driving back the Bolsheviks, and they rejoiced when they heard that Admiral Kolchak’s troops had crossed the Urals and captured the strategic town of Tsaritsyn in June that year.

  “Surely it must only be a matter of time before we can come out of hiding and search for my sister and my relatives?” Maria asked. “My grandmother must still be alive, and my cousins—and perhaps Tatiana is with them.”

  She tried to imagine finding Tatiana and introducing her to her little nephew, but the picture refused to come into focus. Was she kidding herself? The entire nation had been ripped in two and hers could not be the only family to be broken apart. That was what civil wars did.

  A couple of months later, Peter came back from market with news. “I heard from a British merchant that your grandmother, Maria Feodorovna, was rescued from the Crimea by a ship sent by the British king, George V, and that she is currently his guest in London.”

  “And Tatia
na?” Maria asked immediately, her heart leaping. “Is she in London too?”

  He shook his head. “My source didn’t mention her. Perhaps she is keeping a low profile in case the Bolsheviks are still intent on wiping out the direct line of inheritance to the throne.” He glanced at little Stepan, asleep in a cot he had carved from pine, and Maria followed his gaze. Of course! Her baby son was an heir of the Romanov dynasty. That could put him in danger if anyone were to find out.

  “Is there a way we could get to London?” she asked, then answered her own question. “Even if we could reach Murmansk or the Baltic shores, it would not be easy to board a ship sailing for Britain, would it?”

  Peter shook his head. “Passenger ships, trains, all forms of transport are operated by militant workers. If we sold some of your jewels to pay for our passage, they would demand to know where the money came from. Besides, I don’t think we should take this little man from a safe home and subject him to the hardships of such a journey.”

  They both looked at the sleeping child. His blond baby curls were darkening and his features becoming more distinctly his own, but he retained an equanimity of character that Maria thought was just like his father’s. He seldom cried, but watched the world carefully, drinking it all in.

  * * *

  By the end of 1919, all talk of traveling to London was abandoned after Maria found she was pregnant again. Svetlana reacted with irritation to the news.

  “It’s irresponsible to bring us another mouth to feed at a time like this. Didn’t your mother teach you how to stop yourself falling pregnant?”

  “No,” Maria replied, wide-eyed. She’d had no idea such a thing was possible.

  “You must count the days after the start of your monthly bleed,” Svetlana explained. “Avoid lovemaking from the tenth to the seventeenth day.”

  “A whole week?” Maria was astonished. She and Peter made love several times a week and she couldn’t imagine abstaining for such a long time.

  “I expect you to keep up with your chores during this pregnancy,” Svetlana scolded. “There’s a lot to be done bringing in the harvest and preparing for winter. This is no place for idle hands.”