The Lost Daughter Page 2

  Chapter 2

  NEXT MORNING, PETER VASNETSOV WAS ONCE AGAIN guarding the top of the second staircase and Maria greeted him as she passed on her way to bathe.

  “Have you been there all night? I do hope they let you sleep sometimes.”

  He gave a shy smile. “I was off duty from midnight till eight, but now I will be here till two.”

  “Oh, good. After breakfast, might I come and take your photograph? It is a particular hobby of mine. I love to collect portraits and you have a strong face.”

  His cheeks colored. “I don’t know about that.”

  “You don’t know that you have a strong face? Or are you worried that it’s not allowed? Personally, I can’t see any harm.”

  He bit his lip before answering. “What would I have to do?”

  She almost laughed, but stopped herself. He had clearly never had his photograph taken before. “Just what you are doing anyway: stand still. I’ll come back in an hour and explain more.”

  In fact, it was slightly longer than an hour because her father read to them from the scriptures after breakfast, but when Maria skipped out to the hallway carrying her leather photograph album and her precious Kodak Autographic, Peter was there, standing very erect.

  “Do you want to look through my pictures while I set up the camera?” she asked.

  He glanced at his hands before accepting the book, and she guessed he was checking that they were clean. He flicked to the first page. “Is this your little brother?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Alexei, yes. He was the most adorable baby. We all doted on him. Mama and Papa had long given up hope of an heir, so they were beside themselves with joy.” She didn’t tell him how disappointed her father had been when she was born. One daughter was delightful, two was still acceptable—and Tatiana quickly became his favorite—but he did not attempt to hide his despair when a third turned up. As a child, Maria had noticed it in the way he avoided looking at her and seldom made any personal comment to her. By the time Anastasia arrived, he seemed resigned to only siring girls.

  Peter turned the page. “And these are your sisters?”

  “We call ourselves OTMA,” she explained. “From our names: Olga, Tatiana, Maria, and Anastasia.”

  “You must miss them.”

  “I do, very much! I can’t wait till they join us. You’ll like them.” She set the camera aperture to the indoors setting and looked through the lens, sliding the bellows in and out to focus. Her sisters had Box Brownies, which were simple to operate, but Maria preferred the sharper results she got with her more sophisticated model.

  Peter seemed uncomfortable, clutching the album tightly as if afraid he might drop it, hunching his shoulders and leaning toward the lens.

  “Why don’t you put the album on that side table?” she suggested. “Then try to stand naturally, as you would if I were not here. Look directly at the camera.”

  He still appeared stiff, but his gaze was direct and unwavering as she pulled down the lever and took the picture. It would come out dark, but the light spilling from the window illuminated the right side of his face in a way that she hoped would seem artistic.

  “Thank you.” She smiled, winding on the film. “I will let you see the picture once I am able to get it developed.” She wondered when that might be. Perhaps they would be overseas by then; in Great Britain, maybe. She knew that George V, her father’s cousin, had invited them a year ago and couldn’t understand why they had not left yet. “There are protocols and procedures,” was all her father would say.

  Commissar Avdeyev came out of his office and scowled at them. “What are you doing? Citizen Romanova, go back to the family rooms immediately.”

  She picked up her camera and album and obeyed, hoping that Peter would not be chastised for talking to her.

  In the sitting room, her mother was sewing, her father was reading, and the air was thick with dust and dullness. They had not been there twenty-four hours, but already she felt the confinement weighing on her soul. She picked up a pen to write to her sisters, to tell them about Konstantin Ukraintsev and Peter Vasnetsov and the house that was nothing like a home.

  * * *

  There was a clock on the mantel in the drawing room and Maria rationed herself: she would only look at it again when she had finished writing one page of her diary, or sewing a hem of her petticoat, or reading a chapter of a book to her mother. Inevitably, when she did look, the hour was less advanced than she had expected. The minutes crawled interminably, so slow she suspected the clock had been tampered with in order to torture them.

  Their days were punctuated by meals, scripture readings, exercise sessions in the cramped yard where the tall fence blocked much of the sunlight, card games, and then bed. There was little to look forward to, and yet she counted the minutes until Sednev, their footman, announced luncheon, or a guard came to accompany her and her father downstairs to the yard. Her mother seldom went with them as her sciatica was crippling and her headaches frequently left her bedridden. Leaving the house was forbidden; they were not even allowed to attend services at the local church.

  Maria’s only distraction was chatting to the guards whenever she could make an excuse to slip out of the family’s rooms. She befriended several of them and learned about their childhoods, their interests, their ambitions, even their sweethearts. She asked about the countryside around Ekaterinburg, and heard that they were close to the Ural Mountains, the great chain that divided Russia into two halves, where brown bears, wolves, and elks roamed and there was dense forest up to the snowline. She asked about the jobs they had done before coming to the Ipatiev House and learned of the Zlokazov brewery, the Makarov cloth factory, and the steam mills that ground wheat, steel, or gunpowder. Most of the guards were friendly, with only Commissar Avdeyev remaining aloof.

  Maria had always enjoyed male company. As a child, she’d had several friends among the officers who crewed the royal yacht, the Shtandart, and she’d enjoyed playing billiards, quoits, or deck tennis with them. During the war, she’d befriended the staff at Stavka, her father’s headquarters, and had spent many evenings in Tsarskoe Selo visiting wounded soldiers in the hospital. It was there she developed a particular fondness for an officer called Kolya Demenkov. Oh, Kolya. She still sighed to think of him. She used to describe herself in letters to friends as “Mrs. Demenkov” and go to sleep every night dreaming of him, imagining what it would be like to be his wife. Where was he now? She had no idea. She couldn’t remember his face clearly anymore; it had all been so long ago.

  She had always prided herself on her ability to make friends, and worked hard to make people feel at ease in her company. In part it grew out of a feeling that she was an outsider in the family. Olga and Tatiana were the big pair, and they were usually inseparable, whispering secrets they could never be persuaded to share. Anastasia and Alexei were babies, still happiest when giggling and playing the fool. Maria was neither her father’s nor her mother’s favorite; she was stuck in the middle, the odd one out in family affiliations. She had once written to her mother, all teenage seriousness, saying that she felt she wasn’t loved. Her mother had replied that she was “just as dear as the other four,” but it was difficult to believe. Actions spoke louder than words.

  Why had she been the one chosen to accompany her parents to Ekaterinburg while her other siblings stayed behind? Her mother only wanted her because she was willing to run errands; she had overheard her telling her father, “Maria is my legs.” She was not there for her scintillating conversation or ready wit or adorable nature, but because she was obedient. And clearly she was the one her siblings felt they could most readily manage without.

  Maria’s dream was to fall in love and marry. Her husband need not be a foreign prince, although a couple had shown an interest. She would be perfectly happy with a dashing Russian officer who would sweep her off her feet. Often when she lay in bed at night she would picture the scene. He’d bring a gift: perhaps her favorite Lilas perfume or some pr
etty bijou. She would smile and extend her hand, letting him press his lips to it. He would fall to his knees, swearing he could not live without her, then begging permission to ask her father for her hand in marriage. She would hesitate for a few moments, so overcome with emotion that she could not at first speak, then she would blurt out, “Yes, oh yes, my dear!” And he would stand and take her in his arms, and kiss her so passionately that she would almost swoon.

  This future husband did not at present have a face, but Maria dreamed he would be strong and true, and most important that she would be his great, enduring love, the one and only woman he could not possibly live without.

  Chapter 3

  Ekaterinburg, May 1918

  TWO WEEKS AFTER THE ROMANOVS’ ARRIVAL IN EKATERINBURG, Commissar Avdeyev informed Maria’s father that Konstantin Ukraintsev had been dismissed due to “lapses in security.” He told them that from now on the regime would be tightened up. They must hand over all their money to him for safekeeping; there would be a roll call every morning at ten; and their exercise breaks in the yard would be reduced to thirty minutes, twice a day. Worst of all, as far as Maria was concerned, workmen erected ladders and painted over the outsides of the windows with white paint so they could no longer see out to the street and the interior was even gloomier than before.

  She found this terribly upsetting, and complained to Peter in the hallway. “It is as if Avdeyev wants us to disappear. He is trying to wipe us out as if we never existed.”

  “It’s not that,” Peter assured her. “He wants to stop the townspeople gawping at you. Groups of them have been trying to peer in through the windows.”

  “I would prefer being gawped at to living in this faceless prison cell,” Maria said, close to tears. “It is hard not to sink into despair. Sometimes I fear that we will be killed in this house. It has a cruel air.”

  Peter was shocked. “Don’t say such things!”

  She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Do you know what will happen to us? Have you heard anything?”

  He hesitated. “I heard this is just a stopping place before you go to Moscow, where the new government wants to question your father, and then you will all be sent into exile.”

  She felt relief flood her. “Do you know where the exile will be?”

  Peter shook his head, sympathy in his expression.

  “I wish they would hurry up. I have such a longing to be free. I don’t even care where we go, so long as we are together.”

  Peter bit his lip. She had noticed he often did that when he was choosing his words, and waited for him to speak.

  “Please don’t tell anyone—I shouldn’t tell you this—but I have heard that your brother and sisters have already left Tobolsk and will be joining you soon. We have orders to open the other rooms on this floor to accommodate the party.”

  Maria clasped her hands over her mouth so she did not cry out in joy, and stood still to compose herself before replying in a whisper, “I am so grateful for this news. You can have no idea how much it has lifted my spirits.”

  Peter nodded, and gave her his shy smile.

  * * *

  On May 22 there was a late snowstorm that gusted against the whitewashed windows and left the family huddling around the stove for warmth, blankets tight around their shoulders. The following morning, Maria ventured out into the yard, hoping the snow would not delay the arrival of her siblings. It was already melting, but the ground was slippery and the sky was gray and threatening. Soon rain began to fall in large, slushy drops, driving her indoors.

  Avdeyev came to the drawing room at eleven to tell them that “the party” was on their way from the station. Maria looked wistfully at the whitewashed windows, wishing she could have watched out for them. What would her sisters make of this grim, faceless house?

  Half an hour later, she heard a commotion in the hallway and rushed out to see Tatiana trudging up the stairs, her French bulldog Ortipo under one arm and a suitcase in her other hand. Next came Alexei, who was being carried by his carer, followed by the others and two more family dogs, Joy and Jemmy. They had all gotten soaked in the rain and looked bedraggled and bone-weary, but Maria embraced them one by one with great excitement.

  “I’m thrilled to see you. Come in! It’s this way. You poor dears, you look half perished. I’ll have Sednev brew some tea.”

  They greeted their parents, then slumped into chairs. Dr. Botkin, the family doctor, who had arrived with the party, crouched to examine Alexei, who looked pale and exhausted.

  “What an appalling journey!” Tatiana sighed. “Four long days in a rusty steamship then a filthy third-class train carriage. At moments I felt sure we would not survive—but here we are.”

  “This room is very dark,” Anastasia commented. “Where is our bedroom?”

  “I’ll show you. Come with me.” Maria led her by the hand through the dining room to the newly opened up bedroom that the girls were to share. It had a parquet floor and floral wallpaper but did not as yet have any beds.

  Once they were alone, Anastasia whispered, “Last night was awful. The guards were drunk and so disrespectful we did not get a wink of sleep. Such things they called to us . . . I hope never to hear the like again. Thank goodness Papa and Mama were not there or they would have caused an enormous fuss and who knows what would have happened?”

  Maria hugged her. “It is safe here. Deadly boring, but safe. Now you’ve arrived I hope we can have some fun.”

  “Where are we to sleep?” Anastasia looked around, her nose wrinkled. “And why are the windows whitewashed? It doesn’t seem like a place where we can have fun; it’s more like a mausoleum in which we have been interred.”

  Maria sighed. Her sentiments exactly.

  * * *

  The number of prisoners increased to fourteen after Maria’s siblings arrived. As well as the seven family members, there was Dr. Botkin; Anna Demidova, her mother’s maid; Alexei Trupp, her father’s valet; Ivan Kharitonov, the cook; Klementy Nagorny, Alexei’s carer; Ivan Sednev, the footman; and his thirteen-year-old nephew, Leonid, who was the kitchen boy and a playmate of Alexei’s. There were only three bedrooms, so Alexei must share with his parents and Maria shared with her sisters, while Anna Demidova had her own room (a small, newly opened one) and Trupp, the two Sednevs, Botkin, Nagorny, and Kharitonov slept in cots in the hallway. The family’s three dogs ran freely around the upper floor, contributing to the crush by getting under everyone’s feet.

  There was no space to store all their possessions in the rooms at their disposal, so Avdeyev ordered them to be put in a storeroom in the yard, but when Nicholas went to look for a fresh pipe, he found their trunks had been opened and several items pilfered.

  “I must insist our possessions are returned immediately,” Maria heard him telling Avdeyev.

  The commissar did not seem concerned, replying only, “I will look into it.”

  Nagorny went to remonstrate with him, and the next thing they knew, both he and Sednev were removed from duty and dismissed from the house.

  “It seems to me they are not necessary,” Avdeyev said to Nicholas, and none of their arguments could sway him.

  Maria was glad that her mother and sisters had hidden their best jewels within the seams of their clothing, or else the Bolsheviks might have tried to steal them too. There were pearls in the boning of their bodices, jewels secreted between the lining and exterior of their hats, and diamonds covered with black silk and refashioned as buttons on gowns. Some garments were double-layered, with whole necklaces encased in wadding between the layers. It made them very heavy to wear, but if it helped to smuggle their jewelry out of Russia, to support them in exile, it was well worth the discomfort.

  Within days of arriving, Tatiana had taken over as “boss” of the family. She was the one who went to Avdeyev’s office to complain that the camp beds for the girls had still not arrived, or that there was not enough hot water for their baths, or not enough cutlery to go around so they must share knives and
spoons. She was fearless and her requests generally got results. Olga, the eldest, seemed sunk in depression and barely communicated with anyone, while Anastasia and Alexei lost themselves in childish games like dominoes, which Maria found dull. It was nice to have her family there, of course, but it did not relieve the boredom as much as she had hoped.

  She still chatted to the guards in the hallway and was delighted when a new batch of men arrived on June 7, including one particularly handsome one with black hair and bright blue eyes. Tatiana had told her it was unseemly to consort with the guards, and Avdeyev had expressly forbidden it, so Maria waited until the coast was clear before introducing herself.

  “Hello, welcome to the house,” she greeted him. “I’m Maria Romanova.”

  “Ivan Skorokhodov,” he said. “Charmed to meet you.”

  “Are you a factory worker?” she asked. “It seems all our guards come from the local factories.”

  “The Zlokazov brewery,” he replied. “But I am much happier here. It smells more pleasant, and the view is infinitely superior.” He looked her up and down with a cheeky grin.

  Maria smiled back, enjoying the flirtation. “My goodness, what would your mother say if she heard you talking like that?”

  “I think she would say I have extremely good taste,” he replied.

  Maria continued to her room, a grin on her face. She knew she shouldn’t encourage him, but what harm could it do? She had always enjoyed chatting to men.

  The next time she saw Ivan was the following afternoon. Kharitonov had just made an urn of tea, and she asked the guard if she could get a cup for him.

  Ivan’s eyes widened in surprise, but he replied, “Thank you. It is thirsty work standing here all day.”