The Lost Daughter Read online

  Peggy gave her a sympathetic smile, but Val noted that she didn’t say “No, stay as long as you like!” Everyone had their limits.

  * * *

  Arrangements slid into place over the next week, as if the gods were smiling on Val—for a change, she thought. First she was awarded the job of telephone operator, then the university agreed to give her an advance on her salary to pay the deposit on a flat. She found a tiny apartment in Camperdown, even smaller than the one in Balmain but with an affordable rent. Yet again, she and Nicole would share a bedroom, and the shower was in what amounted to a walk-in closet, but the place had been recently repainted, its floorboards newly stripped and varnished. It was miles more comfortable than her mother’s home in Harbin. What was more, there was a primary school down the road from the university, so Val could drop Nicole there on her way to work. After lessons finished, she could play in the university day care for a couple of hours until Val’s shift was over, then they could spend their evenings together. It was worlds better than the late-night cleaning job. She wished she could phone her mom in Harbin to tell her; instead she wrote a long letter describing their new life. She hoped Ha Suran would be proud.

  When Val took Nicole for her first morning at yet another new school and left her in the care of yet another teacher, she felt a pang of guilt at the way her daughter’s life had been disrupted. She was only six, but this was her third school, her third home, in less than a year. Val remembered the intense loneliness she herself had felt when her father made her move at the age of thirteen, and the struggle to make new friends when playground alliances had already been cemented. She hoped Nicole would not have the same trouble, and watched carefully for any signs of anxiety. But after her first day at the new school Nicole asked if someone called Amy could come and play on the weekend, and by the end of the week she was engulfed by a group of girls with white kneesocks and neat hair ribbons as soon as Val led her into the playground.

  There wasn’t much storage space in the new flat, so many of their possessions had to be left in cardboard boxes stacked in the corner, to be dug out when needed. It was several weeks after moving in when Val came across the old photographs still tucked in a pocket of the suitcase she was using to store winter clothes. She pulled them out to have another look at the ghostly black-and-white images: the girls in their ethereal white dresses, and the one of her father as a young man. Ivan Skorokhodov; the name suited him better than Irwin Scott. He had been Russian to his fingertips.

  During her lunch hour the following day, Val went to the university library and found the Russian history section, thinking that she might read about the Revolution and civil war that had forced her father to leave his homeland. She collected a stack of books and sat down to flick through them and decide which was most enticing. There were black-and-white photographs of the Romanov family in one, and she glanced at them, then stopped and flicked through the following pages: four girls and a boy, just as there appeared to be in her father’s photographs. What was more, the girls all wore white dresses. It had to be coincidence. All the same, she checked the book out of the library and took it home.

  Holding her photographs against the book, Val realized with creeping amazement that they showed the Romanov family. The first girl she could identify for sure was Tatiana; she had a pixie face with a pronounced bone structure, matching that in one of the images exactly. Maria’s face was rounder and prettier, just like the girl in a soft, grainy shot. Alexei had a gaunt face and looked very frail. It appeared they had been photographed in the last house where they were held prisoner, the Ipatiev House: there was the high fence surrounding the yard. But how did her father come to have these pictures? And why was there one of him among them?

  Ha Suran said he had been a factory worker. Val assumed cameras were expensive in 1918, and wondered how he could afford one. But after the Revolution, he had made his fortune selling the goods of aristocratic Russians who had fled from the Bolsheviks. She guessed he must have stolen this camera from the Romanovs and then taken photographs of himself and two of his friends on the same film. Why did he never process them? Did he forget they were there?

  She looked once more at the images of these people who posed for the camera little suspecting that they were soon to be killed in that very house. Then again, given their haunted expressions, she wondered if perhaps they had an inkling.

  She checked in her book but it didn’t show any images of the family in the Ipatiev House, where they had spent their final three months. It came to her with a shock that these might even be the last photographs of them alive.

  Chapter 36

  Sydney, October 1974

  VAL’S KNOWLEDGE OF THE ROMANOVS WAS SKETCHY, SO SHE borrowed more books from the library and began to read about them. She was surprised to hear that although it was generally assumed they had all been executed, the Bolshevik government had only ever admitted killing Tsar Nicholas, claiming that the others had been moved to a place of safety. Could they still be alive? Alexandra would have been a hundred and two years old, so that seemed unlikely, but the children would be in their seventies. A White Army investigator by the name of Nikolai Sokolov had found some fragments in a forest near Ekaterinburg that he believed showed they were all killed: spectacles, a shoe buckle, a finger, the bones of a small dog. He theorized that their bodies had been dissolved in sulfuric acid and that explained why their remains had never been found. It was a grotesque thought.

  Once she felt sure of the basics, Val went to the university’s Russian department and showed the photos to one of the lecturers, a tall man called Bill Koskov. He was about her own age, with unruly brown hair, and arms and legs that seemed too long for his body. She told him her theory and he looked thoughtful as he pored over the photographs.

  “You might be right,” he said. “I know a New York historian who has written about the family, so with your permission I’ll fax him. No doubt he’ll want to see the pictures, so we should get another set of prints made.”

  “Which historian?” Val asked, and was thrilled to hear it was a professor whose book she had read. She was even more thrilled the next day when Bill stopped at reception to say the professor wanted to speak to her himself. He was going to ring around twelve noon.

  When the call came through, Val described the circumstances of her finding the camera and added, “I read in your book that in the days after the Romanovs were taken from the Ipatiev House, local people wandered in and helped themselves to souvenirs. I wondered if that was how my father got the camera.”

  “He must have been an early visitor,” the professor said. “I’m sure it would have been one of the first items to go.”

  That evening, she described the conversation to Peggy and her friends. “He spoke to me as if I was a fellow academic. Imagine if he found out that I never even got my high-school diploma!”

  “Why don’t you do a night-school degree?” Sandra asked. “They accepted me for the archeology class so they can’t be fussy about qualifications. It’s different when you’re what they insultingly call a ‘mature student.’”

  As soon as the idea was put to her, Val decided to apply. They might not accept her, but if they did, she would prove herself by working harder than any other student. It felt incredible that she might have a chance to use her brain for the first time since school days. She might not be capable of a degree, but there was only one way to find out.

  She was bursting to tell her mom about her decision, and wrote as soon as she got home. I can feel a whole new direction stretching in front of me, she wrote, and it’s exciting but daunting at the same time. I wish you lived in Sydney. It would be great to share all this with you.

  As yet, there had been no reply to her letters, but she wasn’t concerned because she knew the mail from China was very slow.

  And then, a few days later, she found a letter with a Chinese postmark in her mailbox. The writing on the outside of the envelope was not in her mother’s hand, and when Val op
ened it, she saw that the letter inside was written in Chinese characters. She turned it over but could not even make out the signature at the end. What did it mean?

  In her lunch hour, she took the letter to the Department of Chinese Studies at the university and asked a lecturer to translate. His face grew concerned as he read, and he covered his mouth with his hand.

  Once he reached the foot of the page, he said, “I’m terribly sorry. It says your mother has died. Her aunt Li Suran writes that the end was peaceful and that her last words were how happy she was to see you again.”

  The news hit Val like a body blow. The inheritance money would be too late. Her mom was gone. It was too cruel to find her and then lose her again.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. She took the letter, then turned and walked downstairs to her post at the telephone exchange, feeling an immense heaviness weighing on her. Although she had been warned that her mom’s illness was terminal, she had never accepted it. In her head she’d had visions of them all being together again.

  That evening, she explained to Nicole that her grandma had gone to be with the angels.

  “It’s just as well we visited China,” Nicole said in a practical tone, “because now we will recognize each other when we go to the angels too.”

  * * *

  Over the summer months, Val’s new attorney tried repeatedly to get Tony to agree to a legal separation and a financial settlement, but he refused point-blank. He didn’t even get a lawyer of his own, but sent back all her letters with obscenities scrawled on them.

  “Don’t worry,” the attorney told Val. “He’s playing into our hands.”

  In July 1975, a new bill was passed by Parliament. Known as the Family Law Act, it allowed for no-fault divorce after twelve months of separation. Since it was well over twelve months since Val had left Tony, she was able to apply straightaway and their case came before a judge.

  Her stomach was in knots at the thought of being in the same room as Tony, albeit with court officials present. She dressed in a smart gray suit Peggy had lent her, with sensible low-heeled shoes and neat hair and makeup.

  Tony arrived just as proceedings were about to begin. He’d put on a lot of weight, Val noted. She guessed he was living on takeout meat pies. His complexion was florid and his expression cold with hatred. It was impossible to remember what she had ever loved about him.

  The judge began by asking whether they had come to any agreement over custody arrangements for Nicole, and Tony burst out, “I don’t want any contact with her. To be honest, your honor, I’m not sure she’s even mine.”

  Val was horrified and saddened that he could cast off his own daughter. The day would come when Nicole would want to know why she never saw her daddy, and Val would have to offer an explanation.

  The judge ordered that Val have parental responsibility, and ruled that if Tony wanted to see Nicole in future it would have to be with Val’s consent. She was happy to agree to that.

  Next came the financial settlement. Val’s lawyer had requested that she receive half the value of the marital property and two thirds of her father’s inheritance as a lump sum, after which she would not ask for any further alimony or child support payments.

  Tony argued himself blue in the face over this. The house was his and his alone. He couldn’t afford what they were asking. He’d be forced to go bankrupt. Val was a grasping cow who had only ever been after his money.

  The judge listened to his arguments, and those of Val’s attorney, and within an hour found in Val’s favor. Tony swore and was reprimanded by the judge.

  “One last thing,” the judge said, looking at his notes then addressing Tony. “Your wife requests that you pass to her the contents of her deceased father’s safe deposit box. Please make sure it reaches her solicitor’s office within two weeks.”

  Tony looked at Val with a sly expression. “Ah, your honor, I’m not entirely sure where it is at the moment. It might take me a while to find. Besides, it’s only sentimental old rubbish.”

  Val knew he was dragging his feet to wield the last remaining scrap of power he had over her. She had never thought of her father as remotely sentimental and was intrigued to see what the box contained.

  “Within two weeks!” the judge ordered. “Or you’ll find yourself back in front of me again.”

  Outside the courtroom, Val hugged her attorney. The money she’d been awarded was enough to buy a decent house in Camperdown and put away a financial cushion. No more cleaning jobs. No more worrying about next month’s rent. And what was more, she would never have to see Tony again.

  That evening, she explained to Nicole that a judge had decided she did not have to visit her daddy anymore.

  “OK.” Nicole nodded, quite happy with this. “Will I get a new daddy now? What do we have to do? Should we apply somewhere?”

  Val laughed. “I think we’ll be fine, just the two of us, without a daddy. Don’t you?”

  Nicole considered this. “Can we have a rabbit? I’d rather have a rabbit anyway.”

  Val agreed that this seemed a very good idea. Preferable to a man, certainly.

  Peggy and Ken phoned to invite them for a celebration that weekend and Val knew she should be dancing on air. It was a huge relief, certainly. She felt proud that she would be able to give Nicole a secure childhood. If only her mom had been around to hear the news, it would have been perfect.

  Chapter 37

  Leningrad, October 1937

  MARIA LAY AWAKE ALL NIGHT, HUGGING A SWEATER of Peter’s. She could smell him in the wool, and see the indentation of his head on the pillow next to hers. How was it possible that a person so good and true could simply be gone? What would she tell the children when they woke in the morning? Katya would never forgive herself and the little ones wouldn’t understand. How could anyone understand?

  She tortured herself imagining his final moments. Did he know he was about to be executed? Did he think of her at the end? She wondered if it had been a firing squad, and if they put a sack over his head so he couldn’t see who fired the fatal shot. Or was he gassed? She had heard the NKVD had vans in which they gassed people. She prayed that however he was killed, it had been swift and efficient, unlike the bungling, bloodthirsty executioners who had slaughtered her family. Once she had his body, she would be able to tell from the expression on his face.

  The first light of dawn came through the window: a new day that Peter would not see. She murmured the words of the traditional panikhida for him but they stuck in her throat. He hadn’t believed in God. Did that mean he wouldn’t go to heaven? That she wouldn’t meet him again on the other side?

  She heard the children wakening, Mikhail calling to Yelena. Now was the moment when she must end their childhoods.

  Five minutes, she decided. Let them have five more minutes of happiness. Then she would tell them.

  * * *

  Stepan helped Maria to comfort his siblings, cuddling Yelena on his lap, answering the endless questions as best he could. “Why is he dead? Why did it happen? When can we see him again?” He had purple shadows beneath his eyes, and Maria could tell he hadn’t slept either.

  When Irina heard that Stepan was going to Bolshoi Dom to collect their father’s body, she insisted on going with him.

  How brave she is, Maria thought. None of them should be alone. She had lost her great love, the center of her world, and they had lost their father. The combined loss was unfathomable, like the deepest, widest ocean.

  While they were gone, Katya could not stop weeping, but the younger two began to play dominoes. It didn’t seem real to them. Only the passage of time, the days and nights when he didn’t come back, would make it sink in.

  Maria watched out the window, wondering how they would bring him. Would he be in an ambulance? A funeral car? Could she risk finding a priest to conduct an illegal funeral ceremony?

  A couple of hours later, she was still watching when Stepan and Irina turned into the street on foot, heads down, not talk
ing. What did that mean? Was Peter being sent later?

  She rushed out to meet them on the stairs. Raisa’s door closed quickly when she heard their voices.

  “Where is he?” she demanded, looking them up and down.

  Irina’s eyes were red and puffy. Stepan was carrying the brown bag Maria had packed for Peter. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mama. We can’t have his body. He was buried straightaway, in a communal grave.” A sob caught in his throat. “They said that’s the way it always happens. They couldn’t even tell us which cemetery.”

  Maria covered her face with her hands. That was it. She would never see him again. She turned, went back to her room, and crawled into bed, pulling the covers over her head.

  The pain of losing her family had been unbearable, but this? She knew that as long as she lived she would never recover.

  * * *

  Grief flattened Maria, making it impossible for her to get out of bed. She yearned for sleep, because when she was awake the thoughts were too harrowing to endure. Over and over she tried to imagine Peter’s last moments, his final thoughts, the realization that he would never see his children growing up. Had he been tortured? Was that why she wasn’t allowed to see his body? It was her fault; hers alone.

  In the next room Stepan and Irina were caring for their siblings: she could hear the flare of a match as Stepan lit the fire, the clatter of dishes as Irina served a meal. She was their mother; she should be doing that, but she couldn’t.

  “Your boss at the factory has agreed you can have two weeks off,” Stepan reported that evening. He must have been to see him. “You need a rest.”

  She didn’t reply. It was too hard to find words, and her throat had closed so that even if she found them, they wouldn’t come out.

  On the second day, Raisa came to the door. Maria heard Irina talking to her and, after some hesitation, deciding to let her in.

  Raisa hovered in the doorway to Maria’s bedroom, and Maria could tell she was crying: that woman with ice in her heart was finally shedding a tear.