The Lost Daughter Page 32

  Ludmilla continued. “She was a devout woman and refused to give up her religious observance even when warned repeatedly by the NKVD. At the time I felt angry that she did not hide it for the sake of her family. But now I think she was extraordinarily brave to stand up for her beliefs.”

  Maria shook her head. “She must have been torn between her family and her church. What a tragic story!”

  Ludmilla nodded. “We all have our sorrows. Stepan told me about your husband. It’s such a waste.”

  “The purges, the war—I feel as though God forsook our country long ago. As if we are paying the price for ancient sins.”

  Ludmilla reached out and touched Maria’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry about your daughter too,” she said. “If there is anything I can do to help with your search, you must ask.”

  All of a sudden, Maria’s eyes filled with tears. Silly! She shouldn’t cry in front of a stranger, but sometimes her grief welled up unannounced. She turned away, trying to disguise it. Ludmilla slipped an arm around her waist and laid her head on Maria’s shoulder in a gesture that was both warm and natural. Maria returned the embrace and the women stood in silence for a minute, holding each other, sharing their sorrow.

  Before they broke away, Maria kissed Ludmilla’s cheek. “Stepan has good taste,” she whispered with a smile.

  * * *

  Three weeks later, Ludmilla and Stepan announced their engagement. It would be a civil service, of course, but Maria suggested they keep some traditional elements, such as tying the bride and groom’s hands with a stole, smashing crystal glasses into shards, and providing a feast for friends and family. They would both wear gold rings, and there would be many toasts to their good health and fertility.

  When the day came, Maria missed the solemnity of the church service, with its sacraments, prayers, and vows. She remembered her own wedding to Peter, which she had sobbed all the way through, almost drowning out the priest’s words. She cried at Stepan’s wedding too, with a mixture of joy and sadness. Joy that he had found such a good woman and that her family was expanding once more; and deep sadness that Peter and Katya, whom she loved more than life itself, could not be there.

  Chapter 52

  Leningrad, 1949

  FOR THE FIRST YEARS OF THEIR MARRIED LIFE, STEPAN and Ludmilla lived in Maria’s apartment. She rearranged the beds to give them their own room, but in truth they were seldom there. They left early in the morning for the journey by tram and bus to Petrodvorets and were not back till mid-evening.

  The other children also spent less time at home. Irina was dating one of Ludmilla’s cousins; Mikhail was at college training as a carpenter; and Yelena had finished her school exams and taken work in a dress shop.

  Galina had long since married, but she came to visit, and always Maria looked at her and wondered what Katya was like now. They were the same age. Was Katya married? Did she keep her hair long or short? Did she wear makeup? Maria was her mother and should know these things. She often saw her daughter in her dreams, but always in the distance and out of reach, and when she woke, she felt the pangs of loss anew.

  One cold but sunny Sunday in November, Ludmilla asked Maria if she and Stepan could accompany her to visit Peter’s grave.

  “I’d like to pay my respects,” she said. “And Stepan and I have something we want to discuss with you.”

  As they walked, Stepan and Ludmilla chatted about the restoration of the Peterhof palace; both were passionate about the craftsmanship. With Maria’s permission, Stepan had told Ludmilla of his mother’s Romanov past, which meant they could talk openly when the three of them were together.

  “I wish you would visit the palace,” Stepan said. “There are many matters I would love to ask your advice about.”

  He had asked before and Maria always said no. She did not like to be reminded of the opulence of the first eighteen years of her life. It felt fundamentally wrong that at a time when Russia’s young men were being blown to pieces in their thousands, she and her siblings had lived in grand palaces. She still felt fury with Stalin and the party apparatchiks who had abandoned the people of Leningrad, and it helped her to understand the anger ordinary Russians had felt for the Romanovs in 1917.

  They reached the graveside and Maria set out the picnic she had brought, greeting Peter silently. She liked quiet so she could tell him everything that had happened since her last visit and try to imagine his replies. She knew he was there, somewhere, even though he had not believed in the heaven of her church.

  “Mama, Ludmilla and I have some wonderful news,” Stepan said, “and we wanted to tell you here, in this special place.”

  Maria looked at him, clasping her hands to her breast. What could it be?

  “We’re having a baby.” Ludmilla beamed. “It’s due in June. Your first grandchild, Maria. You’ll be a babushka.”

  She was so choked, she could hardly speak. She hugged Ludmilla, hugged Stepan, wiped her eyes. “Do you hear that, Peter?” she said at last, looking at the grassy mound where he lay among so many others. “We’ll be grandparents.” She laughed, shook her head. “I couldn’t be happier.”

  “There’s something else.” Stepan glanced at Ludmilla. “We have decided to move to Petrodvorets before the baby is born and we would like you to come with us. The air is cleaner than in the city, and I will be able to come home at lunchtime and spend plenty of time with my new child.”

  Maria felt a twinge of jealousy. She had always feared Ludmilla would take her elder son from her, and now it was happening. “I can’t leave Leningrad,” she replied. “I have three children here, and I need to be home when Katya returns.”

  “Irina, Mikhail, and Yelena can look after themselves,” Stepan argued. “But Ludmilla and I have no experience with babies and will need your help.”

  That was tempting. Maria loved babies. “I could visit at weekends,” she offered. “But I have my job at the factory during the week.”

  “Mama, you are fifty years old. Don’t you think you are rather old to be mending conveyor belts? Why not retire and let your children look after you?” Stepan had clearly given this a lot of thought.

  Maria didn’t love her job, but she enjoyed the company of the other women there. “I couldn’t just stay at home and do nothing,” she protested. “I need to be occupied. Anyway, what about my missing persons file?”

  Ludmilla had a suggestion. “Why not give your file to the missing persons office in town? They have details of many more people than you, so the chances of them achieving reunions is surely higher.”

  “They didn’t find Mikhail,” Maria objected. “They can’t find Katya.” The truth was, it was simply a job to the women there, while for her it was a mission. If she kept searching, she hoped that one day she would find Katya and then maybe Tatiana. But if she gave up, it wouldn’t happen.

  Ludmilla clutched her hand tightly. “You know I think of you as the mother I no longer have. Please say you will be with me for the birth.”

  “Yes, of course I will,” Maria agreed. She wouldn’t have missed that for the world.

  * * *

  Stepan and Ludmilla moved into their Petrodvorets apartment in March 1950, and Maria went to visit soon after. It was a clean, spacious modern block with communal gardens all around and pleasant views across town. Ludmilla had put up some watercolors of flowers that Maria had given them as an Easter gift and they looked very grand in gilt frames.

  “This would be yours,” Stepan said, leading her into a large corner room with windows on two walls that looked out onto some lime trees.

  Maria had to admit it was nice. She could imagine sleeping there and wakening to see the branches swaying against the sky and hear the rustling of leaves.

  “I’ll stay some of the time,” she agreed before leaving. “When you need me. But my home will still be in Leningrad.”

  Stepan nodded, with a smile. “That’s fine, Mama. Let’s just see how it goes.”

  * * *

  On her
next visit, Maria brought vegetable seeds and cultivated a patch at the back of the garden. She liked gardening. It was peaceful there, and full of birdsong from rosefinches, siskins, and nightingales, as well as the squawks of hooded crows.

  When Ludmilla reached her eighth month, Maria took over the shopping and cooking to ensure there was a proper meal ready for Stepan when he got home, and that her new grandchild got plenty of good nutrition.

  A midwife had been engaged, but it was the middle of the night when Ludmilla went into labor and Maria took charge with utter calm. She sent Stepan to boil water and bring fresh towels and she held Ludmilla’s arm, supporting her, as they walked around the room. Ludmilla felt hot, so Maria opened the windows wide and they looked out at the stars in the night sky, feeling the soft breeze on their skin.

  “I’m scared,” Ludmilla whispered as pain gripped her.

  “So was I with my first,” Maria replied. “But nature has designed us for this. You’ll be fine.”

  Ludmilla dozed between contractions and Maria sat in a rocking chair by her bed, thinking about her own life: all the births and deaths she had known, all the loss and the happiness too. When dawn began to break, it was one of the most beautiful she had ever seen: orange and pink with streaks of gold, like a religious painting.

  Ludmilla awoke with a loud shriek. “The baby’s coming! Help me!”

  Maria felt her belly, looked between her legs, and realized she was right. There was no time for the midwife now. She would deliver her first grandchild herself.

  She wiped the sweat from Ludmilla’s brow, gripped her hand, and told her to push, then rest, then push again, and it seemed no time before she could see the top of the head, all white and sticky with mucus. She pulled the baby out and checked the cord was not around the neck. It gave a little mewl, eyes screwed tight against the morning light, and Maria’s heart turned over with the weight of her love.

  “Is it a boy or a girl?” Ludmilla asked, and Maria shook herself. She hadn’t checked.

  “A girl,” she said.

  She cut the cord and began to clean the child, wetting the corner of a towel and wiping her skin with utmost gentleness. Everything was perfect: nose, toes, ears, fingers, knees, every little bit. She felt giddy with joy. Having her own children had been special, but a grandchild . . . Nothing could compare to this.

  Suddenly the baby’s eyes opened and she squinted up at Maria. There was something about the gaze that reminded her of Katya, though she couldn’t have said what.

  “I don’t know you yet, but I would lay down my life for you,” Maria whispered. And as she said it, she knew it was true.

  Chapter 53

  Moscow, summer 1976

  WHILE BILL WAS ATTENDING HIS CONFERENCE, VAL and Nicole were shepherded around the sights of Moscow by a sturdy female guide with bad teeth. Her English was fluent but she spoke in a monotone that made it hard to concentrate, and Nicole was soon bored to distraction.

  “Is there nowhere for children, Mommy?” she whispered. “Where do Russian children go?”

  Val passed on her question to the guide, who shook her head firmly. They had to stick to the program: Red Square, the Kremlin, lunch, St. Basil’s Cathedral, in that order, according to a strict timetable. Val was intrigued to see the gold-domed Cathedral of the Dormition, where Tsar Nicholas and his wife had been crowned in 1896, and the Grand Kremlin Palace, which had been the Romanov family’s residence when in Moscow. Compared with the drab gray buildings she saw in surrounding areas, the Kremlin complex was a vivid splash of glitziness.

  In their hotel, a stern woman sat at a desk in the corridor outside their room. They were only allocated one towel per person, so when Val wanted to wash her hair, she went to ask for another, miming what she needed it for. The woman reacted with horror and shook her head so emphatically that Val wondered if she had committed some terrible faux pas. Bill had warned her before they arrived that their hotel rooms might be bugged, so they couldn’t talk freely.

  “All the hotel staff will work for the KGB,” he told her. “They report anything suspicious. Whatever you do, don’t mention the Romanovs.”

  Val was surprised. “I thought that was just anti-Soviet propaganda.”

  “Not at all. They catch foreign businessmen in honey traps with Russian prostitutes and blackmail them for trade secrets. Happens all the time. Don’t worry . . .” He grinned, catching the look on Val’s face. “I’m not going to fall for it.”

  The KGB were the modern version of the Cheka, the secret police her father might have worked for when he was searching for Maria Romanova. He had visited Moscow on at least two occasions, according to the ledgers. Where did he go? What was he thinking? Here in his homeland, with Russian speakers all around, he was never far from Val’s thoughts, but she felt no closer to understanding him than she had back home in Sydney.

  On the day Bill’s conference finished, they caught the Metro across town to visit his parents in the southwestern suburb of Novye Cheryomushki. They lived in a concrete four-story block surrounded by trees, not far from the station. Val felt nervous about meeting them, but she needn’t have. They seemed overjoyed to see Bill, and to welcome her and Nicole, showering them with compliments: “Look how pretty you are. Such a beautiful dress. You are so kind to visit us old people.”

  They were ushered straight to a table and served a lavish dinner of Russian specialities: borscht, pelmeni, stroganoff, and a multilayered honey cake called medovik. Nicole ate three slices of cake, smacking her lips with glee. It was clear that Bill’s mother had worked all day to produce this feast, and Val thanked her effusively.

  “You don’t speak any Russian?” Bill’s mother asked. “Why did your father not teach you?”

  “I wish he had,” Val replied. “I think he wanted me to identify as Australian, although he remained very Russian himself. He went to the Russian church and read only Russian newspapers.”

  “Of course he did.” Bill’s father nodded. “Those born in Russia never stop being Russian.” He glanced at Bill, and Val watched them. There was affection, but she sensed both were thinking about the bitter argument they’d had when his parents announced they were emigrating.

  She was still learning about this man who had unexpectedly become her lover, so it was fascinating to see him with his parents. They were clearly good people and that made her feel more confident that she could trust Bill, that he did not have a hidden propensity for cruelty, as Tony did.

  “Which part of the country did your father come from?” Bill’s mother asked.

  “Ekaterinburg. Sverdlovsk, I believe it’s called now.”

  “Ah, that’s mining country. And what was his family business?”

  “I don’t know anything about his family,” Val had to admit. “I was hoping to visit the city during this trip to find out more, but Bill tells me it is impossible.”

  The old couple looked at each other. “There could be a way,” Bill’s father said. “But you must not let anyone hear you speak English because it’s a closed city and foreigners are not allowed. Also it’s a long way; over a day to get there.” He looked at Bill. “As a visitor you would not be permitted to buy train tickets, but I could do it for you.”

  “It would mean a lot to Val,” Bill said, “but we don’t want to put you at any risk.”

  “No, no,” his father insisted. “We are perfectly safe. Those outside the Soviet Union have an image of it as a police state where people are arrested every day, but I speak my mind here and come to no harm.”

  “Life is good,” his mother added. “We are with our own people and we’re happy.” She smiled at Val. “I’m glad you have come to visit us in summer when the town is at its best. I wouldn’t encourage you to come in winter. But I do hope you will come again.”

  * * *

  The arrangements the following morning proved complicated. Their Russian minder took Bill, Val, and Nicole by taxi to the dock, where they were scheduled to catch a boat and sail through
the canal system to Leningrad. Bill said goodbye and gave the woman a tip, but still she hung around, clearly planning to wait until the boat sailed. They got on board and hid in their cabin, peering surreptitiously through the window until at last she gave up and disappeared into the crowd. Once the coast was clear, they disembarked, dragging their luggage, and caught a taxi to Kazanskaya station, where Bill’s father was standing by the Ural Express platform with their tickets.

  “You have to change in Kazan,” he explained. “Just show the Kazan tickets for now so no one realizes you are planning to go further.”

  “It’s like we’re secret agents,” Nicole whispered to Val.

  She put her finger to her lips. They had to keep quiet anywhere they might be overheard.

  At the barrier, a guard eyed them with suspicion. Bill spoke to him in Russian as he checked their tickets, answering the questions that were barked at him without hesitation. Val held her breath until they were waved through. They found seats in a compartment on their own and watched out the window as the train pulled out.

  The first part of the journey felt interminable: eight hundred miles of fields, mountains, factories, and drab towns. Val had brought coloring books and board games to entertain Nicole, but soon she was irritable with the sheer tedium.

  “I don’t like Russia,” she said. “It’s a country for old people.”

  “I’m sorry,” Bill told her. “I promise you’ll like Leningrad. It’s full of pretty palaces where princesses used to live.”

  “Princesses are for kids,” Nicole said scornfully, clearly believing that at the age of almost eight she was too grown up for such things.

  Eleven and a half hours later, they pulled into Kazan in the late evening. Nicole was sound asleep and had to be wakened as they wandered the station looking for their onward train. There were several sitting at platforms but none had their lights turned on. Bill went to question a guard and came back shaking his head.

  “I can’t believe it. There are no trains to Ekaterinburg till tomorrow afternoon, but there’s a bus outside that leaves in an hour. I suppose we will have to take that.”