The Lost Daughter Page 33

  Val felt a lurch of anxiety. “Is it safe? Should we not give up and go back to Moscow?” She had visions of them all being arrested by the KGB, then interrogated in separate cells.

  “Bus is probably safer than train,” Bill said. “There is just one driver, and no guards asking for ID. We’ve come this far, it would be a shame to turn back.”

  The seats on the bus were cramped and uncushioned, and once the sun rose in the morning, the atmosphere was stifling and airless. On and on they trundled, stopping in small towns along the route. Val and Nicole could not risk speaking even in a whisper so they wrote notes to each other: “I’m thirsty”; “What time is it?”; “How much longer can it be?” Val had a tight knot of anxiety. This was her idea and it had been a crazy one; she hadn’t realized quite how long it would take, and how uncomfortable the journey would be, or she would never have suggested it.

  They traveled all through that day and into the following night, sleeping only intermittently, before the bus pulled into a town square early the following morning. Bill nodded at Val and stood to get their bags from the rack above. This was Ekaterinburg. Val felt a tingle of excitement, despite the stiffness of her joints, the headache from lack of sleep. This was where the Romanovs had arrived in 1918, and it looked as though little had changed since then. She had been expecting a grim industrial town, but her first impression was of green spaces: parks, tree-lined boulevards, and pretty gardens. This was the view that had greeted Maria and her parents as they arrived, little knowing that they had less than three months to live.

  Chapter 54

  Sverdlovsk, summer 1976

  BILL CONSULTED A MAP HE’D BROUGHT AND THEY walked uphill, past some pillared and porticoed buildings, to Vozhnevsky Prospekt. As they climbed higher, there was a clear view across the town and Val could see factory chimneys belching smoke in the distance.

  As soon as she spotted the Ipatiev House, she felt goose bumps prickling her skin. It was two stories tall, with decorative cornicing and roof ridges, the bottom floor partly underground because of the way it was set on a slope. The fence that had surrounded it in 1918 was gone, as were the guard posts. Instead, there was a canopied front entrance with a printed sign alongside. Bill translated: “Museum of Revolutionary History.”

  “Does that mean we can go in?” Val whispered, and Bill nodded. Nicole scuffed her heel back and forth on the pavement and sighed to express her dissatisfaction with this plan.

  In the hallway, Bill did the talking as he paid for their tickets and was given a plan of the house. He took Nicole’s hand and led them through a door into a dimly lit office, with nothing to distinguish it. “We’re supposed to follow the arrows around the ground floor first,” he whispered, “although the main rooms where the family lived are on the upper floor.”

  “We’d better obey,” Val replied. “But let’s make it quick. There’s nothing down here.”

  They walked through a bewildering succession of rooms full of posters proclaiming the glories of Communism, then out into a yard.

  “This is where the Romanovs exercised,” Bill said, referring to his plan. The ground sloped steeply and was shadowed by trees, with a climbing rose growing over a pergola. “Over there is the basement,” he told Val, “but I don’t think we should take Nicole inside. Russians don’t tend to sugarcoat grisly details.”

  Val glanced at the open door and could see a flight of stark stone steps lit by a bare bulb. If she was to write about this as a historian, she should take a look, no matter how much her instincts were warning her not to. It was unlikely she would ever be back there again.

  “If I pop down for a moment, will you keep an eye on Nicole?” she asked, and he said, “Sure.”

  She walked slowly down, her steps echoing. At the bottom, she found herself in a concrete-walled room full of packing cases. A door straight ahead was bolted shut so she took another door on the right and straightaway knew she was in the murder room. Great gashes had been hacked in the plaster of the back wall, exposing the crisscross laths beneath. Piles of rubble lay in front and there were dark patches on the floor that made her shudder. It couldn’t be blood, could it? Not so long afterward. All the same, she trod carefully to avoid it.

  The walls had been papered in a stripy pattern that had faded now, and they were studded with holes that could only be bullet holes. Loads of them. The killers must have fired and fired and kept firing. For a moment Val felt as if she could smell the gun smoke and hear the family’s terrified screams in that enclosed space. The atmosphere crackled with something awful.

  Her chest felt tight and her breathing became shallow. Was there enough oxygen? Which was the way out? There were some double doors at the back of the room and she felt momentarily disoriented. Were they the ones she had come in through? Panic took hold until she spun around and saw the other door: it must be that one. The Romanovs couldn’t escape that way because their murderers were lined up in front of it.

  She hurried into the concrete storeroom, then ran up the steps two by two into the sunlight. At first she couldn’t see Bill and Nicole and feared something had happened to them; then she noticed them peering at a wall.

  “It’s a blue butterfly,” Nicole whispered as she got close. “Isn’t it pretty?”

  “You all right?” Bill asked, noticing the expression on her face.

  She grimaced. “No sugarcoating at all.”

  They made their way back to the main entrance, where the bored receptionist was reading a magazine and barely looked up as they headed for the stairs to the upper floor. On the landing they stopped and listened but there didn’t appear to be any other visitors. As they walked into the first room, Bill whispered translations of the words on his plan.

  “This was the study of the commandant of the guards, first Avdeyev then Yurovsky,” he told Val.

  There was faded purple wallpaper with gold palm leaves on which hung a doleful stag’s head. Cushions were scattered across a daybed, and on one side there was a large leather-topped desk. Val walked around slowly, drinking in the details and scribbling notes in a spiral-bound notebook.

  Next they followed a corridor toward a second set of steps and the lavatory. It was closed to the public but she could see the rope bellpulls the family were supposed to ring when they wanted to use it. They walked through what used to be a kitchen, with a huge iron range, then into a dining room with red and gold wallpaper and a dark-wood sideboard and table. It was eerie to think of the Romanovs eating their meals there, unaware that their days were numbered.

  The bedrooms along the far wall of the house were sparsely furnished, with tall south-facing windows—no longer whitewashed as they had been in the Romanovs’ day. Val could see out across the town. A cathedral was visible in one direction and she imagined that must have been galling for the family, who were disappointed not to be allowed to attend church after they arrived in Ekaterinburg. The rooms were small; it would have been a crush for fourteen to sleep in them. And only one toilet! Did they have a rota?

  They walked into the adjoining sitting and drawing rooms next and saw that they were lined with display cabinets of old photographs and newspaper cuttings. Val peered into the first cabinet, pen poised, and Bill translated the captions for her.

  “This is Yakov Yurovsky, the commandant in July 1918,” Bill said, pointing to the first photograph. The man had a thatch of dark hair, a bushy beard, and a moustache that curled at the sides. Val thought he had mean eyes.

  “This one is Peter Ermakov, and the revolver alongside is said to be his.”

  Val glanced across to where Nicole was examining some needlework lying on a side table. She did not appear to be listening.

  “My father had a gun just like that,” she said, making a face. “I don’t know why.”

  Bill moved on to a photograph of a handsome young man with dark hair and smiling eyes. “This one is Ivan Skorokhodov. Hey! Wasn’t that your father’s name?”

  “What?” Val peered at the pictur
e. “It was, but this doesn’t look anything like him. But I’m sure this man was in one of the photographs from Dad’s camera.”

  “It says he was a guard here but spent three months in jail in 1918 after getting too close to the Romanov family.” Bill looked at her, a question in his expression.

  “I know Dad spent some time in jail, so I suppose it’s possible, but . . .” She couldn’t see any resemblance at all.

  The next picture showed a man called Konstantin Ukraintsev. “Here’s another one whose picture was in your dad’s camera, and it says he was also dismissed for getting too close to the family,” Bill told her. “There’s a theme here. The Romanovs must have been likeable people if they had to keep changing the guards when they became too friendly.”

  There were pictures of more guards: Igor Droyadov, Alexander Kotlov, Vassili Petrov, all with short biographies. Val recognized several of the names: they appeared on the fake identity papers her father had used. He must have known these men. But how?

  She stopped in front of the next picture and gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. It was unmistakably her father as a young man. He had the same pronounced brow, the same dark eyes. Although he could only be about twenty years old in this picture, she knew without a shadow of a doubt it was him.

  “What does this caption say?” she asked, and Bill leaned over.

  “Anatoly Bolotov. He was recruited from the Verkh-Isetsk metallurgy plant on the eighth of July 1918 to become a guard here. That’s just eight days before the family died.”

  “He was a guard? Are you sure?” Val felt sick. It meant her father must have been working there when the Romanovs were executed. That would explain why he had the camera and the leather bag with the photo album and sketchbook. Had he stolen them that night? Why had he told her mother his name was Ivan Skorokhodov?

  “Are you OK?” Bill asked. “You look a bit pale.”

  “I think I need some air,” Val replied. There was an oppressive atmosphere in the house. Dust motes danced in slants of sunshine, and there was a smell of rotting wood and something else she couldn’t put a finger on, something sickly sweet.

  “OK, let’s go,” he said straightaway, putting an arm around her waist. “Shall we find some food? I’m starving.”

  “You’re always starving,” Nicole giggled.

  Val trailed behind them, trying to take in what she had learned. She felt ashamed of her father. He must have known what had happened to the family in the basement; perhaps even witnessed it. Yet still he had seized the opportunity to steal their possessions. It was grotesque. She was embarrassed to be related to him—and terribly worried as to why he had lied about who he was.

  Chapter 55

  Petrodvorets, 1951

  LUDMILLA HAD ANOTHER BABY THE YEAR AFTER HER daughter Anna was born—a little boy called Alexei, who emerged from the womb with a full head of thick dark hair. Maria doted on her grandchildren and scarcely spent any time in Leningrad because she couldn’t bear to leave them. What if Anna started walking or Alexei babbled his first distinct word when she was not there? While they were apart, her chest ached with longing for them.

  Both little ones adored their babushka and loved snuggling on her lap to listen to stories. She gave them the wooden toys Peter had carved for his own children and liked to watch them play—although it was bittersweet because Peter had never known the joy grandchildren brought, and their auntie Katya was still missing. None of Maria’s letters had yielded any clues as to where she was, but she still wrote to the few children’s homes that had not yet replied, sending pencil sketches of Katya and stamped envelopes. One day someone must recognize her.

  Maria had given up her factory job but on the rare occasions when she went back to town, she invited her old colleagues around for tea and cakes at the apartment. She didn’t miss work. At fifty-three, she was feeling her age. Her lower back ached on cold mornings, and if she crouched to pick up the children’s toys she had to grab hold of a piece of furniture to pull herself up again.

  When Anna was two and Alexei one, Ludmilla decided to go back to work and Maria became a full-time carer for the little ones. Every day when the weather permitted she took them for walks in the park around the Peterhof palace—she could never learn to call it by the Soviet name of Petrodvorets. She showed them the secret fountains that were designed to soak the unwary, the pretty flower beds, and the different types of bird that alighted there. Always she took a sketchbook because the children clamored for her drawings.

  “Draw a giraffe, Babushka,” Anna would demand. “And a monkey! Together!”

  Sometimes they went inside the palace to visit their mama and papa at work, but Maria felt uncomfortable there, amid the decor dripping with gold. It reminded her of the blinkered child she had once been who took all that Romanov wealth for granted.

  * * *

  One morning Stepan told her that he was going on a trip to source some marble and would not be back until late.

  “Eat the evening meal without me,” he said.

  “Take your warm hat,” Maria fussed, running after him, and he accepted it from her without a murmur although it was only October and the weather was mild.

  She had already gone to bed that night when she heard the sound of Stepan returning home. She glanced at the clock: ten after midnight. It sounded as if Ludmilla was still up, because she could hear the murmur of voices in the kitchen. The children would wake her around six a.m., so she should go back to sleep, but she wanted to hear about Stepan’s trip. She hesitated, then decided that since she was awake anyway, she might as well say goodnight.

  The kitchen door was closed as she padded down the corridor, but when she drew near, she heard Ludmilla’s voice asking, “Is there absolutely no doubt it was her?”

  Something about her tone made Maria stop and wait for the answer.

  Stepan sighed heavily. “There was a satchel with a bottle of Mama’s elecampane mixture inside and a wooden duck that Papa made for us when we were children.”

  Maria’s heart started thumping so hard she thought it must leap out of her chest. Katya’s satchel had been found. But where?

  “Perhaps she dropped the satchel that night and it got tangled up with someone else’s remains,” Ludmilla suggested.

  Remains? Maria couldn’t stand to hear this. She cupped her face in her hands, fingers over her ears, but did not move from the spot. Her legs had turned to stone.

  “The fisherman who pulled her up said the satchel was diagonally across the skeleton.” He gave a little sob. “She must have fallen through the ice after the bombing that night. A friend of Mama’s also disappeared.”

  Maria’s eyes filled with tears. It was clear now what he was saying.

  “I’m so sorry, my love.” She heard Ludmilla’s voice comforting him, then Stepan gave another sob.

  “My beautiful little sister,” he croaked before his voice became muffled, and Maria guessed Ludmilla was hugging him.

  She should open the door and go into the kitchen so they could mourn together, but something stopped her. Suddenly she realized she had known all these years that Katya was dead. Deep down she had never believed she would find her, just as she did not believe she would ever find Tatiana. They were gone. She hoped Katya had been with Peter in heaven for the ten years since she had died.

  “There will have to be a funeral,” Stepan said, struggling to control his emotion. “It will be desperately hard for Mama. No parent should have to bury their child.”

  Maria tried to imagine what a body would look like after all those years in the water. Bones, just bones. That was not her daughter. She believed Katya’s soul had left at the precise moment of death. The skeleton was just a relic.

  “Does she need to know?” Ludmilla asked. “Maybe it would be easier for her to carry on thinking there is hope.”

  “Do you think so?” Stepan asked.

  Maria considered this. She felt weary. She did not have the energy for grief. Her sorrow fo
r Katya had been spent all those years ago. What if they simply didn’t tell her and she pretended she didn’t know? Except she would know. She had always known.

  Treading carefully to avoid creaking floorboards, she turned and tiptoed back to her room and climbed into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. She said prayers for Katya, imagining her with Peter in heaven. Her Romanov family had not known either of them, but she was sure they would have been welcomed into the fold.

  In the morning, if Stepan told her, then she must weep and grieve and arrange a funeral. But if he did not, she would continue to pray for Katya in private, just as she had always done.

  Next day, Anna and Alexei woke her at six as usual. Maria pulled on a robe and led them to the kitchen, where she began to warm milk and gave them both a sukhari with cinnamon and raisins.

  Stepan came into the room and kissed each child on the forehead, then embraced his mother. He had shadows like bruises under his eyes; he always got them when he hadn’t slept.

  “How was your trip?” she asked, watching his face. Now was the moment of decision. Would he tell her or not?

  “I got what I went for,” he said. “Everything is fine.”

  Maria nodded and turned back to watch the pan. She had to make sure the milk did not boil over, which it could do in an instant, and she did not want him to see so much as a glint of a tear in her eye.

  Chapter 56

  Petrodvorets, March 7, 1953

  LUDMILLA GOT HOME FROM WORK JUST BEFORE SIX, as Maria was feeding Anna and Alexei their dinner.

  “Have you heard the news today?” she asked.

  “No. What’s happened?” Maria couldn’t read Ludmilla’s expression: was it good or bad news?

  Ludmilla switched on the Mir radio set just in time for the bulletin on the hour. It was read by Yuri Levitan, the man who had been the voice of all those exaggerated wartime broadcasts. He sounded choked with emotion as he read the headline. “The Central Committee of the Communist Party, the Council of Ministers, and the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet of the USSR announce with deep grief to the Party and all workers that on the fifth of March at nine fifty p.m., Josef Vissarionovich Stalin, Secretary of the Communist Party and Chairman of the Council of Ministers, died after a serious illness.”