The Secret Wife

by Gill Paul

  ‘Are you Russian-born?’ Kitty asked, glancing round at a set of matryoshka dolls laid out on a shelf in height order.

  ‘No, my parents came here in 1917, but I was brought up bilingual. I used to work in the Slavonic Languages Department at Yale but moved here when I retired and now I do a bit of translation on the side … Can I offer you some lemonade?’

  A jug stood ready on a side table and Kitty was happy to accept because it was a hot day and her mouth was dry.

  ‘This is the notebook I told you about.’ She passed it over. ‘I think it may have belonged to my great-grandfather, who was a novelist.’

  Vera took the notebook, put on a pair of reading glasses and opened the first page. ‘This is a diary,’ she said straight away. ‘These short lines’ – she held it out to show Kitty – ‘are dates. Do you see? That one reads March fifteenth, Wednesday.’

  ‘Which year?’

  Vera looked at the front cover of the notebook. ‘I can’t see a year. Would you like me to translate a little so we can discover what it is about?’

  ‘Oh, yes, please!’

  Vera opened it to the first page and spoke slowly: ‘February eighteenth, Sunday. We had obednitza at 11.30.’ She glanced up to see if Kitty had understood – ‘That’s a liturgy in the Russian Orthodox Church’ – before continuing. ‘Then we worked outside in the garden, digging over the soil. A letter from the outside world made me laugh with M’s description of his landlady’s cabbage soup tasting as if she had boiled up some dirty stockings from her laundry bag. He writes that he is teaching tricks to a foul-smelling mongrel with traces of so many breeds that it is impossible to guess its parentage. The dog is a fast learner who will wait in a corner for several minutes until given a signal, upon which it will retrieve a ball and drop it in his lap in return for a crust of bread. It would put to shame certain other dogs of our acquaintance!’

  Vera stopped and looked up to see if this made sense to Kitty.

  ‘I wonder why he talks about a “letter from the outside world”. Where was he?’

  Vera shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Shall I carry on?’

  ‘Why not try a later passage?’

  Vera flicked to the middle of the book and chose a page: ‘30th April, Monday. Olga and I are learning to make bread, under the watchful eye of Trina.’

  ‘Who is Olga? And who is Trina?’ Kitty wondered out loud.

  Vera shrugged and continued: ‘It seems you must knead the dough for at least twenty minutes to get air into it, then let it rest for half an hour before moulding it into shape. Any activity that distracts us from missing Mama, Papa and Maria is welcome, and I expect that in my next life the skill of breadmaking will prove useful.’

  ‘In my next life?” Kitty wondered, then answered her own question. ‘Perhaps this was written at a time when Dmitri was planning to emigrate. He lived in Berlin between the wars.’

  Vera flicked a few pages further: ‘4th June, Monday. We are all furious with Maria, who has been fraternising with the youngest guard, Anton, the one with the crooked nose. She thinks it is a joke, but it encourages them to toy with the rest of us. I had to push Anton hard tonight as he grabbed my breast on the way to the latrine, and he made a crude sound with his tongue, taunting me.’ Vera looked up at Kitty. ‘It appears this was written by a woman.’

  Kitty was surprised. ‘Who can it be? And why was there a guard? Where were they?’

  Vera read on: ‘I feel a growing sense of dread that we will die in this godforsaken house with whitewashed windows, denied even one ray of sunlight, and that I will never see my dearest love again …’

  ‘It sounds as though they are in captivity. I wonder why.’

  Vera gasped as she read the next bit. ‘Tomorrow is Anastasia’s seventeenth birthday.’ She looked at Kitty. ‘Do these names mean anything to you? Olga, Maria and Anastasia?’

  ‘No. Should they?’

  Vera skimmed down the page and translated another bit: ‘Alexei is being very brave but he has not been well enough for us to wheel him into the garden since we arrived here.’ She looked at Kitty. ‘I suppose it could be a forgery.’

  ‘A forgery of what? Who do you think they are?’

  Vera frowned. ‘These are the names of the Romanov imperial family, who were imprisoned after the Revolution in February 1917.’

  ‘Surely it can’t be!’ Kitty racked her brains, trying to remember her history lessons. ‘Why would Dmitri have a journal belonging to one of them?’

  Vera placed the notebook on a side table as though it were a precious relic and stood up. ‘I think I should wear gloves when handling this. It could be a document of historic importance.’ She walked across the room and retrieved a pair of white cotton gloves from a drawer.

  ‘Really? Do you think there’s a chance it is genuine?’

  ‘We know both the elder girls and their parents kept diaries. They are held in the State Archives of the Russian Federation but parts have been released in translation and this is remarkably similar in tone and content. That description of whitewashed windows sounds like the Ipatiev House in Ekaterinburg. It’s well documented that Maria flirted with a guard there and the others were furious with her.’

  Kitty was stunned and could barely take it in. ‘What happened to them?’

  ‘They were murdered in the early hours of July the seventeenth, 1918.’ Vera sat down again and opened the diary to its last page. ‘This diary finishes on the fourteenth, a Sunday.’ She reached for an iPad that Kitty hadn’t noticed before. Somehow it seemed incongruous in the dusty, bookish surroundings. She tapped on it for a few minutes then said, ‘Yes, the fourteenth of July 1918 was a Sunday. Of course, there will have to be many tests if this is to be verified as genuine.’

  Kitty was amazed. ‘Whose diary do you think it is?’

  ‘It must be Tatiana’s. All the others have been mentioned.’ She tapped on the iPad again then handed it to Kitty. There was a picture on the screen of a very elegant girl with short wavy hair worn in a side parting, dressed in an ankle-length ivory gown covered in embroidery, and wearing several necklaces and bracelets. She looked haughty, regal and suspicious, as if she was not someone who found it easy to trust.

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ Kitty said. ‘How tragic that she was killed!’

  Vera took back the iPad and did another search. ‘Look at that!’ she exclaimed. ‘That’s Tatiana’s handwriting. It’s very sharp and graphic, with up and down strokes that are unusual for the period. It’s identical to the writing in your diary, don’t you think?’

  Kitty looked from one to the other. The figures were written in the same way; they were indistinguishable. ‘But why would my great-grandfather have had Tatiana’s diary?’

  ‘There are a number of possibilities,’ Vera mused. ‘A week after the murders, the Ipatiev House was opened to the public and sightseers wandered in and helped themselves to souvenirs. Dmitri could have been one of them, or it could have been passed on to him by someone else. I suppose he could even have been one of the guards at the house.’

  ‘You mean one of the murderers?’ Instinctively Kitty felt that couldn’t be true. Any man who had written love stories as moving as the ones she had read could never have been a killer.

  ‘No, historians are pretty sure they know who all the murderers were. Yakov Yurovsky, the head of the guards, and eight of his men.’ She tapped on the iPad and read out the names when she found them: ‘Ermakov, Kudrin, Medvedev, Nikulin, Kabanov, Netrebin, Vaganov and Jan Tsel’ms. He picked the most cold-blooded men he could muster. I believe several other guards refused to be part of it.’

  Kitty shuddered and hoped Dmitri had not been involved. But if not, how did he come to have the diary? Suddenly she remembered the pendant and took it off to show Vera. ‘I found this under my great-grandfather’s cabin and a jeweller told me it is Fabergé.’

  Vera peered at it. ‘Michael Wigström, the Romanovs’ favourite workmaster. It’s lovely.’ She handed it back. ‘Why
don’t I lend you a couple of books so you can read about the family?’ She rose and her eyes roamed along a shelf until she found what she was looking for. She picked out one book, then another.

  ‘That’s very kind. And would you consider translating the diary?’

  Vera hesitated. ‘My services don’t come cheap. Why not donate it to a library or university and they will pay for the translation?’

  ‘I don’t want to give it to anyone else. It’s one of the few things I have left of my great-grandfather, a memento of the Russian heritage I have only recently discovered. If I pay for the translation, what sort of cost are we talking about?’

  Vera sat down to estimate the number of pages then sucked her lip and finally quoted two thousand dollars. She thought it would take her two to three weeks.

  Kitty didn’t have to think for long. Her great-grandfather had kept this diary for a reason and she was sure he would want her to read it. She could use some of the money she had inherited from him, which was sitting in her current account. ‘I’d like to go ahead, if you’re sure you want to …’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ Vera grinned, suddenly looking much younger. ‘I can think of nothing I’d like more. What a fascinating project!’

  Kitty held out her hand and they shook. ‘It’s a deal.’

  As she drove back to Lake Akanabee, her mind whizzed through all the possible reasons why her great-grandfather might have had the diary of a Russian grand duchess in his possession. Had he known the family? Had he found it after their murder? Why had he kept it rather than donating it to a library? Or was it a clever forgery that he planned to use in a novel?

  She wished Tom were there. He had a logical mind and often surprised her by suggesting answers she hadn’t thought of. She liked the fact that their brains worked so differently.

  And then she remembered the photo-message on his phone and grimaced. You bastard, Tom. Why did you have to ruin everything?

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Ekaterinburg, Russia, May 1918

  Three weeks after the departure of the Tsar and Tsarina, Trina came to Dmitri’s lodgings to tell him that Alexei had been judged fit for the journey and the remaining Romanovs were being taken to join their parents in Ekaterinburg. Dmitri packed his belongings and paid his landlady an extra week’s rent to apologise for the lack of notice then hurried up to the Governor’s House. Some old-fashioned tarantass carriages were standing by, presumably to take them on the first leg of the journey. Dmitri rushed to a horse dealer and bought himself a mount on which he could follow.

  He watched as the royal party, twenty-seven of them including servants and tutors, were escorted into the carriages, along with the three dogs: Ortipo, Alexei’s Spaniel, Joy, and the family’s Pekingese, Jimmy. Alexei was carried out by a manservant with Tatiana close by, soothing him. She didn’t look up, too concerned for her brother.

  Dmitri rode behind the carriages, keeping out of sight amongst the trees and sleeping rough whenever the party stopped at an inn for the night. It was a bone-rattling journey on rough roads and Dmitri feared for poor Alexei, for whom every jolt would mean excruciating pain. His glimpses of Tatiana showed her looking harassed and anxious and he yearned to rush out and throw his arms around her. She was supporting everyone else and there was no one to support her.

  Five days later they arrived at the railway junction of Tyumen, and Dmitri could see the girls looked bewildered as they were ushered onto a train, which had none of the comforts they were used to. The royal train had been like a palace, with sumptuous beds and sofas, chandeliers, dining tables and individual reading lamps. This train, by contrast, had hard seats in unadorned carriages leading off a bare corridor, and members of the public were also permitted to travel on it. He made sure Tatiana spotted him and caught the look of relief on her face when she realised he was travelling with them, although he couldn’t get closer than two carriages away from the royal party.

  The train departed with a screech and the air filled with the smell of smoke, while black soot smeared the windows. Dmitri tried to walk along the corridor to look in on Tatiana but was prevented by guards. When night fell he lay awake picturing her lying on exactly the same type of bench as him and wondered if she would get any sleep. Were their meals better than the tasteless soup and rough bread he had managed to procure? He hoped so.

  On arrival in Ekaterinburg, he alighted from the train and watched as a contingent arrived from the local soviet. Crowds of townspeople jostled, eager for a glimpse of the royal visitors, and Dmitri mingled with them, trying not to attract attention. Several hours passed, during which officials came and went, before at last the royal children emerged with just three servants. It seemed the rest of the party were being left behind. They were instructed to carry their own bags, and Dmitri seethed with helpless rage as Olga, Tatiana and Anastasia struggled to lift them. The sole manservant couldn’t help because he was carrying Alexei. As they staggered out towards the road, the crowd began to jeer. Dmitri yearned to remonstrate, to rush forward and carry their burdens for them, but had to stand by powerless as Tatiana rallied the others and they walked up the hill, heads held high, surrounded by Red Guards.

  The first sight of the Ipatiev House was a shock. It was much smaller than the Governor’s House and was surrounded by a tall fence just a few feet from the walls, so there would be hardly any space for them to walk outdoors. From what Dmitri could gather, it was built in the modern style but the windows were painted white to prevent anyone seeing in or out, and there were guards with machineguns sitting in sentry posts at every corner. This really was a prison and the gaolers were taking no chances. Tatiana turned and gave him one last haunting look before disappearing inside.

  Dmitri walked around the house, noting where the guard posts were located, and listening for any sounds from within. It was unseasonably cold for May, with flurries of snow falling, and he supposed that might stop the family from stepping out of doors to stretch their legs. There was a knothole in the wood at one point and he bent to put his eye to it but was unable to see anything except the walls of the house with those spookily blank windows, as though the inhabitants had been erased.

  He had to find lodgings but this time he judged it best to choose somewhere remote, in case he was able to rescue the family. He walked until he found an alehouse, where he asked if anyone knew of a farmer with a cottage to rent and a horse for sale; he had left his last horse in Tyumen when they got on the train. Word was passed around and finally it seemed someone had a friend who had a cousin who might be able to help. The friend’s cousin was sent for and he arrived leading a horse, then took Dmitri to the outskirts of town where a little cottage nestled on the edge of a pine forest. A price was agreed, the horse was tethered, and Dmitri went inside to sit alone in the gathering gloom.

  He felt sick with fear that Tatiana should be held in such a place amongst such people. Trina was one of the staff left behind on the train so he had no way of getting letters in or out. His wife was trapped behind that tall barricade by heavily armed guards in a town where there was only hostility towards her family. The end was drawing near. He could feel it in his bones. There wasn’t much time left for him to find a way of saving her.

  Next morning, Dmitri rode around Ekaterinburg getting his bearings. The town sat on the eastern side of the Ural Mountains and he could see scars on the towering rockfaces caused by mining. He knew they dug for precious stones here: the kind of stones the Romanovs had once used for their jewellery and Fabergé eggs without giving a thought to the source. There were some beautiful buildings – churches, cathedrals, theatres and private houses, built in the classical style – but there were also many factories spewing out smoke, noisy paper mills and foul-smelling tanneries where the working population earned their crust. Voznesensky Prospekt, on which the Ipatiev House stood, was the main thoroughfare. Dmitri rode past the house but even on horseback he was unable to see over the barricade and he could hear no signs of life from within.
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  Four houses down the hill, a brass plaque mounted on a wall indicated the British consulate and he pulled up his horse. Might it be worth enquiring within?

  Dmitri was ushered into a hallway where he sat in a leather armchair for around twenty minutes until he was called to meet the consul, Sir Thomas Preston. He was a tall, distinguished-looking man, probably only in his thirties, with narrow eyes that scrutinised Dmitri as he entered the room. Dmitri introduced himself as a former member of the royal escort, one who was much concerned with the Romanov family’s welfare, and asked if there was anything the consul could do to help them.

  Sir Thomas tapped a pen on the desk, regarding him with regret. ‘I make daily enquiries regarding the condition of the Tsar and Tsarina and will now include the grand duke and duchesses, but I probably have no more information than you. This morning I received a delegation from the staff members who still remain on board the train with nowhere to go and I am endeavouring to secure accommodation for them – although it appears some have been imprisoned. Information is sketchy.’

  Dmitri was impatient. ‘Can’t the British government do something to help? These are relatives of King George V. I am outraged by their indifference.’

  Sir Thomas pursed his lips before replying. ‘Do you hear the news from the Western Front? Do you know how many are dying in the trenches? I’m afraid they are preoccupied with other matters back in London.’

  Dmitri felt like shouting in frustration, but instead he buried his face in his hands and took a deep breath.

  ‘I completely understand your alarm,’ Sir Thomas continued, speaking quietly now. ‘I myself am deeply worried by recent developments and if it were possible for me to assist any attempt to liberate the family without being directly accountable, then you can be assured I would do so.’