The Lost Daughter

by Gill Paul

  Val sat on a towel watching, and a sensation of immense peace came over her. Maybe, just maybe, this was going to be all right.

  Chapter 47

  Sydney, January 1976

  BILL BEGAN TO VISIT VAL’S HOUSE ON WEEKENDS, AND good as his word, he taught Nicole to ride a bike. He was so tall it must have strained his back to bend double, holding onto the saddle so she didn’t fall, but he persevered until she was confident enough to wobble down the road on her own. Val cooked her best dishes for him and he was appreciative, always insisting on doing the washing up. He left in time to catch the last ferry back to Manly, kissing her on the front step. The kisses lasted longer now, and there was a warm hug to go with them, but he never once asked if he could stay over.

  “Maybe he’s gay,” Peggy suggested.

  Val shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why don’t you make the first move? Then you’ll find out.”

  “God, no!” Val shrieked. She was secretly glad there was no pressure to have sex. It would be a whole other area to worry about. She was sure she must be terrible in bed. Cosmopolitan and other women’s magazines gave tips on how to be a hot lover and she didn’t understand half of them, while the rest terrified her. It seemed there was a lot of pressure around sex these days. Bill would probably expect her to be knowledgeable since she’d been married such a long time, and she hated to think she might let him down.

  They had been dating for over five months when one night they lost track of the time and Bill realized he had missed the last ferry.

  “Stay over,” Val insisted. “I can make up a bed on the sofa.”

  She fetched sheets, a blanket, and two pillows and had begun to arrange them when Bill came up behind her and put his arms around her waist, burying his face in her hair.

  “You are lovely.” He whispered because Nicole was asleep upstairs.

  Val turned in his arms and kissed him. “So are you,” she said shyly.

  Still she didn’t intend to make love with him, but the kiss continued, and she loved the sensation of his hand stroking her back, cupping her head, and then his lips on her neck. They sank onto the sofa together and everything happened naturally, slowly, easily, until he was inside her, moving gently, still kissing her. She raised her hips to meet his and sighed with bliss. Sex had always been painful with Tony, but this sex made her skin tingle all over, and the sensation deep inside was exquisite. His fingers were touching her down there and she wondered what he was doing but it felt so good she couldn’t bear him to stop. Suddenly there was a rush of blood and an intense sensation that made her cry out.

  Bill kissed her and she could feel he was grinning.

  “Was that an orgasm?” she gasped.

  “You’ve never had one before?” He broke away, astounded, to look her in the eye.

  She shook her head. “I love it, though.”

  “Good.” He kissed her forehead, her eyelids. “I’ll have to give you lots more to make up for lost time.”

  Later, as they lay in each other’s arms, drifting off to sleep, Val asked, “Why did you never try to seduce me before?”

  He gave her a tight hug. “I could feel how scared you were and I didn’t want to push it before you were ready. I couldn’t risk you running away.”

  Val’s eyes filled with tears. It seemed incredible, but perhaps her luck when it came to men had finally changed.

  * * *

  Nicole didn’t bat an eye when Val and Bill started sleeping in the same bed, either at his place or theirs. She liked him, she liked Bess, and Bess completely ignored Toffee the rabbit, so that wasn’t a problem. Peggy and Ken liked him too, and so did Sandra and Lynette. He fitted easily into their social circle and Val liked his friends, both the university bunch and the surfers. It all felt so easy; she kept looking for problems but none arose.

  Her course had started at the university, and she loved going to lectures, making copious notes, and discussing topics in tutorials. All the other students were much younger, and that made her more confident about expressing her opinions. Who would have thought it? The timid woman who used to be married to Tony could never have done this. If only she could have told her mother that she was happy at last.

  One evening she told Bill about her trip to China to find Ha Suran. Tears filled her eyes as she described hearing about her death in a letter.

  “That’s tough,” he sympathized. “But thank goodness you had time to get to know each other again. It sounds as if it was very important to you.”

  “Yes, it was,” Val agreed. “It changed me. I suppose remembering that there was someone who loved me and believed in me gave me the confidence to build the life I have now.”

  “Sounds as if you were always strong, but in the years living with your dad and Tony you needed that strength just to survive.” He shook his head. “I can’t imagine what you went through. My parents were always loving. That’s why it came as such a shock when they decided to leave Australia. I took it personally, as if they were leaving me.”

  “Where do they live now?” she asked.

  He frowned. “I told you about them. Remember? Way back on our first date.”

  Val blushed. “I was so nervous that night I wasn’t paying attention. I’m sorry.”

  He didn’t seem to mind her memory lapse. “They were White Russians who fled in 1918 and went first to Paris, then during the 1930s they moved to Sydney. I was born and brought up here but they always pined for the old country. It was difficult for me three years ago when they said they were returning to Moscow. It was the height of the Cold War, Brezhnev was clamping down on dissidents, and I didn’t want them to end up in a gulag so I argued myself blue in the face. We fell out badly just before they left.”

  “You must miss them terribly.” Val had a vague memory of him talking about them as they stood at the garden gate that first night. How awful of her not to have listened. “Have you seen them since?”

  He shook his head. “No. But I’ll get the chance this August. I’ve been invited to speak at a linguistics conference in Moscow.” He stopped and looked at her as if he’d just had a brain wave. “Why don’t you and Nicole come along? You should see the country where your father was born.”

  “Are you serious? I’d love to go to Russia. I can catch up on any coursework I miss, and I could take Nicole out of school for a while. But isn’t it hard to get a visa?” Her mind was galloping ahead.

  “I’ll ask my hosts to arrange it. I know my parents would love to meet you. We can tag on a trip to Leningrad afterward so you can see the Romanov palaces.”

  Val could hardly contain her excitement. “What about Ekaterinburg? Could we go there?” She longed to see the Ipatiev House and the town her father came from.

  “It’s called Sverdlovsk now,” he replied, “and it’s closed to foreigners. The Soviets are very sensitive about the fate of their erstwhile royal family, so you’d better not mention your research while we’re there.”

  “Mum’s the word,” she said. But secretly she hoped she would learn more about the Romanovs on this trip, and more about the father she had hardly known. She could take along his Fabergé box and try to find an expert to explain how it worked. Of course, she’d learn more about Bill too: it would be wonderful to travel with this seemingly perfect man who, as far as she was concerned, had yet to put a foot wrong.

  Chapter 48

  Leningrad, January 1944

  ON JANUARY 27, 1944, THE SIEGE WAS OFFICIALLY lifted and Maria and her children joined the crowds of Leningraders celebrating in the city’s parks. They were a sorry sight, with skeletally thin faces and overcoats that hung off their shoulders. Even the young ones were stooped and pale, but the celebrations were heartfelt. No more air raids! No more gunfire! No more claustrophobic sense of being encircled by enemies!

  Conditions had been improving over the last year, with the electricity and water supplies reinstated and more food arriving via the land corridor along the lake, bu
t Maria had been unable to find any information about where Mikhail and Katya might be. Not a single letter from them had gotten through. Yuri had not returned to his apartment, which still lay empty, and she was met with blank looks wherever she tried to make inquiries. She would have to wait till the authorities brought her children back or they made their own way home.

  In February, groups of children began to arrive at Finland Station to be reunited with their parents. Maria jumped every time she heard the street door slam. Katya was eighteen now, Mikhail almost sixteen, and she knew they would be changed. What had they endured during their two years away? Galina had a boyfriend and looked set to marry soon. Might Katya have one too?

  The children of her work colleague returned with rosy cheeks, the picture of good health. They complained that they had been forced to help with housework and gardening at their children’s home, and had to follow strict rules regarding bedtimes and mealtimes, but they were none the worse for it, she reported, clearly overwhelmed to have them back.

  But still no Mikhail and Katya. Maria heard that an office had been set up near the Admiralty building to help reunite families; at last the authorities were trying to do the job she had been doing in her small way ever since she arrived in the city. She rushed there and stood in line for a couple of hours, chatting to her neighbors in the line and hearing their stories of tragedy and loss. It was good to keep her mind occupied as she waited, but her stomach was churning.

  When her turn came, she approached the desk and gave Mikhail and Katya’s names, their home address, and the date they had been sent across the Ice Road. The woman consulted list after list before shaking her head.

  “I’m sorry. They were rather disorganized at the other end. Yours are not the only children we can’t find a record of, but it doesn’t mean they are lost. I’m sure they will arrive home in due course.” She bit her lip, obviously aware how hollow her words sounded.

  “How can that be? I sent them in good faith for the state to care for them. And you don’t know where they are?” Maria tried to rein in her fury. It wasn’t this woman’s fault.

  “I’m sorry. These things happen in wartime.”

  Maria clasped her hands to stop them shaking. “Can you give me a list of the homes they might have been sent to so I can look for myself? And the hospitals as well? If you can’t find them, I will.”

  “Of course. Let me get you a copy.” The woman hurried to another office and came back with a list several pages long.

  “There’s one other person I need to find,” Maria said. “Could you look for an NKVD officer called Yuri Koshelev? His address was Bolshaya Apartments, but he hasn’t returned there.”

  “I’m sorry.” The woman shook her head. “We’re not allowed to give out information about the NKVD. You understand, I’m sure . . .”

  On the bus home, Maria scanned the list. There were over a hundred homes and hospitals, stretching from Arkhangelsk in the north to Kiev in the south, and west as far as Moscow. It was daunting but she knew she must check them all. Maybe there was a reason the children had not returned. Maybe one was sick and the other had refused to leave without them. She would find them herself, no matter how long it took.

  Back in the apartment, she marked each location on a map. She decided to start with the closest ones and gradually extend her search area. She had two days off work every week, so she could stay overnight and travel back the following evening.

  Stepan tried to talk her out of it. “They could be anywhere, Mama. Better to send out letters of inquiry and wait for news.”

  She knew he meant well, but they were not his children. One day he would realize what it was like to be a parent; one day he would feel the visceral tug on your heartstrings when you were apart from any one of them.

  * * *

  On her first day of searching, Maria took the train around Lake Ladoga, then transferred to a local bus. Her broken leg had set badly and she limped heavily, but that was always useful for getting seats on buses. She had sketched images of Katya and Mikhail—good likenesses, if she said so herself—in case they helped to jog someone’s memory, because there must have been hundreds of children passing through each institution.

  She visited three separate homes that day, and each time she knocked on the door, a member of the staff looked at her drawings, checked the names, then shook her head. From what Maria could see, the homes did not have many comforts: long corridors, wooden chairs and tables, harsh overhead lights. But at least the children had food, she comforted herself. At least they were safe in their beds.

  One woman told her they had several younger Leningrad children whose parents had not responded to letters asking that they collect them. Maria took a list of names and addresses from her and promised to hunt for their parents. More likely than not they had perished during the war years, but if she could reunite even one family, it was worth the trouble.

  When she visited hospitals, she tensed as they checked the records of children who had died there. She wasn’t ready for that kind of news and knew she never would be, but she had to explore every possibility.

  Each time she approached a new home, she felt a skip of excitement. Let this be the one, she prayed. Then came the shake of the head, the sympathetic look that dissolved her optimism. Not this one; not yet.

  When she headed home after the second day of searching, she was filled with despair. Russia was such a vast country. Was she kidding herself to think she would just stumble across them? Yet if she was methodical enough, surely she must? They had to be somewhere. She put crosses beside the places she had checked, then circled the ones she would travel to next.

  “Mama, you’re exhausted,” Irina exclaimed when she arrived home weary and footsore. “Let me go instead.”

  But Maria shook her head. They were her children. She would find them.

  Her search for relatives of the children abandoned in the homes was largely fruitless. She knocked on doors but got no replies. It seemed they were orphaned and must stay where they were until they were old enough to look after themselves. Only once did she find a young girl’s aunt.

  “She’s alive?” the woman screamed, unable to contain her joy. “I must go to her immediately. Thank you a million times.”

  When Maria lay in bed at night, she felt bitter anger with the state that had swallowed her children into a vast impenetrable system; with the NKVD officers who had executed Peter for no good reason; and with Stalin, who had coldly abandoned Leningrad to its fate. Her ancient anger for the men who had killed her family still lingered in the background. Sometimes she felt her rage spilling over until she wanted to stand in the street and scream at the top of her voice against the injustice of it all. Instead she took a deep breath and channeled it into her determination to find her children. For her friends and colleagues, life began to return to normal, but for Maria there would be no normal until Mikhail and Katya were home once more.

  Chapter 49

  Leningrad, January 1944

  HAVE YOU HEARD ABOUT THE PALACES, MAMA?” STEPAN demanded when he returned one evening.

  Maria looked up at her normally placid son’s tone of outrage. “What about them?”

  “The Nazis ransacked and burned them. All that artistry—up in smoke.” He was clearly furious.

  “Really? Why would they do that?” It puzzled her, but she supposed pillage had always been a part of war.

  “They must be animals!” Stepan ranted. “They stole the panels of the Amber Room at the Catherine Palace, the gold fountains from Peterhof, and any works of art that were not hidden. What they could not carry, they destroyed. All the trees were chopped down in the park at Pavlovsk. At Peterhof, the building itself is partly exploded.” He shook his head in outrage.

  Maria felt less concerned at this than she did at the loss of human life, but decided it was not the time to say so.

  “Anyway, I’ve applied to be part of a team working on the restoration,” he told her. “They think my languag
es could be useful if they have to source materials from overseas.”

  Maria looked at him in surprise, then went to the door to check that Irina and Yelena were out of range before she spoke. “I can understand you wanting to know more about our imperial heritage, and I’m glad of it—so long as you don’t take any risks . . .” She left the implication hanging.

  “Your approval means a lot to me,” he told her. “And of course I’ll be careful.”

  Within weeks, Stepan had been assigned to the team restoring the Peterhof palace, now known as Petrodvorets. He was to be trained in laying parquet flooring, molding cornices, and applying gold paint to decorative features, as they painstakingly returned the palace room by room to the way it had been in the Romanovs’ time.

  “Perhaps you can help, Mama,” he said to Maria. “You knew it well, I suppose.”

  Maria nodded, her thoughts slipping back to the years before the First World War when her family used to spend the months of May and June there, strolling in the gardens by the Gulf of Finland. Those innocent days had the shimmery quality of a fairy tale: days before Russians began informing on their neighbors, before the state executed its best men in great purges, before a whole city was left to starve.

  * * *

  The summer passed, and another winter came. When arctic storms blew across the land, Maria could not make her trips to search for Mikhail and Katya because the buses were not running. She stared out the window at the horizontal gusts of hail that rattled the panes, fretting about lost time. Soon it would be three years since she packed them off on the Ice Road. Did they think she had forgotten them? They must know that would never happen.

  When news came in February that Stalin had met Winston Churchill and President Roosevelt at Yalta to discuss carving up Europe at the end of the war, Maria seethed that their leader was emerging from the conflict with his prestige boosted. Did the others know that he held his citizens’ lives as cheap as dirt? Did foreign newspapers report that Leningraders had dropped dead in the streets in their thousands because he would not send the Red Army to help them? She wanted to spit at his picture in the street but restrained herself.