The Lost Daughter

by Gill Paul

  Val blushed. “There’s part of the story I didn’t tell you before, something I learned from my mom.” She was embarrassed to tell him her dad had been a criminal, but that was silly; she wasn’t responsible for his actions. “During the civil war and right through the early 1920s, he made a living breaking into the houses of the aristocracy and stealing their treasures, then selling them to White Russians living in exile in Harbin. He made a vast amount of money.”

  Bill laughed. “Good on him! A bit of venture capitalism in the midst of Communist takeover. Times were tough, so no doubt those government officials were happy to cooperate in return for a few extra rubles.”

  “But then Father Methodius told me he was arrested in Ekaterinburg, charged with impersonating a police officer, and sentenced to death. Aged twenty-six, he sat in a cell waiting to die.” Val paused for a moment, trying to imagine what that must have felt like. “By chance, he was able to escape while being led out to a van, and he ran for his life, eventually making it back to Harbin. After that, he didn’t dare return to Russia. He had to accept that he would never find the woman he loved. He married my mother because she took good care of him, but she never stood a chance of winning his heart because he had already given it to another.”

  “It must make you look on him quite differently,” Bill said.

  “The one thing I can’t forgive him for is sending Mom back to Harbin when I was thirteen.” Val remembered the heartbroken months after her mother left, when the house was silent and she sobbed herself to sleep every night; then she thought of the terrible suffering her mother endured, which the Chinese doctor believed was the cause of her premature death. “Father Methodius says he was very depressed at the time, but that’s no excuse.”

  Bill put his arms around her. “What’s done is done. I think it’s great you understand more now so you can think of him as a sad, troubled man rather than a monster.”

  Val turned to kiss him. It was still new and extraordinary for her to be with someone who was interested in her past, who realized it affected who she was in the present. Tony wouldn’t have given a damn. Part of her still felt unworthy of Bill’s love, but she was determined to enjoy it all the same.

  She ran her hands over his chest and shoulders, then down his torso. She loved his shape, with the long thighs, the lean waist, the shoulders that her head rested so comfortably against. As they removed each other’s clothes and began to make love, Bess raised her head to watch for a bit, then lay down and went back to sleep on her mat in the corner.

  * * *

  Later, when they were getting ready for bed, Val ventured a question that had been on her mind since she spoke to Father Methodius.

  “I was thinking of writing to that curator in Petrodvorets to tell him what I’ve discovered, but I won’t if you have any objection. I don’t want to jeopardize your parents’ safety.” She turned to watch his expression, wary that it might revive the old argument—still the only one they’d had.

  Bill looked her in the eye. “Sweetheart, you do what you want. I’m sorry I made such an issue of things when we were in Leningrad. I was just worried about Mom and Dad. You understood that, didn’t you?”

  “Eventually.” She smiled.

  “But why do you care what that curator thinks? If you want to make your dad’s story public, we could tell my colleague in New York and let him publish it. Or you could write about it yourself.” He kissed her shoulder. “It could be the first of many publications in your career as a world-class historian.”

  Val laughed. “You’re jumping the gun somewhat; I’m only a few months into my degree. But about Stepan—I really warmed to him. I felt as if I knew him. All the other Russians we met seemed authoritarian and cold, but he was familiar, like someone I could be friends with. I suppose his opinion mattered to me.”

  “You write to him if you want, darling. It’s entirely your decision.”

  He switched off the bedside light and pulled the covers up to her chin, making sure she was snug. Spring was on the way, but it still got chilly in the darkest hours of the night.

  Chapter 64

  Leningrad, November 1976

  STEPAN BROUGHT THE LETTER HOME FROM WORK AND handed it to Maria where she sat at her sewing machine by the window. Mikhail’s teenage daughter had bought some purple velvet in a market and brought it to her babushka, asking her to make a fashionable maxi skirt. The style was similar to skirts she and her sisters wore in the old days, although much more fitting.

  “What’s this?” she asked, squinting at the pages, which were written in English.

  “It’s from the Australian woman who brought me those photos in the summer.” Stepan glanced around at Peter, who was bent over a newspaper, spectacles perched on his nose. “I think you’ll find it interesting.”

  Maria began to read and cried out when she came to the second paragraph. Val wrote that her father, Anatoly Bolotov, had been in love with Maria and believed his affections had been reciprocated.

  She stared at Stepan, openmouthed. How could he? Was it true, or a story he had concocted in retrospect to excuse his actions? Could he possibly have mistaken her friendly politeness in the house for romantic encouragement?

  “Are you all right, dear?” Peter asked.

  She shook her head in disbelief. “Do you remember Anatoly Bolotov, that guard at the Ipatiev House? This letter is from his daughter. Stepan met her in the summer. She seems to think Bolotov was in love with me.”

  Peter put down his newspaper and smiled. “We were all in love with you.”

  Maria’s flesh crawled. Had Bolotov believed when he raped her that she was a willing participant? She hadn’t struggled or screamed, but that was because of her fear of someone hearing them. She felt sick to think of it, even now.

  She turned back to the letter and read the next paragraph before reporting its contents to Peter. “It says that each man in the execution squad was allocated one member of the family to kill, and that Bolotov volunteered to shoot at me. But when the order was given, he deliberately missed. He hoped he could rescue me but others stepped in and shot and stabbed me instead.”

  “Perhaps you owe him your life,” Peter suggested. “If he had shot you at close range, he would have killed you.”

  Maria glanced at Stepan, whose face reflected his conflicting emotions. He had always loathed the man who fathered him and seemed reluctant to revise that opinion.

  She read on, then told Peter, “Bolotov was watching when you lifted me off the truck. He was on horseback and could easily have caught us, but instead he shouted to the rest of the men that we had fled in the opposite direction. He did it to save us.”

  “Did he now?” Peter gave a low whistle. “I always thought it odd they didn’t catch us. I didn’t even spot any signs of pursuit. We owe him a debt of gratitude.”

  Stepan walked over to gaze out the window, so Maria couldn’t see his expression anymore.

  “It says he hunted for us for years and spent the rest of his life pining for me.” Maria wrinkled her nose. According to the letter, he’d even bought wedding rings for the two of them. “That’s ridiculous. He only knew me for what—a week?”

  “You had a powerful effect on all the young men there,” Peter said, with a twinkle. “I wonder what became of Ivan Skorokhodov? I bet he never forgot you.”

  Maria knew what he was thinking: that Ivan had been Stepan’s father. Should she tell him the truth now? What would be the point?

  “I always felt guilty that Ivan went to jail because of me. I was probably a little too flirtatious with him.”

  Stepan turned to her, a question in his eyes, while Peter grinned. These two men, who were so alike, both believed a different version of the past and it didn’t matter one iota.

  “What will you reply to the Australian woman?” she asked Stepan. “You should at least thank her for her letter.”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I’ll think about it.”

  It was what he
always said when delaying a decision: if one of his children asked if they could vacation by the seaside, or if Ludmilla wanted to redecorate the apartment. It usually meant he would do nothing at all.

  Chapter 65

  Leningrad, June 1979

  MARIA WAS WORKING IN HER GARDEN, SOWING CARROTS and runner beans, when Stepan rushed around the corner of the building and hurried across to her. She looked up, surprised, because it was midday and he should have been at work.

  “Mama, there’s something I have to tell you,” he said, breathing heavily as if he had run all the way. “Please come and sit down.”

  Maria’s blood chilled. Someone had died. Who was it? Please let it not be one of her children or grandchildren, because she couldn’t bear that. She glanced around to where Peter was sitting on a bench, enjoying the warmth of the sunshine.

  Stepan took her arm and led her to the bench, helping her to sit beside Peter, then closed his eyes before beginning to speak, as if choosing his words with care.

  “It looks as if they have found the grave of your family in Ekaterinburg,” he said.

  Maria clutched her hands to her face and felt goose bumps prick her skin. She had long wished for this news, but at the same time it was hard to hear. Tears came and Peter put his arm around her and pulled her close.

  Stepan continued. “A colleague of mine called Geli Ryabov visited the children of Comrade Yurovsky last year, and they showed him some notes their father made about the murders. Using these, and with the help of local geologists and chemistry experts, he found a spot where there are a number of skeletons.”

  Maria’s tears were flowing freely now as an ancient grief was resurrected.

  “He took three of the skulls to Moscow for tests and he’s convinced one is your father’s, but he says no ministry wants to get involved. It’s still too politically sensitive.”

  Maria couldn’t bear to think of them as “skeletons” with “skulls.” “I hope they are being treated with respect,” she cried.

  “Ryabov assures me that he got a local priest to say a panikhida for them,” Stepan said.

  Maria thought of Tatiana. Was she still alive? Would she hear this news? She would be eighty-two years old that month. Maria’s first instinct was to travel to Ekaterinburg and ensure that the bodies were reburied with religious honor and ceremony. She knew Tatiana would wish the same. Perhaps they would bump into each other there.

  “Do you think I would be allowed to bury them, if I tell the authorities who I am?” She asked the question with longing, but knew the answer before Stepan responded. She had no evidence to prove her identity now and would simply become one in a long list of Romanov claimants stretching back to the 1920s. Her aunt Olga had died almost twenty years earlier and there was no one left who could personally identify her. Besides, although it was more than sixty years since the Revolution, it could still be risky to reveal herself. Soviet president Leonid Brezhnev tended to have those whose political views differed from his own committed to mental asylums, and rumor had it the conditions weren’t much better than in the gulags. She felt sure Tatiana would make the same calculation. If she was overseas, she would not risk returning.

  “The authorities want to brush this under the carpet,” Stepan told her. “The news will not be announced in the press and no official ceremonies are planned. I think they might leave the bodies where they are.”

  “We can hold a private ceremony for them here,” Peter suggested, and Maria laid her head on his shoulder in gratitude. He had never believed in her religion but he knew how much comfort it gave her.

  She decided she would gather her entire family and ask a local priest to conduct a memorial service. They would have flowers and candles, and she would say goodbye properly, even if she could not lay their corporeal remains to rest.

  It had all been such a waste. Stepan and Peter hugged her, one on either side, as she wept for the future her family had been denied, and for the children and grandchildren they never had a chance to bear.

  * * *

  In the weeks after the bodies were discovered, Maria started having vivid dreams about her childhood: playing quoits with the sailors on the deck of the Shtandart; that Frenchman at a ball who called her “the true beauty of the four”; the excited barking of Jemmy, Joy, and Ortipo when they chased squirrels in the park. Sometimes she woke in a sweat when the dream changed and her siblings were transformed into hideous skeletons, their flesh dissolved in sulfuric acid.

  “Your siblings stayed forever young,” Peter said. “Their skin never wrinkled and their hair never thinned.”

  That was true, at least. When she washed Peter’s back in the bath, she felt sad to see the folds of skin hanging off his limbs where there used to be solid muscle. He had black moles on his torso, varicose veins on his legs, and liver spots on his hands. His silver hair had thinned at the crown, but he still had his cowlick, perched above the weathered skin of his face. So many little imperfections, but she loved the soul of him.

  What must he see when he watched her naked at her toilette? She had become the fat little bow-wow her sisters used to tease her for being. Six pregnancies, plus the appetite for sweet foods she developed after the siege, had left her with an apron of flesh hanging from her belly. Her breasts, which Peter used to love, drooped low and flat when not encased in a brassiere, and she chose not to imagine what her bottom looked like. Yet still he felt desire for her and she for him. Their lovemaking was slower and more careful than in their youth. She had a bad back and a weak leg, while Peter did not have the strength to rest his weight on his elbows in the missionary position, but they found ways to keep their passion alive that were both comfortable and intimate.

  * * *

  During the remainder of that year, Maria felt herself slowing down. She often fell asleep after lunch and dozed for part of the afternoon. Peter sat beside her pretending to read his paper, but when she opened her eyes she usually found he was snoring gently, mouth open and spectacles slipped down his nose. She felt the cold more than ever, and her fingers stiffened so that sewing became difficult. Sometimes she forgot the names of her grandchildren, confusing one with the other, or accidentally calling them “Katya” or “Pavel.” “Silly me.” She frowned, recognizing her mistakes.

  No matter. They were lucky, she and Peter. They were survivors. Their neighbor Viktor had died in his fifties from a heart attack, and his wife blamed the gulag. Peter was made of stronger stuff and his overall health seemed good as he entered his eightieth year. They had met sixty-one years ago, spent nineteen years together, sixteen years apart, and now it was twenty-six years since the day he came back to her in the Peterhof palace garden. Still she smiled when she remembered that moment: the shock, the incredulity, and the dawning realization that God had wrought a miracle for her.

  In their last twenty-six years Peter had become close to his eight grandchildren and passed on his natural wisdom and equanimity, lessons no school could ever teach. They worshipped him, visiting often and bringing fish they had caught or rabbits they had trapped using his methods.

  Autumn came, and both Peter and Maria succumbed to a nasty cold and cough. It was nice to have an excuse not to get out of bed as the skies outside darkened and the temperature dropped. Ludmilla brought hot soup, and made Peter’s elecampane infusion under his careful instruction. When both developed fevers, she called a doctor, but there was little he could recommend except bed rest and plenty of fluids.

  As they lay side by side, Peter and Maria whispered reminiscences: of Stepan’s birth in a barn; of their coworkers at the pig-iron factory; of the sentimental song “The Little Blue Scarf” that everyone used to sing in wartime, both in Leningrad and in the Norilsk gulag. Trivia, really.

  Sometimes Maria watched Peter while he slept, his complexion pale and his breathing labored, and wondered which of them would die first. She wasn’t sure she would survive the news of his death a second time. To attend his funeral knowing that she would never see him
again on this earth would be intolerable. Yet at the same time she did not want him to have the pain of losing her. She would rather spare him that sorrow.

  The doctor came again and listened to Maria’s breathing first, then to Peter’s, before pronouncing them much improved. Their lungs were not so congested, he said. There was no reason they should not get up soon, although he recommended they stay indoors for the remainder of the week.

  That night, Maria slept with Peter’s arm around her. She loved to feel the weight of it resting across her waist. His face was so close she could smell the sourness of his breath and hear a tiny rattle in his throat. She roused slightly in pitch blackness and noticed his breaths were faint, with long gaps between. He was in the fathomless depths of sleep.

  “I love you,” she whispered, not thinking he would hear, but she felt a tiny movement of his finger where it rested against her back and knew that he had. She shifted her head a little to kiss him on the lips, then let herself slide back into the seductive darkness of sleep.

  When Stepan came with tea in the morning, he found them pale and stiff, their skin cool to the touch. Both had passed away gently in the night. Their expressions were calm and their lips still touching.

  Epilogue

  Peterhof, 2007

  ONE EVENING STEPAN SWITCHED ON THE TELEVISION news just in time to hear the young blond newsreader announce that two more graves thought to belong to Romanovs had been found near Ekaterinburg.

  “One of the bodies is said to be Alexei and the other is either Maria or Anastasia,” she said. “That means all the family are now accounted for.”

  “Rubbish!” Stepan shouted at the set. Ludmilla was in the kitchen talking to their daughter Anna, now in her fifties, and their granddaughter Eva, aged thirty-two, who were cooking the evening meal.

  He had kept up to date with the research on the graves over the years and was scathing about the amount of misinformation the reports contained. These scientists with their fancy computers and DNA technology knew nothing at all. The bones had been separated, manhandled, and sent to laboratories across Russia, the UK, and America, in the process becoming so contaminated that they could have belonged to Stalin, Hitler, or Genghis Khan, for that matter.