The Secret Daughter of the Tsar

by Jennifer Laam

  Evidence is what ultimately brought the “False Mikhail,” as Mr. Romanov calls him, back down to live among the serfs. DNA tests proved Michael Karstadt was a fake. “When he secured the assistance of an academic, we were concerned. But now we know that Mikhail is only the latest in a long string of imposters.” Mr. Romanov further assures, “The actual Romanov heir will claim the throne. We will seize sublime destiny.”

  In recent years, rumblings inside of Russia indicate restoration isn’t far-fetched. But in modern politics, is a tsar really acceptable, even as a figurehead? If so, will more “False Mikhails” make plays for the Russian throne?

  Nineteen

  BAKERSFIELD, CALIFORNIA

  PRESENT DAY

  Veronica stared at the endless rows of red brake lights shining in the darkness before her. She’d started the first leg of her annual night-before-Thanksgiving journey home to Bakersfield, the slow drive north through the San Fernando Valley. Apparently, every human being on the face of the planet had decided to embark on the exact same route at the exact same time. The traffic would thin out when she ascended the Grapevine, the low mountain range separating the Los Angeles basin from the rest of California. Then she would travel down and over to Highway 99, into the blanket of agribusiness pollution that constantly hovered over the once great Central Valley.

  That leg of the journey always made the back of her neck prickle with anxiety. That’s when it truly hit her. She would soon be back in her hometown, where she’d always be known as Ginger Herrera’s strange granddaughter, the professor.

  Except the next time Veronica made the drive to Bakersfield she’d be behind the wheel of a U-Haul and no longer a professor. Veronica guessed that just made her strange.

  The car ahead of her crept forward an inch or two. She gritted her teeth and tried to ward off the first pangs of a headache, to make herself numb.

  The day after Veronica returned from her disastrous trip to New York, Regina Brack called her into her office, formed a steeple underneath her chin, and tapped her index fingers together. She may as well have brandished the grim reaper’s ax. While Dr. Brack delivered her canned speech, Veronica stared at a new row of dead butterflies pinned to the boards on the wall behind Dr. Brack’s desk. Most of the professors on Veronica’s review committee had “grave concerns” regarding the “disturbingly slim and inconsistent” nature of Veronica’s research. Furthermore, Veronica’s student reviews, while “adequate overall,” had not been sufficiently glowing to overcome her thin publishing record.

  As Dr. Brack droned on, Veronica noticed a well-worn copy of L.A. This Week on the dean’s desk. Veronica had already read the short article inside. A local professor of Russian history had been duped by an accomplished con man.

  Knowing what was to come, Dr. Brack advised Veronica to submit a resignation, effective at the end of the semester, rather than endure the humiliation of a failed review. Veronica knew it was over. She’d been placed in Dr. Brack’s kill jar and there was no escape. Her career was dead.

  Once again, the brake lights on the car before her dimmed. Veronica pulled forward, another few inches closer to home. In two short weeks, she would join the ranks of the unemployed. She couldn’t afford her rent without a paycheck. All of her savings had long since been drained to pay back her student loans. She planned to stay in her old bedroom in her grandmother’s house while she looked for work. Veronica gripped the steering wheel tighter and practiced the smile she planned to use with her aunts. It might not be so bad. Maybe something would come up at a community college in Bakersfield. And it wasn’t so far to drive back down to Los Angeles for an interview.

  Still, Jess said Abuela had already been grumbling: Veronica was always welcome, but where was she supposed to find room for all of her sewing projects now?

  * * *

  Veronica’s cousin Inez pushed her glasses up on her nose and made another elaborate gesture in the air. They sat together at a folding card table in the living room of her cousin’s house in Bakersfield, right in the center of the action: high-definition TV and football. The commotion of the game was punctuated every so often by stomping feet. Some of her cousins had retreated upstairs to blast Rock Band on one of the spare televisions.

  How different Inez seemed now from the giggling girl at the quinceañera. According to Abuela, Inez had recently been awarded a medal in the statewide academic decathlon, special emphasis in world history. Veronica could just make out Inez’s words over the blare of football across the room and the drums at the beginning of Metallica’s “Enter Sandman.”

  “The Romans were fantastic engineers,” Inez told her. “That’s what I wrote about. Did you know the Roman aqueducts provided water for more people than live in New York City? And engineers predicted the eruption of Mount Vesuvius. Some of the engineers on Pompeii tested the water for sulfur levels because the fish were dying … I got a fifty-dollar iTunes gift card along with the medal!”

  “Fifty big ones,” Veronica said. “Wow.”

  That came out more sarcastically than she’d intended. Actually, Veronica felt a twinge of jealousy over the gift card. These are the glory years, kid. That’s what she wanted to tell Inez. Enjoy them while you can. In a few years, Inez would start applying for universities. And then she’d discover the acclaim she received as a prodigy in Bakersfield was replicated in every backwater town in the country, among all sorts of kids, and every one of those smartasses wanted the same spots in the same schools. Later on they’d want the same jobs.

  If Inez wasn’t careful, she’d end up like Veronica, scraping together money for rent, endlessly paying off student loans. And to what end? To move back home?

  Veronica squeezed her eyes shut. She’d vowed not to wallow, at least not in the presence of others. The solitary crying jags were awful enough, but at least then she only hurt herself.

  “You made it!” Jess’s booming voice jolted Veronica from her brooding. Jess hovered above her, black hair spilling over her shoulders. She bounced Carlos on her hip and bent to kiss Veronica’s cheek, smelling of baby powder and daisies. “We should have carpooled.” She turned to Carlos. “See what a lucky boy you are? See that big bear?”

  The enormous teddy bear had elicited the appropriate “oohs” and “aahs.” Veronica even spotted a sidelong glance of amazement from a great-aunt who once told her she’d never get married because she was too smart for her own good.

  Veronica didn’t bother to mention that she’d re-gifted the bear. It had arrived in her office right before Thanksgiving break, along with flowers and a notecard that read “I’m sorry” in familiar, elegant handwriting. She’d given the flowers to the student who answered phones at the front desk. She tried to trash the note, but somehow couldn’t bring herself to do so. Instead, she’d tossed it into the desk drawer full of junk she never used. Perhaps when they moved her replacement into the office, that person would find the note and wonder what happened.

  “Why don’t you hold Carlos?” Jess said.

  Little brown spots danced before Veronica’s eyes. “I don’t think…”

  Veronica hesitated. She expected to hear the hissing voices in her head, but they failed to materialize. Instead, she heard her cousin’s voice faintly, like something in a dream. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Nothing. That was it. The hissing voices weren’t there. Veronica realized she hadn’t heard them since she submitted her resignation. She felt emboldened. “I’d love to hold Carlos.”

  Once Veronica’s words registered, Jess broke into a huge smile. “Grab some hand sanitizer. It’s in my purse.”

  Veronica rubbed vanilla-scented germ fighter into her hands and then Jess placed Carlos in her arms. The sprawl of his limbs cuddled up against her chest.

  “See!” Jess said triumphantly. “He likes you. And he doesn’t like just anybody. Speaking of, where’s that handsome boyfriend of yours? The Russian prince?”

  The chasm swelled in Veronica’s chest, gaping, demanding
attention and pity. She glanced at the empty chair next to her, mocking her. She stuffed her feelings back down her throat. Veronica bounced Carlos gently in her lap and was rewarded with a smile. “It didn’t work out,” she said.

  “Oh.” Jess may have lacked tact, but she blushed a little. “I’m sorry. You guys were cute together. Well, it’s his loss.”

  Veronica nodded. A prickling sensation grazed the back of her neck. She twisted her head. Abuela was watching, eyebrows lifted. Veronica had arrived too late the night before to really talk with her grandmother. She’d fallen into her old bed almost as soon as she got home. Veronica imagined the conversations about Michael that would transpire later when they were back in the cocoon of Abuela’s house. I knew right away he was trouble. Too slick. Too charming. Too good to be true.

  “Veronica?” Inez tapped the table impatiently. “My mom told me you’ve been to Italy. Did you visit Pompeii? Did you see the ruins?”

  Carlos shifted in Veronica’s arms. Sensing a crying jag, she passed him back to Jess. “We hit a bunch of cities. In Italy, I only went to Rome.” Veronica remembered ordering coffee at a tourist trap of a café across from the Colosseum, watching the sky turn to violet as the sun set over the ancient arches, giggling with her friends. Nearly fifteen years had passed since. She could hardly wrap her head around the passage of time. “I didn’t have much money, but I had a great time.”

  Inez’s expression brightened. “Maybe one day we can go to Pompeii together. I can show you everything from my report. You like that stuff, right?”

  “Sounds great.” It did sound great. Veronica found herself warming to the idea. “Let’s plan a trip. You’ll turn eighteen in three years, right? We’ll go then.”

  “I babysit,” Inez said cautiously. “How much would a trip like that cost?”

  “We’ll find the money. I’ll save each month. We can go after you graduate.” She extended her hand. “Deal?”

  “Deal,” Inez agreed. They shook on it.

  Veronica caught a glimpse of her grandmother watching them. Abuela nodded toward the door. Veronica supposed she’d have to get this over with sooner or later. “I’ll call your mom next week,” she told Inez, withdrawing from the shake. “But I need to talk to my abuela now. Will you excuse me?”

  Inez gave her a quick hug. “Thanks. I’m going to tell my mom.”

  Veronica watched Inez scamper off. For once, she’d done something right for her family. That had been easy. Facing Abuela, on the other hand …

  * * *

  The sun was so bright the frosty air caught Veronica by surprise. She’d grown accustomed to L.A. warmth and forgotten about Valley chill. She used her hand to shield her eyes. After nightfall, thick Tule fog would rise from the ground and wreak havoc on the freeway. But right now the bright light reflected off the cars lining the street.

  Veronica heard the screen door slam behind her and then caught the scent of Abuela’s facial powder and perfume. Natalya Rubalov’s face flashed in Veronica’s mind.

  “Your eyes look puffy,” her grandmother said. “Have you been crying?”

  “I’m fine.” Veronica pulled her thin sweater tighter and braced for the onslaught. Men were this. Men were that. Veronica’s white father, etc. The same lines she’d heard since the first time her grandmother caught her writing “Veronica loves so and so” in her fifth-grade notebook.

  Abuela took a seat next to her on the steps. She wore a new pink dress she’d made herself. Veronica actually liked the color. “How are you?” Abuela asked.

  “This isn’t exactly a great time to look for a job.” Veronica wrapped her arms around her chest and began rocking to stay warm. “But I’ll find something.”

  “Oh.” Her grandmother tilted her head. How different she looked from Natalya. Both of them were neatly kept older women, but there was more artifice in her grandmother’s appearance. Still, the familiarity felt reassuring. Veronica wouldn’t have traded Abuela’s presence right now for anything in the world.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Abuela said at last.

  “I thought you’d be more upset.”

  “I am upset,” Abuela admitted. “But the most important thing is for you to be happy. Maybe you’ll find a job or a career that makes you happier than academia.”

  Veronica raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Thank you.”

  “I want you to be happy. I want you to be secure. I want you to be safe.”

  “Even if you have to give up your sewing room for a little while?”

  “Even if.” Abuela paused. “I know you won’t be there forever. Then I’ll get my projects back out. I need to make a dress for your aunt Ana’s wedding next summer. Of course it’s her third marriage, so I won’t make anything too fancy.”

  Veronica ran her hands through her hair. Abuela was still Abuela. But that was just as it should have been. Veronica was tired of defining herself against her family. She only wanted to enjoy them. She knew she could have done worse.

  “That’s not what I meant, though,” Abuela said. “I’m sorry about what happened with your friend, Michael Karstadt. He seemed like a nice man.”

  “You’re joking,” was all Veronica could manage.

  “I liked him.” Abuela tugged sunglasses off the top of her head. Several strands of hair fell from her neat upsweep. “Even if he was an attorney.”

  “Then why were you so mean to him at the quinceañera?”

  “I was only teasing.” Veronica heard the tension in her grandmother’s voice. “Do you blame me for driving him away?”

  “No.” Veronica looked down at her hands. She’d taken the time to buff her nails this morning and now she admired their smoothness. “I thought Michael was different. I can’t explain.”

  “I know.” Her grandmother scooted closer, caressing her shoulder, as she used to when Veronica came home from school with less than a perfect score on a spelling test. “I wish you’d known your mother better. She wanted to teach Spanish literature. That’s why she went to study in Madrid.”

  “But she got knocked up with me,” Veronica finished for her.

  “Not that she regretted it for a second. It wasn’t your fault, mija. I am so sorry if I ever made you think anything was your fault. Your mother would have gone back to school. I would have helped her. She only wanted to spend the first few years with you. Then she got sick.” Abuela reached into her purse and took out a small pack of tissues. She removed her sunglasses and dabbed at her eyes. “I tried to raise you the way your mother would have wanted, as a strong, independent woman. I didn’t mean you should never fall in love.”

  Veronica tried to picture her mother rocking her or feeding her. But these were false images. She had to rely on Abuela’s memories. Veronica put her arm around her grandmother’s thick waist and hugged her. “It’s not your fault. And don’t worry. I’m not Anna Karenina.”

  Abuela frowned. “The adulteress?”

  Veronica grinned. “I mean I’m not going to throw myself in front of a train over Michael. Maybe I’m just meant to be alone.”

  “Maybe,” Abuela said. “But haven’t you noticed that car circling the block?”

  “I don’t hear anything.”

  “Of course not. It’s a Prius. Didn’t you tell me Michael Karstadt drove a Prius?”

  Veronica’s head shot up. Sure enough, a white Prius came to a soundless halt at the end of the street, backed up slowly, and then made a U-turn, still in silence. Her heart skipped a beat. “You invited him here?”

  “You can’t blame me for wanting to make things right.”

  “He’s a liar. You don’t want me to be with a liar, do you?”

  Abuela pinched her eyebrows. “Just hear him out. Your mother would have…”

  A chill passed through Veronica’s chest. “My mother would have what?”

  “I think your mother had a fascinating experience in Europe,” Abuela said carefully. “When she came back she was different somehow.”

  Vero
nica opened her mouth, but Abuela stopped her. “Not just because she was pregnant. She suddenly had a new interest. Russian history. It seemed strange. She’d come back from Spain, not Eastern Europe. I always wondered what sparked her interest, but then we were so distracted when you were a baby and she passed away before I had a chance to ask her.”

  Veronica’s lip twitched. “That is strange,” she said at last. “Why didn’t you tell me this until now?”

  “I told you some, mija. I didn’t talk about it too much because I didn’t want to make you sad. But that copy of Nicholas and Alexandra you read? It was hers. She grew fascinated with the Romanovs around the same time you were born. I wasn’t surprised you loved the book so much.” Abuela rose to her feet and gave a little smile. “Anyway, just talk to this Michael Karstadt.”

  “Why me?” Veronica stood to meet her grandmother’s gaze. “He’s your guest. You entertain him.”

  “It’s cold. I think I’ll go in now.”

  Veronica’s heart dropped to her stomach. “Wait.”

  Behind her, she heard a car door slam. Her grandmother went inside the house, shutting the door quietly in Veronica’s face. Veronica spun around. Michael was already heading up the driveway.

  Twenty

  BROOKLYN HEIGHTS, NEW YORK

  JULY 1969

  By now Lena had guided countless babies into the world. Still, she trembled with anticipation at the prospect of holding a newborn in her arms. Her hands weren’t as steady as they’d once been, and so the excitement was tempered somewhat. Lena took particular care with the boy in her arms now.

  Her daughter, Natalya, had been trying to get pregnant for years. She finally broke down and asked Lena for advice, even if all Lena offered were dubious tales from the Russian countryside. Lena had shrugged and told her youngest daughter to relax and let go of wanting a child so much. Three months later, Natalya was pregnant.