Ekaterina (Heirs of Anton)

by Warren, Susan May

  “You?” Kat countered, hoping.

  A smile creased Olga’s face. “Since I was a child. In fact, I grew up in an orphanage. If it hadn’t been for Babushka Antonina, I may have never have found the Lord.”

  “Was she your director?”

  “More like my grandmother. She had beautiful blond hair and these brown eyes that could part my soul and find my sins. But she loved me, and I adored her.”

  Kat could picture the woman in Olga’s eyes—rounded body, strong hands, a way with her love that made every child feel special. “I never knew my grandmother.” Kat took a deep breath. “In fact, that is the real reason I came to Russia. To find my family.”

  Olga’s forehead creased into a frown. “You have relatives in Russia?”

  “I think so. My grandfather worked in the OSS with the partisans. I think my grandmother was Russia. Her name was Magda. . .I think her last name might have been Klassen.”

  “Russia is a big place.” Olga shook her head. “And there aren’t many partisans left. I remember them being honored every year in a parade.” She steepled her fingers on her desk, her eyes suddenly alight. “You know, I think our itinerant pastor’s mother was a partisan. I remember reading an article about her not long ago. She happened to be a lawyer, and she pioneered the laws that opened the doors to international adoptions.”

  A Russian pastor. This trip certainly had some hidden blessings.

  “They live about an hour from here, but I’ll call him and see if you can meet them for dinner. I’ll drive you out. From what I can remember reading, Marina Dobrana and her husband spent their lives campaigning for adoption, and it was her dream to see every orphanage emptied. She even received a medal for her pioneering work. I’ll be she could give you a few ideas. The partisan network was tightly knit back then. If anyone could point you toward your Magda, Marina Dobrana could.”

  -

  Vadeem paced his office, glancing now and again at the computer, his jaw clenched. Kat’s words kept running through his head, “You can find out. The FSB has files on everyone.”

  Okay, more than just her words were running around in his noggin, but he fought the places his nightmares were taking him and focused only on what he knew. She’d flown out today, to Blagoveshensk, to help some rich American couple adopt a child. She was most likely safely checked into a hotel, eating potato soup, not giving him a second thought.

  Whereas he couldn’t seem to force her out of his brain.

  He plopped down at his desk, drumming his fingers, staring as his computer’s screen saver. Denis was at his perch out in the hall, checking on the history of Pskov, trying to read a smuggler’s mind. Vadeem hoped the kid dug up something. Grazovich hadn’t moved in two days and the surveillance team was starting to get antsy. If Kat was somehow entangled in Grazovich’s scheme, he didn’t seem panicked about her disappearance. Unless he knew where she was.

  Vadeem would be less than an FSB sleuth if he didn’t follow his gut and look into her past. Something tied her to Grazovich, something more than coincidence or the smuggler wanting a pretty companion during his tour of Pskov. And, the fact that a thug mowed them down and ripped the key—only the key—off Kat’s neck, leaving behind both her suitcase and her backpack, screamed volumes.

  That key had to open something of value.

  Vadeem surrendered to the investigator’s urge and keyed his password into the FSB computer. He pulled up her visa application and read it through. Ekaterina Hope Moore. Born in Nyack, New York. Thirty-three years old. Occupation, Adoption Coordinator.

  He rubbed his chin and typed in her mother’s name. Nothing. How about that grandfather she mentioned?

  He typed in the name from her application, where it was listed as “next of kin.”

  Nothing. He rubbed his eyes, recalling a conversation only yesterday with his partner. She said her grandfather is some sort of World War II hero. Maybe he did some time on the Eastern front.

  If Kat’s Grandfather had set foot in Russia, the NKVD, the forerunner of the KGB, active during the 1930’s and ‘40’s, would have known about it. Which meant it would be in the FSB databank. The screen blinked “no data.”

  Vadeem sat back in his chair and wondered what games Miss Ekaterina Moore was playing.

  -

  Kat sat at a round wooden table in the kitchen of the log home and knew she’d finally found the Russia she had dreamed about since childhood. A wood stove bullied heat into the room as Kat sat on a rough-hewn bench nursing a cup of chai. Golden-fried peroshke piled a plate at center stage, spicing the air with the smell of baked apples and sunflower oil. Faded pictures of stoic ancestors peered from the walls and on the wooden countertop, steam billowed out of a silver samovar and heated the zavarka, a spicy tea concentrate simmering in the teapot perched on the top. A very old, wrinkled babushka sat across from Kat, eyes shining and filling Kat’s ear with a story that took her to the edge of disbelief.

  “Back in the ‘40s, Stalin called up everyone to join the army. Hitler had pushed all the way into Stalingrad, Stalin’s namesake. We all knew if the fascists crossed the Volga, they wouldn’t stop until they got to the Pacific Ocean.”

  The old woman’s blue eyes sparkled, the lines around her eyes crinkling as she focused on her listeners. Kat glanced at the man next to her at the round table. Pyotr Dobran had the look of a work-worn pastor, wearing a slightly stained short-sleeve dress shirt and black pants. He’d reported that he spent the day visiting sick babushkas, painting the church outhouse, and meeting with the church youth leaders about the summer evangelism camp. Kat was struck by his pensive blue eyes, eyes that seemed to look right through to her soul. His smile however, won her over. He clasped her hand gently, smiled with welcome, and she knew he’d been rightly called to his profession.

  Night pressed against the tiny windows, a full blackness that betrayed the late hour. The fatigue that weighed Kat’s jet-lagged body warred with her brain, the only awake portion of her body. After trekking nearly a mile from the bus stop with Olga, who hadn’t been able to find gas to fill her Lada, and clinging to the promise that Pyotr would drive them back to Yfa, Kat finally felt as if the hard knots in her back were worth the prize. Olga, obviously exhausted, had commandeered a section of sofa and made sounds of slumber in the next room. Kat, however wouldn’t have missed this evening even if she had to prop her eyes open with a couple of those finely crafted teaspoons.

  As if also cherishing the moment, Pastor Pyotr sat with his chin in his hands, enraptured with his mother’s story, although Kat suspected Pyotr Dobran had grown up feeding on this rich history. His daughter had also joined them, a spunky blonde with the name Nadia. The seven-year-old snuggled into his side and played with one of her long blonde braids.

  Babushka ‘Rina’ as she had insisted Kat call her, had all the makings of a farmstead grandmother despite her career as a lawyer, with her headscarf, navy polyester housedress, brown cotton tights and hands that looked like they could both lift the world and soothe a broken heart. Kat noticed how graceful the babushka’s fingers were, even at her advanced age. They reminded Kat of her mother’s hands for some reason. . .long fingers made for playing the piano, or the violin. She watched them now as Babushka Rina peeled an apple in one long peel for her granddaughter.

  “We had a motto, back then. ‘Nothing beyond the Volga.’ It meant there was no land for Hitler to take, and we’d fight until the last man, or woman, fell.”

  “Women fought in the war?”

  “Oh yes, my dear, we had women bombers, women infantry, women snipers. The Russian women fought right beside their men to push Hitler back to Germany.”

  “Did you fight?”

  Her eyes fixed on Kat’s, an odd mix of melancholy and pride. “Yes. I was sniper in the 248th division. I fought at Stalingrad, among other places.”

  Kat blinked at that, having a hard time picturing this tall, rounded, but still elegant lady holding a gun to her shoulder. “That must have been d
ifficult.”

  Silence filled the room. Babushka Rina let it soak up Kat’s question. Then she nodded slowly. “Often, in this life, we are forced to do things that might, at other times, be unthinkable.” She sighed then handed the peeled apple to her granddaughter. “We won, however. We beat the fascists, and after the war, Pavel and I came east to start a new life.” The lines around her eyes crinkled as she smiled. Her face filled with a swirl of youthful memory. “And what a wonderful life it was. Pavel was more than I ever expected.”

  “Pavel?”

  “He was my father.” Pyotr reached into his worn wool jacket, which hung on the chair, and pulled out a wallet photo, a small black and white photograph. He handed it over. “He was a doctor. Went on to Glory five years ago.”

  Kat looked at a young man with shining eyes, a shock of dark hair, and a smile that couldn’t be anything but kind. He leaned against a tree, hands in his pockets, forever youthful, forever strong. She was instantly sad she hadn’t met him. “Pavel. That’s Paul, in English, right?”

  Babushka Rina nodded. “Your Russian is amazingly good, young lady. Where did you learn it?”

  “My mother was part Russian, and my grandfather, also. He taught me.”

  Larissa, Pavel’s petite wife, rose from the table and began taking cups and saucers from the sideboard. “Have you been to Russia many times for adoptions?” she asked.

  Kat laughed. “Oh no. This is my first actual field adoption. I work for a small international adoption agency in New York. We place babies from all over the world, but our Russia field is just beginning to develop. Thankfully, we were already registered in this territory, and our agency was able to step in to help the Watsons. ” She cast a smile at Babushka Rina, imagining for a moment the miles of red tape she must have untangled during her adoption campaign. “I hope this is the beginning of many such happy occasions.”

  “I hope so too.” Babushka Rina’s eyes glowed, and Kat had the oddest feeling the older woman was looking beyond her to another place in time. Her voice sounded miles, even decades distant. “I’ve always had a special place in my heart for adoption.”

  Then, in a blink, Babushka Rina returned and smiled brightly at Kat. “What was your mother’s name?”

  “Hope. Hope Moore, well, that was her married name. Her maiden name was Neumann.”

  Larissa poured a tablespoon of zavarka into the bottom of Kat’s teacup. She filled it with the boiling water from the samovar and handed it to Kat.

  “But Neumann is a German name, isn’t it?” Larissa asked. “I thought you said your mother was Russian.”

  “It is. My grandfather’s father was German, but my grandmother was from Russia. My grandfather met her in the war.”

  Pyotr accepted his tea from his wife. “In Russia?” He shook his head. “Americans didn’t fight on Russian soil.”

  “Yes they did.” Babushka Rina thumbed the handle of her cup, and her eyes were on Kat. Kat couldn’t shrug off the intensity of the old woman’s gaze. “They came over in the early days, helped organize the partisans.”

  “Yes,” Kat breathed, caught like a deer by the woman’s stare. “I think my grandfather was one of those. He said he worked with the partisans.”

  “Well, isn’t that interesting.” Larissa sat down next to Baba Rina, whose eyes never left Kat’s face, and put an arm on the older woman. “Babushka Rina was a partisan for a while.”

  Silence filled the room as Kat’s heart thumped hard. “Did you ever meet any Americans?” Here it was—the possibility this woman might have met, even worked with Grandfather. Kat held her breath.

  “No.” The abrupt response crushed Kat’s hopes. Baba Rina glanced away. “I don’t remember that much about the partisans. It was a horrible, dark time. War is awful. It simply tears out your heart and there’s no way to survive but to forget it all. Erase it.” Her voice dropped, to a harsh whisper. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  The silence felt so sharp, it brought tears to Kat’s eyes. She bit the inside of her mouth to fight them back. “I’m sorry,” she said in a mustered voice.

  No one moved. Then, thankfully, Larissa reached across the table and touched Kat’s hand. “Why don’t you ask your grandmother about your grandfather’s activities?”

  Kat’s grief seemed to clog her chest. “I never met her. She died when my mother was a baby.”

  The tightness in the room dissolved in a moment. “I’m so sorry,” Larissa said. Babushka Rina gave her a pitying smile. “What a shame. What was her name?”

  “Magda. He called her Magda.”

  The old woman’s smile froze, and in a blink, she aged to her eighty-some years, perhaps beyond. “Magda?” she repeated, and an unmistakable tremor strummed her voice.

  Kat nodded, a strange feeling gripping her heart.

  “That’s not a Russian name.”

  Kat’s mouth dried. “It’s not?”

  Babushka Rina shook her head slowly. “That’s a Hebrew name. It means ‘Tower of strength’.”

  “Are you sure your grandmother was Russian?” Pyotr asked Kat as he reached for a peroshke, obviously unaware that his mother’s face had drained of all life.

  Kat nodded, eyes glued on the old woman. Baba Rina broke Kat’s stare and sipped her tea. Her sleek, aged hands trembled.

  “Could I. . .could I show you something?” Kat asked. Her heart pulsed in her throat as she dragged her backpack into her lap and pulled out her Bible. She took out the ancient picture her grandfather had given her, stared for moment at the two women in front of the grave, then she handed it to Rina.

  Larissa took it, because Babushka Rina refused. “Who is this?”

  Kat kept her eyes on the old woman, her emotions wanting to leap from her skin. “I don’t know. That’s why I came to Russia. To find who these women are and why my grandfather has this picture.”

  Larissa showed the picture to Rina. “Klassen,” she said softly.

  Babushka Rina stared at it, blinking. Then her eyes filled and she looked down, at her tea.

  Kat felt her soul burn in panic as she watched the old woman shake her head.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

  -

  Ilyitch yanked his carry-on from the overhead compartment, cursing the cramped seats, the stuffy, smoke-filled air that wanted to close his throat, and especially the low-hanging thunderheads that made their landing as close to suicide as he’d like to experience.

  He slung the bag over his shoulder, and nearly flattened the doddering Dadushka. The old man shuffled at the speed of molasses from the cramped cabin. Ilyitch sucked in a calming breath. Keeping tabs on Ekaterina Moore suddenly felt like taking candy from a child. He smiled, despite his frustration.

  Yes, things were clicking into place, but before he spent the next ten hours on his feet, chasing down a blonde with a gift for evasion, he had to know the truth. He had skimmed too close to detection this time. Ilyitch ducked out of the cabin, into the fresh, moist air. Twilight slung enough shadow across the tarmac to keep him safely disguised, for now. He lolled at a snail’s pace as the rest of the passengers filed through the locked gates into the terminal. The air smelled of diesel fuel and rippled with the ear-piercing whine of an AN-2 motoring down in post-flight. A slight wind kicked up dust and sent grit into his eyes. Ilyitch muttered an oath as they watered. He wiped them, and fought a wave of frustration. Grazovich had better be right. He didn’t like to waste time, not with interest rates on his investments plunging in the States. He should thank his dumb luck that the FSB had the answers buried in their files, and that he’d found it before Captain Spasonov had the brains to follow Ekaterina Moore’s suggestion. Now, he just needed to exert a little influence and confirm his suspicions. If Ekaterina Moore had his answers he’d get them, one way or another.

  Chapter 11

  Kat stared at the ceiling in her dark hotel room, running over the night’s events, believing in her gut that Babushka Rina was lying. The old woman had
all but declared it with her eyes—she never again looked Kat straight-on the rest of the stilted evening.

  The old woman knew something. But what? Had she met Kat’s grandfather or someone who knew him during the war? Did Baba Rina recognize someone in Kat’s faded photograph?

  Her skin prickled remembering the way Larissa read the name, Klassen.

  It was familiar to her. Kat knew it in her bones.

  Her chest felt heavy, thick, and her eyes burned. “I feel as if I’m teetering on the edge of discovery, Lord, but something keeps yanking me back!” She slammed her fist into the ancient bed.

  The Watsons were in the next room, probably staring at their own whitewashed ceilings, anticipation pushing sleep into the realm of impossible. Kat sat up and trudged to the window. A lonely streetlight swept back the darkness in a puddle of light. In a nearby doorway, a man slouched in the shadows, probably a drunk dozing off his latest liquid meal.

  While she watched, the bum staggered to his feet and walked to the edge of the sidewalk—fairly gracefully, she thought, for a man soused enough to sleep on the street. He stood dimly illuminated by the envelope of lamplight, and stared boldly at the hotel.

  At her window.

  At her.

  Kat’s heart stopped in her throat.

  No, it couldn’t be.

  In a second, she whirled, ran for the door. She slammed it open and dashed down the hall. Her heart raced her down the stairs, into the lobby. . .

  . . .where she skidded to a halt and blinked.

  “Privyet, Kat.”

  -

  “Let me get one thing perfectly straight with you right now.” Kat’s eyes sparked in fury. “I am not going back with you.” With her hands clamping her hips, her face flushed, dressed casually in a pair of black leggings and a baggy tee shirt, he’d never seen her look more enchanting.

  He gulped back a smile. “I missed you too.”

  Her mouth gaped. He saw her working up a response, and held up a hand to save her the trouble. “It’s okay, Kat. I’m not here to drag you back to Moscow.” Although the thought had crossed his mind more than a thousand times as he winged his way to Yfa, having totally discarded his common sense. Well, perhaps not completely. After what he’d finally dug up in the FSB computer, Kat had landed herself smack in the middle of a century-old mystery, and her connection with Grazovich had suddenly taken on an entirely new meaning.