by Gill Paul
“Of course,” Maria agreed. “I promise.”
* * *
Maria gave birth to a baby girl in August 1920, by which time Stepan was toddling around the farm. He was enchanted with the newcomer, whom they named Irina, and sat watching patiently while Maria fed and changed her, then entertained her by dangling a rag doll made from scraps of fabric. Irina smiled at anyone who came near, and soon won the heart of the farmer’s wife.
“She is a happy soul.” Svetlana beamed, giving her a cuddle. “Your little boy is serious, as if he has the world’s problems on his shoulders, but this one is full of joy.”
Maria felt guilty at that. Stepan had been conceived, carried, and born while she was in the depths of mourning. All those tears she had shed must have infected him, as Svetlana had warned they would.
“Nonsense,” Peter said when she told him later. “Irina smiles at us because we smile at her. She is mimicking our expressions. Perhaps we did not smile so much at Stepan because we were still learning how to be parents. I don’t think it’s done him any harm.”
Maria liked the way he always had a logical answer. They were a good match: she was prone to bouts of anxiety and panic, but he quelled them with his calm rationality. As a child, she had feared she was not lovable, certainly not as well loved as her siblings, but Peter made her feel precious and special, as if he couldn’t believe how lucky he was to be with her.
Sometimes she woke in the night, stricken with terror that she might lose him one day. She knew she would never manage to look after the children without him. But listening to his breathing helped to soothe her, and if the fear was especially intense, she would snuggle close and pull his arm across her, feeling the heat of his body—he was always much hotter than her—and the steady beat of his heart.
* * *
A severe drought in 1921 spoiled the grain harvest throughout the region. Peter worked long hours carrying buckets of water from the lake in an attempt to irrigate the crops, but it was not enough to save the wheat and barley; their stalks withered and died in the ground. Not only would they be unable to bake bread to feed themselves then sell their excess produce at market, but there was not going to be enough fodder to see the animals through the winter. Peter and the farmer calculated how many cows they could afford to keep, then Peter set off to sell the rest for the best price he could obtain.
“Now there will be less milk and less beef,” he told Maria. “I’ll have to do more hunting through the winter.”
He began hunting in the early hours of the morning, then again at dusk after he had finished his chores, but the population of elk, grouse, and rabbits seemed more sparse and his endeavors could not save them from hunger pangs most days that autumn. With the winter fast approaching it was hard to know how they would cope.
“Did you know the Revolution in February 1917 was sparked by women protesting over the shortage of bread?” Peter asked Maria, while they played with their toddlers in the barn one evening. He was pretending to be a big bear and chasing them around so they would be tired enough to sleep despite the hunger knotting their stomachs.
“We girls had measles and were in our sickbeds that month,” Maria told him. “The first I knew of the Revolution was when Papa returned from army headquarters and told us he was no longer Tsar. New guards arrived and we were confined to the palace grounds.”
“I heard your father ordered his royal guard to open fire on the protesters but they refused,” Peter told her. “There were too many women in the crowd—women who simply wanted to be able to feed their children.”
“My goodness, I can’t believe Papa can have known that. He must have been misinformed.”
“Perhaps.” Peter was tight-lipped.
Maria felt she had to defend her family. “I know stories were circulating in the newspapers saying that the Romanovs ate caviar at every meal and ordered their clothes from Paris couturiers, but they were quite unfair. We did not buy any new gowns after the start of the 1914 war, and our meals were humble fare. I mean . . .” She thought back. There had been fish and meat at dinner, usually cooked in light sauces, and out-of-season fruits were often imported from southern lands. As she had eaten from delicate dishes served on fine china, with crested solid silver cutlery, she’d had no idea what it was like to play with your children in a barn so that hunger would not keep them awake. Surely if her father had known that those women merely wanted bread, he would have given them some?
Svetlana appeared in the doorway, holding a lantern. “Could you keep the noise down?” she asked, looking at Stepan and Irina, who were shrieking with excitement. “I have a headache.”
“Yes, of course,” Peter said straightaway. “Be quiet, children.”
They stopped obediently, crestfallen that the game was over.
“I hope your head feels better soon,” Maria called with concern, as Svetlana turned back toward the farmhouse.
* * *
The symptoms of starvation crept up slowly, like a wolf circling, waiting to pounce. At first there were painful stomach cramps that left a sensation of light-headedness when they passed. Maria sometimes had to clutch at doorways to stop herself falling over into a faint. Lethargy made it hard to get out of bed in the morning and drag herself over to heat some leftovers to line her children’s stomachs. She and Peter each tried to make the other eat, pretending not to be hungry.
“You must have more than me,” she insisted. “You have physical work to do while I can sit here conserving my energy.”
“I find berries when I am out hunting,” Peter argued, but she knew there were few to be had now the snows had come. He looked gray and gaunt, and although they had no mirror in their room, she realized she must look the same.
One evening, Peter arrived home after dark and opened his satchel to show Maria a long fish inside, with a silver belly and gold fins.
“It’s grayling,” he said, “but I only caught one. I’ll fillet it then take half to Joe and Svetlana.”
“It is not big enough to share,” Maria said quickly, salivating as she imagined the flavor. “I think we should keep it. It’s not right they should have half when there are four of us and two of them.”
“That’s unfair,” he objected. “Remember all they have done for us.”
Maria was thinking out loud. “Svetlana has a sensitive nose, but if we cook it in the forest, she will not detect the smell. Please, Peter. Your children need to be fed. Look at them!” She pointed to where they sat on the bed, listless, not even attempting to play with each other. Their baby chubbiness had dissolved and their cheeks had hollowed alarmingly. “They need food. Svetlana and her husband are still plump, and it’s just one meal. Please.”
He was clearly reluctant, but gave way in the face of her determination. They wrapped the children against the biting cold and trudged out in the snow toward the forest, carrying a lamp to light the route. Peter led them to an area where he had dug a fire pit in summer, and Maria hugged the children close while he struggled to light a fire in the bitter damp. At last the flames were flickering and he gutted the fish swiftly and efficiently, then threaded a skewer through and suspended it over the fire, turning it after a few minutes.
As soon as it was cooked, he cut chunks of flesh and doled them onto plates Maria had brought along. The fish was white and delicate flavored, the skin crisp and scented with woodsmoke. Never had Maria savored a meal as much as she did this one, eaten beneath a starry expanse of winter sky.
When they had finished, Peter heaped snow onto the embers and they rose to walk back to the farm. Just at that moment, a beam of light appeared through the trees, coming toward them, and they saw Svetlana standing behind it, her features distorted. Maria tried to kick snow over the fishbone that lay on the ground, but Svetlana saw and bent to pick it up.
“This is the thanks you give us for our hospitality!” she said. “I followed your steps because I thought it odd you should all go out so late, and now I discover your secret.”
“It’s the dishonesty of sneaking out here that I detest. I’m guessing this is a regular outing, and that you have been making fools out of my husband and me.” Her fury was increasing as she spoke, and the children cowered against Maria. She scooped them up, balancing one on each hip.
“This is the only time it has happened, I give you my word,” Peter said. “Your husband knows me for an honest man. Look how often he has trusted me to get the best price for his stock.”
“Perhaps he was mistaken. No doubt he will change his mind when he hears of your betrayal.”
Maria hadn’t spoken yet, but now she begged Svetlana. “Please forgive us this one mistake. You must understand that it’s hard to watch the children suffer. I promise you with all my heart that we won’t do it again.”
Svetlana rounded on her. “Why should I take your word for anything when you have lied to me all along? I know you’re a Romanov. Why don’t you go and fetch some of your millions and we can all dine richly tomorrow?”
“What do you mean? I’m not a Romanov,” Maria stuttered, at the same time as Peter said, “I think you must be mistaken.”
“I’m not mistaken,” Svetlana hissed. “I overheard you talking about it some weeks ago. Now, you both know I am no lover of the Bolsheviks, but neither am I a lover of the last Tsar and his wife. I will tell my husband what has happened this evening and we will discuss what should be done. He has a great respect for you, Peter, and I hope that will make him look favorably upon you.”
“Please . . .” Peter began. He gestured toward the children in Maria’s arms. “Think of the innocents.”
Svetlana turned on her heel and marched off through the snow.
* * *
Peter and Maria hurried back to their room. Her heart was thudding with panic, her brain a muddle of thoughts. They settled the children to sleep, then huddled by the fire, ashenfaced.
“She is not a vindictive woman,” Maria said. “She has known for some time without saying anything, so I doubt they will run to the authorities now. But all the same, it is not good . . .”
Peter was rubbing his chin between his fingers. “There is bound to be a reward for our capture. It will be hard for them to resist in these straitened times. Maybe they will not report us tonight, but as the winter continues and food remains scarce, they will weaken.”
“I shouldn’t have forced you to keep the fish for us. You didn’t want to.” She should have listened to him; he was a better person than her.
“There’s no point regretting what’s done,” he said, staring into the fire. “It’s what we do next that counts.” He came to a decision. “We have to leave tonight.”
“No!” She was terrified. “We can’t! How would we survive?”
“I will take Joe’s horse and wagon. We can leave one of your jewels in payment. They will be furious, but by morning I hope we will be many miles away.” He stood up. “It’s the only way, Maria. You pack our things and I’ll harness the horse. We must leave within the hour.”
“But where will we go?” she asked, feeling dread deep within her bones.
He shrugged and shook his head. “As yet, I have no idea.”
Chapter 19
Sydney, March 1974
NICOLE WAS THRILLED BY THE TINY FIRST-FLOOR apartment in Balmain, and delighted that she and Val would be sharing a bed. She unpacked her storybooks and colored pencils and put them in the little cabinet on her side of the bed, arranged her dolls along the pillow, then helped Val to put the few pots, pans, and plates she had brought into the kitchen cupboards. When they had finished, they went for a walk down the road in the direction of the bay, which glinted blue between the houses. Three girls, slightly older than Nicole, were skipping on the other side of the road, one jumping while two turned the rope, chanting: “Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree, merry merry king of the woods is he . . .” They turned to watch Nicole passing and she gave a quick smile and a little hop, clearly hoping that one day soon she might be invited to join their game.
Val did not know the area and was charmed by the higgledy-piggledy houses with unique shapes created to fit the odd spaces between pubs and disused factories. The exteriors were decorated with a mismatched jumble of motifs—seashells, grapevines, Dutch tiles, art nouveau panels, stone urns—while the balconies had wrought-iron railings, most in a state of dilapidation. The whole area was set on a slope, with cross-streets linked by twisty flights of steps. Nicole ran up one flight only to jump back down again two steps at a time, and Val marveled at her energy. She herself was exhausted from the move, and kept looking over her shoulder, worried that Tony would somehow find them and drag them back to Croydon Park. At the same time, she felt exhilaration at being free to make her own decisions for the first time in her life. She and Nicole could eat, sleep, watch TV, go out, all to a routine that suited them, and that was a thrilling prospect.
They entered Mort Bay Park, a beautiful green space on the edge of the Balmain peninsula. It used to be a dry dock for shipbuilding, but now it was a tree-circled, concrete-edged waterfront with views all the way to the Harbor Bridge and the city, as well as around the harbor. Val pointed to a ferry chugging into the wharf.
“If we ever want to go to the center, we’ll catch the ferry,” she told Nicole. “It’s much quicker than driving.”
Nicole grabbed her hand and tugged on it. “Can’t we go now, Mommy? I want to go on the boat. Please!”
Money was tight, but it seemed a good way to celebrate their freedom, so Val led Nicole onto the ferry and handed over a dollar, frowning at the few coins she received in change. It was worth it, though, when they started to move out past Goat Island and right across to the north side of the harbor. Diamond lights sparkled on the surface of the water. A sailing boat flitted past and Nicole waved, squeaking with glee when the occupants waved back.
“Are there sharks?” she asked, gazing over the railing as if trying to spot one in the depths.
“Could be,” Val teased. “Don’t fall in.”
She stretched out her bare arms, feeling the sun bake her skin. She never dared to tan at home in case Tony accused her of slacking; she sensed it would be a while before she stopped thinking about what Tony would think or do. She would have to get used to this freedom slowly, like a prisoner released after serving a particularly long sentence.
* * *
On Monday morning, Val enrolled Nicole at the local primary school, just two streets away. Nicole was clearly daunted, but she gave a brave smile as she said goodbye before a teacher led her toward a classroom. Val caught a glimpse of thirty or so children sitting at low tables and willed her daughter to be happy there. She had seemed popular at her preschool, but it was always hard to be a newcomer.
Nerves tightened in her own stomach as she walked out of the school grounds and onto Darling Street, the main thoroughfare through Balmain. The priority now was to find work, preferably a job that could fit around school hours. She started by asking in all the shops on the nearest five blocks, then she stopped in some small businesses: a print shop, the swimming pool, a metalworks factory. Most said they didn’t have any vacancies. A few asked about her experience and references before telling her they didn’t have anything suitable.
At the metalworks, a sharp-faced man with a moustache regarded her wedding finger, where she still wore her ring. “Is your husband so poor he has to send his wife out to work?” he asked.
Val blushed and admitted, “My husband and I are recently separated.”
He looked at her with a mixture of pity and contempt. “Oh dear. Well, we can’t be employing your sort here,” he said.
It’s not my fault, she wanted to tell him. I never broke a single one of Tony’s bones. I didn’t make him a prisoner in his own home. She paused, then turned away at the look in his mean eyes. She’d be wasting her breath.
&n
bsp; She didn’t want to work in a pub, because the shifts would start after Nicole finished school and she couldn’t afford to pay someone to mind her for the evening. But as business after business turned her down, she began to get desperate. She only had enough money in her savings to last a few weeks before they would be destitute. She couldn’t ask Peggy to lend her any cash because she and Ken weren’t exactly flush, and Tony would be incandescent with rage at her departure so he was hardly going to volunteer to pay alimony.
It was almost time to collect Nicole from school when Val spotted a sign in the window of an office block in the neighboring suburb of Rozelle saying they needed a cleaner. She went inside to inquire and was told there were four floors in which the cleaner had to empty the trash, clean the toilets, and vacuum the carpet; she would start at six in the evening when the staff left and work till she finished. The money was terrible, but they agreed she could bring Nicole with her, so long as she didn’t touch anything. It would have to do, to start with at least.
Val worked her first shift the following evening, and Nicole sat contentedly drawing pictures and poring over a book the school had lent her, pretending she could read the words.
“The girl sees the sea,” she said, “and wants to go for a swim, but she is afraid there might be sharks.”
The noise of the huge industrial vacuum cleaner drowned out her voice as Val heaved it slowly across the flint-colored carpet.
It was almost midnight and Nicole was fast asleep on a sofa when Val finally finished work. She was bone-weary, muscles aching in places she hadn’t known they existed, but still she had to lift her five-year-old daughter and carry her for a mile all the way back to their apartment. No matter; at least she was free of Tony.
Why didn’t Mom do this? she wondered. When she left her father, why hadn’t she taken Val with her? Val would never have dreamed of leaving without Nicole. It was unthinkable. Had her mother not loved her enough? Or had something happened to stop her?