The Lost Daughter

by Gill Paul

  “We want to establish your motives for keeping such records. It is the role of the state, not an individual.” The boss spoke like a machine, as if reciting some rulebook.

  Maria thought hard, but couldn’t see any harm in showing them her files. “Come in,” she offered, standing back to let them pass. Stepan was hovering in his bedroom doorway and she saw a look of complicity pass between him and the Party boss. That was odd.

  She led the men to her room and opened her file, pulling out the first card while balancing a surprisingly patient Yelena on her hip. “You see? I write the name and address on one side, plus the names of the family members they wish to locate. On the other”—she flipped one over to demonstrate—“a quick character sketch to remind me.”

  “How much do you charge? And who gave you permission?” the boss asked.

  She snuggled Yelena to her chest, worried the baby would catch cold if this interrogation continued much longer. “I have never charged a single ruble. It’s a very small-scale operation based on my circle of acquaintances. And I didn’t realize I needed permission; perhaps you could tell me where I must apply?”

  They looked at each other, then the sidekick asked, “Where is your husband this evening? Maybe we should discuss it with him.”

  Maria glanced at the clock. “My husband is a shock worker and is seldom home by this time. Should I ask him to contact you tomorrow?”

  They exchanged glances again, and their attitude transformed. It was the first time Maria fully appreciated the enhanced status Peter had achieved.

  “Perhaps we should not disturb him,” the boss said. “We will make inquiries and let you know if you are permitted to continue with your enterprise.”

  “I’m most grateful.” Maria bowed her head. “Now if I might dry my baby before she catches a chill . . .” Yelena gurgled at them. She had been trying to talk since the moment she was born but didn’t yet have any recognizable words.

  After the two men left, Stepan came to stand beside her, looking sheepish. “I’m sorry, Mama,” he said. “I told them about your card files at the Pioneers last week.”

  At the age of ten he had graduated from the Young Octobrists and become a keen Pioneer. “We were asked about any unusual things our parents did and I told because I was proud of you. I didn’t realize they would be cross.”

  Maria smiled at him. “They’re not cross. They are just going to let me know if I need permission. Don’t worry about it, son.” She ruffled his hair.

  When Peter got home later, she followed him to the communal bathroom to help him wash off the grime of the day and told him what had occurred.

  He shook his head in disgust. “Children are encouraged to inform on their parents now. And at the factory, I am forced to attend meetings where workers tell tales on coworkers. They are supposed to report if anyone is visiting the lavatory too frequently! Next they will be asking for information on what is done there.”

  Maria heard no more from the Party boss about her card file, but from then on she and Peter began to be cautious what they said in front of their children. Any sensitive conversations were saved for their private time, in the bathroom or huddled under the covers in bed. They didn’t blame Stepan; it was essential for his future prospects that he become an obedient citizen of the Soviet Union.

  Chapter 28

  Leningrad, 1932

  PETER CAME HOME ONE NIGHT WITH HAPPY NEWS. “I’ve been transferred to the sales office,” he told Maria. “They want me to negotiate with the merchants who buy our pig iron. It means no more shifting heavy machinery. My back is very grateful.” He rubbed his lower spine.

  Maria threw her arms around his neck. “What an honor! I’m so glad they appreciate you.”

  He grinned. “Today my boss took me to the docks to introduce me to some of the foreign merchants we do business with.” He glanced around to check none of the older children were in earshot. “Of course it means I’ll be under close scrutiny by the secret police.”

  Her eyes widened. “How do you know?”

  “Any Soviet citizen who has contact with foreigners is watched. What’s amusing is that they are so obvious.” He sat down and unlaced his boots. “I saw several today, sidling close to us in their long coats and fur hats, stamping their feet against the cold, cupping their hands to light a cigarette in the wind. Everyone else has a job to do, but they must stand around freezing all day!” He laughed.

  “You won’t get into any trouble, will you?”

  “Stop worrying, Maria!” He shook his head in amusement. “If you don’t have any real problems to worry about, you invent some. This is good news. Let’s celebrate tonight.”

  One of the merchants he dealt with in those early days was a Danish man called Matthias Knudsen, who plied the Baltic in a large, rather rusty steamship. While doing business, the two men chatted about the weather and asked after each other’s family, and Peter began to question Matthias about the news that was reported in Denmark, because they heard little of the outside world in Soviet broadcasts.

  “Matthias is alarmed about the rise of the fascist leader Adolf Hitler in Germany,” he told Maria. “It seems he blames the Jews for Germany’s economic woes, but Matthias says every country is suffering a downturn since the American economy collapsed in 1929.”

  “Perhaps Stalin is not doing such a bad job here,” Maria said. Their lifestyle had improved dramatically since he became Party leader.

  Peter looked around again to check no one was eavesdropping. “Economic stability isn’t everything,” he said, pulling a comical face. It was heresy: he was contradicting all the posters that waxed lyrical about industrialization and the Five Year Plan and the shiny Communist utopia.

  Maria chuckled. “Will you ask Matthias if he has heard any news of my family?” she asked. The Romanovs were never mentioned in the Russian papers, but she was eager to hear what was reported in the outside world.

  “I’ll try,” he said, his tone wary. She guessed he’d have to do it out of earshot of the foot-stamping secret police.

  A few days later, Peter told her that he had broached the subject by asking whether the Danish king, Christian X, was popular among his subjects. “Matthias said his influence has been much reduced and that he is now a symbolic head of state without power. I replied, ‘If only our Tsar, Nicholas II, had accepted such a situation, he might be alive today,’ then added, ‘I don’t suppose you read anything about the Romanovs in your newspapers?’”

  Maria held her breath as she waited for the answer.

  Peter put a hand on her knee. “He told me there is a woman in Berlin who claims to be Anastasia.”

  Maria gave a little scream and clapped a hand to her mouth.

  “But don’t get your hopes up,” Peter cautioned. “He said the relatives who have visited her think she is an impostor. She doesn’t speak any Russian.”

  “Which relatives have visited? Has my grandmother been?” She would know for sure.

  “He mentioned your aunt Olga and aunt Irene.” They were her father’s and her mother’s sisters respectively.

  “Olga is Anastasia’s godmother. She would definitely know if it is her.” Maria shook her head. “But why would anyone pretend to be Anastasia if they are not? I don’t understand.”

  “Perhaps the impostor thinks she can claim the family fortune? I don’t know.”

  Maria was silent for a moment, remembering her lively little sister, the mischievous one of her siblings. “If only we could go to Berlin, I would know in an instant,” she said in a voice full of longing. But she might as well have wished to go to the moon.

  * * *

  Maria had dozens of questions she wanted Peter to ask Matthias, but he left it several weeks before raising the subject again, so as not to arouse suspicion. This time he returned with some bad news for Maria. “Matthias tells me that your grandmother, Maria Feodorovna, passed away four years ago. I’m sorry. After escaping Russia she lived for a while in London—as we knew—t
hen traveled back to Denmark, where he says she became the figurehead of the Russian émigré community.”

  “She was old,” Maria said. “She must have been eighty. I hope the end came peacefully.”

  “But your aunt Olga lives on a farm near Copenhagen, where she has raised two sons. Matthias said she enjoys painting watercolors and sometimes exhibits them.”

  Maria remembered Olga encouraging her drawing when she was younger and felt a wave of longing to see her. Copenhagen was closer than Berlin; they were linked by the same sea. But that made no difference when it was virtually impossible for Soviet citizens to travel.

  “If only Matthias could hide us on his ship and take us to Copenhagen,” she wished out loud, then looked for Peter’s reaction. “Do you think he might, if we paid him with a diamond?”

  Peter pondered this. The jewels Maria had sewn into her clothes at the Ekaterinburg house were hidden beneath a floorboard under their bed. They couldn’t risk trying to sell them in the Soviet Union, where they would instantly have marked them out as kulaks, but Matthias would be able to sell them in Denmark.

  “Do you mean for a visit, or to stay there?” he asked.

  She turned her head away. She had been thinking perhaps they could all move to Denmark and live with her aunt, but that wouldn’t be fair to Peter. It wasn’t his family, he didn’t speak any language but Russian, and besides, he loved his country. “A visit, certainly, to see how the land lies.”

  Peter nodded. “I don’t think it is practical for us to take all the children and then attempt to return again. The entry requirements at the port are very strict. But perhaps you could visit your aunt. I will see what Matthias says.”

  Maria panicked. “I couldn’t go alone. Who would look after the children?”

  “I would manage, with the help of Stepan and Irina.”

  She did not say so, but she knew she could not get through so much as a day without Peter. She would be heartsick the entire time. He was as necessary to her as air.

  “Perhaps I will write first,” she decided. “Will Matthias take a letter for us, do you think?”

  “I am sure he would,” Peter said. “He is an agreeable man.”

  * * *

  My dearest aunt, Maria wrote. I have recently been overwhelmed with joy to hear that you are alive and living in Copenhagen. I hope Uncle Nikolai is with you and that your life is full of happiness. I have such wonderful memories of the time you spent with us at Tsarskoe Selo and all the parties you took us to before the Great War.

  She then related in brief what had happened at the Ekaterinburg house in July 1918, and the fact that Tatiana had not been present during the murders. Perhaps Olga knew of Tatiana’s whereabouts? If so, she begged that she would let her know. She wrote that she suspected she was the only one who had escaped alive from the basement, and so was curious to learn of the existence of a woman in Berlin who claimed to be Anastasia. I would love to know your true opinion of this woman. If she is my sister, I must find a way to be reunited with her, and I hoped we might avail ourselves of your hospitality for a time. Sadly, I would not be able to invite her to Leningrad, where my husband and I live the lives of factory workers under assumed names.

  Peter read the letter when she had finished, stumbling over some of the words. His reading had never become fluent. “Were this to fall into the hands of anyone but Matthias, we would be sent to a gulag, but I am sure I can trust him. I’ll take it to him tomorrow,” he promised.

  There was a delay of several weeks before a reply came. Matthias slid the letter between some shipping documents and gave Peter a nod and a pat on the back as he handed them over. A secret policeman hovered unsuspecting as Peter transferred it to an inside pocket of his coat.

  Maria recognized Olga’s hand on the envelope and tore it open in haste, excited beyond measure to hear from the first family member she had managed to contact since 1918. Her face fell as she read the opening words: You would not believe how many impostors have contacted me in the last decade to say they are Romanovs. I believe I have heard from three Anastasias, two Alexeis, an Olga, and at least one other apart from you who claims to be Maria. Tatiana is the only sister who does not have an impersonator, or at least I have not yet received any communication from such.

  Maria sat down and read on. I’m sure you understand how difficult this is for me. My visit to Berlin to meet Anna Tschaikovsky—the one who claims to be Anastasia—was particularly upsetting as the woman is clearly mentally deranged. I suspect she is being manipulated by others for financial gain, but trust me when I tell you she is decidedly not my beloved niece and goddaughter.

  The letter ended: Forgive me if I seem harsh but I hope you will understand that I cannot invite you to stay in my home without first ascertaining your identity. Should you happen to visit Copenhagen, let me know and I will meet you and make up my own mind.

  Maria felt desperately cast down by this answer. Her own aunt did not know her, and did not believe any of the others who had contacted her.

  “Write again,” Peter urged. “Press your case. There must be personal stories that only you and she would know.”

  Maria took his advice: Do you remember when Joy stole a piece of cherry cake you had laid on a low table and stood trying to appear innocent although there were crumbs on the floor between her paws? Do you remember how hard I cried when my fingers were trapped in the door of the royal train on the way to Livadia and only your special bonbons could make me stop? Do you remember the time Anastasia threw a snowball at Tatiana and knocked her out cold because she had accidentally scooped up a rock inside the snow? Please know it is me, beloved aunt. Who else would share these memories?

  Still the reply was not encouraging: You could have heard these stories from a member of the royal household. I’m afraid the only thing that will convince me is to meet you face-to-face and compare your current appearance with that of the niece I last saw sixteen years ago.

  Maria showed the letter to Peter. “What if I traveled to Copenhagen on Matthias’s ship and Olga decided I am an impostor? I was an innocent seventeen-year-old when last she saw me, and now I am a thirty-three-year-old mother of five who mends factory conveyor belts. My own mother would not recognize me.”

  “I am sure she would know you,” Peter soothed. “If you like, we could pay for the Karl Bulla photographic studio on Nevsky Prospekt to take your likeness and send that to her.”

  “If only I had my old camera. Do you remember when I took your picture?” She smiled, remembering his unease in front of the lens. “No, I doubt Olga would recognize me from a photograph, and the experiment would be an expensive one. Either I go there in person or I do not.”

  Peter spoke carefully, and she knew he wanted her to make up her own mind. It was her family, after all. “I will support you if you decide to go. My only concern is that once you have left the Soviet Union, it will not be easy to return. Matthias might have to smuggle you in, like contraband.”

  Maria shuddered. She knew in her heart she was not brave enough to do this without Peter beside her. He was the strong one. She fell silent for a long time, and Peter left her to her thoughts.

  Maria could not sleep that night, but lay awake thinking about her life. She had been married to Peter for almost fourteen years and they had five children. Leningrad was where they had made their home, for better or for worse. Maybe it was time for her to stop dreaming of her Romanov past and start appreciating all she had in the present. She lived with a man with whom she never tired of conversing because she always found his views interesting, whose physical presence still gave her a tingle of desire; a man who was tender and loving to her and to all of their children; a man who could always tease her out of her anxiety and make her smile. Her life was here, with him.

  After making this decision, she continued to write to Olga, sending greetings at Christmas and Easter, and Olga reciprocated, but as the months went by the gaps between their letters grew longer. Their arrival no longer s
parked the thrill Maria had felt when she first made contact with her long-lost aunt.

  The fact that Tatiana had not been in touch with Olga persuaded Maria that she must still be in the Soviet Union. One day she must come to Leningrad, and when she did, Maria prayed their paths would cross. Every time she managed to reunite family members who had not seen each other for years, she made a secret wish: please let it be my turn next.

  Something strange was happening to their society, though. One day a woman in the factory canteen asked Maria, “Please take my card out of your file and destroy it. I am no longer looking for my father.” She would not explain why. Then another woman in the bread line asked that her card be destroyed too.

  “They think you are an informer,” Annushka whispered. “But don’t worry. I know you’re not.”

  “Me!” Maria stuttered in disbelief. “An informer? Who could think that?”

  “You would be surprised how many are,” Annushka confided, her eyes alighting on a woman three places ahead of them.

  “What would I inform about? Their addresses? It’s madness,” Maria told Peter later.

  “It’s certainly odd,” he agreed with a frown.

  Perhaps word had leaked out that she had shown her file to the Party boss and that was why people were nervous. She asked Peter if he thought that could be the case.

  “I suppose it could,” he said slowly.

  She got a sense there was something he was holding back because he didn’t want to worry her, but decided not to press him. Sometimes it was better not to know.

  Chapter 29

  Pacific Ocean, May 1974

  AS SOON AS THEY HIT OPEN WATER, VAL BEGAN TO feel nauseous. The ocean wasn’t particularly rough, but the slight roll of the ship, the tilt of the horizon, and an odd sense of weightlessness meant her stomach heaved and the taste of vomit was ever-present in her throat. She sat on deck, wrapped in a blanket, trying to focus on a distant point, as one of the sailors advised. Nicole was unaffected, and spent her days socializing with the passengers and crew. Val watched her introduce herself to new groups and marveled at her confidence. She herself would never have been able to do that at five; she still felt shy meeting strangers at thirty-five.