The Lost Daughter

by Gill Paul

  “I am packing away the toys the children no longer play with. I could put the bag inside that wooden train you made for Stepan.”

  “Are you sure? Perhaps we should throw it in a canal. We have no use for it.”

  Maria instinctively felt she did not want to lose this last connection with her Romanov past. Things might change. Maybe she would be able to visit her aunt Olga in Copenhagen one day, selling a jewel to pay the fare. Maybe she would hear of Tatiana’s whereabouts and need money to travel to her.

  “I’ll cover the toys with blankets and stack them in a box in the corner with all the other boxes,” she suggested. “No one will dig down so far.”

  Peter chuckled. “I suppose you can’t separate a grand duchess from her jewels.”

  The decorating works commenced and they came home each night to the smell of fresh paint and rooms that looked brand new. The gleaming walls made their curtains and rugs appear shabby in comparison, so Maria took them down and cleaned them, beating the rugs in the outdoor courtyard.

  The day the hot tap was connected brought universal excitement, followed, a month later, by shock when they realized how much extra they would have to contribute to the communal electricity bill. A rota was drawn up, allocating set times in the bath to the occupants of each apartment and indicating what proportion of the bill each household would pay.

  One October morning, Maria was hanging out laundry in the yard while Yelena and Mikhail played hopscotch. She saw Raisa on the staircase and called a greeting. “The weather’s still mild so I hope the washing will dry quickly.”

  “Just another week till the cold weather,” Raisa predicted. “I can feel it in my knees.” She looked over her shoulder to check if anyone was listening. “Will you ask Peter to have a word with that young man at number eight? He takes such long baths in the evening that we fall asleep before it’s our turn.”

  “Why not get your husband to talk to him?” Maria replied. “Peter is always so tired when he gets home, I don’t like to ask him to do anything extra.”

  “My husband is also tired.” Raisa sniffed, an edge to her voice. Her husband had not made the grade as a shock worker and it clearly irked her.

  “Yes, of course,” Maria agreed. “Perhaps I will talk to him myself. Maybe he does not understand the rota.”

  Raisa came out to the yard to stand near Maria and lowered her voice to speak in a whisper. “You know his brother was arrested last month. I’m not sure we should be consorting with him. I hope he will lose his apartment before long.”

  Maria bit her tongue. It was hateful that relatives of those who had been arrested were instantly under suspicion, but that was the way the regime worked. “I’m sure justice will prevail, as it always does,” she said. “Meanwhile I’ll talk to him about the bath rota.”

  She picked up her laundry basket and climbed the stairs to the third floor, feeling exhausted. Raisa had that effect on her. As she opened the door, she heard the voices of Katya and Galina inside.

  “Hello, Galina,” she said. “What are you two playing at?” They were sitting on the floor with something glittering between them.

  “Look what we found!” Katya cried. “These were in Stepan’s old steam engine. Aren’t they pretty?”

  Maria’s shock must have shown on her face. Her heart started thumping violently, the blood rushed from her head, and she couldn’t speak at first. It was as if time stood still while she struggled to compose her features.

  “These old rocks!” she exclaimed at last, trying to sound offhand. “I haven’t seen them in years. Your father and I found them when we were hiking in the Urals, long before you were born.”

  She bent and started putting them back in the cloth bag, her hand shaking. There were flawless diamonds, bloodred rubies, dazzling sapphires, and creamy pearls, their colors glowing against the slate gray of the rug.

  “Can I have them, Mama?” Katya begged. “If you and Papa don’t want them.”

  “We’ll ask him later,” Maria said, to buy time. “But for now, please would you girls go down to the yard and keep an eye on the little ones?”

  She swept the rest of the jewels into the bag and slipped it in her pocket, not daring to look at Galina, scared of what she might see in her face. Did the girl know that this was enough to identify them as kulaks? That their entire family could end up in a gulag?

  Katya got to her feet and stretched out a hand to pull her friend up. She was an obedient daughter, a sweet girl. “Can we have something to eat?” she asked, so Maria fetched her tin of homemade lepeshki cookies and gave them one each.

  When the girls left, she sat down hard in a chair, her chest tight with fear. She prayed Peter would come home on time. He would know what to do. Please God, don’t let him get held up.

  * * *

  Maria listened for Peter’s footsteps on the stairs, and as soon as she heard them, she rushed out to intercept him. The bathroom was occupied so she led him into the cramped toilet and closed the door, locking it with the hook before telling him what had happened.

  “If Galina tells Raisa, she will go to the NKVD. There’s nothing surer.”

  He exhaled a long, slow breath, but didn’t say anything at first.

  “Maybe we should throw the jewels in a canal tonight,” Maria said. “If only I’d listened when you suggested it before.”

  “Where are they now?” he asked.

  “Here.” Maria showed him. “In my pocket.”

  “Give them to me.” He held out his hand. “I’ll dispose of them. Start dinner without me.”

  Maria put her arms around him and pressed her body against his, resting her head on his shoulder, breathing in his scent. It was going to be all right.

  She opened the toilet door and stepped into the corridor only to see Raisa waiting for her, Galina’s hand in hers and an accusing expression on her face.

  “Why would two factory workers have a bag of glittering jewels?” Raisa began. “That’s the question I’ve been asking myself, but I can’t think of an answer. Perhaps you will enlighten me.”

  Peter was calm. “Glittering jewels?” He smiled. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful! We would not have to worry about electricity bills then, would we? No, I’m afraid there are no jewels—just some old rock samples I picked up in the mountains many years ago. How is your husband, Mrs. Krupicha? I hope he is prospering at the paper mill?”

  Raisa was not going to be fobbed off so easily. “What were you two doing in the toilet?” she asked.

  Maria spoke. “I was asking Peter to speak to the man in number eight about the length of his baths, just as you requested. He is on his way now. Aren’t you, darling?”

  Peter took a step toward the stairs. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Raisa lifted a hand to stop him.

  “What about these rocks? Can I see them for myself? Galina was convinced they were jewels, weren’t you?” She yanked her daughter’s arm.

  The girl looked nervous and did not reply.

  “Why don’t I go to number eight first, then bring them to your apartment later?” Peter suggested, his tone reasonable. “After supper. I don’t know about you, but I am ravenous.”

  “I am here on your floor already,” Raisa insisted. “Why not show me now? It will only take two minutes and will save you a journey later.” She folded her arms, clearly not about to budge.

  Maria felt a tight band constrict her chest. Her brain felt so fuzzy she couldn’t think.

  “Where did you put them, darling?” Peter asked her, heading to their apartment door. “Are they in the usual place?”

  She nodded, unable to speak, sick with fear.

  Peter walked to the door and went inside, pushing it closed behind him. Raisa and Maria stood in awkward silence till he emerged again, holding a few of the less remarkable gems in the palm of his hand.

  “You see? They are worthless.”

  The light in the corridor was dim, but still it sparkled on the facets of the stones.
Maria held her breath.

  “There were more than that,” Galina whispered, not addressing the observation to anyone in particular.

  “Only a few more,” Peter said. “They’re all the same.” He closed his fingers over the gems. “Now, I’ll just go and see the man in number eight.”

  Raisa put a hand on his arm. “Could I take a couple? I’d like to show my husband.”

  Peter frowned. “I’m sure he wouldn’t be interested.”

  “All the same.” She would not release his arm and held out her other hand, palm upward, waiting.

  There was nothing Peter could do without turning it into an argument. He took a couple of the gems and placed them in Raisa’s hand. “Don’t bother to return them,” he said. “Perhaps Galina would like to play with them.” He walked down the corridor and turned onto the stairs. “I’ll be back soon,” he called to Maria over his shoulder, as if he was going for a relaxing stroll.

  * * *

  Peter threw most of the jewels into the canal that evening, keeping just the few he had shown Raisa. In bed, he whispered to Maria, “If the police come, say they are mine. As a shock worker I am more likely to be pardoned. We don’t want them investigating your past.”

  “Raisa might not say anything. I hope you convinced her.” Maria’s voice wobbled.

  “If I am arrested, go to my bosses at the factory, and to the Party heads. I think they will speak for me.” He sounded uncertain.

  “It won’t happen. You are too valuable.” She could hardly get the words out, her throat was so twisted with anxiety.

  Peter always slept well no matter what was going on, but Maria stayed awake long into the night, listening to his steady breathing, and tensing each time a car passed in the street outside. As dawn began to break, she let herself slide into a light slumber, and that was when it came: a loud banging on the door of their apartment, wooden truncheons hammering on the frame.

  “Open the door,” a man’s voice shouted. “NKVD.”

  Chapter 33

  Leningrad, October 1937

  DON’T ANSWER!” MARIA CRIED. SHE REACHED FOR her husband, but he was already out of bed and pulling on his trousers.

  “Pack a small bag,” he said. “They might take me for questioning.”

  “No, don’t go with them. Please don’t.” She had heard that some people who got into the dreaded black vans were never seen again.

  He started buttoning his shirt, so she leaped up and clasped her arms around him. Her head was pounding. Please let this not be happening. Please.

  The hammering at the door was getting more insistent. Stepan called from the other room. “Shall I answer it, Papa?”

  “Maria, please. The bag.” Peter gave her a quick kiss, then disengaged himself and bent to pull on his socks and boots.

  She busied herself putting a spare shirt and some socks into a brown leather bag. She added his toothbrush, then a tin of lepeshki biscuits. Her brain wasn’t working properly. How long might he be gone? What else might he need?

  She heard Peter open the door and the sound of men’s voices: harsh, unfriendly. Peter’s tone was measured and polite. He fetched the cloth bag with the remaining gemstones—of course, that was what they had come about—and took it to them.

  “We must search your rooms,” barked a thin-faced man in a blue officer’s cap. “All the family come here. Stand together.”

  They huddled in their nightclothes, Maria and Peter in front, the little ones behind, yawning and rubbing their eyes. There were four men. One stood guard while the others searched a room each. Maria heard the crash of her pots being thrown to the floor, drawers being yanked out, mattresses turned over, her card index scattered. They wouldn’t find anything else incriminating, she was sure of that, but it felt like a violation that they could see her most personal possessions: her undergarments, the sheets on her bed. She kept her eyes fixed on the ground, gripping Peter’s arm and Yelena’s hand, sick with fear.

  “You must come with us,” the officer said to Peter once they had finished. “We have a warrant for your arrest.” He pulled a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket.

  Peter glanced at it and agreed. “Of course I will.”

  “No!” Maria screamed, and clung to his arm. “Don’t take him. He is a good man. We need him.”

  Peter turned to Stepan. “Take care of your mother,” he said. “You know what to do.”

  Maria saw Stepan nod and bow his head, grim-faced.

  As the officers led Peter away, she had a horrible premonition of disaster and tried to run after him, to drag him back, but Stepan wrapped his arms tightly around her. He was taller than her and much stronger.

  “Let me go. Please,” she begged, struggling. “They might hurt him.” But it was only when they heard the street door slam that Stepan relaxed his grip. Instantly, Maria sprang out of their apartment, still in her nightgown, and hurtled down the stairs, two at a time. She yanked the street door open in time to see the black windowless van roll off.

  “No!” she screamed. “Come back!” She started running, barefoot, trying to catch up with it, and got halfway to the main road before Stepan stopped her.

  “Come home, Mama,” he said gently, and she turned her face to his shoulder and cried, with great racking sobs that shook her entire body.

  * * *

  “What did your father mean: that you know what to do?” she asked, once she was seated back in the apartment with a cup of sweet tea. Stepan had draped a blanket around her shoulders because she was shivering and her teeth were chattering. Irina had begun to pick up the belongings that were scattered across the floor and was folding clothes into piles.

  He spoke in an even tone, with only a crackle of emotion. “I will make inquiries this morning about where he is being questioned and whether we can present character witnesses. There are many who will speak for him.”

  Maria was astonished that he could be so calm. “When did you two discuss this?”

  “A long time ago,” Stepan said. “Papa thought it was inevitable that he would be arrested sometime, because he has a job that brings him into contact with foreigners.” He frowned. “What were those stones? Were they really gems?”

  Maria shook her head. She couldn’t tell him. “We found them in the Ural Mountains, back in 1920. We shouldn’t have kept them. It was foolish.”

  Stepan sucked his teeth. “What’s done is done. You must go to work today as if nothing has happened. I will come to the canteen at lunchtime to tell you what I’ve found out.”

  The idea of going to work seemed preposterous, but Maria couldn’t face staying at home either. The hours would drag. She cut slices of bread for breakfast, careful not to step on the broken plates that littered her floor, and got the younger children ready for school. In answer to their worried questions she told them that their papa had gone for a meeting but would be home soon. As they walked past Raisa’s door, she wanted to burst in and scream at her, but restrained herself. She couldn’t risk being arrested too.

  It was near impossible to work, but she dragged herself around her section at the factory, oiling gears and wiping surfaces clean, her heart pounding as she listened to the radio broadcasts about agriculture targets and the opening of some new canal.

  When Stepan came to the canteen at lunchtime, they sat at a corner table and Maria clutched his sleeve as he spoke.

  “He’s being questioned at Bolshoi Dom,” he told her. “I have already spoken to our Party leader and he will go today to testify on his behalf. Could you speak to the factory boss?”

  Maria nodded. “I know he’ll help.”

  “I’ll ask the children’s teachers and the Young Pioneers leaders. The NKVD will soon learn he is one of the most respected men in Leningrad.”

  Maria felt slight reassurance at this, but only slight. When she got home that evening, Irina and Stepan had finished tidying the apartment but it felt different now. Peter’s absence was all around: the empty chair where he normally sat; t
he rumpled cover on his side of the bed. She tried not to think about what might be happening to him. You heard rumors of torture and beatings, but surely they wouldn’t dare with someone as well-thought-of as Peter?

  She heard a whimpering noise from one of the bedrooms, as if a wounded animal were sheltering there. She pulled back the covers and found Katya huddled under her bedclothes, shaking with grief. Her daughter’s face was swollen and red with crying. “It’s my fault Papa has been arrested, isn’t it? I showed Galina the stones.”

  Maria pulled her close, stroking her hair.

  “You are a child,” she said, “and it was natural you would want to play with them. It is my fault for keeping them. I was being sentimental. Oh God!” She shook her head. “If only I could turn back the clock.”

  That night she prayed in a way she had not prayed in years. She prayed for all the people she had lost in her life: her family, her baby son, Pavel, and then she prayed hardest of all for Peter. The bed was cold and it was the first night in nineteen years that she was not able to mold her body around him and let his heat warm her. She lay awake till the early hours wondering what kind of bed he was sleeping in. Should she have put a blanket in his bag? A sweater? More food? It felt as though a large oval rock had lodged in her gullet, just behind the ribs. She knew she would never forgive herself if they harmed so much as a hair on his precious head. It would be all her fault.

  * * *

  By the end of the following day, Stepan reported that half a dozen friends had been to Bolshoi Dom to testify on Peter’s behalf. Maria felt the tension ease a little, but his next words brought her spirits crashing down again.

  “The Party leader thinks he will have to plead guilty to some charge. He did have the stones, after all.”

  “But they were mine!” Maria insisted. “It’s not his fault. I wanted to keep them.”

  Stepan shushed her, looking over his shoulder to check the others weren’t listening. “You mustn’t say that. Ever. It would only make things worse.” He paused. “Mama, this is going to be hard for you to hear, but we must—all of us—make statements saying that we should have noticed Papa’s errant behavior and reported it to the authorities. We must apologize for our lack of vigilance.”