The Lost Daughter

by Gill Paul

  Maria was adamant. “Absolutely not! I will not betray him by playing their evil games.”

  “Papa told me you would say that. We discussed it at length.” His eyes didn’t leave her face. “It was his wish that if he was arrested, we should all admit to lack of vigilance. It is the only way to stay out of jail ourselves and have a chance of a normal life. Otherwise I will be thrown out of the Institute, we could lose this apartment, and my brother and sisters will never be accepted into further education. Besides, you could be arrested too, and the little ones need at least one of their parents.”

  Maria shook her head. “I will only do it if Peter asks me himself. I must speak with him. Will they let me visit?”

  Stepan sighed, clearly accepting that it would take some effort to persuade her. “I will ask tomorrow. I plan to make my own statement then.”

  Maria turned away. It wounded her to the core that Stepan would speak against his father, even though she knew it made sense. “If he pleads guilty to some charge, what will happen? Will they let him come home again?”

  Stepan didn’t speak for a long time, and she couldn’t bear to look at his face, fearful of what she might see there. “I don’t know,” he said at last.

  * * *

  After three days without any further news, Maria couldn’t bear the suspense any longer. She urged Stepan to let her accompany him to Bolshoi Dom, which was on Liteyny Prospekt. If she was there, on the spot, perhaps they would let her see Peter for a few minutes. She needed to know he hadn’t been hurt.

  They sat in silence on the tram, arms linked. As they alighted, Stepan said, “Please let me do the talking. I know how to handle this.”

  “I need to see him,” Maria insisted. “Be sure to tell them that.”

  She paused and gazed up at the modern, pale beige stone building. There were nine stories. Which one was Peter on? Would he sense her presence? Or look out a window and spot her? She couldn’t see any faces because light was blinking off the glass.

  They walked into a marble entrance hallway and followed directions to the inquiries desk. A silent line stretched all the way back to the lobby. Maria and Stepan waited arm in arm for almost an hour before they reached the desk, where a man with a scowling face was on duty behind a sliding glass partition.

  Stepan showed his Party card and asked if it was possible to visit his father, who was being held there.

  The officer flicked through a list on the desk in front of him, his expression cold. He found Peter’s name, nodded, and opened a drawer. “Fill out this form.” He handed it over. “Return tomorrow with the relevant sections completed and we will see.”

  “If we fill it in now, can we see him today? I’m begging you,” Maria asked, clasping her hands together.

  He gave her a long stare. “Is this your mother?” he asked Stepan.

  “Yes, I—”

  “Take her away and tell her to keep her mouth shut in future.”

  Clutching the form, Stepan led her by the elbow toward the door. Maria stopped at the entrance. Somewhere in that building, Peter was breathing, thinking, his heart beating, and she hoped he could sense she was close by and thinking of him.

  They returned the next evening with the form filled out and signed in the correct places, but when they reached the front of the line, the same officer took it and threw it into a filing tray. “Your application will be considered,” he said.

  Maria had brought a blanket and some fresh clothes for Peter, wrapped up in brown paper and string. “Please, sir, would it be possible to give these to him?” she begged. “He didn’t bring warm clothes with him and the nights are drawing in.”

  “Parcels get handed in over there.” He gestured toward an unmanned desk across the room, which had a pile of packages stacked behind it.

  “It has his name on it.” She showed him. “There. On the top. Will he get it this evening?”

  “In due course,” he said. “Next!”

  “No, please. I am begging you to get my parcel to him tonight. Can you do that?” She had written a note saying that they loved and missed him. It was more important he receive that than anything else.

  The man glared at Stepan. “Can you control your mother? Get her out of here.”

  Maria was bitterly disappointed. She had counted on visiting Peter that evening and giving him the blanket and clothes in person. She hadn’t been sure if she would be allowed to hug him, but just to see him and talk to him would have been enough. As soon as they left the building, she began to cry.

  “Why are they still holding him? When can I have him back? Stepan, you don’t understand. He’s the strong one of the two of us. I can’t carry on without him.” She clung to her big son and he held her close.

  “I’ll look after you, Mama,” he said, but that only made her cry harder.

  Chapter 34

  A WEEK AFTER PETER’S ARREST, WHEN NOTHING seemed to be helping to get him released, Maria went to visit Annushka, the woman whose brother she had found. Annushka’s husband worked for the NKVD. It was a long shot, but perhaps he would help.

  When Annushka heard that Peter had been arrested, she was reluctant to invite Maria inside her apartment. She looked terrified, peering along the corridor in case anyone was watching. “I’m sorry for your trouble, but I don’t want my husband to find out I know someone who is under suspicion.”

  “I was hoping I could talk to him for two minutes. Ask his advice. See if there’s anything he can do. Please, I’m begging you.” Tears were not far away, but she held them back. “Is he due home soon? I don’t need to come inside. Please put yourself in my position.”

  Annushka hesitated, then pulled the door wide. “Of course you must come in and wait. You did so much for me. Please, be my guest.”

  They sat on a gray wool sofa and Annushka offered tea, which Maria refused. She barely ate or drank these days because the tightness in her chest made it impossible to swallow. Besides, it wasn’t fair that she should eat when Peter might be surviving on prison slops. It didn’t bear thinking about. In her positive moments, she planned that she would cook his favorite dishes and make a fuss of him once he was home again. She would make love to him, so tenderly, worshipping every bit of the body she knew as well as her own. In her worst moments, she pictured him being transported to a gulag, forced to haul timber and dig trenches in the bitter cold. She didn’t know how she would stand that.

  The door opened and Annushka’s husband came in, hanging his coat on the rack and looking across with a question in his expression. He was an exceedingly tall, very thin man, and as he came closer, Maria saw that he had a dramatic scar zigzagging down one cheek.

  “This is Maria, the woman who found my brother. Remember I told you about her?” Annushka’s voice trembled as she spoke. She seemed nervous of him. “Maria, this is my husband, Yuri.”

  He nodded curtly and said, “Good evening.”

  Annushka continued. “Maria’s husband has found himself in trouble with the NKVD and she begged me to let her ask your advice.”

  He glowered at her, but came to stand in front of Maria, just a couple of steps away. “Tell me what he is accused of,” he ordered.

  She told the story about finding the rocks in the mountains and keeping them without thinking any more of it. “They were a souvenir of a happy time. We had just gotten married and were enjoying a hiking holiday. When we moved to Leningrad, they got lost among our possessions and, to be honest, I’d completely forgotten they were there.”

  “And they are real jewels?” he asked.

  She nodded. “It seems so. We had no idea.”

  “It is hard to believe you did not realize.” His tone was not particularly friendly. “I imagine that’s what your husband’s interrogators are saying.”

  She clasped her hands, pleading with him. “We are simple people. Neither of us knows anything of jewels.”

  “And yet you are articulate. You are not a stupid woman.”

  Maria changed tack.
“My husband is a valued shock worker at a pig-iron factory. We have five children who have been brought up loyal Communists. We do good in our community; my husband is always willing to help neighbors mend burst pipes or unblock drains, while I help to find missing relatives, as I did for your wife. What value can it possibly have for my children to lose their father, the factory to lose its worker, and me to lose my husband? I’m begging you—if there is anything you can suggest, I would be forever in your debt.” She spoke with passion and determination. This had to work. She couldn’t think of anything else.

  He appraised her for a while before speaking. “I can see you truly love him. Let me make inquiries. I’ll get Annushka to tell you if I have any success.”

  Tears sprang to Maria’s eyes. “Thank you.” She bowed her head. “I can’t tell you how much that means.”

  * * *

  Maria allowed herself to feel a shred of hope after the meeting, but a week later, when she spotted Annushka in the bread line, there was no news.

  “He hasn’t mentioned it,” Annushka said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Will you ask tonight? Please?” Maria begged.

  Annushka promised she would, but the following day she said she had not dared to bother him. “He was in a terrible mood,” she apologized. “I’ll see if he is more amenable tonight.”

  Maria thought she should at least have asked the question, mood or no mood, but did not say so. Two weeks had passed since Peter was taken away, and it was getting harder to bear with every second that passed. She missed his touch, his smell, the sound of his voice, the space he occupied in a room. She would never feel safe until he was back. Never.

  “Let’s go to Bolshoi Dom one more time,” she pleaded with Stepan.

  “Mama, it’s not a good idea.” He patted her shoulder. “These things take time.”

  “If you won’t come with me, I will go alone,” she insisted. Outside the window an early flurry of snow glowed in the light of the street lamps. She pulled on her coat, saying, “Irina, watch the little ones, please.”

  “Hang on. I’m coming,” Stepan agreed wearily. “But let me do the talking. That officer responds better to men. Your persistence irritates him.”

  The snow was not sticking. The ground in October was too warm from daytime sun. When Peter came back, Maria guessed he would begin sealing the edges of windows and doors so they did not let in drafts during the coldest months.

  At Bolshoi Dom there was no line because it was late in the day, but the same unhelpful officer sat behind the inquiries desk. He was expressionless as they approached but slid back the glass partition so they could talk.

  Stepan gave his father’s name, although the man must surely remember them by now. He picked up his typed list and scanned slowly until he found it. His finger moved across the line, then he looked at them both with a strange expression. Could it be triumph? Satisfaction?

  “Prisoner number 5204 has been tried, found guilty, and sentenced to death,” he said with a crooked half-smile.

  “No!” Maria screamed. It was as if the air had been punched from her body. “Peter!” Her voice echoed around the high-ceilinged room, bouncing off walls.

  “I think you have the wrong person,” Stepan said, a tremor in his voice. “Can I see your list?”

  The officer handed it over. Stepan checked and double-checked it, then turned to Maria with horror on his face. “It says the sentence was carried out yesterday.”

  Maria’s legs gave way beneath her. The pain was so appalling that she began clawing at her eyes, her face, her neck, drawing blood. “No-o-o!”

  “Mama, your face. Stop it!” Stepan pulled at her hands.

  But she couldn’t stop. She wanted to dig her nails deep into her flesh and carry on gouging holes until she was dead too. That way she wouldn’t have to live with this.

  Stepan tried to pull her to her feet, but her legs wouldn’t take her weight. The officer was grinning now—actually grinning—and she wanted to kill him, but she couldn’t get up.

  Stepan hoisted her in his arms and carried her toward the door.

  “I can’t leave without Peter,” she cried, trying to struggle free. “We need to take him with us.” She would wash his body so tenderly, put the coins on his eyes, lie with him one last time.

  “Let’s get you home. I’ll come for him tomorrow.”

  Maria began to cry. “But he’s on his own. He might be cold. Please . . .”

  “Tomorrow. I’ll do it first thing tomorrow,” Stepan promised.

  They were out on the street now and the air was icy with frost, shocking Maria into silence. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t be true. She couldn’t carry on living in a world without Peter.

  Stepan carried her all the way to the tram stop, just as his father had carried her through the forest back in 1918.

  Chapter 35

  Sydney, September 1974

  IT WAS DAUNTING TO ARRIVE BACK IN SYDNEY WITHOUT a home or a job to go to. Val and Nicole moved into Peggy’s spare room and Val made finding a job her first priority since her money was all but gone.

  “There’s work going as a telephone operator at the uni,” Peggy’s friend Sandra told her. “I noticed an ad on the noticeboard when I was waiting for my archeology class last night and wrote down the number for you.” She pulled out a scrap of paper, and checked before handing it over. “Yeah, that’s the one. My bag’s so full of junk, I’m always amazed I can find anything.” She held it open to let them see a jumble of hairbrush, wallet, makeup, checkbook, pens, and umpteen torn packs of Juicy Fruit gum.

  Val called immediately on Peggy’s phone and arranged an interview the following morning. “I don’t have any experience,” she confessed to Peggy. “I hope I can wing it.”

  “You need a good speaking voice and a few grains of common sense. You should slip under the wire.” Peggy smiled.

  Her friend Lynette was also invaluable, providing the number of a woman lawyer who specialized in marital law. Val tucked it in her wallet. She was determined to find a way of accessing her inheritance as soon as possible so she could send money to Harbin to pay for her mother’s care. If only she could get her to a Western hospital, they might be able to save her.

  There was a lot to do, a whole life to reconstruct, but she felt energized by her trip. Even if she had not found answers to all her questions about her father, being reunited with her mother had brought a profound sense of comfort. She felt proud of herself for getting there and back, and knowing how much her mother loved her had boosted her belief in herself. She had returned to friends who were doing their best to help, she had a roof over her head, and Nicole loved staying at Lenny’s house because it meant playtime started as soon as she opened her eyes in the morning.

  The Saturday after Val’s return was unseasonably warm, with temperatures in the low seventies, and Peggy’s husband announced he would do the first cookout of the season. He and Peggy invited half a dozen other couples on a potluck basis, where everyone brought a dish and you hoped you didn’t end up with ten bowls of potato salad. Val made deviled eggs, with paprika and mustard mixed into the yolks, and wrapped strips of salty bacon around some dates she had wrestled the pits out of.

  At six in the evening all the guests were there, beer in one hand and plate of food in the other, children screeching in the sandbox, when there was a loud blaring outside. Someone was pressing their car horn insistently, the sound cutting through the air, stopping everyone midconversation.

  Val peered toward the source of the noise and her blood froze. It was Tony’s car. He was leaning out the driver’s window.

  “Where’s my slut of a wife?” he yelled. “Watch your wallets, folks. She stole my bloody money and she’ll steal yours too if you give her a chance.”

  Ken walked across the lawn to remonstrate with him, but Val hesitated. She knew she should go too—he was her husband, after all—but it was as if her legs wouldn’t carry her. She was terrified of what he might do. Pe
ggy put a supportive arm around her shoulders. Nicole was playing with the other children, oblivious to the drama.

  The sound of the car horn stopped as Tony got out and strode across the lawn to argue with Ken face-to-face. Val couldn’t hear the words, but she could see his fists clenched by his sides and knew he was close to losing his temper.

  “He might get violent,” she warned, and two of the other men put down their beers and hurried over.

  Suddenly Tony swung a punch. Ken swayed to avoid it, and the other men grabbed Tony’s arms, shouting at him. “What you doing, mate?” Tony struggled to free himself, but they overpowered him easily and marched him to his car, wrestling him inside.

  “Don’t come back,” Val heard one of them yell as he slammed the door.

  Tony drove off, waving an emphatic middle finger out the window.

  “I’m so sorry,” Val apologized to the men when they returned to the party.

  “No worries. Bloke’s a wanker,” one of them said. “You’re well out of that.”

  The barbecue resumed but Val felt uneasy. Now Tony knew she was back, he would be hunting for her. He would never let her get away with stealing from him. No doubt he would have gone to the police and pressed charges if he could.

  Let him try, she thought. Let’s see how sympathetic the judge is when he hears he isn’t paying a cent in child support.

  The following afternoon, a brick crashed through Peggy and Ken’s sitting-room window, landing just a few feet from where the children were coloring with crayons. By the time Ken rushed outside, all he could see was a car disappearing around the bend, but he was pretty sure it was the same make and color as Tony’s.

  As Val and Peggy cleared up the broken glass, Val promised, “I’ll get out of here as soon as I possibly can.”