The Lost Daughter

by Gill Paul

  By March, the thaw had set in and Maria began her search again, traveling further afield now. Always she carried her bulging card file of missing people and added cards for any displaced Leningraders she came across, checking to see if she had details of their relatives. She felt responsible when she saw the hope on their faces, then its gradual fading when she could not find whom they were looking for. She knew the sensation well because it was exactly what she felt with each children’s home she approached: hope and then heartbreak.

  * * *

  In July 1945, Maria took an overnight train all the way to the town of Yaroslavl to check some children’s homes, and during the journey she fell into conversation with a policeman in the same carriage, a man by the name of Leonid. They exchanged stories of their families’ fates during the war: his wife had died in an air raid and his mother was helping to raise his infant daughter so he could continue to work.

  “What is the work you do?” she asked.

  Leonid made a face. “I interview Soviet soldiers who were held prisoner by the Germans. My orders are to make sure that no one with anti-Soviet views comes back into society.”

  “But the poor men must be traumatized!” Maria cried. “They need support, not interrogation.”

  He nodded agreement. “Many suffered starvation or disease on forced marches during the last year of the war. Feeding and caring for them was the lowest priority for the German army, so they are in a very poor condition. But I am ordered to question them about whether the Nazis gave them assignments to fulfill on their return, or if Anglo-American intelligence officers brainwashed them. Many can barely speak. It’s a horrible job.”

  Maria was astonished that he should confide in her, a stranger, but everyone spoke more freely in those postwar days. Pulling together to survive the privations of war had created more trust.

  “It seems a crime that these men are not allowed home to their families straightaway,” she said. “I know firsthand how much they are missed because I run an unofficial missing persons bureau. Look.” She opened her bag to show him her index, flicking through a few cards to give him an idea. “Each of these represents a family that has been separated. I do my best to help them.”

  He smiled warmly. “What a wonderful thing to do!”

  “I had many people show me kindness during the war, so it seems only right I should return it,” Maria said, and she told him of the soldier who had brought her home the day she felt faint.

  “I know what you mean,” he replied. “When my apartment building was bombed, my baby daughter was trapped inside. Alerted by her crying, a dozen passersby climbed onto the rubble, despite the danger, and dug down brick by brick to rescue her. I will always be in their debt.” He wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

  At dinnertime, they shared the food they had brought before lying down on the hard wooden benches to try to get some sleep. When Maria opened her eyes in the dawn, yawning and stiff, Leonid was already awake.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he said. “If I give you a list of the Leningrad prisoners of war being held under my jurisdiction, might you be able to let their families know where they are? They are not permitted to write until they have been cleared, but it seems cruel to leave their families in the dark.”

  “Goodness!” Maria was surprised. “I’d be happy to try.”

  When the train arrived at Yaroslavl, she accompanied Leonid by tram to the police station where he was to interview some men that afternoon. She waited in the vestibule while he went to fetch the latest list, still marveling that he would trust her with it. How times had changed!

  He returned with a sheet of paper with dozens of names, in alphabetical order, along with each serviceman’s army number and his last-known address.

  “I’ll do what I can,” she told him, glancing at it. “I wish all the happiness in the world to you and your daughter.”

  She caught a bus to a children’s home nearby, and during the journey she began to scan the list, checking the soldiers’ names against her card index, marking with a question mark where there could be a possible match. And then her heart skipped a beat. There, under Dubov, was the name Mikhail Alexandrovich. The same name as her son.

  Don’t be silly, she told herself. It can’t be him. He’s too young for the army.

  She continued to the children’s home, but there was a voice echoing in her head: “What if it is him? What if he’s here?”

  No one at the home had heard of Katya or Mikhail, so she caught the bus back into town and alighted outside the police station, her leg aching badly from all the walking. Leonid was nowhere to be seen, but at the inquiries desk she pointed to her list and asked, “How do I find out where this prisoner of war is being held?”

  Memories of the cruelty of the officer at Bolshoi Dom came flooding back, but this one consulted a ledger, then walked through a door behind him to ask a colleague. When he returned, he had a piece of paper in his hand.

  “Mikhail Alexandrovich Dubov is at this prison, just across town, awaiting filtration.”

  “Filtration?”

  “Waiting to be assessed.” He smiled. “Relative of yours?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Go and ask,” he suggested. “They might let you see him. Number 46 bus.”

  As she stood at the bus stop, Maria chided herself. Don’t get your hopes up. This is a wild-goose chase. Lots of people have the same name. She spoke to Peter in her head. I have to try every lead, though, because so far nothing is working.

  Out the window she saw acres of ruined buildings and piles of broken stone; this town had clearly suffered enemy air raids, just like Leningrad. It was afternoon now and she decided that after visiting the prison she would try the hospital, then look for somewhere to spend the night. There were two more homes to visit in the morning.

  The bus driver called out to let her know when they reached the prison. It had a double row of barbed wire around it, some squat brown buildings, and a yard in which a few dozen men in army uniform were milling around. Maria walked to the point where the road ran alongside the yard and peered through the fence, scanning the men one by one. Now that she was here, it seemed a crazy idea.

  One of them called to her. “Who are you looking for?”

  “Mikhail Alexandrovich Dubov from Leningrad,” she replied.

  The man yelled into the crowd. “Is Mikhail Alexandrovich Dubov from Leningrad here?” A couple of others echoed his call and word was passed around. Suddenly a figure stood up and came running full pelt toward the fence.

  “Mama!” he called, and his voice rose to a scream. “Mama! Is it you?” He looped his fingers through the fence and began to sob.

  Maria couldn’t believe her eyes. He had a long beard, his hair was matted, and he looked a decade older than his seventeen years, but it was unmistakably Mikhail.

  “Get me out of here,” he pleaded through his tears.

  “I will,” she promised, a big lump in her throat. “Hang on, and I will.”

  Chapter 50

  Yaroslavl, July 1945

  MARIA WENT TO THE PRISON GATE AND SPOKE TO A guard. “My son is being held here but there must have been some mistake. He’s only seventeen so he was too young to fight. Please can I speak to someone?”

  She was allowed inside and made to wait over an hour in a corridor with no chairs before she was led to the governor’s office, where she repeated her story.

  “Let’s get your son to explain himself,” the man said, and Maria gave a sob of joy.

  When Mikhail was led in, she leaped to her feet and embraced him. He was skin and bone, his clothes in tatters—but he was alive.

  “Are you all right? Are you in pain?” she asked first.

  He shook his head. “I’m fine.”

  “How could you be in the army? Is it a mistake? Were you forced to join up?”

  “No.” He looked at the floor and spoke in a mumble. “I was separated from Katya on the Ice Road. I looked everywhere, for mo
nths, and couldn’t find her.”

  Maria’s throat constricted. She squeezed his hand tight. “You should have written.”

  “I was too ashamed at losing her.” He gave her a quick glance. “I couldn’t get back to Leningrad and I was so angry with the Germans for causing this war that I decided to lie about my age and sign up.”

  “In 1942?” She was aghast. “You were only fourteen. Who would let you?”

  “It was the following year. Just after my fifteenth birthday. I was tall for my age so they didn’t question me. I did basic training then was sent out to fight, and within three weeks I had been captured by Germans. I was held in a prisoner-of-war camp until we were released in May and brought here.” He looked at the governor. “Now I’m waiting for filtration.”

  Maria turned to the man. “Surely you can’t hold him any longer now you know how young he is? Please can I take him home today?”

  “Every prisoner must be interviewed,” the governor replied. “There are rules and regulations. I must ask you to leave for now and—”

  “No, please.” Maria clung to Mikhail, running her fingers through his hair, breathing in the scent of him.

  “I’m sorry about Katya,” he said quietly. “You made us promise to stick together. Is she home now?”

  “Not yet.” Maria frowned. “Tell me: how were you separated?” She held her breath as she waited for the reply.

  Mikhail closed his eyes. “There was a bombing raid while we were crossing the Ice Road. The truck in front of us was hit and ours turned over, throwing us out. I landed on the ice and lay there stunned until your friend Yuri picked me up and carried me to another truck. He said he was going back for Katya—but he didn’t reappear. Our truck started to drive off and I begged them to wait for my sister but they said I would find her at the other side.” A tear escaped and rolled down his cheek, and Maria kissed him. “But it was mayhem when we arrived, with so many people and no systems in place. I was taken to hospital and as soon as I was well enough I started looking for Katya, but no one seemed to know anything.” He looked at Maria. “What did Yuri say? He must know where she went.”

  Maria shook her head. “Yuri never came back to Leningrad.”

  “He didn’t?” Mikhail opened his eyes and stared at her in horror. “So where is she? Do you think she . . . Could she be dead?”

  “No.” Maria spoke firmly. “I have been looking for both of you. Now that I have found you, I will carry on looking until I find Katya. I know she is alive, because if she were dead, I would feel it in my heart. Mothers always know.”

  Mikhail gave a sigh of relief. He believed her.

  Maria pictured the scene on the Ice Road and tried to imagine what had happened. Yuri must have put Katya in a different truck so she was taken to a different home. But where was her little girl now?

  * * *

  The day after finding Mikhail, Maria returned to the police station in Yaroslavl and asked for Leonid. When she told him that her seventeen-year-old son was being held awaiting filtration, he rushed across town to interview him personally and had him released by the end of the day.

  “Thank you,” Maria breathed. “We spoke of kindness on our journey and I will never forget yours.”

  She bought Mikhail a hot meal before they caught the overnight train to Leningrad.

  All the time she couldn’t stop gazing at him, drinking in the changes. His voice had deepened, his eyes seemed sunken, and he was taller, much taller.

  “Stop staring, Mother.” He smiled. “You’re making me self-conscious.”

  She wanted to touch him, to straighten his collar, hold his hand, but she restrained herself. The joy of being with him after all this time was overwhelming.

  “The others are fine,” she told him. “Stepan is working at the Peterhof palace, helping to restore it; Irina is studying law at university, and Yelena is working hard at school. I can’t wait to see their faces when we walk in the door.”

  Mikhail looked sad for a moment, and she knew he was thinking of Katya.

  “Next weekend,” she said, “I will carry on the search for your sister. There are still many places to try.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t write, Mama,” he said, his face stricken. “How could I tell you I lost Katya when you had told us we must stick together no matter what?”

  “It would have been better to know.” He looked so distraught that she quickly added, “But I have you back now and that is all that matters.”

  As darkness fell outside the train window, she asked him about the prisoner-of-war camp. There was a long pause. “I will tell you sometime,” he said eventually. “But not tonight. Not for a while. Do you understand?”

  Maria nodded. From the look in his eyes, she could tell it had been bad. She shuddered. It was unthinkable what her children had been through. Life had to get better now. It must.

  Chapter 51

  Leningrad, summer 1945

  THE CHILDREN’S HOMES AND HOSPITALS THAT MARIA had not yet visited were all a long distance away. If the journey took almost a day, she would have no time to search before she had to turn and head home again. Reluctantly she decided she would write to each one instead. The postal service seemed to be working again, and if she sent a stamped envelope, she hoped they would reply.

  Meanwhile, she began visiting the relatives of Leningrad men who were being held in Yaroslavl prisons. It was wonderful to share good news, and some families were so delighted they showered her with gifts of jam, cakes, and sweetmeats. So much food seemed a miracle after the years of starvation and she developed a sweet tooth. When there was enough sugar, she made the almond toffee that had been her favorite as a young girl.

  Please God, she prayed, bring good news for me soon. But the letters that came back from far-flung children’s homes and hospitals said they had no record of Katya. Maria filed them, putting a cross beside each name on her list. There were still many who had not responded, so she clung to hope. She would never give up, she vowed. Not ever.

  Mikhail was quiet for the first few weeks after his return and spent a lot of time in bed. Maria worried that he was brooding, and asked Stepan’s opinion.

  “He was always quiet,” Stepan reminded her. “The women are the chatterboxes in our family, while the men keep their thoughts to themselves.”

  Maria had to admit that was true. She had always been much more talkative than Peter, and both Irina and Yelena chatted nonstop throughout their waking hours.

  “He told me a little,” Stepan continued. “He says it was bad in the prison camp but other men looked out for him because of his age. I don’t think any lasting harm has been done. He feels terrible about losing Katya, but I reminded him he was so ill with whooping cough that night he could barely walk. There was nothing more he could have done.”

  “Thank you for talking to him,” Maria said. Maybe it was easier for Mikhail to share his experiences with another man than with his mother. She didn’t mind so long as he was recovering from his ordeal.

  “Would it be all right if I bring a friend for supper on Saturday?” Stepan asked, and there was something about his tone that alerted Maria. He was trying so hard to sound nonchalant that the effect was anything but.

  “Of course,” she replied. “What’s your friend’s name?”

  “Ludmilla.” He blushed, and bent to adjust his shoelace. “She works with me at the palace.”

  Stepan was twenty-six years old and this was the first girl he had brought home, so Maria was curious. Her eldest son was not particularly handsome, with his heavy-set brow, but she knew the right girl would love him for his gentleness and steadiness—the qualities she had fallen for in Peter.

  She was startled on Saturday evening when Ludmilla arrived: an exquisitely pretty girl with pale blond hair, green eyes, fine features, and an intelligent air. She handed Maria a box of chocolates from the Krupskaya sweet factory, tied with a red satin ribbon.

  “I’m delighted to meet you,” she said. “Step
an speaks of you constantly.”

  “My goodness, I hope you two have more interesting subjects to discuss,” Maria said. “Let me take your coat. Please sit down. Have something to drink.” She had laid out a choice of tea, barley water, or kvass.

  Stepan kept his thoughts to himself while the women chatted. Yelena wanted to know where Ludmilla’s coat came from, which led to a discussion of the new clothes shops that had opened in Gostiniy Dvor, then to the thriving black market in clothing coupons, which were easily available under the counter at any street market.

  Before the war, they could never have trusted a stranger like this, Maria mused. They would have talked in generalities and certainly never have admitted cheating the system in any way. Of course, there were still informers, there were still purges, and the NKVD still turned up to make arrests in the night, but not nearly as often.

  When Maria went to the kitchen to finish preparing the food, Ludmilla followed her.

  “Can I help?” she asked, then caught sight of the spread. “Heavens, you’ve gone to so much trouble!”

  Maria had made little side dishes of potatoes, salads, and pickled vegetables to go around the centerpiece of a whole salmon Stepan had caught, cooked with fresh dill from the garden she had cultivated in the courtyard. It did look fetching. “Thank you.” She smiled. “I’m very glad to meet you. Stepan has never brought a friend home before.”

  Ludmilla colored slightly and Maria was pleased. That meant she liked him too. “Tell me about your family,” she said as she placed serving spoons onto each dish. “How did they fare in the war?”

  “My father was killed at the barricades in 1943,” Ludmilla said. “Stepan knew him slightly, and I’m glad of that. He was a good man.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss. Did your mother survive?”

  “She was executed in 1937,” Ludmilla said, her tone flat.

  Maria gave a sharp intake of breath. Normally no one would admit this.