The Lost Daughter

by Gill Paul

  “What else did you tell him?” His tone was curt.

  “I haven’t done anything wrong, Bill. In fact, I had some pretty shattering news and I was hoping for your sympathy.” He didn’t say anything, so Val continued. “He told me that Anatoly Bolotov was one of the men who killed the Romanovs. Seemingly Yurovsky left a testimony naming him.” There was no response, so she stretched out her arms to give him a hug, saying, “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.”

  “You just didn’t think,” Bill snapped, pulling away. “You don’t know this country, but I thought you would respect that I knew what I was talking about when I warned you not to bring those photographs and not to discuss the Romanovs. Did you think I was saying it for fun?”

  “No, but I—”

  “You didn’t give a single thought to how your revelations might affect my parents. My father will be in a whole heap of trouble if it emerges that he bought us train tickets to a closed city. They’ve spent their life savings moving here, and because of you they could be arrested, lose their apartment, even go to jail.”

  “No! Surely not!” Val blushed crimson. “How would anyone find out?”

  “Once your curator reports us, inquiries will be made and any investigation will mean Mom and Dad being hauled in for questioning.”

  “Honestly, I’m sure Stepan won’t report us,” Val insisted. “He wasn’t like that.”

  “And you reckon you’re such a good judge of character, do you? Is that why you married a man who broke your wrist?”

  Val was shocked. She had never seen this side of Bill before. Where was all his anger coming from? “That’s a bit low,” she remarked.

  “But true. Now tell me exactly what was said. I need to decide whether I have to warn Mom and Dad.” He was running his fingers through his hair, looking incredibly stressed.

  Val relayed the conversation as best she could, and Bill kept shaking his head. When she had finished, he asked, “How could you be such an idiot?”

  “If it was such a big deal,” she protested, “why did you let your father buy us the tickets?”

  “Because I knew how much it meant to you.”

  He looked miserable, and Val decided the only thing for it was a full apology. “You’re right. It was thoughtless of me to talk to the curator. If there’s anything I can do to make things better, just say.”

  She wished he would give her a hug at least, even if he couldn’t forgive her straightaway. Instead he mumbled, “I’m going to bed. We’ll see if the guide mentions anything in the morning. That would be a sure sign it’s been reported.”

  There was no goodnight kiss, no invitation to join him in his single bed for some silent lovemaking. Val lay in her own bed feeling bereft. It was the first time they’d argued and she hated the way he had withdrawn from her.

  What he’d said in the bathroom was true. She was a poor judge of character. How could she ever hope to have a healthy relationship?

  Her misery deepened as she lay awake listening to his regular breathing. She had fallen in love with this man and couldn’t bear to lose him. If only there was something she could do to make things better; but for the life of her she couldn’t think what.

  Chapter 60

  Leningrad, summer 1976

  MARIA WAS IN THE BEDROOM LOOKING FOR A CARDIGAN when Stepan arrived home from work. She heard him call a greeting to Peter, who was listening to the radio in the kitchen, then he came through to find her and perched on the end of her bed.

  “You’ll never guess who visited me in the office today, Mama,” he said. “I still can’t believe it myself.”

  Maria continued to rifle through her knitwear drawer. The cardigan she wanted was dark blue: not too thick for summer, but not too thin either. She felt the cold more than she used to. “Who?”

  “The daughter of Anatoly Bolotov.” He paused for effect.

  Maria turned to stare at him. “You’re not serious! It can’t be the same one.”

  “It is, one and the same. Come and sit down.” He motioned her over to the bed. “She gave me some photographs developed from film she found in an old camera after her father died. Look.” He pulled out the envelope and, once Maria had shuffled across, handed it to her.

  Maria only had to flick through the first few pictures to realize they were hers. “I took these!” she exclaimed. “Why did Bolotov have my camera?”

  “Not just that: he had a photo album of yours, and a sketchbook, some icons, and a Fabergé sun, moon, and stars box containing two wedding rings marked M and A.” Stepan put an arm around her. “Are you OK? This must be a shock.”

  Maria thought back over the years. “They were in the bag I packed when we were told we were leaving the house. It was with me in the basement. Not the wedding rings—I don’t know about them—but everything else.” She came to the picture of Peter and cried out in joy. “Look how handsome he was! . . . And that’s a lovely shot of Tatiana. I’m thrilled to see these.”

  Although the quality of the prints was poor, her memory filled in the details: where each one had been taken; what was being said as they posed.

  “The woman was asking lots of questions about whether I thought any of the Romanovs might have survived. She’s a historian writing a thesis about it. I gave her deliberately vague answers.”

  Maria nodded. “So Bolotov is dead? What age is his daughter?”

  “Much younger than me: I’d say late thirties. She was born in Australia. It seems he emigrated there.”

  “Does she have any brothers or sisters?” She wondered how Stepan felt. It must be peculiar to discover he had a half sister.

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “How did she find you?” Maria asked, still watching him.

  “She didn’t know who I was. Her tour guide brought her to me to ask about the Fabergé box. I didn’t enlighten her, but I did tell her that her father was one of the executioners. That shocked her. She hadn’t known before.”

  “Poor woman,” Maria said. “It’s not her fault. We don’t choose our parents.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Did you arrange to meet her again? I would love to see my old sketchbook and photo album, and the Fabergé box Mama gave me.”

  Stepan shook his head. “I don’t want to see her again. She’s here on holiday and flying back to Australia soon. But she said I could keep these photos.”

  “That was kind of her.” Maria clutched them to her chest. “Were you polite, Stepan? You don’t sound as though you were very pleased to make her acquaintance.”

  He shrugged. “I made her a cup of tea.”

  “You didn’t feel any kind of bond?”

  “Definitely not.” He dismissed the idea. “She doesn’t look like me. She has black hair, an oriental look. Besides, I have all the family I could possibly want right here in Russia.”

  Maria smiled and patted his hand. “I’d like to show these pictures to the others,” she said. “We can say a tourist brought them to your office, after finding them in an old camera. They don’t need to know who that tourist was.”

  Still, after all these years, she had not told Peter who Stepan’s biological father was. He had never asked and she had never seen the need to unburden herself. Some secrets were best kept. As far as she knew, Stepan had not told Ludmilla either. Irina, Mikhail, and Yelena all knew that she had been a Romanov, but her grandchildren had not been told yet, even though the eldest two were in their twenties. Maria had resolved she would never tell any of them that Stepan had a different father than his siblings. It didn’t matter anymore; never had.

  Stepan helped her up from the bed and took her arm as she hobbled slowly to the kitchen, cardigan forgotten.

  “Peter! Turn the radio off!” she called.

  He was a little deaf now. She blamed the sixteen years he had spent laboring in a mine in Siberia for all the infirmities he suffered—arthritis, poor hearing, shortness of breath—but he put them down to old age. Mentally he was sharp as a pin. He hadn
’t been broken by the experience the way her neighbor Viktor had. “It happened but now it is over, and there is no point dwelling on it,” he said if she ever raised the subject.

  “Peter!” She had to raise her voice to get his attention, even once they were in the kitchen. “I’ve got something to show you! Guess what?”

  * * *

  A few days later, Stepan came home from work and gestured to Maria to follow him to the sitting room.

  “I’ve had a letter from her,” he whispered, although Peter was the only other person in the flat and he could never have heard what was being said from a different room. “Sent to me at the palace. Here it is.”

  Maria took the single page, written on stationery from the Astoria Hotel on Bolshaya Morskaya, just a few minutes’ walk from the Winter Palace.

  Dear Mr. Dubov,

  Many thanks for revealing the secrets of my Fabergé box yesterday, and for the cup of tea. Perhaps I am imagining it, but I sensed our meeting ended with some ill feeling. I was certainly stunned to hear that my father was among the Romanovs’ executioners. He was a cold man who did some very cruel things in the time I knew him, but I would not have believed him capable of murder. Still, you are the expert and I must accept that you know your subject.

  I have fallen out with my partner, who is cross with me for telling you about my background. He seems to think we could get into trouble with the authorities here. I have assured him that you did not seem like a government informer, but he tells me I am naïve and do not understand the Soviet system. Anyway, I am writing to beg you not to take this matter any further. We fly home on Saturday and I hope that will be an end of it.

  I thank you again for your time and send all my very best wishes.

  Val Scott

  Maria looked up at Stepan. “She sounds anxious. Will you reply?”

  He shook his head. “No point. They go home tomorrow.”

  “You could telephone the hotel and leave a neutral message: something like ‘Good to meet you, have a safe journey.’” She raised an eyebrow. “It would set her mind at rest.”

  She watched the conflicting emotions on her son’s face. He was fifty-seven years old now. He’d raised his own family, enjoyed a harmonious marriage with Ludmilla, and he loved his work. Over the years he’d become one of the country’s leading experts in Fabergé designs, in dinner services made at the old St. Petersburg Imperial Porcelain Works, and in gold-and silverware owned by the Romanovs. Under his supervision, the Petrodvorets palace had been returned to its former glory, with most rooms now open to the public.

  He had also known much sadness: the loss of his sister, the sixteen years in which he thought his father was dead, and the knowledge that his biological father had been a rapist. If he chose not to be reminded of that last fact, she could not argue with him.

  “I think I’ll leave it,” he said, then nodded to himself as if satisfied he’d made the right decision.

  Chapter 61

  Leningrad, summer 1976

  DURING THEIR LAST FEW DAYS IN RUSSIA, BILL WAS polite but preoccupied and Val was acutely aware of a distance between them. They gawped at the splendors of the Catherine Palace, dripping with gold and set in a magnificent park, with lakes, waterfalls, and grottoes stretching into the distance. They peered through the railings at the old Alexander Palace, now occupied by offices of the Soviet navy, and imagined the Romanovs under house arrest there. And on their last day, they kept their guide happy by wandering around the Hermitage Gallery, set within the glitzy Winter Palace.

  Bill joked with Nicole and was civil to Val, but their argument in the hotel bathroom loomed between them like an impermeable barrier. Before that he had been lavish with affection and Val had always felt she could hug or kiss him whenever she felt like it; now neither touched the other and there were no invitations to cross the narrow gap between their single beds.

  Was he planning to break up with her? Val wondered. They’d been dating for less than a year but he’d said he loved her. Maybe that was just what you did when you were sleeping with someone. He would probably find himself a new girlfriend within weeks, but she couldn’t imagine ever dating again.

  They were booked to sit together on the flight home, but perhaps he would tell her as soon as they landed. She felt miserable at the prospect and wished she could telephone Peggy to ask for her advice, but there was too much to explain and the cost of the call would be prohibitive.

  She also wished she could tell Peggy what she had found out about her father. It echoed around and around in her head that she was the daughter of a man who had committed murder—and not just any old murder, but that of the last Russian royal family. Even if he was simply obeying orders at a turbulent time in his country’s history, it was unforgivable. Had he been right in thinking Maria had escaped that night? If only she could discuss it with Bill—but the subject of the Romanovs had become strictly taboo between them.

  On their last night in St. Petersburg, Bill telephoned his parents from the hotel room to say goodbye and Val listened while packing Nicole’s case.

  “They loved the palaces,” he said, “but I think Nicole has seen enough art and architecture to last a lifetime. It was pretty boring for a kid, but she’s been amazing . . .”

  His voice was warm and loving, and Val wished he would use that tone with her.

  “The flight home is thirty-nine hours,” he continued. “We’re stopping in London, Istanbul, Singapore, and Bali, if you can believe it. Val’s brought loads of books and drawing pads for Nicole, but it will be challenging to say the least.”

  “Hey!” Nicole called in protest. “I was really good on the way here.”

  “That’s true,” Bill said, grinning. “I retract my statement. Nicole will manage no problem at all and it’s me who will find it challenging.”

  If only I could retract my conversation with Stepan, Val thought. She had written pleading with him not to report her to the authorities but had not received a reply. Perhaps the letter hadn’t reached him. She had no idea how long postal deliveries took in the Soviet Union.

  When Bill hung up, she asked, “Are they OK?,” trying for a lightness of tone she didn’t feel.

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “They sound fine.”

  Their eyes met briefly. Bill was the first to look away.

  * * *

  It was seven in the morning when they landed at Sydney airport and caught a train into town. The eight-hour time difference meant that, for them, it felt like bedtime the previous evening. Bill explained to Nicole why different countries were on different times and she listened, enthralled.

  “So now you need to get back to Sydney time. The best thing is to have a quick snooze this morning, then stay awake until bedtime. Think you can do that?” he asked.

  “Definitely. I want to go and see my friends. Can I, Mom? I want to tell them about Russia.”

  “We’ll see,” Val said, convinced that Nicole would conk out as soon as they got home. “Are you coming back to mine?” she asked Bill, nerves in her voice.

  “Nah, I’d best pick up Bess from the neighbors. I’ve missed the old girl.”

  “Come for dinner later?” she pleaded.

  He made a face. “I think I need my own bed tonight to catch up on sleep deficit. I’ll call you.”

  Val swallowed. There was no arrangement in place for them to see each other again, just a vague “I’ll call you.” It didn’t sound good. When they hugged goodbye at King’s Cross station, she almost burst into tears but held back. Time enough for that later.

  * * *

  That afternoon, they went to Peggy’s. Nicole rushed to stroke Toffee, who had been staying with them, then she and Lenny disappeared up to his bedroom. Val slumped at the kitchen table and told Peggy the story of their trip and her fear that Bill was about to break up with her. She felt sick with a mixture of sleep deprivation and worry.

  Peggy frowned in concentration. “Maybe you should have heeded his warning not to mention th
e Romanovs, but it’s hardly a hanging offense.”

  “It’s as if he stopped loving me, just like that.” Val snapped her fingers. “Maybe none of it was real.”

  Peggy shook her head. “Perhaps it’s not about you at all. It’s easy to take everything personally in a relationship, but men can be moody critters. They say we’re the ones who get PMT, but I swear Ken has it worse than I do. Roughly once a month he turns into a bad-tempered git. I just ignore him and he reverts back soon enough. I’d say hang in there, be cool, just act like everything’s normal.”

  “How can I when he won’t even make a date to see me?” Val wailed.

  Peggy rolled her eyes. “You’re straight off a thirty-nine-hour flight. Give the guy time to catch his breath. In fact, give him time to miss you. Don’t call him; let him call you.”

  Val felt vaguely reassured by her words, but protested, “I don’t want to play hard to get. That’s not my style.”

  Peggy shrugged. “You’re not playing anything. I imagine you’re going to be very busy over the next few days, what with unpacking and laundry. Just get on with your life.” She wagged an admonishing finger. “And don’t call him!”

  * * *

  Bill didn’t ring that day or the next, and Val’s resolve was beginning to slip, but he called the following morning, sounding reasonably cheerful.

  “How’s it going?” he asked.

  “Oh, busy,” Val said breezily, channeling Peggy’s advice. “Loads to do.”

  “Want to have dinner tomorrow night?” he asked. “Either get a sitter or I’ll come to yours?”

  “You come here,” she said immediately. If he was planning to break up with her, she didn’t want the ax to fall while they were in a restaurant surrounded by strangers.

  “OK. I’ll bring Bess in that case.”

  She roasted a leg of lamb, his favorite, hoping that might change his mind. Wasn’t food supposed to be one way to a man’s heart? When he arrived at the door, he sniffed the air and said, “Smells good,” before giving her a quick hug and a peck on the cheek.