The man smiled. “Certainly.”
“Really?” said Dina.
The man spun and motioned with his finger. He walked behind the matryoshka doll exhibit to a large leather bound book. He opened it carefully and started slowly moving the pages until he stopped and adjusted his glasses.
Then he turned. “Would you like to see?”
Dina squeezed next to the man with Curial and Maurice in behind. The man continued moving his finger back and forth across the page while speaking quickly in Russian. Then Dina’s posture stiffened and she turned. “In 1909, Vasily Zvyozdochkin was still here at Abramtsevo, still making dolls,” she said.
Curial made a face at Maurice. “It’s as good a guess as any.”
“Wait,” the museum man said while holding his hand up palm out. “You kids think the great Vasily Zvyozdochkin made the Romanov Dolls?”
“And why not?” Curial answered. “He was the most famous doll maker in Russia and at the time the Romanov Dolls were made, he was still actively making dolls, plus he was here at Abramtsevo where we heard the dolls were made.”
The man moved his finger and thumb around his chin. “And who told you the dolls were made here?”
“I’d rather not say,” said Curial.
The man smirked. “Then it sounds to me like you are chasing after ghosts. You come to Abramtsevo chasing after ghosts, then you don’t belong in the museum, you belong in the colony speaking to the old woman.”
“The old woman?” asked Dina.
The man moved his hands up and down. “Yes, the crazy old woman over at the colony. She’s been there forever, cleans the cottages, tells fairy tales. Sounds like she’s the right person for the three of you. Now, if that’s all, I have actual museum business to do. Good day.”
Chapter Twenty-Three – The Old Woman
The three friends jogged from Sergiev Posad to the Artist’s Colony and in less than ten minutes came to a small parking lot with a plaque announcing the artist’s colony in Russian.
Beyond the parking lot was a crushed stone path which Curial followed. The path led them into the woods and then across a small wooden bridge that crossed a creek. On the other side of the creek, they spotted their first building, a wooden log cabin to their left. On the right was a small white farmhouse. As they followed the winding path, they spotted more buildings until Curial stopped and sniffed the air.
“Do you guys smell that?”
Maurice grimaced. “Oh yeah, sorry about that. Haven’t been feeling the best.”
“No Maurice, do you smell that!” Dina said while pointing to the distance, where smoke was steadily rising out of the chimney of a small cottage.
Dina led them to the cottage but before she could go up the small set of steps, the front door creaked open and a short old woman squeezed through. She wiped her hands on her apron then asked a question in Russian.
Dina responded.
The woman said something else and this time Dina’s response was longer.
The woman suddenly looked to the east, in the direction of Sergiev Posad and shook her head, then she opened the door wide and invited them in.
“What’d you say to her?” Curial asked.
“I told her the museum man said she was a crazy old woman, but one look at her told me she had more sense than that guy ever would. So I told her we would love to visit and she invited us in for tea.”
Curial and Maurice followed the two women into the small cottage. “Hey Curial, have you noticed we haven’t eaten anything in a while?”
“Well, food is the least of my worries,” said Curial.
“Really, because, I’m not sure how the rich live, but us poor common folk actually need food to survive.”
The woman motioned for them to sit down, so Curial sat down in an old dusty recliner that faced a TV from the 1970’s, the kind with the wood paneling and a huge pair of rabbit ear antennas. Dina sat in a rocking chair and Maurice sat on the floor. “Don’t worry about me guys. I don’t need food and I don’t need a chair.”
The old woman was clanking around in the kitchen and Maurice lifted his nose into the air. “Do you guys smell that?” he asked.
“Seriously Maurice,” Curial said. “This place is too small, you can’t be doing that in here.”
“No, Curial this is way better than a fart. This smells like food!”
Sure enough, the old woman returned from the kitchen with a loaf of bread on a plate. The bread was dark brown, with nuts, and steaming hot. She cut three thick slices, layered a slab of butter on each and then handed them out. And Curial noticed that Maurice received the largest piece.
They sat in virtual silence for the next few minutes as they chewed slowly on their bread. The best tasting, most delicious bread Curial had ever eaten. The woman smiled as they ate and when Maurice finally finished the last piece of his bread, he licked his thumb of all remaining residue and then gave a goofy grin. “Dina, would you mind telling her that I am officially in love.”
Dina shrugged, then said something in Russian, and the woman smiled. Then she stood up and cut Maurice another slice of bread. Finally, Dina and the woman started to speak in Russian again.
Dina turned. “This woman’s name is Mischa,” Dina finally said. “She’s the housekeeper for the cottages. Lives here alone. Has lived here for thirty years.”
“Can you ask her if she knows anything about the creation of the Romanov Dolls?”
Dina shook her head. “Already asked. She didn’t respond. She just smiled at me.”
Curial sighed, and then Mischa said something else in Russian. She and Dina laughed and then finally the woman stared at Curial, as if she was studying him. Then finally, she stood and walked to a back room. She came back with what looked like an old photo album. She sat down next to Dina and opened it. The woman looked up with big eyes.
“She wants you both to come see,” said Dina.
“Is there any chance she’s got another loaf of bread hidden in that album?” Maurice asked hopefully.
The woman laughed as if she understood Maurice and then said something in Russia. “Um Maurice, she just said, ‘get over here idiot’ in Russian.”
He smiled and stood up. “See, I’m growing on her.”
The woman opened to a page with an old picture of a young woman sitting on a rocking chair on a porch with a baby in her lap. Dina translated the woman’s Russian. “This is her baby boy Dmitry when he was only six months old.”
She turned to another page, of a two or three year-old boy flying a kite with his mom. And then turned the page again of a young boy fishing. She kept turning the pages, and Curial and Maurice watched as an old woman showed them pictures from long ago, when she was a young woman raising her boy. Curial looked, and the old woman’s eyes were wet.
She reached out her hand and grabbed Curial by the arm. She stared at him so intensely that it frightened him. Then she said something in Russian and once again, Dina translated.
“She says her Dmitry, he was a good boy. And she needs to know Curial, are you—are you a good boy?”
A chill ran down Curial’s back and he shook the woman’s arm away. He felt his breath caught in his throat. He shrugged.
“I don’t know, I just don’t know,” he said.
Dina translated back to the woman and she folded her hands on top of her album and she smiled a wide warm smile. Then she looked up, nodded, and turned to the back of the album. To a picture so old, Curial could hardly believe it was a picture. Two Russian craftsman, one middle aged, one young, stood posing for the camera, shaking each other’s hands. The joy from their smiles was contained by their wide bushy mustaches. The woman pointed to the words below the picture and Dina read.
“Vasily Zvyozdochkin and Ivan Belsky, 1909.” Dina’s eyes lit up and she smiled at Curial. But Curial noticed something about Mischa, she had a very different smile on her face. As if she was waiting for something.
And that’s when Curial saw it. The old phot
o helped obscure the image, make it faded and almost ghostly, but there was no mistaking it. Behind the men, in the middle of them but behind so you could almost miss him, was another figure.
He was tall, owned wild eyes and crazy curly black hair. A scary figure. A figure all Russians knew, a figure most non-Russians even knew.
That’s when Dina saw him too. She gasped and looked at Curial, whose heart was beating quickly.
“What’s going on?” Maurice said while also staring at the picture.
“Then it’s really him?” asked Curial.
Dina nodded. “Yes Curial, it is. That is without a doubt, Gregory Rasputin.”
“I can’t believe it,” Curial said. “I just can’t believe it.”
Dina continued talking in Russian with the old woman who continued to rock back and forth, proudly holding her old picture album.
Curial stood up. “Dina, your grandfather, when I first met him, he said something to me. I told him I wanted to learn about the Romanovs and he said most people just want to know about Rasputin. I thought it was a joke. I can’t believe Rasputin has something to do with this. What do you think it means?”
Dina’s eyes were fixed on the picture, like she couldn’t look away.
“Dina?”
She finally looked up, her finger stuck to the album like it couldn’t move.
“I know,” Curial said. “Rasputin. I didn’t see that coming.”
She shook her head. “No Curial, look closely.”
He leaned over and noticed that her finger wasn’t on Rasputin, nor on Vasily. It was on the other man, the younger man, the one called Ivan Belsky.
“Curial, who does this look like?”
He looked and then, as if all of a sudden, it hit him and the image made sense, like a puzzle that finally showed its true form.
“My God, that’s—”
“Gennady,” Dina said. “It looks like Gennady.”
“But how is that even possible? The name here says Ivan Belsky and—”
“And Gennady’s name is Lukin,” Dina said. She stood up and handed the album back to the woman then said several things in Russian. Then she gave the woman a warm hug. The woman stepped over to Curial and gave him a warm hug as well. Then she turned to Maurice and gave him the longest and warmest hug. Then she handed him one more slice of bread and said something in Russian.
“I think I love that woman,” Maurice said as he stepped outside.
But Curial almost didn’t hear him. He was focused on Dina, who by now was already far away, jogging back towards Sergiev Posad. They followed her and ten minutes later they arrived back at the toy museum.
She went directly to the book, ignored the museum man, and opened back up to 1909.
“What’s going on Dina, why did that picture look like Gennady?”
“I don’t know, but I’m hoping this book will tell us.” She ran her finger down the page. “Look here. Vasily Zvyozdochkin was working as a toy carver, and in 1907 he gained a new apprentice named Ivan Belsky.
Dina continued to drag her finger all the way down and then turned the page. “Looks like Zvyozdochkin made toys at Abramtsevo until 1913 at which point Belsky became a master but didn’t take on an apprentice until…” She ran her finger down the page until she stopped. “Here, right here. His son Michael came to work for him as an apprentice in 1918 and then continued to work for him until he went off to the war.” She started flipping pages. “There’s a lot of names in here, and then the wars screw everything up…but…here, right here. In 1960, he took on a new apprentice.” She looked up, her eyes dancing back and forth. “And his name was Gennady. Gennady Belsky.”
“That seems like a very strange coincidence,” offered Maurice.
Dina returned to the book and scanned furiously down the page until suddenly, she caught her breath. She held up one hand as if she’d just made some kind of discovery. “And in 1967, Gennady Belsky married a girl and her name was Valeeni Lukin.”
Curial practically stumbled. “My God, so it really was them?”
But Dina continued to stare at the page. “And that’s not all. It says here they left Abramtsevo in 1970. It doesn’t say why, but they left.”
“Wait a second,” said Curial. “What year?”
“1970.”
“That’s the year the Romanov Dolls were stolen.”
“Exactly.”
“Dina, what’s going on here? Is it typical to take the woman’s last name in Russia?”
“Not at all.”
“So Gennady Lukin, whose grandfather helped Vasily Zvyozdochkin make the Romanov Dolls—years later, he mysteriously takes the last name of the woman he marries, and then leaves for St. Petersburg the year those same Dolls were stolen?” Curial threw both hands in the air. “And somehow Rasputin, this crazy almost mythical figure in Russian History, is involved? Dina, what the heck does all of this mean?”
“Any chance it means we go back to the old woman’s house and get more bread,” said Maurice with a smile on his face.
Dina shook her head. “No Maurice, what it means is we’ve got to get back to St. Petersburg, and fast.”
Chapter Twenty-Four – Boris Markoff
At the train station, all three kids were able to fill their bellies with something neither Curial nor Maurice could pronounce but was nonetheless delicious. And filling enough to help them each catch a nap on the four hour train ride back.
When they finally arrived back in St. Petersburg, they made their way directly to Dolls of Beauty. Curial and Maurice followed Dina through the door to the shop, and the little bell clinked against the window, just like Curial had remembered from the last time. Valeeni appeared from the hallway.
“We need to see Gennady,” Dina said in a firm voice.
Valeeni halted, concern all over her face, then Dina walked right past her and Curial and Maurice followed.
They found Gennady working at his table, block of wood in one hand, carving knife in the other, white earbuds in his ears.
He smiled when he saw them, and lifted the earbuds out of his ears. Then he must have seen the expression on Dina’s face because his mood seemed to instantly change.
“Dina? What is wrong?”
“When Curial and I were here asking you about the Romanov Dolls, you lied to us. You said you didn’t know anything about how they were made.”
He set the wood and carving knife down on his table. “What is this all about?”
“We just came from Abramtsevo, Gennady. Or should I say, Gennady Belsky.”
Curial heard a small crash and turned to see Valeeni with her hands to her face, her tea cup smashed into pieces on the wood floor. Gennady seemed to stagger at the news and held a hand out to the table for support. Then slowly, he lowered himself into his chair.
Dina helped Valeeni into a chair next to Gennady. The old couple exchanged a long look, and then finally Valeeni reached for Gennady’s hands and squeezed.
Gennady squeezed his wife’s hands in reply, then let go and took off his glasses. He rubbed them and placed them back on the tip of his nose.
“I am an old man. All I’ve ever wanted to do is love this woman and make beautiful dolls. But I’ve lived under a cloud for far too long.”
Dina leaned in. “What happened?”
“As you somehow discovered, I was raised with the name Gennady Belsky. My grandfather was Ivan Belsky, a great artist who worked alongside Vasily Zvyozdochkin (ZV-YOZ-DOACH-KEEN) at the crafts workshop at Abramtsevo.”
Gennady paused a moment and looked over at Valeeni. She blinked back lovingly.
“Vasily is the one who gained all the fame. But my grandfather”—Gennady held his fist to his chest—“he was every bit the doll maker as Zvyozdochkin. And even though it is true that Vasily was commissioned to make the Romanov Dolls, my grandfather… he helped him.”
“Seriously?” Curial leaned forward even more.
“My father was killed in the great war when I was a baby,” Genn
ady continued, “and my mother and grandfather raised me. From a young age, I was taught by my grandfather how to make dolls, and when I was a teenager, I became his apprentice. And then, one day, when his hands didn’t work as well and he was getting near the end, he told me.” Gennady’s eyes twinkled. “And what’s more, he showed me.”
Maurice exchanged a look with Curial. “Showed you what?”
Gennady took a long even breath through his nose, the kind that made his shoulders rise and fall, then turned to Valeeni and squeezed her hand again. He walked over to a wooden chest, opened it up, and pulled out a black metal cube.
Gennady took a deep breath. “A matryoshka doll is traditionally made of a single block of wood. It takes an extraordinary amount of skill to learn how to take a block of wood and, using nothing but a lathe, turn that into a nested doll with six, eight, or even twelve dolls.
“So when Czar Nicholas commissioned Vasily and my grandfather to make the dolls, they had a problem. The Czar didn’t want a doll made of wood—he wanted one completely fashioned out of precious metals and jewels. Of course, Vasily and Ivan knew they could never make them in the traditional way. So they came up with a plan. They carved the dolls out of wood, and then made molds of those dolls.”
Gennady unlatched the cube and pulled out what looked like a matryoshka doll—but it was made out of unpainted, dark brown clay.
“My grandfather told me that making these molds was painstaking work, yet he insisted they come out absolutely perfect. But finally, once the molds were ready, they started the process of melting down the gold and silver, and fashioning the dolls.”
Curial pointed at the clay in Gennady’s hands. “And these are the molds?”
“The very same.”
Gennady laid the molds in the boy’s hands, and Curial held them as if they themselves were a great treasure. He felt the weight of them, turned them over slowly in his hands. The Romanov Dolls, the treasure his mother had been obsessed with for her entire life, had been fashioned in these molds. These exact same molds. A chill ran down his spine. Finally he looked back to the old doll maker.
Teenage Treasure Hunter Page 12