Leningrad, 1949
FOR THE FIRST YEARS OF THEIR MARRIED LIFE, STEPAN and Ludmilla lived in Maria’s apartment. She rearranged the beds to give them their own room, but in truth they were seldom there. They left early in the morning for the journey by tram and bus to Petrodvorets and were not back till mid-evening.
The other children also spent less time at home. Irina was dating one of Ludmilla’s cousins; Mikhail was at college training as a carpenter; and Yelena had finished her school exams and taken work in a dress shop.
Galina had long since married, but she came to visit, and always Maria looked at her and wondered what Katya was like now. They were the same age. Was Katya married? Did she keep her hair long or short? Did she wear makeup? Maria was her mother and should know these things. She often saw her daughter in her dreams, but always in the distance and out of reach, and when she woke, she felt the pangs of loss anew.
One cold but sunny Sunday in November, Ludmilla asked Maria if she and Stepan could accompany her to visit Peter’s grave.
“I’d like to pay my respects,” she said. “And Stepan and I have something we want to discuss with you.”
As they walked, Stepan and Ludmilla chatted about the restoration of the Peterhof palace; both were passionate about the craftsmanship. With Maria’s permission, Stepan had told Ludmilla of his mother’s Romanov past, which meant they could talk openly when the three of them were together.
“I wish you would visit the palace,” Stepan said. “There are many matters I would love to ask your advice about.”
He had asked before and Maria always said no. She did not like to be reminded of the opulence of the first eighteen years of her life. It felt fundamentally wrong that at a time when Russia’s young men were being blown to pieces in their thousands, she and her siblings had lived in grand palaces. She still felt fury with Stalin and the party apparatchiks who had abandoned the people of Leningrad, and it helped her to understand the anger ordinary Russians had felt for the Romanovs in 1917.
They reached the graveside and Maria set out the picnic she had brought, greeting Peter silently. She liked quiet so she could tell him everything that had happened since her last visit and try to imagine his replies. She knew he was there, somewhere, even though he had not believed in the heaven of her church.
“Mama, Ludmilla and I have some wonderful news,” Stepan said, “and we wanted to tell you here, in this special place.”
Maria looked at him, clasping her hands to her breast. What could it be?
“We’re having a baby.” Ludmilla beamed. “It’s due in June. Your first grandchild, Maria. You’ll be a babushka.”
She was so choked, she could hardly speak. She hugged Ludmilla, hugged Stepan, wiped her eyes. “Do you hear that, Peter?” she said at last, looking at the grassy mound where he lay among so many others. “We’ll be grandparents.” She laughed, shook her head. “I couldn’t be happier.”
“There’s something else.” Stepan glanced at Ludmilla. “We have decided to move to Petrodvorets before the baby is born and we would like you to come with us. The air is cleaner than in the city, and I will be able to come home at lunchtime and spend plenty of time with my new child.”
Maria felt a twinge of jealousy. She had always feared Ludmilla would take her elder son from her, and now it was happening. “I can’t leave Leningrad,” she replied. “I have three children here, and I need to be home when Katya returns.”
“Irina, Mikhail, and Yelena can look after themselves,” Stepan argued. “But Ludmilla and I have no experience with babies and will need your help.”
That was tempting. Maria loved babies. “I could visit at weekends,” she offered. “But I have my job at the factory during the week.”
“Mama, you are fifty years old. Don’t you think you are rather old to be mending conveyor belts? Why not retire and let your children look after you?” Stepan had clearly given this a lot of thought.
Maria didn’t love her job, but she enjoyed the company of the other women there. “I couldn’t just stay at home and do nothing,” she protested. “I need to be occupied. Anyway, what about my missing persons file?”
Ludmilla had a suggestion. “Why not give your file to the missing persons office in town? They have details of many more people than you, so the chances of them achieving reunions is surely higher.”
“They didn’t find Mikhail,” Maria objected. “They can’t find Katya.” The truth was, it was simply a job to the women there, while for her it was a mission. If she kept searching, she hoped that one day she would find Katya and then maybe Tatiana. But if she gave up, it wouldn’t happen.
Ludmilla clutched her hand tightly. “You know I think of you as the mother I no longer have. Please say you will be with me for the birth.”
“Yes, of course I will,” Maria agreed. She wouldn’t have missed that for the world.
* * *
Stepan and Ludmilla moved into their Petrodvorets apartment in March 1950, and Maria went to visit soon after. It was a clean, spacious modern block with communal gardens all around and pleasant views across town. Ludmilla had put up some watercolors of flowers that Maria had given them as an Easter gift and they looked very grand in gilt frames.
“This would be yours,” Stepan said, leading her into a large corner room with windows on two walls that looked out onto some lime trees.
Maria had to admit it was nice. She could imagine sleeping there and wakening to see the branches swaying against the sky and hear the rustling of leaves.
“I’ll stay some of the time,” she agreed before leaving. “When you need me. But my home will still be in Leningrad.”
Stepan nodded, with a smile. “That’s fine, Mama. Let’s just see how it goes.”
* * *
On her next visit, Maria brought vegetable seeds and cultivated a patch at the back of the garden. She liked gardening. It was peaceful there, and full of birdsong from rosefinches, siskins, and nightingales, as well as the squawks of hooded crows.
When Ludmilla reached her eighth month, Maria took over the shopping and cooking to ensure there was a proper meal ready for Stepan when he got home, and that her new grandchild got plenty of good nutrition.
A midwife had been engaged, but it was the middle of the night when Ludmilla went into labor and Maria took charge with utter calm. She sent Stepan to boil water and bring fresh towels and she held Ludmilla’s arm, supporting her, as they walked around the room. Ludmilla felt hot, so Maria opened the windows wide and they looked out at the stars in the night sky, feeling the soft breeze on their skin.
“I’m scared,” Ludmilla whispered as pain gripped her.
“So was I with my first,” Maria replied. “But nature has designed us for this. You’ll be fine.”
Ludmilla dozed between contractions and Maria sat in a rocking chair by her bed, thinking about her own life: all the births and deaths she had known, all the loss and the happiness too. When dawn began to break, it was one of the most beautiful she had ever seen: orange and pink with streaks of gold, like a religious painting.
Ludmilla awoke with a loud shriek. “The baby’s coming! Help me!”
Maria felt her belly, looked between her legs, and realized she was right. There was no time for the midwife now. She would deliver her first grandchild herself.
She wiped the sweat from Ludmilla’s brow, gripped her hand, and told her to push, then rest, then push again, and it seemed no time before she could see the top of the head, all white and sticky with mucus. She pulled the baby out and checked the cord was not around the neck. It gave a little mewl, eyes screwed tight against the morning light, and Maria’s heart turned over with the weight of her love.
“Is it a boy or a girl?” Ludmilla asked, and Maria shook herself. She hadn’t checked.
“A girl,” she said.
She cut the cord and began to clean the child, wetting the corner of a towel and wiping her skin with utmost gentleness. Everything was perfect: nose, toes, ears, fingers, knees, every little bit. She felt giddy with joy. Having her own children had been special, but a grandchild . . . Nothing could compare to this.
Suddenly the baby’s eyes opened and she squinted up at Maria. There was something about the gaze that reminded her of Katya, though she couldn’t have said what.
“I don’t know you yet, but I would lay down my life for you,” Maria whispered. And as she said it, she knew it was true.