Petrodvorets, 1951
LUDMILLA HAD ANOTHER BABY THE YEAR AFTER HER daughter Anna was born—a little boy called Alexei, who emerged from the womb with a full head of thick dark hair. Maria doted on her grandchildren and scarcely spent any time in Leningrad because she couldn’t bear to leave them. What if Anna started walking or Alexei babbled his first distinct word when she was not there? While they were apart, her chest ached with longing for them.
Both little ones adored their babushka and loved snuggling on her lap to listen to stories. She gave them the wooden toys Peter had carved for his own children and liked to watch them play—although it was bittersweet because Peter had never known the joy grandchildren brought, and their auntie Katya was still missing. None of Maria’s letters had yielded any clues as to where she was, but she still wrote to the few children’s homes that had not yet replied, sending pencil sketches of Katya and stamped envelopes. One day someone must recognize her.
Maria had given up her factory job but on the rare occasions when she went back to town, she invited her old colleagues around for tea and cakes at the apartment. She didn’t miss work. At fifty-three, she was feeling her age. Her lower back ached on cold mornings, and if she crouched to pick up the children’s toys she had to grab hold of a piece of furniture to pull herself up again.
When Anna was two and Alexei one, Ludmilla decided to go back to work and Maria became a full-time carer for the little ones. Every day when the weather permitted she took them for walks in the park around the Peterhof palace—she could never learn to call it by the Soviet name of Petrodvorets. She showed them the secret fountains that were designed to soak the unwary, the pretty flower beds, and the different types of bird that alighted there. Always she took a sketchbook because the children clamored for her drawings.
“Draw a giraffe, Babushka,” Anna would demand. “And a monkey! Together!”
Sometimes they went inside the palace to visit their mama and papa at work, but Maria felt uncomfortable there, amid the decor dripping with gold. It reminded her of the blinkered child she had once been who took all that Romanov wealth for granted.
* * *
One morning Stepan told her that he was going on a trip to source some marble and would not be back until late.
“Eat the evening meal without me,” he said.
“Take your warm hat,” Maria fussed, running after him, and he accepted it from her without a murmur although it was only October and the weather was mild.
She had already gone to bed that night when she heard the sound of Stepan returning home. She glanced at the clock: ten after midnight. It sounded as if Ludmilla was still up, because she could hear the murmur of voices in the kitchen. The children would wake her around six a.m., so she should go back to sleep, but she wanted to hear about Stepan’s trip. She hesitated, then decided that since she was awake anyway, she might as well say goodnight.
The kitchen door was closed as she padded down the corridor, but when she drew near, she heard Ludmilla’s voice asking, “Is there absolutely no doubt it was her?”
Something about her tone made Maria stop and wait for the answer.
Stepan sighed heavily. “There was a satchel with a bottle of Mama’s elecampane mixture inside and a wooden duck that Papa made for us when we were children.”
Maria’s heart started thumping so hard she thought it must leap out of her chest. Katya’s satchel had been found. But where?
“Perhaps she dropped the satchel that night and it got tangled up with someone else’s remains,” Ludmilla suggested.
Remains? Maria couldn’t stand to hear this. She cupped her face in her hands, fingers over her ears, but did not move from the spot. Her legs had turned to stone.
“The fisherman who pulled her up said the satchel was diagonally across the skeleton.” He gave a little sob. “She must have fallen through the ice after the bombing that night. A friend of Mama’s also disappeared.”
Maria’s eyes filled with tears. It was clear now what he was saying.
“I’m so sorry, my love.” She heard Ludmilla’s voice comforting him, then Stepan gave another sob.
“My beautiful little sister,” he croaked before his voice became muffled, and Maria guessed Ludmilla was hugging him.
She should open the door and go into the kitchen so they could mourn together, but something stopped her. Suddenly she realized she had known all these years that Katya was dead. Deep down she had never believed she would find her, just as she did not believe she would ever find Tatiana. They were gone. She hoped Katya had been with Peter in heaven for the ten years since she had died.
“There will have to be a funeral,” Stepan said, struggling to control his emotion. “It will be desperately hard for Mama. No parent should have to bury their child.”
Maria tried to imagine what a body would look like after all those years in the water. Bones, just bones. That was not her daughter. She believed Katya’s soul had left at the precise moment of death. The skeleton was just a relic.
“Does she need to know?” Ludmilla asked. “Maybe it would be easier for her to carry on thinking there is hope.”
“Do you think so?” Stepan asked.
Maria considered this. She felt weary. She did not have the energy for grief. Her sorrow for Katya had been spent all those years ago. What if they simply didn’t tell her and she pretended she didn’t know? Except she would know. She had always known.
Treading carefully to avoid creaking floorboards, she turned and tiptoed back to her room and climbed into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. She said prayers for Katya, imagining her with Peter in heaven. Her Romanov family had not known either of them, but she was sure they would have been welcomed into the fold.
In the morning, if Stepan told her, then she must weep and grieve and arrange a funeral. But if he did not, she would continue to pray for Katya in private, just as she had always done.
Next day, Anna and Alexei woke her at six as usual. Maria pulled on a robe and led them to the kitchen, where she began to warm milk and gave them both a sukhari with cinnamon and raisins.
Stepan came into the room and kissed each child on the forehead, then embraced his mother. He had shadows like bruises under his eyes; he always got them when he hadn’t slept.
“How was your trip?” she asked, watching his face. Now was the moment of decision. Would he tell her or not?
“I got what I went for,” he said. “Everything is fine.”
Maria nodded and turned back to watch the pan. She had to make sure the milk did not boil over, which it could do in an instant, and she did not want him to see so much as a glint of a tear in her eye.