The Secret Wife(93)
She logged in to her genealogy forum to find there were some replies to her question, and scrolled down the list. Several mentioned websites in the Czech Republic but these would only be useful if she could post in Czech. She’d need to find a translator. One came up with a link to the immigration papers of Irena Markova, which gave an old address in Brno. But then, near the end of the list, she found a post in English, from a woman called Hana Markova, which said, ‘I think I am the person you are looking for. I am the stepdaughter of Irena Markova and this week I had a call about her from the New York state police. I work as an interpreter at a conference centre in Brno’ – she gave the telephone number – ‘and it is best to catch me between 12.30 and 2 p.m.’
Kitty was amazed. The Internet had come up trumps after all! She googled and learned that New York was six hours behind the Czech Republic, so that meant calling between 6.30 and 8 a.m. in the morning. While packing her bags to move back to the cabin for her last few nights at Lake Akanabee, Kitty made sure her mobile phone was fully charged. This might be a long call.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Prague, October 1947
The following morning, Dmitri opened his eyes and turned to look at Tatiana breathing quietly beside him, her soft auburn hair fanned across the pillow. It was the most precious moment of his life. He raised himself on an elbow to examine the curl of her lashes, the curve of her ear, the slender neck, and he was choked with the enormity of his love for her.
As if she could feel his gaze she opened her eyes and smiled up at him. In that instant there was no past, no future, nothing but the two of them. Without words they kissed then began to make love and it was glorious, the fulfilment of all Dmitri’s yearnings since 1914 when, at the age of twenty-three, he first set eyes on Tatiana in a hospital ward.
They bathed and dressed slowly, with many kisses and caresses. By the time they got downstairs the hotel had stopped serving breakfast so they went out to a café in Wenceslas Square and ordered dark bread, cold meats and cheeses. They sat close, their knees pressed together, as they ate.
‘Where is your home?’ Dmitri asked, smoothing a loose strand of hair from her brow and tucking it behind her ear. ‘Am I allowed to ask?’
He still couldn’t quite believe it was her, and kept touching her, gazing at her, making sure.
She finished chewing a mouthful. ‘I don’t have a home any more. This is something I need to discuss with you. I have a proposal.’
‘Anything you want. You only have to ask.’
‘I need money to rent a place … but I don’t want to take a gift from you – although I know you would offer without hesitation.’
He was automatically reaching for his chequebook but stopped.
She continued: ‘I don’t know if you’re aware that the English translation of your first three novels is dreadful: clumsy and wordy and not an accurate reflection of the delicacy and precision of your Russian prose. I was going to ask if you might consider hiring me to retranslate them. I know I could do much better.’
‘Oh God, of course! I’d love you to do that.’ He was excited at the thought.
She continued. ‘Once I have a track record as a translator, I hope I can find enough work to earn a living. I have been doing farming work till now’ – she held out her roughened hands to show him – ‘but I have trouble with my back and can’t work long hours any more.’
He couldn’t bear to think of her farming, of her back aching. She was a Romanov, a grand duchess. ‘Tatiana, I have plenty of money. You don’t need to work ever again. Please let me give you a regular sum, whatever you need. You’re my wife, after all.’
She leaned across to kiss him then pulled her chair round so that she was close enough to wrap her arms around him and hold him so close he could feel the beating of a pulse in her neck.
They spent the day walking around the town: across the famous Charles Bridge lined with lifelike statues of saints, up to St Nicholas Church and the atmospheric old Castle, back to the Jewish cemetery with its thousands of tombstones all toppling over each other, and around the majesty of Wencelas Square. Tatiana spoke fluent Czech so Dmitri imagined this must be where she had been living. Perhaps she had been rescued from Ekaterinburg by the Czechs in the White Army. Bless them, whoever they were. He’d be forever in their debt.
Towards evening they collected her belongings from the left luggage office at the railway station – a battered holdall containing a few items of clothing and her copies of his books.
‘Do you want to stay in Prague?’ he asked later, over dinner. ‘I’m worried about the growth of the Communist Party here. It feels like St Petersburg in 1917, with people checking who is listening before opening their mouths to speak.’
‘I know. I’m worried too, but I don’t have anywhere else to go.’
‘Do you have children?’ he asked, tentatively.
‘No,’ she said quickly, not meeting his eye.
He hesitated, sure she was lying, but she didn’t continue. ‘You don’t want to get in touch with your family? I met your Aunt Irene in Berlin, and I know there are still Romanovs in Denmark.’
She winced. ‘I couldn’t bear to become a newspaper story, to have all these strangers queuing up to decide whether or not they recognise me. The only person I ever wanted to find was you.’