‘You’re the captain’s girl,’ she said, glancing at me quickly and then looking shyly away. ‘I’m the housekeeper. Your father sent word to expect you.’ She drew back the door and stood aside, her back pressed against the wall. Although her face was thin and pinched, she could hardly be older than me. The shapeless housecoat ballooned around her but even its formless shape could not disguise the round swell of her belly.
As if she had noticed my gaze, her hand drifted towards her stomach and she rested her palm on the protrusion; an unmistakable gesture of protection.
I felt a sudden affinity towards her. How desperately must she need to work, to be so close to her time and yet be here.
‘Lydia Volkova,’ I said. ‘And this is Olga Andreyevna.’
She shot us a quick, frightened glance, her hand still cupping her belly. ‘I know. I’m Etti,’ she added, clasping my outstretched hand. Her fingers were callused, ridged by small bumps that had obviously burst and healed. She withdrew her hand quickly.
‘You look too young to be a housekeeper,’ I said.
The girl gave an embarrassed shrug. Leaning over, she took the suitcase from Olga’s hand. ‘I was just a maid until last month. There was another woman here, Tiina Tamm. But she’s gone now, so it’s left to me.’ She began to lug Olga’s suitcase up the hallway towards the stairs. ‘Thankfully the Partorg doesn’t use this residence often. It is used more for guests or special visitors. The bedrooms are upstairs. I have made the beds up for you already and drawn a bath. I imagine you must be exhausted after your travels.’
‘That’s kind of you, but unnecessary.’ I drew in a breath, thinking of the letter I must write to Stalin; to my real father. What would I say to him? What could I say? I would have to be contrite, apologetic, when all I wanted to do was ask him how he had let me believe for so many years that I was the daughter of another man. I wondered if he would accept me, now that I knew the truth. Or would he shun me, as Olga suggested, refusing to admit it? It seemed more likely I would become another of the Kremlin’s dark secrets, like the men and women who had been wrongfully accused.
I imagined the letter I would write.
Dear Stalin.
Dear liar.
You do not deserve an apology. I have learnt the truth. I know you were the reason Mama killed herself. I know about the trials and executions carried out in your name. I know what happened to Joachim and why you had him arrested, your efforts to control everything. You are the worst kind of man. I’m ashamed I spent so many hours trying to please you, worrying that you would be angry with me for disturbing you, thinking that I was dear to you when in fact, it was the opposite. If you cared about me at all, if you felt bad about your role in Mama’s death, you would have accepted my happiness. You would have set me free. Instead, you have made me hate you. I will never be your daughter, not in name and not in my soul. Those things belong to me now. They are mine alone.
Of course, I couldn’t write that.
To do so would be suicide. I would have to be meek and simpering and subservient. I could never reveal my parentage. It would be dangerous. I remembered how Stalin had paraded his legitimate children before world leaders like Winston Churchill, pretending that he was a true family man.
I knew the truth now, but my tongue was sealed.
It would be better to get the distasteful ordeal over with as soon as possible.
When we reached the stairs, I watched Etti struggle for a moment, trying to manoeuvre the suitcase onto the lowest step. Unable to still myself, I moved forward to help. Mama had always instilled in me a respect for servants. Treat them as if they were your family, she had once said, and although I imagined she had been referring more to Olga, who was indeed like a mother, the words had stayed with me. Besides, was it not the principal teaching of communism, for everyone to be equal?
‘Here. You can’t lift that,’ I said. ‘Not in your condition. Please, don’t protest.’
She fell silent. Her fingers brushed mine as she released the suitcase into my free hand.
‘Up here?’
Etti nodded. Ignoring the resistant ache in my muscles, I heaved Olga’s suitcase and my own up to the next floor. A moment later, I heard Olga mount the stairs behind me, grudgingly praising all the lovely things in the rooms downstairs.
At the top of the landing, Etti paused to lean against the timber wainscot that ran along the wall and catch her breath. Her skin was mottled pink.
Olga peered at her down the bridge of her nose.
‘You are close to your time,’ she observed, reaching out without permission to run her hand over Etti’s belly, splaying out her fingers. I thought Etti might protest but the Estonian woman said nothing.
‘It is a girl,’ Olga declared, tossing back her head. ‘I am certain. You see? The stomach is round and soft like a big ball of dough ready for kneading. If it was a boy, it would be a different shape, more narrow.’
‘A baguette?’ I suggested.
‘Perhaps.’
Etti blinked in astonishment at the informality of our conversation and then she smiled hesitantly.
‘Superstitions,’ she said. ‘It seems they are everywhere. Let me show you to your rooms.’
The second-floor landing led into a corridor and a number of bedrooms. Two of the doors were open, revealing double beds covered by knitted bedspreads. A narrow bathroom, cleverly concealed to look more like a linen closet, was sandwiched between them. The scent of rose soap floated towards me on a cloud of steam. I was all too aware of my own odour and suddenly I could think of nothing I wanted more than to submerge myself beneath the surface of the water.
The letter to Stalin could wait.
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ I said, setting Olga’s suitcase in the doorway of the first bedroom. ‘I will bathe. Thank you, Etti. It was very kind of you. I don’t know how many days I will be here.’ I bit down on my disappointment. I couldn’t tell her I would be staying only one night; she would want to know why. ‘But I’m glad my father appointed you the housekeeper until Tiina’s return.’
Etti’s expression was sombre. ‘I’m not sure that she will return, to be truthful.’
‘Oh.’ Grasping her meaning, I fidgeted with the hem of my blouse. An awkwardness stretched between us. Had Tiina been yet another victim of my father’s tactics?
Etti filled it at last. ‘In any case,’ she said, ‘you can ask me for anything you need. I will go now and prepare your supper.’
‘I will help you,’ Olga said. Etti raised her eyebrows and looked from Olga to me, her curiosity clear.
‘My husband was a chef,’ Olga offered. ‘He worked in a grand hotel. Sometimes he would sneak me in and I would help him prepare the food before a particularly important guest arrived. This was years ago, of course, long before I came to look after Lydia, at her mother’s request.’
‘A grand hotel?’ Etti pursed her lips. ‘Then I’m sorry, you will find our meals and our ingredients meagre by comparison.’
Olga shrugged. ‘I have not cooked in a good while. And besides, that does not matter,’ she said. ‘My husband used to say it is not the ingredients that are important, but how we use them. Kneading dough, slicing vegetables, making bread dumplings for the soup. These are all the things he taught me.’
‘I would be glad of your help,’ Etti said. ‘But it would be unconventional for a guest to cook for herself.’
‘Nonsense,’ Olga said. ‘I miss cooking. Zoya did not like me to interfere with her methods. She was always offended if I tried to help.’ She began to roll up her sleeves. ‘Let me make myself decent first with some water on my hands. My dear friend Ana, Lydochka’s mother, often spoke of the delicacies of the Estonian palate. She knew how much I appreciate food.’