Ekaterina (16 page)

Olga addressed the Watsons. As Kat interpreted, the director handed her a sheaf of papers.

“When the time comes for you to get Gleb, please bring a change of clothes for him. We’ll take him out of the class and change his clothes, and he will leave the orphanage immediately, without returning to his group, to begin his new life as your son.” Olga’s voice turned hard. “No looking back, for any of us. Okay?”

Kat interpreted, forcing words through her thickening throat. No looking back. Was this what she was doing? Looking back into a past her grandfather wanted forgotten? Was she about to unlock secrets that might bring pain pouring down on the man who had given her a future? Perhaps she should hop a plane for New York, just as Vadeem hoped. Despite her prayers, she couldn’t help but feel as if God had closed his ears. But her job wasn’t to evaluate His response, or lack thereof.

Her only job was to trust and obey. To pray and wait for rescue.

The sudden image of her former stalker-rescuer, the one God had sent to save her life, sent stinging tears into her eyes. Maybe she should look harder for God’s intervention.

A knock sounded at the door. It opened, and in a moment, a teacher appeared with a chubby, round-faced Gleb in her arms. He held the ball, his big brown eyes saucer-wide, rippling more than just a little fear. His pink flannel shirt missed two buttons, and he had dug his feet around the waist of his nurse, his brown cotton tights bagging at his ankles. “Meet your mama,” the teacher said softly, and Kat saw the woman’s forced smile.

“Natalia,” Olga said to the teacher, “could you take the Watsons down to the music room with their son?”

Sveta was already on her feet. She reached for the child, eager. Gleb pulled back, his face crumpling. Kat started to intervene, yearning for this moment to be beautiful.

“
Nyet
,” Olga said, stopping Kat. “Let them go alone. They need to learn to trust each other.” She shooed the Watsons off down the hall with Natalia.

Kat ached with happiness. Mother and child. “Lord, help them,” she said in English.

“Are you a believer?” Olga said, shock on her handsome face.

Kat nodded. Warmth for this well-groomed woman washed over her. She didn’t know what she’d expected—probably some large-busted matron with bushy gray eyebrows and steely eyes. Director Shasliva was a pleasant departure from the stereotype with her olive green suit jacket and matching skirt. She conveyed confidence and pride in her establishment.

“You?” Kat countered, hoping.

A smile creased Olga’s face. “Since I was a child. In fact, I grew up in an orphanage. If it hadn’t been for
Babushka
Antonina, I may have never have found the Lord.”

“Was she your director?”

“More like my grandmother. She had beautiful blond hair and these brown eyes that could part my soul and find my sins. But she loved me, and I adored her.”

Kat could picture the woman in Olga’s eyes—rounded body, strong hands, a way with her love that made every child feel special. “I never knew my grandmother.” Kat took a deep breath. “In fact, that is the real reason I came to Russia. To find my family.”

Olga’s forehead creased into a frown. “You have relatives in Russia?”

“I think so. My grandfather worked in the OSS with the partisans. I think my grandmother was Russia. Her name was Magda. . .I think her last name might have been Klassen.”

“Russia is a big place.” Olga shook her head. “And there aren’t many partisans left. I remember them being honored every year in a parade.” She steepled her fingers on her desk, her eyes suddenly alight. “You know, I think our itinerant pastor’s mother was a partisan. I remember reading an article about her not long ago. She happened to be a lawyer, and she pioneered the laws that opened the doors to international adoptions.”

A Russian pastor. This trip certainly had some hidden blessings.

“They live about an hour from here, but I’ll call him and see if you can meet them for dinner. I’ll drive you out. From what I can remember reading, Marina Dobrana and her husband spent their lives campaigning for adoption, and it was her dream to see every orphanage emptied. She even received a medal for her pioneering work. I’ll be she could give you a few ideas. The partisan network was tightly knit back then. If anyone could point you toward your Magda, Marina Dobrana could.”

-

Vadeem paced his office, glancing now and again at the computer, his jaw clenched. Kat’s words kept running through his head, “
You can find out. The FSB has files on everyone
.”

Okay, more than just her words were running around in his noggin, but he fought the places his nightmares were taking him and focused only on what he knew. She’d flown out today, to Blagoveshensk, to help some rich American couple adopt a child. She was most likely safely checked into a hotel, eating potato soup, not giving him a second thought.

Whereas he couldn’t seem to force her out of his brain.

He plopped down at his desk, drumming his fingers, staring as his computer’s screen saver. Denis was at his perch out in the hall, checking on the history of Pskov, trying to read a smuggler’s mind. Vadeem hoped the kid dug up something. Grazovich hadn’t moved in two days and the surveillance team was starting to get antsy. If Kat was somehow entangled in Grazovich’s scheme, he didn’t seem panicked about her disappearance. Unless he knew where she was.

Vadeem would be less than an FSB sleuth if he didn’t follow his gut and look into her past. Something tied her to Grazovich, something more than coincidence or the smuggler wanting a pretty companion during his tour of Pskov. And, the fact that a thug mowed them down and ripped the key—only the key—off Kat’s neck, leaving behind both her suitcase and her backpack, screamed volumes.

That key had to open something of value.

Vadeem surrendered to the investigator’s urge and keyed his password into the FSB computer. He pulled up her visa application and read it through. Ekaterina Hope Moore. Born in Nyack, New York. Thirty-three years old. Occupation, Adoption Coordinator.

He rubbed his chin and typed in her mother’s name. Nothing. How about that grandfather she mentioned?

He typed in the name from her application, where it was listed as “next of kin.”

Nothing. He rubbed his eyes, recalling a conversation only yesterday with his partner.
She said her grandfather is some sort of World War II hero. Maybe he did some time on the Eastern front.

If Kat’s Grandfather had set foot in Russia, the NKVD, the forerunner of the KGB, active during the 1930’s and ‘40’s, would have known about it. Which meant it would be in the FSB databank. The screen blinked “no data.”

Vadeem sat back in his chair and wondered what games Miss Ekaterina Moore was playing.

-

Kat sat at a round wooden table in the kitchen of the log home and knew she’d finally found the Russia she had dreamed about since childhood. A wood stove bullied heat into the room as Kat sat on a rough-hewn bench nursing a cup of
chai
. Golden-fried
peroshke
piled a plate at center stage, spicing the air with the smell of baked apples and sunflower oil. Faded pictures of stoic ancestors peered from the walls and on the wooden countertop, steam billowed out of a silver samovar and heated the
zavarka
, a spicy tea concentrate simmering in the teapot perched on the top. A very old, wrinkled
babushka
sat across from Kat, eyes shining and filling Kat’s ear with a story that took her to the edge of disbelief.

“Back in the ‘40s, Stalin called up everyone to join the army. Hitler had pushed all the way into Stalingrad, Stalin’s namesake. We all knew if the fascists crossed the Volga, they wouldn’t stop until they got to the Pacific Ocean.”

The old woman’s blue eyes sparkled, the lines around her eyes crinkling as she focused on her listeners. Kat glanced at the man next to her at the round table. Pyotr Dobran had the look of a work-worn pastor, wearing a slightly stained short-sleeve dress shirt and black pants. He’d reported that he spent the day visiting sick
babushkas
, painting the church outhouse, and meeting with the church youth leaders about the summer evangelism camp. Kat was struck by his pensive blue eyes, eyes that seemed to look right through to her soul. His smile however, won her over. He clasped her hand gently, smiled with welcome, and she knew he’d been rightly called to his profession.

Night pressed against the tiny windows, a full blackness that betrayed the late hour. The fatigue that weighed Kat’s jet-lagged body warred with her brain, the only awake portion of her body. After trekking nearly a mile from the bus stop with Olga, who hadn’t been able to find gas to fill her
Lada
, and clinging to the promise that Pyotr would drive them back to Yfa, Kat finally felt as if the hard knots in her back were worth the prize. Olga, obviously exhausted, had commandeered a section of sofa and made sounds of slumber in the next room. Kat, however wouldn’t have missed this evening even if she had to prop her eyes open with a couple of those finely crafted teaspoons.

As if also cherishing the moment, Pastor Pyotr sat with his chin in his hands, enraptured with his mother’s story, although Kat suspected Pyotr Dobran had grown up feeding on this rich history. His daughter had also joined them, a spunky blonde with the name Nadia. The seven-year-old snuggled into his side and played with one of her long blonde braids.

Babushka
‘Rina’ as she had insisted Kat call her, had all the makings of a farmstead grandmother despite her career as a lawyer, with her headscarf, navy polyester housedress, brown cotton tights and hands that looked like they could both lift the world and soothe a broken heart. Kat noticed how graceful the babushka’s fingers were, even at her advanced age. They reminded Kat of her mother’s hands for some reason. . .long fingers made for playing the piano, or the violin. She watched them now as
Babushka
Rina peeled an apple in one long peel for her granddaughter.

“We had a motto, back then. ‘Nothing beyond the Volga.’ It meant there was no land for Hitler to take, and we’d fight until the last man, or woman, fell.”

“Women fought in the war?”

“Oh yes, my dear, we had women bombers, women infantry, women snipers. The Russian women fought right beside their men to push Hitler back to Germany.”

“Did you fight?”

Her eyes fixed on Kat’s, an odd mix of melancholy and pride. “Yes. I was sniper in the 248
^th
division. I fought at Stalingrad, among other places.”

Kat blinked at that, having a hard time picturing this tall, rounded, but still elegant lady holding a gun to her shoulder. “That must have been difficult.”

Silence filled the room.
Babushka
Rina let it soak up Kat’s question. Then she nodded slowly. “Often, in this life, we are forced to do things that might, at other times, be unthinkable.” She sighed then handed the peeled apple to her granddaughter. “We won, however. We beat the fascists, and after the war, Pavel and I came east to start a new life.” The lines around her eyes crinkled as she smiled. Her face filled with a swirl of youthful memory. “And what a wonderful life it was. Pavel was more than I ever expected.”

“Pavel?”

“He was my father.” Pyotr reached into his worn wool jacket, which hung on the chair, and pulled out a wallet photo, a small black and white photograph. He handed it over. “He was a doctor. Went on to Glory five years ago.”

Kat looked at a young man with shining eyes, a shock of dark hair, and a smile that couldn’t be anything but kind. He leaned against a tree, hands in his pockets, forever youthful, forever strong. She was instantly sad she hadn’t met him. “Pavel. That’s Paul, in English, right?”

Babushka
Rina nodded. “Your Russian is amazingly good, young lady. Where did you learn it?”

“My mother was part Russian, and my grandfather, also. He taught me.”

Larissa, Pavel’s petite wife, rose from the table and began taking cups and saucers from the sideboard. “Have you been to Russia many times for adoptions?” she asked.

Kat laughed. “Oh no. This is my first actual field adoption. I work for a small international adoption agency in New York. We place babies from all over the world, but our Russia field is just beginning to develop. Thankfully, we were already registered in this territory, and our agency was able to step in to help the Watsons. ” She cast a smile at
Babushka
Rina, imagining for a moment the miles of red tape she must have untangled during her adoption campaign. “I hope this is the beginning of many such happy occasions.”

“I hope so too.”
Babushka
Rina’s eyes glowed, and Kat had the oddest feeling the older woman was looking beyond her to another place in time. Her voice sounded miles, even decades distant. “I’ve always had a special place in my heart for adoption.”

Then, in a blink, Babushka Rina returned and smiled brightly at Kat. “What was your mother’s name?”