And then she came to the three young men whose names were written on their pictures—Konstantin Ukraintsev, Peter Vasnetsov, and Ivan Skorokhodov—and stopped at the last one.

“Ivan Skorokhodov. That was your father’s Russian name. He changed it by deed poll to Irwin Scott after we arrived in Sydney.”

Val was stunned. “Really? Is that him?”

The picture was fuzzy, but the subject had dark hair and a slim figure, like her father. Ha Suran strained to lift herself on an elbow so she could hold it to the light filtering through the back door. “I’m not sure. I think your father had a uniform like this—I remember seeing it—but he looks different here. Younger maybe.”

Val took the picture to the doorway and examined it in daylight. “It must be him. He wasn’t bad-looking as a young man. I wonder if he was still living in Russia when this was taken?”

“He came from Sverdlovsk,” Ha Suran said. “It used to be called Ekaterinburg. The town where the Romanovs were killed. He was obsessed with them.” She lay down again and continued. “He said he passed the house where they were being held on his way to work in the morning and sometimes caught a glimpse of them in the yard. He used to worry about them because everyone knew they were living on borrowed time.”

“Where did he work?”

“Some kind of factory. But the workers were conscripted into the Red Army after the Revolution. They had no choice.”

Val tried to imagine her father back then, when he would have been in his late teens. What kind of person was he? What had made him so bitter? She described her visit to the nursing home and her father repeating “I didn’t want to kill her” and “There was so much blood.” “Do you think he might have been forced to kill some woman while he was in the army?” she asked.

Ha Suran shook her head straightaway. “Your father had many faults,” she said, “but I can’t imagine him killing a woman.” She was quite adamant.

Val felt relief wash over her. It would have been awful to be the daughter of a killer. At least that was one less thing to worry about.

* * *

During the mornings, while Ha Suran was resting, Val took Nicole to explore the town of Harbin. She loved the multicultural streets where European-style architecture gave way to glittering Chinese temples and extravagant Russian cathedrals. Nicole liked crossing the bridge over the Songhua River to Sun Island, where deer ran wild, tame squirrels ate nuts from the hands of visitors, and a colorful flower garden was planted according to the signs of the zodiac. The weather was humid, not as hot as Sydney in summer but perfect for exploring.