There were pictures of more guards: Igor Droyadov, Alexander Kotlov, Vassili Petrov, all with short biographies. Val recognized several of the names: they appeared on the fake identity papers her father had used. He must have known these men. But how?

She stopped in front of the next picture and gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. It was unmistakably her father as a young man. He had the same pronounced brow, the same dark eyes. Although he could only be about twenty years old in this picture, she knew without a shadow of a doubt it was him.

“What does this caption say?” she asked, and Bill leaned over.

“Anatoly Bolotov. He was recruited from the Verkh-Isetsk metallurgy plant on the eighth of July 1918 to become a guard here. That’s just eight days before the family died.”

“He was a guard? Are you sure?” Val felt sick. It meant her father must have been working there when the Romanovs were executed. That would explain why he had the camera and the leather bag with the photo album and sketchbook. Had he stolen them that night? Why had he told her mother his name was Ivan Skorokhodov?

“Are you OK?” Bill asked. “You look a bit pale.”

“I think I need some air,” Val replied. There was an oppressive atmosphere in the house. Dust motes danced in slants of sunshine, and there was a smell of rotting wood and something else she couldn’t put a finger on, something sickly sweet.

“OK, let’s go,” he said straightaway, putting an arm around her waist. “Shall we find some food? I’m starving.”

“You’re always starving,” Nicole giggled.

Val trailed behind them, trying to take in what she had learned. She felt ashamed of her father. He must have known what had happened to the family in the basement; perhaps even witnessed it. Yet still he had seized the opportunity to steal their possessions. It was grotesque. She was embarrassed to be related to him—and terribly worried as to why he had lied about who he was.

Chapter 55

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.