Chapter 12: THE UNRAVELING OF A MYSTERY

Kyiv, Ukraine…

Katie Bauer Roman's hobby was genealogy, begun while still living in Kyiv. Having early on abandoned hope of ever shedding any illumination on her own father's genesis, she had turned her research to Denys' wealthy and well-documented Romanov family—distant relations to the royals but light years removed from the line of succession. In the time of revolution they'd packed up their portable assets and repaired to England under assumed names—just in case the Red Army might succeed in killing off every last person bearing the surname 'Romanov.' When it was deemed safe to return, they did… picking up pretty much where they'd left off.

In the early years of this initially harmless pastime, Katie pored over countless crackled old photographs contained in the many albums Denys' parents had inherited. She was particularly interested in a great-great uncle by the name of Anton Feodor Romanov, who bore an eerie resemblance to her own father… a factoid she tucked away in her mind for future reference though seemingly unimportant at the time. This Anton (she was told) had been too ill to make the return journey and had been temporarily quartered with another expatriate family. After regaining his health, the then eighteen-year-old had, for whatever reason not immediately known, not returned to the Ukraine but lingered in England for the next four years. Why? And what had become of him?

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An interview with Bobchi Agata…

Denys took Katie to meet his venerated Polish great-grandmother, Bobchi Agata, who lived with a spinster daughter and was thrilled to bits to have a visitor. A wizened gnome with the face of a dried apple, Bobchi at ninety-nine still had most of her marbles if none of her teeth and only a few wisps of hair. Of course she remembered Anton, a much younger cousin. In her possession were the only four communiqués the family had received during that time, and she was pleased to share their contents, along with acerbic commentary.

The first letter advised that Anton had entered employment as a groom in the stables of a rich Scots laird and wasn't coming home anytime soon. Best to all, etc.

"Not illiterate, just a lazy baboon!" Bobchi opined.

The second letter advised that Anton was embroiled in an affair with the lady of the manor—an obscenely rich woman whose husband was never home—and that he anticipated reaping substantial financial rewards in return for his companionship. Hello to all, etc.

"A married woman's kept lapdog! Pah! He was raised better than that!" Bobchi pretended to spit on the floor.

The yellowed envelopes, postmarked Edinburgh, bore return addresses in faded but still legible purple ink.

The third letter was posted from Rotterdam, with the news that Anton was returning to the fold with his infant son, birthed more or less out of wedlock by that same lady.

Bobchi indulged in a mini-rant. "Nincompoop! What nonsense was this? As if he thought to foist off his half-English bastard on a respectable family! As if we could afford to feed another child when all around us were starving with that devil Stalin shoving communism down our throats! Good we did not own land and were not forced into a collective. We managed to survive. Millions did not."

A year had gone by with no news until another battered and creased missive arrived, postmarked Lublin. In comparison, this one was downright chatty. Also whiny. Without the bags of money he'd envisioned, Anton was obliged to work his way across the width of France, Germany and Poland—all of which were in post-Great Depression financial and social turmoil. Food for himself, milk for the baby and transportation were not free and not in abundance, and he could travel only as far as money trickling in from day jobs provided. But with a mere five hundred sixty kilometers to go, he was practically in sight of the border and they should expect him within the week.

"Fool! As if his mess was our responsibility to fix! Idiot! How could he not know of the troubles here in his homeland?" Bobchi stopped speaking then, obviously having worked herself into a geriatric conniption. Her shriveled bosom heaved with indignation and her raisin-like eyes leaked tears down her crinkled cheeks. Daughter Klara, who had been sitting in, assured the visitors that Bobchi was in no danger of apoplexy… just needed a few moments to collect her wits, which had scattered like cockroaches when the light is switched on.

Shuffling to the kitchen, Klara returned with a brown jug of samohon and four squat glass tumblers milky with age. Klara and great-granny each tossed off a large one. Denys declined as he was driving. Katie took two sips and thought her nose hairs would fall out—she enjoyed pepper vodka as much as anyone, but this stuff was as powerful as drain opener. Bobchi held out her glass for a refill, which she downed in one go.

They waited for the old lady to pick up the story.

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The end of Anton…

Anton and the baby never got home and there were no more letters. Oh well, thought Katie. Just another dead end. Still, I have that address in Scotland and it's better than nothing. But Bobchi wasn't done yet.

In 1946 a shabby emaciated man had shown up on their doorstep with information… for a price: whatever food they could spare for a starving Romani family that had miraculously escaped extinction.

Years before Germany's Einsatzgruppen began rounding up 'undesirables,' the Stalinist regime had been steadily purging the region of perceived Ukrainian nationalists. Their policy was to shoot first and not even bother to ask questions later. A man identifying himself as Anton Romanov had been caught up in one such raid. Wounded, he'd fled into the forest and stumbled upon a Servitka Roma camp. Before succumbing to his injuries, he secured a promise from their leader to look after and keep safe his year-old boy until the child could be restored to his rightful family in Kyiv. The leader's name was Pavel Kuryakin.

Katie's head was swirling. Her heart beat so hard that surely the others could hear it. It couldn't be, could it? It must be!

The gypsy band had been driven deeper and deeper into the forests in their desperation to avoid genocide. There wasn't a snowball's chance in hell of making a sortie down to Kyiv to deliver a toddler to people who'd never even seen him and possibly had no idea he even existed. The Romi had been forced to split up and the man at the door and his family had separated from the main group. He had no idea what had happened to that little boy—shot, most likely… but maybe not. Perhaps Pavel's immediate family had succeeded in escaping. At any rate, as he was here in the city he felt they ought to hear of their kinsman's fate… and could he have some food, please?

At that point Bobchi abruptly fell asleep, drool dribbling down her chin, and that was that. Klara escorted them out, indicating Katie should return another day. But life intruded… and death. Katie and Denys were about to leave for America and had to finish packing up their household. Before Katie could get back to her, Bobchi was resting in peace in another dimension. Katie made sure Klara had their forwarding address in case other evidence should come to light among her mother's effects.

Along with her Romanov research, Katie had made tentative inquiries into local gypsy communities. Being gadje, she wasn't welcomed with open arms and floods of information, but did find families admitting to being or knowing Kurakins, Kurics, Kuratins, Kuryshckins and Kuryshkins. Others allowed as how they'd heard of Kuryakin but didn't know anyone by that name.

Katie fully intended to follow up via internet research but all her spare time in months to come was consumed by moving, finding a new home, unpacking and getting settled into a new job. There just wasn't any time left for pursuing her 'hobby'—not then and not for the next seven years…