‘Where is he?’

Her mother shook her head. ‘Gone, disappeared, a long time ago.’ And then, to put an end to the questions, she added, ‘We’ll never see him again.’

Galina wanted to know more. She kept asking, she kept pushing, and only when she realised how much she was upsetting Lidiya did she stop.

Some years later, when Galina’s own artistic talent was already apparent, her mother explained why these old books of hers, the picture books of the 1920s, 30s and 40s, were so special.

‘When I was growing up,’ she said, ‘enemies of the people were said to be everywhere — in schools, on farms, in the army, in the factories, and most especially among artists and writers.’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘When everyone’s frightened, when everyone’s suspicious, it’s very easy to make mistakes.’

Her mother paused, and Galina guessed she was thinking about her own mother and father.

‘People had to be very careful, and this was the case in every aspect of Soviet life, but far less so when it came to children’s books.’ And now she was smiling. ‘It was as if anything intended for children wasn’t to be taken seriously; certainly it couldn’t do any harm to the great Soviet state. So the sort of surveillance that happened in other aspects of creative work was far less rigorous in the case of children’s books. When it became too dangerous for great writers like Mandelstam to write openly for adults, they wrote stories for children instead.’

She gathered a few more of the children’s books and spread them across the table. ‘Many of the books I had as a child, many of the books you like best, were written by the best writers in the country and illustrated by the best artists.’ Again she smiled. ‘Writers and artists, composers too, will always find a way.’ And in the quietest whisper, she added, ‘Fairytales, fantasies, allegories can be very powerful, despite what our leaders think.’

Everyone has days that start out ordinary and finish as exceptional, and this winter’s day in Leningrad when Galina was ten years old and learning why her mother’s children’s books were so special was one such day. She and her mother were having their whispered conversation when there was a knock on the door. The buzzers at the front entrance had been broken for months, so anyone could enter the building and make their way up the stairs.

Her mother went to the door. Galina, still seated at the table, heard a man’s voice, she heard her mother’s voice, she heard the door slam, and then a volley of angry words. She twisted around and saw a strange man standing in front of the closed door. He was tall, and bulked out in an army greatcoat. The ear flaps of his ushanka were tied back, revealing a thick reddish-brown fur; it looked so soft and warm, it might be fox or even sable, and there was more of this plush fur on the lapels and collar of his coat. His boots were black leather and they looked new. Such luxurious clothes, and so different from the man himself. His face was bloated and covered with bristles, his eyes were red and sloppy like a bloodhound’s, and when he removed the hat, his hair was plastered to his head. He reeked of tobacco and unwashed body. His stench quickly filled the room.