Valera helped Ledjo take off his worn school shoes, which were at least a size too small, then followed him into their spartan living room, waiting for him to climb onto their sofa—the one seat in the room—before jumping on top of him. They both giggled together. Valera pretended she couldn’t feel her son’s ribs pressing into her as she tickled him.

‘Mama,’ Ledjo said, when Valera had stopped gently attacking his sides. ‘Teacher told us today that we have conquered space and all the stars are ours. Is that true?’

Valera grinned, leaned in close to Ledjo, and whispered ‘no’ in his ear. She could never have said anything as inflammatory as that single word outside, but in the privacy of her own home she was free to rebel a little.

Ledjo’s face turned into a thoughtful frown.

‘That must be why we have to hide under our desks every day,’ he said. ‘Because of the Mercan bombs.’

She wanted to tell him it wasn’t the American bombs he should be worried about, but some trigger-happy major accidentally launching one of theirs. But there’d be hell to pay if he accidentally repeated something so un-Soviet in the playground or classroom.

It was now past the naukograd’s unofficial curfew. They had nowhere to go, but for the rest of the day they were safe from prying eyes and ears. Valera would make them a stew on their single-flame stove with whatever food they had in the kitchen, and they would play games they made up or tell each other stories, pretending to paint them on the living room’s bare white walls until it was time for Ledjo to go to bed.

For Valera and Ledjo’s first six months in Povenets B life had been very different. Zukolev had gone out of his way to make things pleasant for them. They were his favourites. They were invited to events at his home—the only two-storey house in the naukograd—with senior scientists. Ledjo was allowed to play in the major’s immaculately kept garden. They were even occasionally given extra meat from the monthly supply delivery. Karelia itself even wanted them to feel welcome, stretching out the warm autumn.

But one morning at the school gates, just as the winter chill was starting to bite, Valera noticed the same look on the faces of several of the other mothers—a mix of pity and disgust. Valera was the only woman in Povenets B who wasn’t just a wife or mother, and she had no friends among the other women to ask what the look meant. But one of them was kind enough to whisper ‘whore’ as she walked past Valera two mornings later.