There was a woman she particularly liked, by the name of Annushka, who spoke with great sadness of an older brother who had been conscripted into the Red Army in 1918 and had never returned.

“I wish at least I knew the truth. If he is dead, I could visit his grave and have a priest say a panikhida. Not knowing is the worst of all worlds.”

She was a tall woman with a long, sharp nose and a high, rounded forehead that made her look intellectual. Maria knew she was married and got the impression the marriage was unhappy, because she never mentioned her husband although she doted on her little son.

“Tell me about your brother,” Maria said, knowing how much comfort she herself took from talking to Peter about her lost family, describing their traits and relaying memories of events from childhood years.

Annushka smiled. “He’s tall, like me, with the family dome of a forehead.” She touched two fingers to her own. “And he is as gentle as they come. He has a particular fondness for dogs, and wherever we went he used to stop to pet any dog we encountered. If one looked hungry he would feed it his own lunch . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“What is his name?” Maria asked, careful to use the present tense. She was very sensitive to the use of tense when talking about her own family.

“Fedor Ivanov Lipovsky. If you ever come across him—not that there’s any reason why you should—then please tell him I live in the Bolshaya Apartments, number fifty-seven.”

When she got home that evening, Maria opened a notebook and wrote down the address, not thinking anything of it except that she would like to be better friends with Annushka and perhaps they might visit each other’s homes one day.

* * *

One autumn day, when the fluffy poplar seeds known as putch were piled in gutters and low sun glinted off the golden domes of churches, Maria decided to take her children by tram to the Winter Palace on the banks of the Neva. They did not care for architecture but she knew they would enjoy watching the boats plying up- and downriver. As they stood on the bank, chattering and pointing, she turned to look at the grandeur of the peppermint-green–painted palace where her father used to deal with affairs of state before the war, and where she had sometimes been allowed to attend dances with her elder sisters. She could remember every detail of the white lace dress she had worn, the pearl necklace her mother had lent her, the white bow she had tied across the top of her head, and the Frenchman she met one evening who had bowed and said, “This one is the true beauty of the four”—meaning the four sisters. She had blushed and stammered, unable to reply, but hugged the compliment to herself like a secret treasure.