Both Stepan and Irina were at school now, and when Peter reported that a day care had been established at the pig-iron factory where Katya could be looked after during the day, Maria decided to apply for a job. She had no baby to care for, after all. The extra earnings would help to provide more food and clothes as the children grew. They only had one set of clothing and one pair of shoes each, and it was a struggle to replace them when they wore out.

Before she started, Maria had little idea of what went on at Peter’s workplace, and she was taken aback by the rapacious roar of the blast furnaces, the scorching temperatures, the clanging of the huge belts that transported raw materials into the furnaces then conveyed the molten liquid into molds to set. She learned that pig iron got its name because the arrangement of the ingots along a thin runner was said to resemble a litter of piglets suckling at their mother.

At first her job was sweeping the floor rigorously to rid the factory of any contaminants that could affect the quality of the iron, but soon she applied for training in how to mend and maintain the huge traveling belts. It could be dangerous if hair or clothing got caught in these, and she was scrupulously careful about switching off the entire belt before attempting a repair. One woman who worked in the day care had lost a hand because she had not heeded this rule. The remaining flesh of her arm was folded around a stump that acted as a grim reminder to Maria every time she collected Katya from her care.

“Whoever would have thought a grand duchess would carry a spanner and oil in her overalls pocket?” Peter teased her in private. “Amazingly, you even know what to do with them.”

In truth, Maria seldom thought of her past now. Life was too full, with her job, her role as a mother and wife, her grief for Pavel, and her sideline in reuniting families. She soon became friends with several of her fellow workers in the factory, and many more came to her with stories of the missing until her card files numbered more than a hundred. One day, however, a wiry man with a salt-and-pepper moustache, whose job it was to stoke the furnaces, approached her pointing a finger of accusation.

“You’re the one!” he said. “You told my wife where to find me, and now my mistress has left me as a result. What right do you have to play with people’s lives? Did it not occur to you that some folk don’t want to be found?”

From then on, Maria only gave out information about people who had asked to be included in her card file. The last thing she wanted was to make enemies.

* * *