Maria changed tack. “My husband is a valued shock worker at a pig-iron factory. We have five children who have been brought up loyal Communists. We do good in our community; my husband is always willing to help neighbors mend burst pipes or unblock drains, while I help to find missing relatives, as I did for your wife. What value can it possibly have for my children to lose their father, the factory to lose its worker, and me to lose my husband? I’m begging you—if there is anything you can suggest, I would be forever in your debt.” She spoke with passion and determination. This had to work. She couldn’t think of anything else.

He appraised her for a while before speaking. “I can see you truly love him. Let me make inquiries. I’ll get Annushka to tell you if I have any success.”

Tears sprang to Maria’s eyes. “Thank you.” She bowed her head. “I can’t tell you how much that means.”

* * *

Maria allowed herself to feel a shred of hope after the meeting, but a week later, when she spotted Annushka in the bread line, there was no news.

“He hasn’t mentioned it,” Annushka said. “I’m sorry.”

“Will you ask tonight? Please?” Maria begged.

Annushka promised she would, but the following day she said she had not dared to bother him. “He was in a terrible mood,” she apologized. “I’ll see if he is more amenable tonight.”

Maria thought she should at least have asked the question, mood or no mood, but did not say so. Two weeks had passed since Peter was taken away, and it was getting harder to bear with every second that passed. She missed his touch, his smell, the sound of his voice, the space he occupied in a room. She would never feel safe until he was back. Never.

“Let’s go to Bolshoi Dom one more time,” she pleaded with Stepan.

“Mama, it’s not a good idea.” He patted her shoulder. “These things take time.”

“If you won’t come with me, I will go alone,” she insisted. Outside the window an early flurry of snow glowed in the light of the street lamps. She pulled on her coat, saying, “Irina, watch the little ones, please.”

“Hang on. I’m coming,” Stepan agreed wearily. “But let me do the talking. That officer responds better to men. Your persistence irritates him.”

The snow was not sticking. The ground in October was too warm from daytime sun. When Peter came back, Maria guessed he would begin sealing the edges of windows and doors so they did not let in drafts during the coldest months.

At Bolshoi Dom there was no line because it was late in the day, but the same unhelpful officer sat behind the inquiries desk. He was expressionless as they approached but slid back the glass partition so they could talk.