“Your boss at the factory has agreed you can have two weeks off,” Stepan reported that evening. He must have been to see him. “You need a rest.”

She didn’t reply. It was too hard to find words, and her throat had closed so that even if she found them, they wouldn’t come out.

On the second day, Raisa came to the door. Maria heard Irina talking to her and, after some hesitation, deciding to let her in.

Raisa hovered in the doorway to Maria’s bedroom, and Maria could tell she was crying: that woman with ice in her heart was finally shedding a tear.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I never dreamed this would happen. Peter was a wonderful man. I feel awful. Will you ever forgive me?”

Her voice droned on but Maria couldn’t raise her head from the pillow. She simply didn’t have the energy. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, Raisa had left and the room was empty.

Irina brought food on a tray but she couldn’t swallow more than a couple of mouthfuls of soup. At night she slept with her arms around Peter’s pillow and her head resting on his old sweater. In the early hours Yelena crept in to share the bed with her. No one asked her; she just slipped between the sheets, with her six-year-old’s firm body and steady breathing.

During the next days the children took turns to sit with Maria. Katya was withdrawn. Mikhail was sulky. Stepan was tired. Irina tried to hide her grief but her voice sounded fake and strained. Yelena was the easiest to be with because she gave hugs without trying to talk. All the children were in pain and Maria knew she should be comforting them. She could hear Peter’s voice in her head telling her she must be strong, but her body simply wouldn’t do it. It was as if she had been run over by a massive truck and none of her muscles worked anymore. Nothing worked except for her imagination, which played ghastly images in her head, like a never-ending horror film.

* * *

Two weeks passed and Maria forced herself to get up and dress for work. It was terrifying to consider getting out of bed, never mind going out into the world, but she was hoping that if she worked, they would be allowed to keep their apartment. The thought of moving was too much for her.

“I could leave the Institute and take a job at the factory,” Stepan offered. “You shouldn’t have to work. Not now.”

“No,” Maria insisted. “Your father was so proud that you were a student. You have to continue, for his sake.”