It was agonizing walking into the factory and picking up her tools. She couldn’t bear listening to the words of condolence and watching the pity on her fellow workers’ faces. She didn’t want to cry in front of them; crying was too personal, too painful. It was better to be alone with her grief. All she could manage was to put one foot in front of the other and keep busy.

At home, the older children helped with all the jobs Peter used to do. When the winter storms arrived and the windows rattled in their frames, Stepan found his father’s tools and nailed insulation around the edges. He took charge of cleaning the grate and tending the fire, while Irina went to line up for food after she finished school, then helped with the cooking. They were a functioning team, but the heart had gone.

At least no notifications were received asking them to move, although they had only been given the apartment because Peter was a shock worker; perhaps someone had taken pity on them. Maria came straight home after work each day, and refused to answer the door, to see friends, or to help anyone who came to consult her missing persons’ register. Irina took over that role, noting down the addresses of the few who stopped by and passing on details of possible matches.

One Sunday in March, when the hours of daylight were starting to lengthen, Stepan tried to persuade Maria to come on what had been a traditional family outing.

“Remember how Papa used to love watching the ice on the Fontanka cracking? Let’s go and stand on the Panteleimon Bridge. We can light candles for him.”

Maria hesitated at first. It didn’t seem fair to go without Peter, but the children were keen. Yelena tugged on her skirt, crying, “Please, Mama, please.”

Maria pulled on her snow boots and warm coat, made sure the little ones were wrapped up warmly, then held Yelena and Mikhail’s hands as they trudged to the bridge through streets with gray slush heaped in the gutters.

Fracture lines had formed across the inches-thick ice on the river, and in one section, geometrical chunks were breaking away: parallelograms, triangles, trapezoids. Underneath, the water was dark and impenetrable. Maria leaned on the elegant gilt railing and took the candle Irina handed her. Everywhere there were memories. Peter used to entertain them by imitating the otherworldly cracking sounds the ice made with a strange gurgling noise in his throat. Maria remembered teasing him that he sounded more like a duck.