Hitler had not arrived in the city by August, but neither was there any sign of the siege breaking. “We can’t last another winter,” Maria’s work colleagues whispered to each other, memories of the bodies in the streets and the unremitting cold still fresh in their minds. Maria remembered Peter telling her that you could predict the severity of a forthcoming winter by the size of the pinecones and the thickness of squirrels’ nests, but she could not decide whether they were bigger or smaller than normal.

A universal gloom descended when the first frost came in October, followed closely by a blustery storm. Maria was scared. When she washed herself in the bathroom, she could see that the skin was stretched tight over her bones. Her kneecaps looked huge, and flaps of wrinkled skin hung off her thighs. It hurt to sit on a stool because there was no flesh left on her bottom. She never looked at her face in a mirror, but knew she must be a sight: four teeth had loosened and fallen out while she was eating, and her hair came away in handfuls when she combed it. She was only forty-three years old, but she didn’t know if she could survive another winter.

* * *

On October 31, when Maria set off for work the pavement was glistening like diamonds in the predawn light. Her boots had worn through and the cardboard insoles she’d made provided little insulation, so her feet were frozen numb soon after she left home. Even wrapped in her heavy overcoat and thick wool hat, she never felt warm these days.

It was several weeks since she had managed to visit Peter’s grave, and she missed the peacefulness she found there when she talked to him in her head. She resolved to go soon. She’d been putting it off because she didn’t feel strong enough, but maybe she would manage if she walked slowly and stopped for lots of rests.

Suddenly she lost her footing on a patch of ice and slipped. She twisted around, scrabbling to catch hold of a railing, and her right leg bent underneath her. There was a sickening crack as she landed on the pavement and she knew straightaway that her thigh was broken. There was no pain at first, just a sensation of deadness, a feeling that her lower half was at the wrong angle. She lay panting, scared to move in case she made it worse. Her first thought was of that nice soldier who had helped her home before. Where was he now? Stepan was at work, and so was Irina. Galina was taking Yelena to line up for bread, but they would go in the opposite direction. It was quiet along the road where she lay, but someone must pass before long.