“Was Anatoly Bolotov dark-haired?” he asked, and Maria nodded, sucking in her lips. “I have often wondered why I am the only dark one in the family. And now I know.”

“Please don’t blame me,” she begged.

“It wasn’t your fault my father was a rapist. Don’t worry, Mama. I just need time to get used to this news. I’ll be all right.”

He turned, and she heard the clank of the metal shovel as he began scraping the ashes from the fire in the next room.

* * *

Maria sat on the edge of her bed and tried to stand up but could not manage. Her broken leg ached with the effort and the other one seemed to have stiffened up and would not bear her weight. She lay down and exercised on the bed: bending her knee then straightening it, sliding her leg out to the side, lifting it off the sheet. It hurt, but she must get some strength back if she was ever to walk again. Twice now she had thought she was about to die and God had given her a reprieve. It was up to her to snatch this chance with both hands.

One evening Stepan came home shouting in excitement. “Everyone! Come and see what I have brought.”

He burst into Maria’s bedroom carrying a canvas bag from which he produced a chicken. A whole chicken, complete with head and feathers! It was followed by a bunch of carrots and a round cabbage, then he held open the top of the bag to show a pile of muddy potatoes. “Our troops have opened a land corridor along the shores of the lake. These supplies arrived this morning and all the gunners got a share.”

Maria started to cry. She couldn’t help it. “Will the war be over soon?” she asked. “Does this mean we are winning?” If there was a land corridor, surely Mikhail and Katya would return?

“It’s a start, Mama. We will beat them back from Russian soil, inch by inch and foot by foot.”

Her stomach gurgled at the aroma of the chicken boiling in the pot, and when she sipped the rich, flavorful broth Irina made, she could feel warmth spreading through her bones and strength flooding her veins. It hadn’t been her time to die. She had to get used to the idea of living.

“What date is it today?” she asked Yelena, who had come to sit with her.

“The eighteenth of January.”

“What year?” she asked, confused. It had been the end of October when she fell on the ice. Had she really been in bed for nearly three months?

“Nineteen forty-three, of course.”