In February, groups of children began to arrive at Finland Station to be reunited with their parents. Maria jumped every time she heard the street door slam. Katya was eighteen now, Mikhail almost sixteen, and she knew they would be changed. What had they endured during their two years away? Galina had a boyfriend and looked set to marry soon. Might Katya have one too?

The children of her work colleague returned with rosy cheeks, the picture of good health. They complained that they had been forced to help with housework and gardening at their children’s home, and had to follow strict rules regarding bedtimes and mealtimes, but they were none the worse for it, she reported, clearly overwhelmed to have them back.

But still no Mikhail and Katya. Maria heard that an office had been set up near the Admiralty building to help reunite families; at last the authorities were trying to do the job she had been doing in her small way ever since she arrived in the city. She rushed there and stood in line for a couple of hours, chatting to her neighbors in the line and hearing their stories of tragedy and loss. It was good to keep her mind occupied as she waited, but her stomach was churning.

When her turn came, she approached the desk and gave Mikhail and Katya’s names, their home address, and the date they had been sent across the Ice Road. The woman consulted list after list before shaking her head.

“I’m sorry. They were rather disorganized at the other end. Yours are not the only children we can’t find a record of, but it doesn’t mean they are lost. I’m sure they will arrive home in due course.” She bit her lip, obviously aware how hollow her words sounded.

“How can that be? I sent them in good faith for the state to care for them. And you don’t know where they are?” Maria tried to rein in her fury. It wasn’t this woman’s fault.

“I’m sorry. These things happen in wartime.”

Maria clasped her hands to stop them shaking. “Can you give me a list of the homes they might have been sent to so I can look for myself? And the hospitals as well? If you can’t find them, I will.”

“Of course. Let me get you a copy.” The woman hurried to another office and came back with a list several pages long.

“There’s one other person I need to find,” Maria said. “Could you look for an NKVD officer called Yuri Koshelev? His address was Bolshaya Apartments, but he hasn’t returned there.”

“I’m sorry.” The woman shook her head. “We’re not allowed to give out information about the NKVD. You understand, I’m sure . . .”