“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “If I give you a list of the Leningrad prisoners of war being held under my jurisdiction, might you be able to let their families know where they are? They are not permitted to write until they have been cleared, but it seems cruel to leave their families in the dark.”

“Goodness!” Maria was surprised. “I’d be happy to try.”

When the train arrived at Yaroslavl, she accompanied Leonid by tram to the police station where he was to interview some men that afternoon. She waited in the vestibule while he went to fetch the latest list, still marveling that he would trust her with it. How times had changed!

He returned with a sheet of paper with dozens of names, in alphabetical order, along with each serviceman’s army number and his last-known address.

“I’ll do what I can,” she told him, glancing at it. “I wish all the happiness in the world to you and your daughter.”

She caught a bus to a children’s home nearby, and during the journey she began to scan the list, checking the soldiers’ names against her card index, marking with a question mark where there could be a possible match. And then her heart skipped a beat. There, under Dubov, was the name Mikhail Alexandrovich. The same name as her son.

Don’t be silly, she told herself. It can’t be him. He’s too young for the army.

She continued to the children’s home, but there was a voice echoing in her head: “What if it is him? What if he’s here?”

No one at the home had heard of Katya or Mikhail, so she caught the bus back into town and alighted outside the police station, her leg aching badly from all the walking. Leonid was nowhere to be seen, but at the inquiries desk she pointed to her list and asked, “How do I find out where this prisoner of war is being held?”

Memories of the cruelty of the officer at Bolshoi Dom came flooding back, but this one consulted a ledger, then walked through a door behind him to ask a colleague. When he returned, he had a piece of paper in his hand.

“Mikhail Alexandrovich Dubov is at this prison, just across town, awaiting filtration.”

“Filtration?”

“Waiting to be assessed.” He smiled. “Relative of yours?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Go and ask,” he suggested. “They might let you see him. Number 46 bus.”

As she stood at the bus stop, Maria chided herself. Don’t get your hopes up. This is a wild-goose chase. Lots of people have the same name. She spoke to Peter in her head. I have to try every lead, though, because so far nothing is working.