A midwife had been engaged, but it was the middle of the night when Ludmilla went into labor and Maria took charge with utter calm. She sent Stepan to boil water and bring fresh towels and she held Ludmilla’s arm, supporting her, as they walked around the room. Ludmilla felt hot, so Maria opened the windows wide and they looked out at the stars in the night sky, feeling the soft breeze on their skin.

“I’m scared,” Ludmilla whispered as pain gripped her.

“So was I with my first,” Maria replied. “But nature has designed us for this. You’ll be fine.”

Ludmilla dozed between contractions and Maria sat in a rocking chair by her bed, thinking about her own life: all the births and deaths she had known, all the loss and the happiness too. When dawn began to break, it was one of the most beautiful she had ever seen: orange and pink with streaks of gold, like a religious painting.

Ludmilla awoke with a loud shriek. “The baby’s coming! Help me!”

Maria felt her belly, looked between her legs, and realized she was right. There was no time for the midwife now. She would deliver her first grandchild herself.

She wiped the sweat from Ludmilla’s brow, gripped her hand, and told her to push, then rest, then push again, and it seemed no time before she could see the top of the head, all white and sticky with mucus. She pulled the baby out and checked the cord was not around the neck. It gave a little mewl, eyes screwed tight against the morning light, and Maria’s heart turned over with the weight of her love.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” Ludmilla asked, and Maria shook herself. She hadn’t checked.

“A girl,” she said.

She cut the cord and began to clean the child, wetting the corner of a towel and wiping her skin with utmost gentleness. Everything was perfect: nose, toes, ears, fingers, knees, every little bit. She felt giddy with joy. Having her own children had been special, but a grandchild . . . Nothing could compare to this.

Suddenly the baby’s eyes opened and she squinted up at Maria. There was something about the gaze that reminded her of Katya, though she couldn’t have said what.

“I don’t know you yet, but I would lay down my life for you,” Maria whispered. And as she said it, she knew it was true.

Chapter 53

Moscow, summer 1976

WHILE BILL WAS ATTENDING HIS CONFERENCE, VAL and Nicole were shepherded around the sights of Moscow by a sturdy female guide with bad teeth. Her English was fluent but she spoke in a monotone that made it hard to concentrate, and Nicole was soon bored to distraction.

“Is there nowhere for children, Mommy?” she whispered. “Where do Russian children go?”