“Yes, I like the sound too,” Maria said, stopping to tuck a lock of blond hair under her granddaughter’s woolly hat and adjust the blanket over Alexei’s knees.

* * *

In the weeks after Stalin’s death, new political leaders took over and the rhetoric changed subtly. It was announced that thousands of political prisoners were to be freed from gulags, and as early as Easter, the husband of one of their neighbors in Petrodvorets returned. One day he came out to sit on a wooden bench in the garden while Maria was weeding the vegetable patch and the children were chasing each other and shrieking.

She went over to introduce herself—his name was Viktor—and was horrified to see up close how raddled he looked. His face was beetroot-colored, and she recognized the cause as exposure to the elements rather than the reddish hue some men took on from excessive drinking. He was bone-thin and walked with the aid of a stick although he could only be around forty, perhaps younger. More than that, he looked defeated. There was a hopelessness about him that made Maria wonder what kind of person he had been when he was first sent to the gulag.

It seemed intrusive to ask about his experiences there, so instead she told him the names of her grandchildren and chatted about the vegetables she was growing.

“You have no idea how extraordinary it is simply to sit on a bench doing nothing,” he said. “If I’d tried this back in Gdovsky, I would have been beaten half to death and had my rations slashed.”

Maria shook her head, lost for words.

“I can’t talk to my wife about it. I couldn’t bear for her to know how bad it was.”

“What work did you do?” Maria asked.

“Felling trees mostly. Logging. Summer and winter, rain and shine.” He looked at his hands and Maria saw that his fingers were bent into claws and the knuckles swollen. “I’m lucky I didn’t starve to death. Many men did. Others were killed by falling trees or the cold or the beatings.”

“I don’t think you were lucky,” Maria sympathized. “Far from it.”

“Do you know what I was sentenced for?” His eyes met hers. “I told a joke about a Party official back in 1937. What an idiot. That was no year for joking.”

“My husband was executed that same year for being a kulak,” Maria told him. “And he couldn’t have been less of a kulak. He was a shock worker, a Party man through and through.”

“At least we can talk about it now,” Viktor said. “Times have changed to that extent.”