“A merchant called Ipatiev,” he replied. “I believe he was asked to vacate it only recently in order to accommodate your family.”

“I hope it did not inconvenience him.” She frowned, peering down the staircase. “It does not seem an especially large house. Are there many guards here?”

“A few dozen,” he told her. “Some sleep on the ground floor and others in a house across the street.” He paused. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I took the job because it was much better money than I earned in the factory.”

“I completely understand,” she cried. “Please don’t worry about that. I am just so happy to see you. You must come and say hello to Mama and Papa later.”

Another guard ascended the staircase toward them. He stopped and seemed uncertain when he saw Maria talking to his colleague.

“This is Peter Vasnetsov,” Ukraintsev told her.

When she smiled and held out her hand, he hesitated and did not seem to know whether to shake it, so she grasped his fingers and gave them a quick squeeze. He was a tall man, probably around twenty years old. His sandy-blond hair had an unruly tuft at the front, what they called a cowlick. “Charmed to meet you,” she said. “I’m Maria.”

He nodded without meeting her eye, looking instead at Ukraintsev. “I was sent to relieve you,” he told him.

Ukraintsev patted his shoulder, then told Maria, “I shall knock on the door after dinner to give my regards to your parents.”

“Please do.” She beamed. “They’ll be overjoyed.”

Ukraintsev turned to go downstairs and she regarded his replacement. “Are you a local man, Mr. Vasnetsov? Do you have family here?”

“My mother and sister,” he said. “My father died in the war.”

Sympathetic tears pricked Maria’s eyes. “Oh, no. I’m sorry. Which front was he on?”

He looked surprised, but answered, “He was killed in Augustow Forest, along with most of the Tenth Army.”

“That was February 1915, was it not?” He nodded, and Maria continued, “My father said every last man there was a hero. They held up the German armies for long enough to reorganize the other divisions and thus we were able to hold the line. But I imagine this is no comfort to you. Tell me, what kind of a man was your father?”

“The best. I’ve never met his like, before or since.” Peter spoke with conviction.

“Did he spend much time with you when you were younger? Some men have such busy jobs that they enjoy little family life.” She was thinking of her own father, who had frequently been detained on affairs of state when she was young. And now that they were confined together all hours of the day, he seemed sunk within himself and rarely spoke beyond formalities.