“We suspect that the papers you seek are currently held in the Soviet Union. At present, this department lacks the facilities to be able to access those papers. However, let me assure you that we are doing all we can….”

Every letter was a slap in the face. Who were these records for, then? What was the point of democracy? It was her father, not theirs. She had even written to the Russian Embassy, who were more polite than any of the British organizations she had dealt with:

Dear Miss Lockhart,

The Embassy of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics thanks you for your enquiry concerning your father. We regret that we are unable to assist you at the present time. However, we wish you luck in your research, and if the eventuality arises in which we may be able to help you, then we shall contact you forthwith.

Yours sincerely,

Dimitri Kirov

Two days after that letter had arrived, she had received a phone call from Kirov.

“I shouldn’t really be telling you this, Miss Lockhart,” he had said, “but you should keep trying—you must keep trying. The records you seek do exist, and one day they will be opened. Write to us every year, pester us by all means. One day it will work.”

“But Mr. Kirov…”

The line had then gone dead.

Amy had little idea when “one day” would be, but she supposed it would be a long way off. She would keep trying, as Kirov suggested, even if the truth about her father was somewhere in a vault in the middle of Moscow.

It seemed absurd. All she wanted was a few sheets of paper, and it seemed as if the whole world was stopping her.

Chapter Five

FEBRUARY–APRIL 1944

Many of them had children, and they liked talking about them.

“You should see my son, he’s a real knockout—the girls love him!”

“I hope he treats them well!”

“My son speaks five languages.”

“My daughter is the most beautiful pianist.”

“Mine plays the violin.”

“Maybe they could play together!”

And it was comments like that that ended such conversations. To talk about the future, as though it would be milk and honey, was a sin. The women didn’t want to embrace such thoughts, they just wanted to keep the images of their children frozen in their heads, putting them into a kind of inner present borrowed from years long since passed.

“How about you, Anna? Do you have any children?”

“I have a small daughter,” 10678 replied.

“What’s her name?”

“Amy.”

“A pretty name! How old is she?”

“Six.”

“And where is she now?”

“In England.”

“In England?”