“No, you see, there are no photographs or letters,” Maria Petrovna tossed everything back into the purse and went to put it away, and I quickly reached out and grabbed from the edge of the table one forgotten scrap: a piece of brown paper with two holes in the corners for a string, a number (26) written in chemical pencil on the back, and the inscription, “Maternity hospital Grauerman Anast. Vladi. Petrova, boy.” This was an old-fashioned tag used by maternity wards — it was tied to the leg of Anastasia’s new-born baby and it was what she thought necessary to preserve for her entire life, for her son.
“How can you explain that Petrova was so secretive? Every person likes to pour their heart out once in a while.”
With this I finally, somehow, struck gold. The woman burst out:
“Don’t forg
