We passed byres and stables, wary looking cows and nervy sheep still in their pens. When the villagers had fled, they had no time to save their livestock, the only sign of life. But then, improbably, a woman with red hair and green eye make-up came out of her house, as if to see what all the commotion was about. Natasha began to cry. She told us she couldn’t leave her village because her husband was buried here. It would be a betrayal, she said.