The rain came down in torrents and washed my tears from my sunken cheeks. Now I was alone with strangers. As we walked away from the border, we were drenched, hungry, and tired, with no prospect of a place to sleep. We spied a faint light ahead and hurried toward it. The man of the house would not accept Russian paper money. At that point the Austrian soldier produced some of his money, which he had been saving, and bargained with the proprietor for us to stay briefly, hoping that I would feel better quickly. I consulted the woman whom we also saw about my itching. She suggested pouring sour milk over a bed sheet and rolling me in it. This she did so completely that only my eyes and mouth were left uncovered. The only unaffected parts of my body were the palms of my hands and soles of my feet. This treatment brought great comfort and relief. My leg was better, though still swollen.

I was ready to resume my travel. The woman provided us with sufficient food to last for several days’ journey. She also gave me some rags with which I wrapped my feet so that they would not slide around in my boots. We passed many wheat fields and woods of tall oak trees; many had been uprooted and were lying dead, leaving big holes in the ground which were now filled with water and mud. The trenches were uncovered and deserted and the rain made rivers of them. The war had turned this area into a battleground. We could see pieces of clothing, brass artillery shell cases, chains, pieces of iron and other odds and ends of metal buried in the trunks of trees—mute testimony to the destructive power of artillery. Tragedy was all around us. Rains had washed away the traces of blood shed here during the past four years. Suddenly I spied a geranium plant in the midst of the holocaust. Here and there were pieces of blankets and abandoned, rusty canteens.

Unexpectedly, here something gave away under my feet, uncovering some leaves. I screamed. It was a pair of feet—the flesh was all gone, just bones. They fell apart under the impact of my weight. The others responding to my scream came over and removed the leaves from the sunken body of a Russian soldier. His uniform was so rotted and stained, it was impossible to tell that he was an officer, but a rusty watch was still wrapped around his wrist bone. The woods showed all kinds of tragedies.

Father knew this battlefield as he himself had been shelled several times while inspecting the troops. For this he and Alexei received their St. George decorations. Father had had his to the last day. He knew the devotion and bravery of his men, those heroes who sacrificed everything. In the end they, too, paid with their lives, making room for Lenin and Trotsky.

The day before the war in 1914, I dreamed that woods like these I had just crossed were in flames, the fire was red and went high up to the sky. I heard the crackling of the trees. I knew then that the war was unavoidable, especially when in the evening for the first time Father appeared late for dinner. Now I recalled my dream as I saw this place of suffering. In distress I left the touching scene.

The men carried me through the deep mudholes, taking turns. I worried that I was too heavy. Actually I weighed only forty kilograms, not quite ninety pounds. The latest companion to join us, the Austrian soldier, had been stationed in these parts with the Austrian army and knew well the nearby villages. Moreover, he himself came from this part of the country. He volunteered to be our guide. A day or two later, in the afternoon, we came to a stretch of woods where we saw some women picking yellow mushrooms.

A young woman among them already had her baskets full. We spoke to the young woman who said she was going home, part way to the nearby village.

We joined her. The men carried her baskets. The odor of these mushrooms brought back gnawing memories. Toward the end of the day, we reached the village. The Austrian soldier knew this village, having relatives here. Through him we were able to be taken care of for the night. He went into the house while we waited outside. An elderly woman came out and in a Slavic language I understood, said, “Come in, my child, I hear you have an injured foot. I know you are hungry. I will have supper ready for you in a minute.” She seemed so clean and kind and motherly, I was drawn to her immediately. We followed her into the house and there we met her daughters who also welcomed us.

I sat on a low stool shivering, while one of the girls took off my muddy boots and the other brought pails of water from outdoors which they poured into a large kettle on the wood-burning stove. My muddy stockings were stuck to my feet. Warm water was poured over them to take off the worst of the plastered mud. The mother took a sharp knife and scraped some salt into a fresh pail of warm water to serve as disinfectant. By the time we finished with my foot, the supper was ready. It consisted of warm mamaliga—a yellow mush made out of maize—with warm milk poured over it. It was a new dish to me, but nothing ever tasted better.

The mother examined my wound. While she washed it a tear dropped on my ankle. Our eyes met. “I think it will be all right, I do not see any infection.”

The warm milk soon stopped the chattering of my teeth. The good girls had already made up a bed for me: a small wooden bed with linen sheets spread over a narrow mattress. They had hardly left the room when I was fast asleep. The girls shared the same room with me, but I was not aware of them. When I woke up the next day, the girls told me that the men had been waiting for me since eleven in the morning.

“What time is it now?” I asked.

“Four in the afternoon,” they laughed. “Several times the men came in and looked to see if you were asleep or dead, and were reassured.”

Evidently I felt safe at last. The girls told me excitedly that the men had slept in the barn and later had helped their mother clean the stable. The Germans had left her one horse and one cow, confiscating all the rest of the livestock before the Russian invasion, fearing that the Russians would take it.

When I started to dress, to my surprise I could not find my wet travelling clothes. Instead of my clothes I found a new outfit: everything from a cotton dress to a pair of shoes. This humble family had presented me with Sunday clothes belonging to their youngest daughter, six months my junior.

I located the men in the garden eating half-dried plums still on the trees. They were relaxed, free and happy after getting me safely across the border.

I, too, was relaxed and free.

At long last I had found a peaceful refuge with this unknown but friendly family which had taken me into its midst and made me a welcome member.

It was October 24th, 1918 ... for me a new day ... and the beginning of a new life.