Sitting up in bed was a short preliminary, a to-be milestone. Standing on my feet, first touching the ground, I felt the braided straw rug on the earthen ground as my head reeled in dizziness. I could not get back to my bed fast enough. That proved one thing; I was not as well as my nurse had thought.
Next morning she put me on my feet once more. My legs were stronger and there was no return of my dizzy spell. I stood a very short time, then thankfully I found myself in bed. This was repeated. I protested against these exercises, because my thoughts and my whole being were disturbed by them.
All too soon she had me walking the length of the rug several times. I wept defiantly as she led me along. I staggered frightfully, but in the end I forced myself to walk as long as I could endure it. Finally I had it mastered and the woman was satisfied.
Then came the time when the woman began to bring things from above. She brought clothes to dress me in. First she drew on long, heavy underwear. Then she put on me a pair of old black cotton stockings, a slip, and an old gingham dress, so faded the original blue-gray color was almost undiscernible. Finally she fastened on peasant shoes two or three sizes too large. My original shoe size was about four-and-a-half at the time. She stood me up, tied a babushka on my head, threw a coat around my shoulders and walked me toward the ladder. “We are going upstairs,” she said. “The outdoors.”
My heart started to beat. Perhaps they were going to kill me. The thought of possible death did not generate fear now.
If I were going to my death, my mind was ready, but my body lagged. My hands held tight to the rung of the ladder when I realized the left side of my lower back was injured. I could not raise my feet without help. The woman lifted them one at a time—to the first rung, then to the second. She unclutched my hands and placed them on the next higher step. She swung herself behind me, her hands on the rung beside mine, her body framed me like a strong armchair. She began to climb, lifting me ahead of her, up and up, and through the trap door.
I climbed out on my hands and knees as she instructed me to do. She guided me along a dark hall about two yards wide through a door to the opposite side and into a room. Sitting at a table in front of me were the two men who had previously visited my dugout. A candle on the table was the only light in the room. The windows were tightly covered with heavy cloth. These things my eyes took in as the woman led me to a chair facing the men. My mind was calm but my body shook uncontrollably.
The man, my first visitor, was the spokesman. “Don’t be afraid,” he began. “You know we are trying to help you.”
His voice was reassuring and my body calmed a little.
“We are in great danger,” he continued. “Spies have been everywhere, searching for missing bodies. If anyone comes near you, and tries to speak to you, pretend to be deaf and dumb. Make signs with your hands but never speak to anyone, not even to us, unless we first speak to you. We cannot be careful enough.” In a softer tone he added, “I grieve to inform you—the others are no more. I can tell you nothing more.”