Immediately thinly sliced ham with cheese and bread were placed on the table, also a small samovar. My host was surprised when I refused the meat (a great luxury it was) but since Ekaterinburg I had not been able to stand the sight of it, remembering the shortage. I felt guilty taking sugar in my tea, but my host insisted and I took a lump but did not stir the tea in anticipation of a second glass. It was refreshing to us all.
As we finished, my companion said to me, “You are indebted to this gentleman, not to me. He saved your life.”
As if to end such embarrassing conversation, my host stood up and handed my companion an old, thick envelope, brown from age. The envelope was so thick that I thought it must have contained paper money and perhaps some jewelry. My companion lifted the flap and glanced inside it as our host said, “Take some bread and cheese to your friend. He must be hungry.”
“Are you really leaving?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, “my part is done.”
I did not know what he meant, but I did feel confidence in my host. Meantime I thanked the man for everything he and the others had done to help me. I began, “There is nothing I can offer you, but my deep, deep gratitude and appreciation. In the name of my family and myself, I thank you for what you have risked for me.”
He bowed and was gone. Each good-bye was less of Russia. That part of my rescue in the little room beneath the house was over.
The man had said that I owed my life to my host. What part had the latter played? I did have a sense of security with him. He seemed like one of my own people. I felt I could talk to him freely and find out who he was.
“Is this your house?” I ventured.
“Yes and no,” he said. “The cottage belongs to a former estate. Marushka’s husband worked on this farm but now he is missing in the war. The woods and fields you crossed were also part of the estate. One section used to belong to a family who were relatives of the Giers of the Ukraine.”