Many citizens in order to disguise their identity lived in charred railway cars. The walls were patched with canvas, the only protection against cold and heat. Many children were born on these cars, and died there as a result of exposure and lack of food. No one claimed the bodies of the dead which were buried in shallow graves near the railroad tracks. Many grain elevators were filled with charred corpses. The foreigners seemed well-fed and well-dressed; they received all the best attention. This was the “liberty” that Kerensky—and later the Bolsheviks—had championed, polluting the minds of the people.
As we continued on our way Nikolai and I noticed that Alexander was lagging behind. Nikolai stopped to examine him and found a pus spot on his shirt, just below his waistline on the left side. His wound was infected again. Fortunately, he had an effective salve with him which they applied and then bandaged the wound. We hoped that it would tide him over until we could get to a doctor. We gathered some leaves and made a bed for him. I put my shawl over him as he stretched out on the wet leaves. Nikolai and I sat beside him, hoping he would be able to reach the next village. I would have given my right arm and eye to save this good friend.
We were surprised to learn from the crackling noise of branches that there were other people in these woods. The footsteps came closer and suddenly two men walked up to us. They seemed to be afraid of us. When they saw us they started to go back in the same direction they came from.
“Come and join us,” said Nikolai in a friendly tone of voice.
“Is anything the matter?”, asked one of the men in a language we recognized as Serbian.
“Our friend’s wound has opened and is infected,” said Nikolai, “and we do not know what to do.”
The Serbian, in broken Russian, suggested that, when night came, we take our patient to the nearest house. He volunteered to look for and find a house. While we waited for his return, we talked with the other man and found that he was a Croatian. The two of them had not been able to get on the train in Kursk and had started to walk to the border. Both had been officers in the last war. One fought on our side, the other fought on the enemy’s side. Now they were on their way to their respective homes.
The Serbian returned in about an hour. He had located a house not too far away. At dusk the Serbian and Nikolai helped Alexander to his feet and supported him all the way to the house.
It was a thatched-roof, white-washed house in which a young woman about thirty-five years old lived with her four children. The little boy, five years old, with his blond curly hair and big gray eyes reminded me very much of Alexei at that age. I was drawn to him at first sight, especially when he looked at our invalid and asked, “Is the father ill?” His own father had been wounded in the war and they hoped he would get home soon. He imagined that his father had been ill the same way.
Small as the house was, we all spent the night there. We two women slept in one room with all the children, the men in the other room. By morning our invalid felt much better. We lingered all day to make sure that he was capable of continuing the trip. The woman was most generous. She shared with us her scanty food. To avoid the heat of the day the Serbian and the Croatian planned to start on their way in the early evening. When Alexander heard about their leaving, he insisted that Nikolai and I go with them. We protested, but he said his temperature was normal and the little mother promised to give him the best of care. He assured us everything would be easier if we obeyed him. Finally we were convinced and reluctantly left him with the promise that as soon as we were over the border, Nikolai would come back for him.