“But you cannot go that way. It is under German occupation. Do you really know a doctor?”
“We’ll surely find one.” Nikolai retorted.
“But you absolutely cannot cross here,” said the guard pointing to Nikolai.
“How far are you going?” the guard turned to the Croatian. “How soon will you be back?” he inquired. “You are all right, but where are your wife’s papers?”
“Does she need papers to see a doctor?”
The questions were answered, but no one heard or cared what they were—we were all but drowned in the terrific rain.
“All right, go on.” said the guard at last with a gesture of hopelessness, “but be back in one hour.” He turned to Nikolai saying, “Not you!”
So only four of us crossed the bridge. The flimsy, temporary structure shook as we did so. We glanced into the waters below but saw nothing in the darkness. All nature was angry.
I had made a cross in the air as Nikolai and we others parted in the dark. Only his shadow was running away, in order to escape the guard. I prayed to God that He might spare him and that Alexander, Nikolai, and I would meet again.
Now we were to face a new hazard. As we approached the demarcation line several soldiers approached us, asking where we were going. The two former prisoners of war spoke German and presented to the guards their papers. They were in order. Turning to me, the Croatian said that I was his wife. The Serbian, too, showed his papers. After hours of conversation and questionings and waiting, an officer arrived to say that everything was in order. I was to be permitted to enter Bukovina.