Now I was having my last look toward my troubled country, leaving it to the darkness of night.
When this long journey had started I had had no real wish to leave my country. I was ill in body and soul. I needed rest and quiet. My resistance was low. I wished for security. Willy-nilly, I went along with my early companions, then with Alexander and Nikolai, and lately with my new acquaintances.
With quivering lips, I had now left behind me the land I loved so much, and, somewhere in the wilderness, the remains of my beloved family. There were, also, Alexander and Nikolai. With deep feeling I had left all the tragedies behind.
God wanted it that way—to lay their swords and their lives at the altar of their country. May He grant them rest in Heaven. Father departed with his family very young, but in true Christian faith and fidelity to Russia. Now free from the cruel human lies, injustices and misunderstandings, he left the world not in pomp and glory, but in greater glory. He died for his country and his people whom he loved best.
With these thoughts in my mind I left behind the land of my heritage forever.
XXXIV
REFUGE
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.