The day before the war in 1914, I dreamed that woods like these I had just crossed were in flames, the fire was red and went high up to the sky. I heard the crackling of the trees. I knew then that the war was unavoidable, especially when in the evening for the first time Father appeared late for dinner. Now I recalled my dream as I saw this place of suffering. In distress I left the touching scene.
The men carried me through the deep mudholes, taking turns. I worried that I was too heavy. Actually I weighed only forty kilograms, not quite ninety pounds. The latest companion to join us, the Austrian soldier, had been stationed in these parts with the Austrian army and knew well the nearby villages. Moreover, he himself came from this part of the country. He volunteered to be our guide. A day or two later, in the afternoon, we came to a stretch of woods where we saw some women picking yellow mushrooms.
A young woman among them already had her baskets full. We spoke to the young woman who said she was going home, part way to the nearby village.
We joined her. The men carried her baskets. The odor of these mushrooms brought back gnawing memories. Toward the end of the day, we reached the village. The Austrian soldier knew this village, having relatives here. Through him we were able to be taken care of for the night. He went into the house while we waited outside. An elderly woman came out and in a Slavic language I understood, said, “Come in, my child, I hear you have an injured foot. I know you are hungry. I will have supper ready for you in a minute.” She seemed so clean and kind and motherly, I was drawn to her immediately. We followed her into the house and there we met her daughters who also welcomed us.
I sat on a low stool shivering, while one of the girls took off my muddy boots and the other brought pails of water from outdoors which they poured into a large kettle on the wood-burning stove. My muddy stockings were stuck to my feet. Warm water was poured over them to take off the worst of the plastered mud. The mother took a sharp knife and scraped some salt into a fresh pail of warm water to serve as disinfectant. By the time we finished with my foot, the supper was ready. It consisted of warm mamaliga—a yellow mush made out of maize—with warm milk poured over it. It was a new dish to me, but nothing ever tasted better.
The mother examined my wound. While she washed it a tear dropped on my ankle. Our eyes met. “I think it will be all right, I do not see any infection.”
The warm milk soon stopped the chattering of my teeth. The good girls had already made up a bed for me: a small wooden bed with linen sheets spread over a narrow mattress. They had hardly left the room when I was fast asleep. The girls shared the same room with me, but I was not aware of them. When I woke up the next day, the girls told me that the men had been waiting for me since eleven in the morning.
“What time is it now?” I asked.
“Four in the afternoon,” they laughed. “Several times the men came in and looked to see if you were asleep or dead, and were reassured.”
Evidently I felt safe at last. The girls told me excitedly that the men had slept in the barn and later had helped their mother clean the stable. The Germans had left her one horse and one cow, confiscating all the rest of the livestock before the Russian invasion, fearing that the Russians would take it.