"And where are you going?"
"Where the others go. Somewhere into the interior."
The procession had not halted, but, turning out for the broken-down cart, continued uninterruptedly down the hill. Every now and then the peasant looked up anxiously.
"We must hurry. We mustn't be left behind," he muttered.
"What do you eat?" I asked the woman.
"What we can find. Sometimes we get food at the relief stations, or we get it along the way."
"Do the villages you pass through help you?" I persisted.
"They do what they can. But there are so many of us."
"Can't you find cabbages and potatoes in the fields?" I asked.