“You’re the second one that’s dropped outside our door within the past two years,” he announced. “That girl who found you was the first. She didn’t fly to us. My wife found her exactly where that girl found you.”
The old peasant looked at the pilot, sucked his pipe a moment, and turned to the door.
“That girl covered your bird with straw,” he said, and left.
Covered his bird with straw? Why? The plane was probably smashed to bits....
“Excuse me for bringing my dirty shoes and your milk in at one time.”
In amazement Vladimir looked at the barefooted peasant girl who had entered, for she spoke Russian, and a Russian with the accent of a grande dame of Petrograd. In one hand she held a pair of wooden shoes, and in the other a glass of milk. She smiled at him with her lips but not with her eyes.
“I daren’t leave my shoes outside or the dog will run off with them. He’s very strong.” She smiled as she set the sabots on the floor and closed the door behind her.
“You are Russian?” Vladimir asked unsteadily.
“Yes, I’m Russian,” the girl answered as she approached his bed. “I knew you were because when I found you, you cried out in Russian. And now no more questions. Drink your milk.”
The girl lifted the pilot’s head and supported it with a strong right hand, while with the left she held the glass against his mouth. The sick man drank obediently, but his questioning eyes never left her face.