Walking around with bare feet had given me a slight cold. The woman was upset; she attributed the setback to the night air, to my first trip outdoors. The men called early in the morning. They were annoyed that I had a cold but agreed with the woman it was best to defer another trip upstairs until I felt better. I heard them say, “Speed up her recovery.” I lay still another night wrapped in my thoughts. Though the men had said that my family was no more, still I would not believe it How could they be so sure? I would never cease to hope, since I had learned how difficult it was to die. To me their nobility, their trust in God, their character were more impressive than the grandeur of the night. God would not fail them. But we were separated. That was certainty. Somewhere I would be deposited to face an indifferent world, a world that would not bend its knee to me. I must suppress my identity and make a new life, all alone. God knows how I missed them all. I lay there, one minute hoping, then despairing. I felt close to them in a world which was not theirs nor mine. The woman continued her care of me; I was suspended between two worlds belonging neither to this one nor the one to come. The idea crossed my mind several times that suicide was an easy escape from my misery, but my strong faith based on years of prayer would not permit this lack of will power. Soon my cold faded away and once more the woman had me climbing the ladder. This time she stood on a chair, put both hands under my arms and lifted me up the few rungs through the trap door. In a few moments I was again in the presence of the same two men. As before, the only light came from the candle on the table. The windows had the same heavy coverings. I almost said, “Good evening,” but remembered not to, just in time. With no preliminaries the spokesman started immediately. “We are very much interested in straightening out a few things,” he said. “We want to ask you some questions.” I was all fear. At Tobolsk, at Ekaterinburg, questions meant traps. Surging through me, I remembered my Mother’s advice: “Answer courteously but give no information.” “Were they unkind to you in Tobolsk?” I wanted to tell the truth. In spite of my impaired speech, they wanted me to answer their questions. “Very unkind, the last days,” I answered. “What sort of things did they do to you?” I hesitated. There had been so much torture and suffering, it was difficult to begin with any specific detail. In contrast to the final outcome, the treatment we endured at Tobolsk suddenly seemed trivial. I could not mention anything specific, not yet. The tragedy towered over all events, making all others seem unimportant. “Everything to contribute to our unhappiness and humiliation,” I said. “Who were with you in Tobolsk?” he began. Something I could answer easily. I told him, “Our friends, and household help.” Their faithfulness excited my memories. “Did they all go with you to Ekaterinburg?”