The men became quite friendly. The woman continued her silent care of me. The men talked freely, even joked about my recovery. Without warning, the question I had always suppressed, suddenly broke out. “Why did you rescue me?” I inquired. The faces of both men turned red. The man I first met was shocked. The second man’s eyes blazed with fury. “What is it that you want to know?” he said. My feelings were deeply hurt at this coarse reply. My fears returned in full force. The worst must lie ahead. It was obvious that I must soon go away, otherwise these people would pay the penalty. Now I wanted to stay in my dugout forever. It was mine and I was part of it. I would inscribe my name here, but where exactly? I had nothing with which to write, no crayon, pen or pencil. There was a hairpin on the table. Quickly I was out of bed and standing on the rug. I pulled out the small drawer and set it upside down on my bed and began scratching my name with the hairpin. I bore down with all my strength on the bottom of the drawer and formed the letters and numbers: “A.N.R. 1918.” It could not have been a legible signature but, such as it was, there it would stay, a witness to my habitation, these hairpin hieroglyphics. A few days after this incident the woman seemed to take unusual pains with my grooming. She braided my hair smoothly. She gave me a fresh pillow which had a lace edging, sat me up and dressed me in one of her jackets. She arranged my covers neatly. By the time she had finished the men were already descending the ladder. The first man took a small kodak from his pocket and after lighting several candles snapped my picture. A few days later they returned with several prints. I had one of these until it disappeared with my manuscript. The clearest object in the picture was the lace on the pillow case. How different I looked! My nose was still swollen, my jaw caved in, my eyes had many light dots. “Isn’t it a splendid likeness?” the spokesman was saying. As they turned to climb the ladder, they reminded me of the danger of their position. “Things are terrible,” they said in unison. “People are lined up and shot at the slightest excuse.” I gathered that they were more and more frightened at having me around. The questioning continued, followed by a walk each time. How could they think of so many things to ask? My family would have been surprised at my diplomatic skill. The mystery continued. I learned no more about the house. After each outing I was returned to my dugout. Then I began to feel an undercurrent of excitement which told me that the time of my departure was near. One day when I was again in the question room, one of the men said, “We can not stay here any longer. We are taking you to another little place. It is very risky. Never forget to be deaf and dumb. Speak only with your hands. We start early in the morning. You will take a short walk now, then sleep until we awaken you.”