As if to end such embarrassing conversation, my host stood up and handed my companion an old, thick envelope, brown from age. The envelope was so thick that I thought it must have contained paper money and perhaps some jewelry. My companion lifted the flap and glanced inside it as our host said, “Take some bread and cheese to your friend. He must be hungry.” “Are you really leaving?” I asked. “Yes,” he said, “my part is done.” I did not know what he meant, but I did feel confidence in my host. Meantime I thanked the man for everything he and the others had done to help me. I began, “There is nothing I can offer you, but my deep, deep gratitude and appreciation. In the name of my family and myself, I thank you for what you have risked for me.” He bowed and was gone. Each good-bye was less of Russia. That part of my rescue in the little room beneath the house was over. The man had said that I owed my life to my host. What part had the latter played? I did have a sense of security with him. He seemed like one of my own people. I felt I could talk to him freely and find out who he was. “Is this your house?” I ventured. “Yes and no,” he said. “The cottage belongs to a former estate. Marushka’s husband worked on this farm but now he is missing in the war. The woods and fields you crossed were also part of the estate. One section used to belong to a family who were relatives of the Giers of the Ukraine.” “Was there not a governor by that name?” I asked. “I remembered meeting him and his daughter.” “The very same,” my host agreed, and I felt a common bond with him. Just then Marushka came in and announced everything was ready for me. I thanked my host and followed her. The house contained two rooms besides the kitchen. The host slept in the room in which we had tea. Marushka and I occupied the other room. I slept on a cot, Marushka on a narrow wooden bed next to the wall. On a stand stood a basin, a pitcher with water, soap and towel, and a lantern. I discovered this house, like many others, did not have inside conveniences. Next morning outside the window I saw a vegetable garden. A small dog completed the friendliness of the house. He would sniff around every time I bathed the wound on my leg. When I shed a tear, as I washed, he would look at me soulfully as if to sympathize. He licked my hands. I was drawn to him right away and could not entertain the thought that I might have to leave him some day. He followed me everywhere in the day time and slept by my cot at night, as if to protect me from danger. You might have thought he had always belonged to me. In the morning my host said, “We will not hurry. You need the rest and time for your wound to heal better. We will remain here a week or so.” I was glad to hear this for he had already made me feel so comfortable in mind and body that I was glad to wait. He seemed to want to talk. After weeks of silence it was a treat to converse.