An open cart broke down in front of us. The woman got out to help her husband. She had a round, pock-marked face, as expressionless as wood. She wore a bright shawl over her hair, and a long sheepskin coat, with the sleeves and pockets beautifully embroidered in colors. It was dirty, now, but indicated she had been well-to-do once. She limped badly. "Good-evening," I said. "Good-evening, excellency," she replied civilly. "Are you hurt?" I asked. "My feet are blistered from the walking," she replied. "I take turns with my husband." "Where are you from?" "Rovno." "How long have you been on the way?" "Many weeks. Who knows how long?" "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. The woman looked at me suspiciously for a moment, and did not reply. "Why do you want to know these things?" she asked, after a silence. "What business is it of yours?" "I want to help you." "Help us." She shook her head. "But I'll tell you," she said. "I did take some potatoes once. It was before the cold weather. I dug them out of a field we passed through after dark. No one saw me. My children were crying with hunger and I had nothing to give them. So I dug up a handful of potatoes in the dark. But God saw me and punished me. I cooked the potatoes over a fire by the roadside, but He kept the heat from reaching the inside of the potatoes. Two of my children sickened and died from eating them. It was God's punishment. We buried them along the road. My husband made the crosses out of wood and carved their names on them. They lie way behind us now--unsung. But perhaps those who pass along the road and see the crosses will offer up a prayer." "I will burn candles for them," I said. "What were their names?" "Sonia and Peter Kolpakova, your excellency. You are good. God bless you!" And she kissed my hands. I looked at the three children who were left. They sat in the cart silently, surrounded by the incongruous collection of pots and pans, and leaning against a painted chest. The chest was covered with dust, but you could still see a bunch of bright-painted flowers behind the children's heads. "Poor little things," I said. "Are they cold?"