The first problem confronting me was how to get to Zverevo. I went to the Commandant of the station, complained that I was penniless, that I could not wait indefinitely for the end of the fighting to return home to Kislovodsk, and urgently begged him to advise me what to do. I made such an appeal to him that he finally said: “A munition train is just about to leave for Zverevo. Come, get into it and go to Zverevo. Perhaps they will pass you through the lines at the front. There is a second-class carriage attached to the train.” He led me to the carriage, in which were only the five soldiers who were in charge of the train. He introduced me to the chief of them as a stranded Sister of Mercy and asked for their indulgence. I thanked the obliging Commandant profusely and from the bottom of my heart. The train moved out of the station, but although satisfied with the first stage of my enterprise, I was by no means cheerful as to my prospects in Zverevo, the Bolshevik war zone. The head of the party sat down opposite me. He was a dirty, ugly moujik. I did not encourage him to engage me in conversation, but he was evidently wholly insensible to my feelings in the matter. After the preliminary questions, he expressed his surprise that I should have chosen such an inopportune moment to go to Kislovodsk. “But my mother is ill there,” I lied, “perhaps she is dying now. It broke her heart when I went to the front.” “Ah, that’s different,” he declared, moving over to my side. “They will pass you in that case.” From an expression of sympathy he had no hesitation in proceeding to an attempt at flirtation. He moved closer to me and even touched my arm. It was a delicate situation. I could not well afford to provoke his antagonism, so I warded off his advances with a smile and a coquettish glance. He treated me to a good meal, during which the conversation turned to general conditions. He was, of course, a rabid Bolshevik and a savage opponent of Kornilov and all officers. My part in the conversation was confined to brief expressions of acquiescence, till suddenly he asked: “Have you heard of the Women’s Battalion of Death?” My heart thumped violently. “What Battalion did you say?” I asked with an air of ignorance. “Why, Botchkareva’s Battalion!” he replied in a loud voice. “Botchkareva’s?” I asked reminiscently. “Oh, yes, Botchkareva; yes, I have heard about her.” “The ----! She is a Kornilovka!” he exclaimed. “She is for the old régime.” “How do you know?” I asked. “I thought she was non-partisan.” “We know them all, the counter-revolutionists! She is one of them,” my companion declared emphatically. “Well, but the Battalion of Death no longer exists, and Botchkareva has apparently vanished,” I suggested. “Yes, we know how they vanish. Many of them have vanished like that. Kornilov had vanished, too. Then they all pop up again somewhere or other and cause trouble,” he declared.