Mist coiled like smoke on the ground among the trees. It was heavy, and our disembodied heads seemed to float on its surface. Three of the peasants went with us. That made eleven in all: Rodzianko, moodily silent and taking the lead with a big knapsack high on his shoulders, then the peasants, then Semyon Laschenko and his wife, then Eugenie and Mike Rodin, then Galina and Mikhail. I brought up the rear with my rifle. I had offered Leonid’s pint-sized Luger to Rodzianko. He had refused it. Mike Rodin had it now. He’d said he felt foolish wearing it. It was tucked into his belt and he’d said it poked his gut painfully. But he kept it. Earlier, we’d all eaten heartily at the farmhouse. I’d told Mike Rodin about the soldier. Over dinner Laschenko and Lucienne had talked in low tones, he earnestly, she angrily and with scorn. Soft, silent Mikhail never said a word. After dinner Mike Rodin had a mild attack. His face turned gray and he began to sweat. We had packed our knapsacks already.
