It took longer than we expected to reach the road. A weather-beaten signboard showed the direction and distance of a town, or village, named Chichevka, which must have been the place with the factories we had seen from the heights. We bolted smartly across the road into the undergrowth on the other side. Between us and the lakeside was a mile of flattish country in which junipers grew in profusion amid oak, ash, birch, lime and willow. Thriving in damper soil were tall, rustling bamboo-like plants. We broke through a fringe of small trees to find ourselves on the edge of a river. I held up my hand and the others closed in from left and right.
We had to decide whether or not to cross. It was only about 150 yards wide but the ice had broken up in the middle channel and the brown water swirled on a swift current. Here we found that all of us could swim. The general opinion was that as we should have to negotiate many rivers from now on, there was no point in delaying our first test. I volunteered to go first and we unwound our yards of rawhide strap from about our waists to make a safety line. Each man had up to seven turns of the stuff around him and the joined line was impressively long. The others kept watch as I trod carefully out on to the ice edge. It gave way suddenly with a crack and I was in and gasping to get my breath. I struck out the short distance to the ice across the channel, reached it and tried to climb up. The ice broke away and I tried again. It seemed a long time before I was able to haul myself out and then I crawled flat on my stomach a few yards before I risked standing. Chilled and miserably wet, I signalled the others to follow.
It was not so difficult for the rest but no less uncomfortable. They came across with the line to guide them, one by one, and Smith, the last over, was hauled over with the other end of the line around his waist. The next time I went over one of these half-frozen rivers I took the axe with me and chopped away at the ice until the blade bit in, using it to help me out of the water.
We ran under cover as quickly as we could and then took off our three garments — the padded trousers and jacket and the fur waistcoats — one by one and wrung as much water out as we could. We put them on again to dry on our bodies and went off briskly towards the lake to bring back circulation to our limbs. We sighted the lake, took our bearings and swung away eastward.
Late in the afternoon we huddled together to make plans for the next immediate stage of the journey. Common sense dictated that to hug the lake verge too closely was to invite discovery by inhabitants of the fishing villages or semi-industrial townships, well spaced here in the north but clustering thicker together on the southern side towards the sizable cities within reach of the Trans-Siberian Railway. The proposal we all approved, therefore, was to bear away north and make our way clear of roads and towns on a course parallel with but safely distant from the lake. We accordingly set off obliquely north-east, aiming to cross the road again farther along. Our clothes were still damp and we moved at a fast pace to dry ourselves off. We had covered about five miles when we saw ahead of us a line of trees marking the bank of another river.
Over to my right Zaro gave the halt and alert signal with upraised arm. I repeated the signal and the advancing line straggled to a stop. Zaro pointed urgently in the direction of the river. I saw something moving between the trees. It could have been an animal or it could have been a man — at this distance of several hundred yards in the fading light it was impossible to tell — but we had to investigate. I went over to Zaro and asked him what he thought he had seen. Zaro said, ‘It might be a man. Whatever it is, it acts as though it had seen us and is trying to hide.’ The others crept up to us. ‘If it’s a man,’ said Makowski, ‘we shall have to hit him on the head and throw him in the river. We can’t risk anyone giving us away.’ We spread out again, Smith and Zaro on my left, Paluchowicz, Makowski, Marchinkovas and Kolemenos on my right. Crouching low we moved forward from bush to bush until we were able to see that the line of trees was about fifty yards from the river, its waters now clearly visible. About ten yards from the first of the belt of trees I stopped and listened. The others pulled up, too, and everyone peered ahead. Suddenly a figure which had been motionless behind a tree trunk threw itself forward and downward into a clump of bushes. In that flash of movement I saw trousers and heavy boots. I broke cover and ran forward, the others at my heels.
The boots were rubber-soled, felt-topped and knee-length. They stuck ludicrously out from the bush as I threw myself on them and hauled outwards to bring the owner into view. The next instant I was asprawl with the boots in my hands. Kolemenos was breathing heavily down my neck, peering down at a ridiculously small pair of linen-swathed feet and slim ankles. And from beneath the bush came terrified, heartbroken sobbing. We looked at one another, still panting from our run, in sudden embarrassment. Someone whispered in awed tones, ‘It must be a woman.’
Kolemenos bent down, shouldered aside the bush and gently lifted. We all crowded round. It was a girl — a slip of a girl, roundeyed with fright, her tears making clean rivulets through the grime of her face. A few moments ago we had been a bunch of desperate men who could contemplate killing to prevent discovery. Now we stood around, clumsily contrite, like a crowd of romping boys caught in mischief and seeking the words to repair some act of over-rough horseplay. Through her tears she stole a look at my face and cowered back. ‘Don’t be afraid of us,’ I said in Russian. She looked at me again and her eyes went from me to the other six solemn and anxious bearded faces. She went on crying and I cannot blame her; we must have looked the worst gang of desperadoes she had ever had the ill-luck to meet.
‘Please don’t cry, little girl,’ said Sergeant Paluchowicz.
She was still very frightened. She was fighting hard to stop her sobbing. ‘We won’t hurt you,’ I tried to console her. ‘We all have sisters and sweethearts of our own.’ The others nodded agreement.
Everything she wore seemed too big and bulky for her. Her thin shoulders were hunched in a long, wide, padded fufaika and her slim ankles emerged incongruously from a pair of heavy padded trousers. Like our own, both garments were of some sombre black heavy material. Beneath the jacket showed the upper half of a well-worn and dirty purple velvet dress, the skirt of which was tucked into the trousers. From two sleeves of a green woollen jumper or cardigan she had made herself a scarf which was wrapped about her neck. Her tear-brimming eyes were very blue. Wisps of chestnut hair strayed out from under a motheaten fur hood. She looked like a schoolgirl masquerading in the clothes of a grown man. And because she looked so helpless we stood around silently and waited for her to dry her tears and speak. We were tongue-tied.
She lifted her hands to draw the jacket sleeves across her face and I saw she was holding a little crucifix. She dropped her hands, looked down at her feet and turned her eyes on me. She was standing all but barefoot in the snow — and I was still holding her boots. I bent down and helped her slip her feet back into them.
She spoke then, in a quaint mixture of Polish and halting Russian. ‘I have lost my way to the kolhoz where I work. I am Polish and I was deported here to work.’ The look she gave us was apprehensive.
Paluchowicz and Makowski pushed forward. I talked and they talked in a rush at the same time. In the gabble of explanation she finally understood we were telling her that we were Poles, too, that we were escaping prisoners, and that she had nothing to fear. Impulsively she flung herself into my arms and cried her relief and sudden happiness. Over and over again she repeated, ‘God is good to me.’ The other two Poles awkwardly patted her head and shoulders.