Aarne was delighted to have met such a cultivated young man, he said, and under different circumstances, they could perhaps have talked all afternoon long, perhaps even of Paris, but—he turned up his palms in a gesture suggesting mutual sadness, lack of alternatives—he had to leave now to keep some women from being raped and killed.

He wished Hugo good luck, put his hands in his pockets, and limped away, head down.

“Wait!” Hugo trotted toward him. “Expliquez-moi,” he said.

Aarne looked up at Hugo with sadness. His story was simple: he knew three old peasant women who cooked and cleaned at the local monastery. The monks had long ago fled, leaving them with enough supplies—flour, tea, sugar, and so forth—to live on. There was an underground river they got water from, there was plenty of firewood, and so they hadn’t left in months, and their existence was hardly known here. And the monastery was secluded, as was the wont of monasteries, Aarne said, with a chuckle, so no one had yet robbed it.

However, the grapevine said Bolsheviks had finally realized it was there and were going to storm it this evening, when the moon was high. Again, he wished Hugo a good evening, for he had to go make a stand with the women, for their honor. Even though they had no weapons. And Aarne had rheumatism. And was approximately three feet nine inches tall.

It was a great deal of information for Hugo to take in. He didn’t want Aarne to go away. He told Aarne to wait while he thought this through. One idea jumped to another, and then—a thousand-watt inspiration!—surely he and his fellow soldiers could help. Aarne told him not to bother with such an outlandish idea. Hugo was insistent. Making his new friend promise to stay by the razor wire, Hugo trotted into the barracks, where he was briefly arrested by the earthen stink of unwashed men wearing soiled uniforms.

Lieutenant Gordon, caught in a hand in which he had accidentally found himself drawing toward an inside straight, happily threw down his cards to curse Hugo for deserting his post. There was an argument, but a brief one, as Gordon began to understand that Hugo was volunteering to leave. Thus the assignment was made with Gordon’s blessings—had Hugo explained he was going into the forest to build his own monastery, Gordon would have responded the same.

There was the question of who would join him; Hugo hoped Gordon wouldn’t call for volunteers, but would let him pick his own support.

“Hugo, what you’re describing is a very dangerous mission,” Gordon said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “So I would like you to go alone.”

“I’m sorry?”

“And it’s a fabulous good-will gesture toward the locals. I think that’s fabulous.”

“Even Wodziczko could—”