He placed two fingers on her lips to silence the screams, then sat on the ground and wrapped his arms tight around her, careful not to touch her wounds. His body was warm and sturdy and smelled of earth and spruce. She clung to him as hard as she could, taking comfort in his steadiness.

“It’s all right,” he murmured. “You’re safe.” His hands were on her back, his chest pressed against hers, and she felt his warmth flowing into her cold flesh.

She pulled her head back to look at his serious gray eyes. A straggly beard was sprouting on his chin, as he had not shaved for three days; it made him look older. On impulse she leaned forward and kissed his cheek, then his lips, and soon she was kissing all over his face in a frenzy. It wasn’t planned; she was just following some instinct she did not understand. She held his face in her hands and planted kisses on his forehead, his chin, his nose, his temples.

He didn’t try to stop her but he did not kiss her back either, and after a while she paused. Who was this man who would not take advantage of her, even when they were alone in the mountains and she had more or less invited him? He gave her a wan smile, tilting his head to one side.

Suddenly she realized that in saving her he had risked his own life. If they were caught, they would both be executed. “What have I done to you?” she asked, full of remorse that it had not occurred to her before.

“Nothing. At least, not compared with what they have done to you,” he replied.

“I had forgotten that you have lost your family too. Your mother. Your sister. All because of me.” He looked sad, and she added, “I hope one day you will find them again.”

“I wish you could meet them.” He had a distant look in his eyes. “After this war is over, perhaps I will be able to introduce you.”

“I would love that,” she said. Their faces were close, his arms still around her, but now that she had calmed down, he disengaged and moved away.

Maria watched as he built a fire. If only some other member of her family had been rescued by a man as kind as him. “Tell me . . . You are a Bolshevik, you believe in the Revolution, so why did you decide to save me, knowing that you would lose everything in the process?”

He shrugged. “It was simple. My father taught me there are right things to do in the world and wrong things, and that I must always opt for the right ones. When I saw you were alive in the back of the truck, I knew instantly what was right.”

Chapter 15

Ural Mountains, August 1918