I asked the soldier’s wife where she had come from. She came from Sergíevskoe. Sergíevskoe is a large, well-to-do village some thirty miles off. I asked if her parents were alive. She said they were alive, and living comfortably.

“Why should you not go to them?” I asked.

“I thought of that myself, but am afraid they won’t have the four of us.”

“Perhaps they will. Why not write to them? Shall I write for you?”

The woman agreed, and I noted down her parents’ address.

While I was talking to the woman, the eldest child⁠—a fat-bellied girl⁠—came up to her mother, and, pulling at her sleeve, began asking for something, probably food. The woman went on talking to me, and paid no attention to the girl, who again pulled and muttered something.