In March, on a day filled with sun and the crunching of snow under the feet of passersby, a woman (her mother? her sister?) came looking for her and, without any explanation, took her away. Charlotte caught up with them on the way out of the village and held out to the child the big doll with flaking cheeks with which the little tzigane had played during the long winter evenings… This doll had originally come from Paris and remained, along with the old newspapers in the "Siberian suitcase," one of the last relics of their former life.

The real famine, Albertine knew, would come in the spring… There was not a single bunch of plants left on the walls of the entrance hall, the market was deserted. In May they fled their izba, without really knowing where to go. They walked along a path still heavy with springtime humidity and bent down from time to time to pick fine shoots of sorrel.

It was a kulak who accepted them as day laborers on his farm. He was a strong, lean Siberian with his face half hidden by a beard, through which a few rare words emerged, terse and absolute.

"I'll not pay you anything," he said, making no bones about it. "Bed and board. If I take you on, it's not for your pretty faces. I need hands."

They had no choice. During the first days, on returning, Charlotte would collapse flat out on her pallet, her hands covered with burst blisters. Albertine, who sewed sacks for the coming harvest all day, looked after her as best she could. One evening Charlotte 's tiredness was such that, when she met the owner of the farm, she started speaking to him in French. The peasant's beard was stirred with a profound movement, his eyes widened – he was smiling.

"Right, tomorrow you can rest. If your mother wants to go into the town, go ahead…" He took several steps, then turned: "The young people in the village dance every evening, you know. Go and see them if you like…"