“I see.”

“And here to the east is Bulgaria, and above it Rumania. And west of Rumania is Hungary, and above it Czechoslovakia, and then Poland. You see?”

“Yes. You must go to Poland?”

“Farther than that. Here, above Poland and to the east, are three small countries. First Lithuania, then Latvia, then Estonia. They are all a part of Russia.”

“So you go to Russia.” She drew in her breath. “Is it not very dangerous to go to Russia?”

“They are a part of Russia in the same way that Macedonia is a part of Yugoslavia.”

This she understood. “They too would fight for freedom,” she said. “And you go to make a revolution there?”

“I hope not.”

“Then, why else would you go there?”

“To get someone out of Latvia.”

“It is difficult to leave Latvia?”

“It is nearly impossible.”

“It will be dangerous?”

I told her that it would not be particularly dangerous. Evidently my voice lacked conviction, because she shot me a glance that told me she did not much believe me. But we dropped that subject and drank more of the fermented honey and talked of the struggles of Macedonia and the beauty of our son and the warmth of love.

After a while the boy woke up, crying lustily, and she fed him and put him back to sleep again. “Such a good boy,” she said.

“He will need brothers and sisters.”

“And we have worked to provide one for him.”

“This is true,” I said. “But can one be certain of the results?”

“I do not understand.”

“When one wishes to grow a tree, one puts more than a single seed into the ground.”

“We have planted two seeds already,” she said, grinning.

“Would not a third seed make matters trebly sure?”

She purred. “You will be here several days. By the time you leave, I have a feeling that the ground will be overflowing with seeds.”

“Would the ground object?”