'I saw you come out of the house—is it Professor Balfry?'
'Sort of,' she told her son, not really knowing what else to tell him.
'Daddy'll find us—especially here. All the resistance fighters going in and out all the time—all of the stuff goin' on here. He'll find out that we're here and come and get us.'
She looked at her son—his eyes. She wanted to ask—why are you so sure? But she looked more deeply into his eyes, watched his face—she didn't think his eyes-were light sensitive like those of her husband. He didn't squint against the light like John had always done—like John did. But he looked enough like his father to be his clone.
'When do you think Daddy will find us?' she asked instead.
'Probably not for a while yet. He's gotta first find out where we are, then he has to get here to get us. Might be a while yet. Maybe a few weeks.'
She hugged her son to her. 'Maybe in a few weeks,' she whispered, believing it then.
'Momma—is everything—'
'Fine,' she whispered, not letting go of him . . .
Millie Jenkins had left the refugee camp with Bill Mulliner and his mother—to pick blackberries. Michael hadn't wanted to go. He didn't like blackberries and liked the thorns less. Annie had gone with them though.
Sarah sat by the edge of camp with Michael, the wounded and injured under Reverend Steel's care for the moment. 'What are you thinking about?' she asked her son.
'I don't know,' and he laughed. She hadn't seen him laugh for a while.
'I like seeing you laugh. Your father doesn't laugh much. You laugh more. That's good.'
'What'll we do after he finds us?'
She folded her left arm around the boy. 'I guess—well, I don't know.'
'Go and live in the Survival Retreat?'
'I guess so—at least for a while. Until the Russians are forced to leave, maybe.
Maybe after that we can find a place and settle down there—just like pioneers,'
she added, her voice brightening. 'Build a cabin—get some horses again. Maybe grow our own food. Like that?'
'No electricity.'
'Your Daddy is pretty smart—he can probably find some land near a fast running stream and make our own electricity. Eventually, the cities will start up again and the factories—make things we can use.'
'Will Daddy go back to work—and be gone all the time again?'
'I think—I don't know. It'll be a long time before we get rid of the Russians—'
'I hate the Russians,' the boy said with an air of finality.
'You shouldn't,' she said after a moment. 'They're people, just like we are.
Very few of the Russians are really Communists—it's the Communist government.
They run Russia—they started the war. You shouldn't hate the
Russians.'
'Well, I hate the Communists then.'
'Well—I don't think it's going to hurt the Communists half as much as it's going to hurt you if you do.'
She looked at him—he was looking at her. 'What do you mean?'
'Well—we've gotta fight the Communists. We've gotta win. But if they make us all live for hate, then maybe they'll win—even if we kick them out of our country.
If we love freedom—being free to do what we think is right—it has the same effect as hating the Communists—but a good thing, not a bad thing. Hate won't do us any good. First thing you know—we'll spend all our time hating and we won't have time to fight the Communists and win. Like that.'
'Maybe that's like telling a lie,' he told her, his voice very serious sounding, his eyes hard. 'You know— you spend so much time telling lies you can't remember what's the truth.'
'Maybe,' she nodded. 'Maybe.'
She reached into her pocket, found the liberated Tudor wristwatch and checked the time. 'I've gotta go and help Reverend Steel—but I'll see you at dinner tonight—okay?'
The boy smiled. 'Okay—I'll walk you over there!'
'Okay,' she smiled.
'I'll help you up!' The boy was standing already and reached out his hand, Sarah taking it, letting Michael help pull her to her feet.
'Ohh—you're getting stronger all the time—you know that?'
'You wanna feel my muscle?'
'Okay,' she nodded, the boy raising his arms in the classic iron pumpers pose.
