If he had to escape suddenly with nothing but what he wore, he could find shelter here. When time came for him to leave on his escape, he could stop the first night in this place.
That night in the Baronas cabin he said, “I must have some clothing. Is there anyone here who can make it?”
“All of us, after a fashion,” Baronas said, “but not the things you need. They will have to be purchased.”
“You have connections?”
“Of course, but you are larger than any of us but Peshkov, and he is broader in the body than you.” He paused, sipping tea. “You must realize that those who are willing to supply us secretly would be immediately alert if they suspected you had come among us. We are considered Russian even if fugitives. You would be an enemy.”
“Clothing is not easily obtained. It means standing in line, waiting,” Natalya said. “That would be impossible. It is hard enough for any citizens to buy the clothes they need. There is never enough.”
She looked at him thoughtfully. “I could make you a shirt.”
“It would help,” Joe Mack said. “Clothing I can make, but not to pass in a town or city. The clothing I make is for the forest. In a city it would be noticed at once.”
“Not so much as you might think,” Baronas said. “In Siberia, people wear whatever they have. You dress like some of the Ostyaks. The Ostyaks,” he added, “are hunters, too. And along the rivers they are fishermen.”
“I will make you a shirt,” Natalya repeated. “I have some cloth.” She left the room.
Baronas looked up at him, smiling faintly. “Do you realize what that means, my friend? Such material is difficult to obtain.”
“She must not do it,” Joe Mack said. “I can get along.”
“Perhaps. You do not realize how fortunate you have been. You have not been seen. If you were seen, you would be recognized at once for what you are, a stranger and a fugitive. There are spies everywhere, but in your case everyone is a spy.
“To report you or to capture you would put one in a position to ask favors. Your friend Colonel Zamatev, for example, could arrange many benefits for someone who led them to your capture, so it would not only be a duty to turn you in, it could be profitable.”
“The shirt,” he added, “would help. It would make you look more Russian.”
“I must find a way to get clothing,” Joe Mack said. “Before spring comes I must have a coat and pants.”
Baronas shook his head. “Impossible! And,” he added, “even those who look to you for meat would be fiercely jealous if you obtained clothing they cannot get.”
“Nevertheless — ”
“I know.” Baronas shrugged. “We would help you all we can. But we all need clothing. Natalya needs clothing, as do I. It is hard for anyone, but for us who live in the forest it is almost impossible. Is it so easy, then, to have clothing in America?”
“You have only to buy it. There are many shops and tailors as well. If one has the money it is no problem.”
“And the money?”
“Most of us work at something. We have our poor, of course. Our world is changing, as is yours, and new skills are demanded, more training, more education. Trades that once ensured a man of a good living for his family are good no longer.
“When my father was a boy he had a friend who wanted to become a steam engineer. Most of the threshing machines were steam in those days and running them paid well. A few years later, threshing machines were run by gasoline tractors. Now much of that has changed, too.
“Men used to follow the harvest of grain from Texas to Canada, shucking wheat, threshing it. Now combines do it all, and there is no need for all that labor. Once it was not only a way to make a living, but it was an adventure for a young man. All that is gone.”
“Are there many who live by trapping, as you do?”
“Trapping? Very few. Some men who live close to wild country, of course, but mostly it is done by boys earning money for school. Trapping is no longer important in America. Once there were many beaver, and beaver hats were in vogue. The style changed to silk hats, and the price for beaver pelts fell drastically. Trappers had to find another way to make a living.”
“It is the same everywhere,” Baronas commented. “To survive one must adapt.”
Natalya returned to the room and knelt by the fire, adding some sticks. She poured tea for them and sat on the edge of the hearth.
Joe Mack listened to the night. If there were footsteps he would hear them. “They will look for me,” he warned, “and eventually they will find this place. I would not wish to bring trouble to you.”
“We have always known they would find us one day. They have not simply because they have not cared. We have done no harm, we do not wish to do harm.”
“What will they do if they find you?”
Baronas shrugged. “Perhaps to a labor camp. If they think we are trouble enough, to one of the extermination camps, working in uranium mines, cleaning the nozzles of atomic submarines. They always know what to do.”
“And you?” Natalya asked. “How did you come to be here?”
He glanced at her. “I was a major in the Air Force, but I was flying experimental aircraft. Testing them, if you will. They knew this, of course. They believed I might cooperate and tell what they wished to know. One of the planes I was to test was planned to operate under extreme Arctic conditions, so I was becoming acclimatized. Suddenly, out over the Bering Sea my radio would not work. I was forced down at sea and taken prisoner. Obviously it was neatly planned and carefully orchestrated. The details are not important.”
“And if you return to America?”
He shrugged. “I shall leave the Air Force. What I shall have to do they might understand but could not condone. It is better that I am a free agent.”
She looked at him thoughtfully. He talked easily enough, and he was friendly, but there was something different about him. Often he was quiet for long periods and he smiled rarely. She was drawn to him and yet a little frightened by him.
“I had friends who migrated to America,” Baronas said. “Some went for the greater freedom, some in hopes of becoming wealthy and returning with money. Only one of them ever came back and he only to visit.”
“My home was in the mountains,” Joe Mack said, “very remote. It was a very large house at the end of a meadow and with a magnificent view, but it was built into the mountain and built of rocks found close by. We had huge fireplaces and we burned down-wood, like in the forest around here. There were many Indian rugs.”
“My grandfather, who was a Scotsman, built the house with the help of some men he hired. There was no road to the place, only narrow trails. Anything brought from the outside came on packhorses. Later, I flew home several times in a helicopter.”
“It was a wild, lovely country and I loved it. I shall go back there again. From our wide porch we could look into the neighboring state of Washington, and off to the north was Canada.”
“It sounds wonderful!” Natalya said. “It would be good to live in a real house again, even one so remote.”
“It did not seem remote to us. It was our world, and only the seasons changed. Not far from our house there was a bunkhouse for those who worked for us. They were Indians.”
“Sioux?”
“No, that was not Sioux country. It had never been. We had anywhere from four to six Indians working for us, and they were usually Kutenai or Nez Perce. After a while my father hired a couple of Basque sheepherders, and they are still with us, as are the Indians.”
“Were there any towns close by? Where there were people?”
“We used to go down to Priest River, sometimes, but often we would ride through the mountains, staying always away from roads and towns until we could visit friends in central Idaho. We didn’t care much for towns,” he added, “only for shopping.”
He stood up. “It grows late, and you will wish to sleep.”
“Yours sounds like a wonderful country,” Natalya said wistfully. “I wish I could see it.”
“Will they let you leave?”
She shook her head. “It would be very hard, I think. Very hard, indeed.”
He went out into the night and stood for a moment, standing close to the wall, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the outer darkness.