Khortiza, October 7, 1919

Yesterday evening our so-called soldiers left our house to meet their enemies. Along the Dnieper a front line has been established. Even these bands, seemingly so loosely constituted, must have some organization for battle. There is a wild crackling and shooting. From the other side, from the city of Alexandrovsk, our village is being bombarded. But it scarcely frightens us. Right near to our house a projectile exploded with a deafening detonation. The splinters reached our porch-door. It is a relief to hope that there will be a displacing of the front line after this.

The pastor has been forced to leave his house. He could not save a thing. He has to hide himself. For a few nights he was with me in my room.

He is hard of hearing and asked me to awaken him in case he would fall asleep. What tragedy! The old man, who has been a true rescuer of souls all his life, is now a poor fugitive without lodging and rest. He is a special mark for their suspicions. He does not know even how bitterly they pursue him. We try to have him spared. But we must prevail upon him to leave the place this very night. It is dark, cold, and dirty outside. I know he will object to it. Shall he leave his congregation and steal away by night like a thief through ravines and valleys? But he cannot be of help to us just now. And they surely will not spare his life if they find him. I hope he can escape unseen.