“A fearful verse,” he said. “You picked a good one, I must say.” He got up from his chair. “So,” he said, “farewell, I may not come again ... we’ll see each other in paradise. Well, it has been fourteen years since I ‘fell into the hands of the living God,’ that is the right way to describe these fourteen years. Tomorrow I shall ask those hands to let me go...”
I wanted to embrace him and kiss him, but I did not dare—so contorted was his face, and so heavy his expression. He left. “Lord,” I thought, “what awaits the man!” Then I threw myself on my knees before the icon and wept for him to the most holy Mother of God, our swift intercessor and helper. I spent half an hour praying in tears, and it was already late, about midnight. Suddenly I saw the door open, and he came in again. I was amazed.
“Where have you been?” I asked him.
“I seem to have forgotten something . .. ,” he said, “my handkerchief, I think ... Well, even if I have not forgotten anything, let me sit down...”
He sat down in a chair. I stood over him. “You sit down, too,” he said. I sat down. We sat for about two minutes; he looked at me fixedly and suddenly smiled—I remembered that—then got up, embraced me firmly, and kissed me . . .
“Remember, friend,” he said, “how I came back to you this time—do you hear? Remember it!”
It was the first time he had called me “friend.” Then he left. “Tomorrow,” I thought.
