ON a wet, rain-swept afternoon late in January we nearly bumped into a young Czech journalist we had met casually some time before. He was in a great hurry, but he stopped long enough to tell us a piece of news that was unknown to the public. Jan Masaryk was arriving in a few hours from London. Instead of leaving his ship at the dock, he was coming in with the immigration officials and the press from Ambrose Light. No one was to know anything about it.

“Where will the press boat come in?” Milada said.

“Can’t tell,” he said. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if it was down at the Battery. Usually is.” And he was gone with a gust of wind.

Neither of us troubled to ask the other’s will. We simply said, how do we get to the Battery? We wanted only to catch a glimpse of his face, perhaps to hear our native tongue. We were afraid of the subways, but when we were told that was the way to get to South Ferry, we ventured all and went underground. By the time we came into the open again it was dusk. Somewhere on the way Milada had picked up a single white carnation which she carried in her hand under her dark umbrella.

We wandered around the great, smelly barn of a shed where the South Ferry boats come and go, and after awhile we saw that one pier was guarded by policemen. There were no crowds waiting there, only the cordon of blue uniforms. We moved in, to see if we could get onto the dock, but our way was firmly barred. We couldn’t even find a window that would give us a view of the place where the press boat was obviously going to dock.

“Come on,” I said. “It’s useless. You can see we haven’t got a chance even of seeing him.”

A voice spoke over my shoulder, a quiet, Czech voice. “What’s useless?” it said.

We both turned around to see a smiling young policeman. And he had spoken to us in Czech! “Sure,” he said. “My father and mother were both from the old country. What do you want? Looking for somebody?”

We were so glad to talk to him. We told him we had come only in the hope of catching a glimpse of Jan Masaryk as he got off the boat. We hadn’t seen anyone from home in a long time.

He looked at us thoughtfully a moment. “You don’t know him, do you?”

“Yes,” I said. “We know him. But he doesn’t know we’re here.”

He looked at us some more. Then he said, “Come on. Don’t say anything. Follow me.”

He led us through a door, down some steps, and through another door. Then he left us standing on the deserted dock in the rain. It was dark now and raining harder than ever. The wind blew it into our faces and down our collars. We were cold to the bone, but we didn’t care. After awhile we saw a launch moving toward the place where we stood. In the driving rain its outlines were blurred. We stepped back against the wall of the shed, and almost before its nose had bumped against the dock a horde of news reporters and cameramen were disgorged. They tumbled over one another as they ran from the boat to the stairs and on up, straight for the telephones. After a bit a single man stepped from the boat onto the dock, and then a small group followed him.

We stayed as we were until he was nearly upon us in the dark shed. Then we both stepped forward under the rusty hanging lamp. There was no need to say anything. He recognized us, and we saw how weary he looked. Milada thrust the white carnation toward him and his face broke into its characteristic smile as he took it. “Thank you both,” he said. “It’s good to know you’re here. Are you both all right? Find a way to stay, if you can. And see me later, will you?”

He went on in the wake of the reporters to join his party, a man of many worries, bound by the strict rules of the part he was forced to play. Seeing him even for those brief moments made us feel less alone for a little while.