THE fact that we had made up our minds about what we wanted to do is not to say that we knew how to set about doing it. For some weeks we stayed on in our apartment, relieved to know we were going, but making no move to get under way. I wanted to be sure our decision would stick and that it would seem as good to us after a week or two as it had in the beginning. In the end, events took care of themselves and we moved along with them.

One day we ran into Dmitri Kessel, the photographer. It was good to see him because he reminded us of Prague and the time we had spent with him there. Through Kessel we met two young men only recently out of college who were also photographers, Frank and Harry Lerner. They did some work for me in photostating a few valuable documents, and we fell into an informal kind of discussion. I liked them because they were full of enthusiasm for their work and also because they were willing to accept me as a human being devoid of political significance. I went to their studio again and again, and each time I came away feeling a little more sure of myself because they appeared so certain that we were right in wanting to go into the country. It was the same with other American friends such as Henry De Give, the young lawyer who had helped us when we first started proceedings to incorporate Rieger, Inc. It was a tremendous relief to find that we were not completely alone in New York by virtue of our point of view. They also made us feel that we had been right to take the step of applying for our first naturalization papers the previous October on the day when we heard that Beneš had left Czechoslovakia.

And then one afternoon a strange man called us on the telephone. He said his name was Aaron Druckman and he added that he was a professor at Pennsylvania State College and a friend of the Lerners. They had been talking to him about us and he wanted to see us. I felt that the request was a little queer, but I suggested that we might arrange to meet at one of the hotels one day the following week.

“Why can’t I come up to your place?” he said.

People didn’t invite themselves to other people’s houses in Prague, but I remembered the informality of the Lerners and decided I must take one of their friends on the same terms.

“Very well,” I said. “We should be happy to have you call this evening. You know where we live?”

“Yes, I know. Frank gave me your address. Couldn’t I come along now? If you’re not busy, of course. I’m very anxious to talk to you.”

There was nothing to do but tell him to come, and yet I was uneasy about meeting the man. It seemed such a strange thing for anyone to do. But when he came into our living room he dispelled nine-tenths of our suspicions at once. An engaging man of something under thirty, with curly blond hair, a straight nose, warm lips and candid blue eyes, he seemed incredibly young to be a college professor. We learned in a few moments that he was a bachelor, that he played a cello and that he had studied abroad. He knew the writings of Thomas Masaryk intimately. He was as natural and informal as the Lerner brothers and he admitted that he had become interested in us through hearing them tell about our plans to drive across the country in search of a place to live.

I was reluctant to talk freely to a stranger about our nebulous plans, but he kept drawing me out. “Look here,” he said. “I understand why you want to see as much of the country as you can before you decide where you want to stay, but it’s a pretty big place, you know. It will take a long time to see it all. Why don’t you learn what you can of one small part of the country outside New York? Then you’ll know better what to look for when you go on to see the rest.”

“It is very kind of you to help us with suggestions,” I said. “But we have first to find that one small part.”

“Of course. That’s why I wanted to see you. How would you like to live in my cottage in a place called Shingletown in the Pennsylvania hills? For the summer. As my guests. It’s a beautiful place, and it’s full of a lot of intelligent Americans, too.”

Milada and I both stared at the man. How could he make such a suggestion! How could a stranger talk to us like this!

“Thank you,” I said stiffly. “You understand, of course, that we couldn’t accept such an invitation.”

“Why not?”

“But you met us only twenty minutes ago. We know nothing about each other. We thank you just the same.”

He smiled at my words, as though there was something funny about them. “Look,” he said. “Do you like dogs?”

Now I was sure the man was queer. “Yes,” I said. “Of course.” I wondered how we could get rid of him politely so as not to hurt the Lerners’ feelings.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll make you a proposition. I’ve got a wonderful collie. I want to go off for a vacation as soon as summer school is over and I can’t take him with me. Will you come and live in my cottage and take care of my dog? You’d be doing me a great favor. But don’t wait until school is out. Come as soon as you can. There are a lot of things I’d like to talk to you about.”

He was laughing now as though the joke were on him, and we laughed with him. Suddenly it seemed immensely funny. Before we knew what we were saying we had agreed to live in his house and take care of his dog for the rest of the summer. As soon as he had gone out the door we looked at each other as though we were now the crazy ones. It wasn’t until a letter arrived from Professor Druckman two days later, giving us detailed instructions about how to get to Lewistown where he said he would pick us up with his car, that we realized what we had done. It seemed a wild chance that we were taking. But it was one step on our way into the country, and the summer wouldn’t last forever.

Before we left New York we had one final encounter with a remnant of Prague and the life we had known there. We read in the papers that Dr. Beneš and Madame Benešová were to be officially received at the World of Tomorrow. On an impulse, we found our way out to the fair on the Flushing meadows and then to the Czechoslovak Pavilion. It was a scorching day and the sun glared back from the walls of the fair buildings, but inside the reception room it was dusky and cool. We stood at the back of the room, waiting for our eyes to become accustomed to the change of light, feeling a surge of happiness at the sound of our own language and the sight of many familiar faces. And then the Czechoslovak consul in New York, Karel Hudec, was at our elbow, insisting that we move closer to the official party at the far end of the room.

There were many frock coats and masses of flowers and Mayor LaGuardia was talking with Madame Benešová. She happened to raise her eyes and then she looked straight at us. She recognized Milada first. Her face broke into a warm, welcoming smile and we were drawn into the official group for a few moments. Madame Benešová pulled a single long-stemmed rose from the bouquet she held in her arms and put it in Milada’s hand, and Dr. Beneš held my hand in both of his own as he shook it and said quietly, “It’s good to see you. Everything will be all right. Keep your courage. We’ll all be home soon.”