ILLUSTRATION BY JACK WOOLHI5ER
I Upset Stomach
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Chris was tired. He and Hulda sat on the front porch
looking out over the cows in the meadow, the corn in
the field, the red clover across the road. And all of them
needed Chris and Hulda from 5 o'clock in the morning to
10 o'clock at night.
For 50 years the farm had needed Chris. Now he was
through.
"Let's put the farm up for sale and move to town, Hulda,"
he said. "Let's enjoy life a little before we die. I'd like to
be some place where the neighbors are close by, where I
can walk downtown, where we don't have to do a thing
but move into an apartment and take it easy,"
"That suits me fine," said Hulda.
J. W. Renfrow was tired, too. For all of his 65 years he'd
been working in the heat and cold of the city, fighting the
traffic, fighting to keep on top. On impulse, he picked up
the phone on his massive desk and called Helen.
"Let's move to the country and relax," he said.
"I'm sick of the city and tired of working, Helen. I want
to be out in the fresh country air where a man can hear
the cows mooing."
Helen's voice was ecstatic.
"Wonderful, J. W.!"
That's how Chris sold his farm, though he couldn't afford
J. W.'s apartment in trade. He moved into rooms in the heart
of the city. And J. W. hired a neighbor to operate the farm.
Then every evening Chris and Hulda sat in the city
apartment and looked out the window, waiting for the
traffic to quiet a little so they could sleep. But they awoke
at 5 as always and there was nothing to do.
SpK mm
And J. W. and Helen sat on the front porch at the farm
and tried to relax, but the quiet was deafening except for
the mooing of the cows, which was equally deafening.
J. W.'s ulcer, now fed on the fare of the farm, was kicking
like a mule.
So pretty soon Chris and Hulda passed away from lone
liness and so did J. W. and Helen. They were all buried in
the same cemetery.
. There, if they'd known it, was the only place the grass
was erpenpr.
THEY CALLED ME A "PENTAGON SPY"
(Continued)
clandestine meeting.
"They warned me not to meet you
again," he said slowly.
"Aren't you afraid somebody will
see us?" I asked fearfully.
"I don't care," he shrugged.
Suddenly, half turning, he grinned.
"You're not really a spy, are you?"
"A spy!" I gasped.
"That's what they said you were.
A 'Pentagon spy.' And your camera,"
he gestured, "a spy camera."
Anywhere else, it would have been
a joke. But not in the U.S.S.R., just
three months after the U-2 incident.
"Schoolteachers come here as
tourists," the police had warned
Dimitri. "They fool the foolish among
our youth. They are not tourists but
spies."
The Secret Police captain had
jabbed a thumb in Dimitri's face.
"Look at that camera the American
girl-spy carries," he sneered. "She
will take your photo back to the
Pentagon, and they will superimpose
a Russian uniform on you, put you
next to the President or some gen
eral, and say you defected to the
West."
"They know I phoned Ivan," I said.
Dimitri nodded. "They know."
"And what if they see us together
after warning you?"
Dimitri shrugged, his lips tight,
and then he gestured. Twice I'd no
ticed a woman in a loose-fitting red
sweater who seemed forever to be
crossing our path.
"She knows," he said with finality.
"She's one of them."
Suddenly, I was ashamed. I was
scheduled to leave Leningrad for
Moscow at midnight and from there
to return home. But Dimitri, our
tete-a-tete already discovered, would
remain to face the consequences.
It was nearly 9 p.m. but still light
when once again we stood by the
fountain where we'd met.
"You'll write to me, Betty?" Di
mitri pleaded.
"I promise," I said. I repeated the
promise as he let me off in front of
my hotel. The promise was still on
my lips as I turned toward the en
trance and recoiled with a start.
Half-hidden in the gathering shad
ows was the pcach-shirted man.
In Moscow, the American attache
heard my story.
"Don't write him," he cautioned
sternly. "My advice is to get out of
the Soviet Union as quickly as pos
sible and forgot him. There's noth
ing you or anybody else can do for
him now, Miss Koferts."
And for brave young Russians like
Dimitri, there isn't.
(Because of the warning she re
ceived from the American attache
Miss Kojerts never wrote to Dimitri,
and her indirect efforts to learn o
his ate have been fruitless thus far.)
Family Weekly. March 12, J 90!
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