I try not to write about Section One. I hate to dwell on the things that I have done in the name of Section. I want to maintain the illusion, even if only in my mind and on my own time, that Josephine is not really me. It is hard to distance myself from that woman in black leather, who carries a gun, and who does- as Michael puts it- what she has to do. There was this girl I met once in rather dire circumstances. We were arrested together, she for propositioning a cop, me for stealing a coat. She, her tongue stuck firmly in gaunt cheek, called herself a sex-trade worker and broke up into gales of laughter. I asked her what made her so comfortable with what she did. She said that the girl who lay under sweaty johns night after night wasn't her. That was Crystal: she was Amy. I remember wandering which one of them was actually in the cell or was there a third personality with us, one who did the jail time. I never really understood that until I came to section.

With that said, I reverse my policy for the next few pages and talk about a recent mission to Voslovo. Some thing has happened that I must get off my chest. And there are some memories that I just want to keep close to me.

I dreaded the mission to Voslovo. I hate it when I have to see the suffering. I would far rather go and do a mission in the dead of night when there are no innocents about. Civil war has been a fact of life in Voslovo for almost a century. Peace, when it comes is one of those trumped up deals made by men of government. They talk about it on CNN one month and then you hear about more bombings the next. It is a war of bigotry, power and greed, as are all wars, and from what I can see from my perspective as a woman, waged mostly by males. Maybe that wasn't fair but sometimes I get really down on men, with a few exceptions.

We were on a mission to bring in a terrorist called Anton Tretiak. After two days of mistakes, communication glitches and endless snow we were forced to abort. The team was on its way to rendezvous with the plane. It was snowing heavily again and because of a serious foul-up, we had only an ancient VW van for transportation.

I'm certain that van was held together by chewing gum and dental floss. I was tired, hungry and fed-up. In the back, operatives, McRorrie, Gilbert and Omar were having a great old time telling PMS and dumb blonde jokes. Michael was not laughing, but he wasn't telling them to shut-up either. He was having trouble driving in near white-out conditions and the windshield wipers were faulty.

We had left Voslovo and its burned out buildings at two. We'd been on country roads for three hours and to add to my misery, I had to go to the bathroom. I stared out the window, gritting my teeth. It is here that I wish to add to my anti-men diatribe. If you guys in Section can't understand the physical needs of women, why do you send us out into the world? I'd have gladly stayed behind. I didn't ask to be crawling along in the dark, in a snowstorm in an unheated van with three idiots telling PMS jokes.

And now, Michael, I must speak directly to you. At the time, I was furious at you. That has changed with the benefit of hindsight, but as I was saying, you didn't have to give me that look when I asked to go to the bathroom. You know the look, I mean. The one that says that this is a ship of fools and I am the captain. It isn't like I could open the van door and pee into the wind like Omar did.

I know that you told me not to go out too far, but the boys had gotten out to stretch their legs and were leering at me. And I really didn't mean to scream when I backed my rear up into the thorn bush. It hurt.

So why did you come running at that scream? I barely got my pants up when I slipped and fell, crushing my cell phone.

You were three feet from me when the van blew. Omar, McRorrie and Gilbert went with it. I think Omar must have stepped on the landmine. The force of the blast threw you onto me. You lay sprawled on me in the snow for a longtime. I could feel the beat of your heart through the layers of ski-jacket. Your breath was warm on my cheek.

" Are you okay, Nikita?" you asked.

" Yes, you?"

You didn't answer. There was nothing left to do about it, so we started walking. With every step I wondered about more mines. After a while I was too cold to care.

I know now that pieces of shrapnel had hit your side and the back of your upper arm. The pain had to have been blinding and did nothing to lighten a black mood, I'm sure. I couldn't see you trudging behind me in the snow. Your breathing was harsh and you fell many times before we saw the light of the house and barn. The only time you had spoken to me was to insist that I take your gloves because mine had been lost in the van. No wonder that you preferred to rest against the barn wall while I checked out the situation.

I found an old lady in the barn tending to her animals, a mangy old dog at her heels. She wasn't at all perturbed by my presence as if gun toting strangers in her barn was something she expected. The dog growled at me a little. I managed some Balkan phrases.

She grinned and told me she had children in Canada, so she knew some English. I was immediately impressed with her. She had wise eyes and a fine smile. From the top of her babushka to her rubber boots there was no trace of fear.

I called your name three times.. As you came out of the shadows I heard Viviana Jambor's sharp intake of breath, " Misha," she whispered. Michael, I remember thinking at the time: How does it feel to have little, old ladies fall in love with you at first sight? Even the dog was wagging her tail and smiling.

I think we noticed the blood dripping in a steady stream from your cuff at the same time. You were swaying back and forth trying to stand. I went to you and you leaned into me with relief.

" Your husband is badly hurt," she said.

I was too horrified to correct her. How could you not have said a word, let me help you at least?

" Come into the house. We will see to Misha's wounds," Viviana said. You kept muttering that your name was Michael. " Misha, Michael. All the same thing."

The kitchen was warm and smelled of yeast. In her matter of fact way, Viviana removed your coat, looked at the wounds and shook her head. They were bad. You would need stitching. There was shrapnel to be dug out. She told us that she'd been a nurse and a midwife. This was nothing to her. You seemed uncertain despite your pain, Michael. I almost laughed when she teased that she had to look for her butcher twine. She told me to take you upstairs and get your clothes off.

I will say right here that I was terrified. Sometimes I find myself believing that you are invincible, Michael, but when your blood is pouring out as red as any man's and your body is shaking like a leaf in the wind, I know that you are merely mortal.

Your face was pale, your lips an unearthly, pinched white. Your eyes were half shut and glazed with pain. Your teeth had begun to clatter wildly, your bones rattling beneath their covering of muscle. Muscles were jumping and quivering everywhere. I peeled your shirt off the wounds and felt ill. How can he endure this, I thought? Why was he too proud to tell me and let me help him? Why does he protect me all the time?

The wet tee-shirt got stuck on your head and yanked out some hair. The shorn locks were sticking up everywhere. " Sorry," I muttered. I could feel the fierce heat of your skin from inches away. I was afraid that you'd die. There was no medicine here, and I was beginning to wonder about Viviana's skill. I wished that Section would come and get us now, but how could they with no phones and the storm that rattled the windows.

Viviana bustled into the room, arms laden. I saw you shudder when you saw the wooden box with her instruments. She had you sit backwards on a chair in your skivvies, your arms crossed over the back. She met my eyes as she cleaned the wound on your arm. " I've seen worse." Your nostrils flared, but you said nothing. A sweat glazed your forehead and pooled in the hairs of your beard. I grasped your wrists. Your eyes closed slowly when she said it would take ten stitches to close the arm, ten stitches without Novacane. Nothing.

As good as she was, it took half an hour. I was counting the seconds, the drops of sweat that ran down my sides. I felt every one of those stitches. My muscles hurt from steeling myself. When she finally said, " Good boy, Misha." and patted your slumped shoulder I broke into big, noisy gulping sobs. You looked at me and smiled, " It's alright, 'Kita. It's almost over."

She probed in your back and I felt you shudder. Tears fell on my wrist. I didn't know if they were mine or yours.

Michael, I tell you this now, if I ever see you in such pain again, I don't know what I'll do. I felt as if I might go crazy. I think you may have fainted when she cleaned the wound in your back. I was glad that you did..

" I f he doesn't get an infection, he'll be fine." She was pleased with how her stitches looked. The bandages on we struggled to get your body onto the bed. I wanted to touch you, to kiss you, but I was afraid to wake you, Michael. Reluctantly, I followed Viviana to her kitchen, changed by the fire into her robe and slippers and watched while she made tea. I didn't think I could eat but I filled my empty stomach with hot potato soup, bread and butter and poppy seed cake.

She went to the fireplace mantle and came back with one of many photographs she'd displayed there.

" Look," she said with reverence, " My Misha."

It was a photo of a young man, stiff and unsmiling, his shoulders ramrod straight as if he carried the weight of the world. He had pale eyes and a determined chin. His mouth was meant for smiling, but it did not. It was not a perfect resemblance, but the man was like you in the way he looked out at the world, Michael. Like he had to be wary.

" He's very like your, Misha. Serious, I think. My husband is dead ten years now. I married him when I was twenty-eight. I was old for a bride, a spinster. Misha was a widower with a son. I was surprised he asked me. I was young and attractive in my way , but not pretty and he was the handsomest man in town. I was full of myself. I could speak English and I had a job as a nurse. I guess I looked confident. I think that's what Misha needed, not a pretty, young girl."

She went on, " He had only to smile at me and I was head-over- ankles."

" Heels."

" Thank you. Yes. Those too. I wasn't really happy at first. I didn't think he loved me. I read a lot of books. Romantic books and I liked movies with Cary Grant. I wanted flowers and pretty words. Misha had no pretty words left. He was too practical. He'd been in the war. He'd lost his wife. He had no need of those things. He was serious and shy. I was like a playful dog, needing attention." She took a sip of the tea she had served in a small glass. " I think all the time that he is remembering his first wife when he kisses me. I was hard for me. Hard for Misha."

I lowered my eyes as she spoke, tracing the embroidery on the tablecloth. " I loved my Misha the minute I saw him and I am always thinking stupid romantic things. I remember when I gave birth to our first child, twins actually. I was mad at him. He didn't bring flowers or candy like other husbands. I didn't want to speak to him much. I pretended to be asleep when he came to the hospital. Do you know what I find when I get home, Nikita?"

" Dishes in the sink?"

She laughed. " No. Well, maybe some, When I got home there was a surprise. He had spent out extra money for wood for another cradle. He's built it that week, at night when he was finished his other work. I was ashamed. I felt like a fool. But in the back of my head I'm still wondering. "

She pounded her fist on the table. " I asked him one day. Point-up."

" Point-blank."

" That too. I say to him. Do you love me, Misha? You never tell me. He looks at me and says, You never tell me. And he was right. I hadn't. I am in shock, thinking many thoughts. This man whose children I have bourne? This man whom I have fed good meals and washed his clothes. I clean his house. He doesn't know? I am thinking. Is he stupid? " She laughed. "We straightened it out in time. I was a silly girl with head in the clouds. I realise later that I only wanted present and flowers. I didn't need them. Maybe. I would have liked Misha to hold my hand when we walked down the street, but if someone had tried to hurt me, Misha would have laid down his life to keep me from harm. That is love, Nikita. He loved me with his practical soul and not a head full of poems." She smiled warmly again." It is time to get back to our patient. I chatter too much. I'm a lonely old woman."

We made our way back to the room where you were. she said she would watch you while I slept. I considered it, sleeping for hours in a feather bed while the storm raged against the window. You stirred then and moaned. I went and sat beside you, took your still bloodstained and chill-blaned hand in mine. Your long, strong fingers curled gently over mine. I thought about how you had given me your gloves, how you anticipate my needs, how you put others before you. How many times had you watched over me, asking nothing in return? I don't know many pretty words to say either, Michael, but at this moment I know in my heart what love is.

Soon section would find us and take us back. But for now, in this remote, snowy place Section didn't exist. I told Viviana that I would stay with you. For right now, right this minute, you were mine to protect. My Misha.

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