<div style="text-indent:1em;">Most of the pandemonium was shrouded by a heavy fog in her mind. The entire ordeal lasted about six minutes, from the sounds of the rifles to when she mercifully lost consciousness in the carriage. It seemed to last for weeks.</div><br/><div style="text-indent:1em;">Three separate events of that morning, however, were etched into her mind in vivid detail. The first was helplessly watching her father trampled to death, right on top of her. The second was the face. The face that was filled with compassion and concern. The face that probably saved her life, according to the doctors. The swift medical attention the face demanded got her to the hospital shortly before bleeding to death.</div><br/><div style="text-indent:1em;">The third thing she would never forget is the voice. <span style="color: #40BFFF">â€œIt is up to you to surviveâ€¦stay strong, and the doctors shall do their work. Remember my name, miss, for it is Vasiliev.â€</span>  It echoed in her head all through the traumatic ordeal. â€œ<span style="color: #40BFFF">It is up to you to surviveâ€¦.up to you to survive...up to you...â€</span></div><br/><div style="text-indent:1em;"><span style="color: #40BFFF">â€œRemember my name, miss, for it is Vasiliev.â€</span> , the voice said. She would indeed remember. But the world was full of men named Vasiliev.  Vera spent several weeks in the hospital, hoping and praying that her mystery Samaritan would return, so she could at least thank him for his generous efforts. Her hopes were dashed. She would probably never see the man again.</div><br/><div style="text-indent:1em;">Now, 12 years later, Vera still played a significant roll in the fight against tyranny. The senseless slaughter of that fateful day served to embolden her efforts one hundred fold. She would make her Papa proud. His death would not be in vain. She embarked on a career as a school teacher, and led as normal of a life as a radical possibly could.</div><br/><div style="text-indent:1em;">Mid morning, Vera was extremely annoyed by the sudden interruption of her class. A soldier barged into her classroom, rifle and all. â€œSo this was itâ€, she thought. â€œThey have caught up with me.â€. Her first instinct was to protect the children in her charge, at any cost. That would require cooperation on her part with the soldiers. There were undoubtedly more waiting outside, foaming at the mouth waiting for a reason to slaughter every man woman and child in the school.</div><br/><div style="text-indent:1em;">Her cold eyes glared at the soldier, as he closed the door behind him and began to speak. He began to introduce himself, and stopped mid~sentence. His eyes went wide. Not the typical icy eyes of a soldier.  These eyes were those of surprise. Then he stepped back a bit. Vera was puzzled. â€œYes, comrade, what is it you want?â€ she asked, hoping her voice didn't sound too cold. The last thing she needed was a confrontation involving her young students.</div><br/><div style="text-indent:1em;">As the soldier stood gathering his thoughts, it registered in Vera's head what the soldier just said. <span style="color: #40BFFF">"Miss Vera Pavlova? I am Vasiliev Tereshchenko, I would like to..."</span></div><br/><div style="text-indent:1em;">Vasiliev? The face! The voice! The name! How Could it be? This man was a soldier! Surely this was not the Samaritan who saved her life twelve years ago. How could this be? Holding the blackboard eraser in her hand, she raised an eyebrow and asked again. â€œComrade?â€</div>