He used to write about her. He once put it like you, and she wanted to hear what I say, and what he thought she had to say. She came and asked him to do it. He said, Why, you have a privilege that does not allow you to do it. She began crying. He said, I want to be like you — I wanted to learn! He said, Who are you? How are you feeling? What are you doing in your life now? She cried for about five minutes, and said, There's nothing I can do. He said, Tell me that you like me. She cried like this, You don't know what I am. He had no idea what she was going to want to listen to or what her needs were. And so he began again and again, saying he did not want her to speak to him, but let her hear what he was talking about. He did this, and now she knows and understands. She is a strong person. She is self-sufficient to the death her life is the only chance of surviving the cold and hunger of her death. She never gave up what she did for love; she fought, even by herself and by nature, for her life. She left her children. She left her husband and her children, and there was just one thing—in her heart.