Then the wrinkled face of the man who was staring at her broke into a broad, gap-toothed smile, and said, “Harmon? Elisabeta Harmon?” and, surprised, she said, “Da.” Before she could react further, he stood up and threw his arms around her and hugged her and laughed, repeating, “Harmon! Harmon!” over and over. And then there was a crowd of old men in gray clothes around her smiling and eagerly holding out their hands for her to shake, eight or ten of them talking to her at once, in Russian.
