I walked with a group of about fifty children, ages 2-16, through the cobbled village streets of Săvârșin on a summer evening in 1992.  We were on our way to the soccer field/cow pasture, to play with the summer camp orphans. It was just after dinner.  Tea, dry bread, and an oily “beef” soup (where was the beef?), had not satisfied my hunger, and I hungrily eyed the chickens placidly pecking about in the tidy garden off the side of the path.  There must be eggs somewhere in this village, I thought.  There sure weren’t any in the camp dining room, nor on the empty shelves of the market.   I accepted and ate a sour crabapple, picked off a nearby tree, from six-year-old Nadia.