"It's obvious. He worked around the house like someone who had always been here."
The white-haired man turns to me. "Are you related to Mrs. V., née Maria Z.?"
I say, "She was my grandmother."
He asks me, "Do you have documents proving the relationship?"
I say, "No, I don't have any papers. All I have are the sheets I buy at the bookseller's."
He says, "This is the situation. Take this down!"
The younger civilian writes: "Mrs. V., née Maria Z., is deceased without heirs, and so all her possessions, house, and lands will become state property belonging communally to the town of Z., which will make use of them as it deems fit."
The men stand up and I ask them, "What should I do?"
They look at one another. The uniformed man says, "You must leave."
"Why?"
"Because this place doesn't belong to you."
I ask, "When do I have to leave?"
"I don't know."
He looks at the white-haired man in civilian clothes, who says, "We'll inform you soon enough. How old are you?"
"Fifteen, nearly. I can't leave before the tomatoes ripen."
He says, "Of course, the tomatoes. You're only fifteen? Well, then, there's no problem."
I ask, "Where should I go?"
He is silent for a moment and looks at the man in uniform; the man in uniform looks back at him. The civilian lowers his eyes. "Don't worry. You'll be taken care of. Above all, don't be scared."
The three men go outside. I follow them, walking on the grass to make no noise.
The border guard says, "Can't you leave him alone? He's a good little fellow and he works hard."
The man in civilian dress says, "That's beside the point. The law is clear. The property of Mrs. V. belongs to the commune. Your little fellow has been living on it illegally for almost two years."
"And who's been harmed by it?"
"No one. But come on-why are you defending that little good-for-nothing?"
"For three years I've watched him tending his garden and his animals. He's not a good-for-nothing, in any case no more than you are."
"You dare call me a good-for-nothing?"
"I didn't say that. All I said is that he's no more of one than you are. And anyway I don't give a damn. Not about you, not about him. In three weeks I'll be out of the service and tending my own garden. You, sir, will have a soul on your conscience if you turn that child out into the street. Good night, and sleep well."
The civilian says, "We won't be turning him out. We'll take care of him."
They leave. Several days later they come back. The same man with the white hair and the young man; they have brought a woman with them. She is older and wears eyeglasses; she looks like the director at the center.
She says to me, "Listen to me carefully. We don't want to hurt you; we want to take care of you. You're coming with us to a nice house where there are children like you."
I say to her, 'I'm not a child anymore. I don't want to be taken care of. And I don't want to go to a hospital either."
She says, "It isn't a hospital. You'll be able to study there."
We're in the kitchen. The woman speaks but I don't listen. The white-haired man speaks too. I don't listen to him either.
Only the young man who writes everything down doesn't speak; he doesn't even look at me.
As she leaves, the woman says, "Don't worry. We're on your side. Everything will be better soon. We won't abandon you; we're going to take care of you. We're going to rescue you."
The man adds, "You can stay here for the summer. The demolition will begin at the end of August."
I'm scared, scared of going to a house where I will be taken care of, where I will be rescued. I must leave here. I ask myself where I could go.
I buy a map of the country and one of the capital. Every day I go to the station and consult the schedule. I ask how much tickets are to this or that town. I only have a very little bit of money and don't want to use what Grandmother left me. She had warned me: "No one must know that you have all this. You'll be questioned, locked up, and everything will be taken from you. And never tell the truth. Pretend you don't understand the questions. If people take you for an idiot, so much the better."
Grandmother's legacy is buried under the bench in front of the house, a canvas bag that contains jewels, gold pieces, and money. If I tried to sell it all, I would be accused of having stolen it.
It was at the station that I met the man who wanted to cross the border.
It is night. The man is there, in front of the station, his hands in his pockets. The other travelers are already gone. Station Square is deserted.
The man signals me to come closer and I walk toward him. He has no luggage.
I say, "Usually I carry travelers' bags. But I see that you don't have any."
He says, "No, I don't."
I say, "If I could be of some other service. I can see that you're a stranger in town."
"And how can you tell I'm a stranger?"
I say, "No one in town wears clothes like yours. And everyone in our town has the same face. A face that's recognized and familiar. You can tell who people from our town are even if you don't know them personally. When a stranger comes he's immediately spotted."
The man looks around us. "Do you think I've been spotted already?"
"Absolutely. But if your papers are in order it won't matter much. You'll present them at the police station tomorrow morning, and you can stay as long as you like. There's no hotel, but I can show you to houses where they rent out rooms."
The man says, "Follow me."
He sets off toward town, but instead of taking the main road he veers off to the right, onto a small dusty road, and sits down between two bushes. I sit down beside him and ask, "Are you trying to hide? Why?"
He asks me, "Do you know the town well?"
"Yes, perfectly."
"The border?"
"That too."
"Your parents?"
"I don't have any."
"They're dead?"
"I don't know."
"Whose house do you live at?"
"Mine. It's Grandmother's house. She's dead."
"With anyone else?"
"Alone."
"Where's your house?"
"At the other end of town. Near the border."
"Could you put me up for one night? I have a lot of money."
"Yes, I can put you up."
"Do you know a way we can get to your house without being seen?"
"Yes."
"Let's go. I'll follow you."
We walk in the fields behind the houses. Sometimes we have to clamber over fences and gates and cross gardens and private yards. Night has fallen, and the man behind me makes no noise.
When we reach Grandmother's house I congratulate him: "Even at your age you had no trouble following me."
He laughs. "At my age? I'm only forty, and I fought in the war. I learned how to get through towns without making noise."
After some time he adds, "You're right. I'm old now. My youth was swallowed up by the war. Do you have anything to drink?"
I set some brandy on the table and say, "You want to cross the border, don't you?"
He laughs again. "How did you guess? Do you have anything to eat?"
I say, "I can make you a mushroom omelet. I also have goat's cheese."
He drinks while I make dinner.
We eat. I ask him, "How did you make it into the frontier zone? You need a special permit to come to our town."
He says, "I have a sister who lives here. I asked permission to visit her and it was granted."
"But you're not going to see her."
"No. I don't want to make trouble for her. Here, burn all this in your stove."