"See how well it's doing?"

I crawled back and retrieved my cane. "When I can do without this, I'll be better."

I didn't go the next few times I was meant to. They looked for me everywhere but couldn't find me. I was deep in the garden, up in the branches of my walnut tree. Only the teacher knew about my hiding place.

The final time the director herself brought me to the little room just after the midday meal. She shoved me inside and I fell onto the bed. I didn't stir. The old woman asked me questions.

"Do you remember your parents?"

I answered, "No, not at all. How about you?"

She kept on with her questions.

"What do you think about at night before falling asleep?"

"Sleeping. And you?"

She asked me: "You told some parents that their child had died. Why?"

'To make them happy."

"Why?"

"Because they're happier knowing that their child is dead and not a cripple."

"How do you know that?"

"I just know, that's all."

The old woman asked me again: "Do you do these things because your own parents never come to see you?"

I said to her, "What business is that of yours?"

She continued: "They never write to you. They don't send you packages. And so you avenge yourself on the other children."

I rose from the bed and said, "Yes, and on you too."

I hit her with my cane, then fell.

She screamed.

She kept screaming and I kept hitting her, right there from the floor where I had fallen. My blows struck only her legs and knees.

Nurses came in, drawn by the screams. They pinned me and brought me to a little room like the first one, only here there was no desk, no bookshelf, just a bed and nothing else. There were also bars on the windows and the door was locked from the outside.

I slept briefly.

When I awoke I pounded on the door, kicked the door, shouted. I cried out for my things, my homework, my books.

No one answered.

In the middle of the night the teacher came into my room and lay down beside me on the narrow bed. I buried my face in her hair and suddenly I was seized by a fit of trembling. It shook my whole body; hiccups came out of my mouth, my eyes filled with water, my nose ran. I sobbed helplessly.

There was less and less food at the center; the park had to be turned into a vegetable garden. Everyone who could worked under the gardener's direction. We planted potatoes, beans, carrots. I was sorry I was no longer confined to a wheelchair.

More and more often we also had to go down into the basement because of air raid warnings, which came almost every night. The nurses carried in their arms those who couldn't walk. Amid piles of potatoes and bags of coal I found the teacher, pressed myself against her, and told her not to be afraid.

When the bomb hit the center we were in class; there had been no warning. Bombs started falling everywhere around us. The other pupils hid under the tables but I stayed where I was; I had just been reciting a poem. The teacher threw herself over me, knocking me to the ground; I couldn't see anything, and she was suffocating me. I tried to push her off, but she grew heavier and heavier. A thick, warm, salty liquid flowed into my eyes, my mouth, down my throat, and I fell unconscious.

I woke up in a gymnasium. A nun was wiping my face with a damp cloth, and she was saying to someone, "This one isn't hurt, I think."

I began to throw up.

Everywhere in the gymnasium people were lying down on straw mattresses. Children and adults. Some were crying; others weren't moving, and it was hard to tell if they were alive or dead. I looked for the teacher among them but couldn't find her. The little blond paralytic wasn't there either.

The next day they interrogated me, asking me my name, who my parents were, my address, but I blocked my ears and didn't answer the questions, didn't say a word. Then they thought I was a deaf-mute and left me alone.

I was given a new cane, and one morning a nun took me by the hand. We went to the station, got onto a train, and came to another town. We crossed it by foot until we reached the very last house, right next to the forest. The sister left me there with an old peasant woman whom I later learned to call "Grandmother."

She called me "son of a bitch."

I am sitting on a bench at the station. I am waiting for my train. I am almost an hour early.

From here I can see the whole town, the town where I have lived for nearly forty years.

At one time, when I first came, it was a charming small town with a lake, forest, low old houses, and many parks. Now it is cut off from the lake by a highway, its forest has been decimated, its parks have disappeared, and tall buildings have made it ugly. Its narrow old streets are packed with cars, even on the sidewalks. The old bistros have been replaced by soulless restaurants and fast-food places where people eat quickly, sometimes even standing up.

I look at this town for the last time. I will never come back; I do not want to die here.

I didn't say good-bye or farewell to anyone. I don't have friends here, much less girlfriends. My many mistresses must be married, housewives, and no longer so young now. It has been a long time since I last recognized one on the street.

My best friend, Peter, who had been my tutor in my youth, died of a heart attack two years ago. His wife, Clara, who had been my first mistress, killed herself a long time before that; she couldn't face the prospect of old age.

I go leaving no one and nothing behind me. I have sold everything. It wasn't much. My furniture was worth nothing, my books even less. I got a little money for my old piano and my few paintings, but that's all.

The train arrives and I get in. I have only one suitcase. I am leaving here with little more than I came with. In this rich and free country I have made no fortune.

I have a tourist visa for my native land, a visa that expires in only one month but that can be renewed. I hope my money will last me for a few months, perhaps a year. I have also stocked up on medications.

Two hours later I arrive at a large metropolitan train station. More waiting, and then I take a night train on which I have reserved a berth-a low berth, since I know that I will not sleep and that I will often get up to smoke a cigarette.

For the time being I am alone.

Slowly the compartment fills. An old woman, two young girls, a man of about my age. I go out into the corridor to smoke and look at the night. At around two I go to bed, and I think I sleep a little.

Early in the morning we come to another large station. Three hours of waiting, which I spend at the canteen, drinking coffee.

This time the train I board is from my native country. There are very few travelers. The seats are uncomfortable, the windows dirty, the ashtrays full, the floor black and sticky, the toilets almost unusable. No restaurant car or even bar car. The travelers take out their lunches and eat, leaving greasy paper and empty bottles on the windowsills or throwing them to the floor under the seats.

Only two of the travelers speak the language of my country. I listen but say nothing.

I look out the window. The countryside changes. We leave the mountains and come onto a plain.

My pains start again.

I swallow my medications without water. I didn't think to bring a drink with me and I am repelled at the thought of asking for one from the other travelers.

I close my eyes. I know that we are approaching the border.

We're there. The train stops, and border guards, customs officials, and policemen come aboard. I am asked for my papers and they are given back to me with a smile. On the other hand, the two travelers who speak the language of the country are lengthily questioned and their bags are searched.