Because I don’t speak. You’re sitting there, and when the train lurches you seem to bend forward to hear. But I don’t speak. If I could find them I could ask for the other half of the money I was going to get when I’d done it, but they’re gone. I don’t know where to look. I don’t think they’re here, anymore, they’re in some other country, they move all the time and that’s how they find men like me. We leave home because of governments overthrown, a conscript on the wrong side; no work, no bread or oil in the shops, and when we cross a border we’re put over another border, and another. What is your final destination? We don’t know; we don’t know where we can stay, where we won’t be sent on somewhere else, from one tent camp to another in a country where you can’t get papers. I don’t ever speak. They find us there, in one of these places—they found me and they saved me, they can do anything, they got me in here with papers and a name they gave me; I buried my name, no-one will ever dig it out of me.
