It wasn’t easy—he was determined to get what was his. But I knew to persist, knew to take his mounting threats as a sign of progress. I ignored him when he said I would never leave the country in my life and never find a job if I didn’t comply. I ignored him when he turned aggressive and called me a pervert and a sick fuck. To my own surprise, I was unable to accept the shame he wanted me to feel. It was too familiar to be imposed: I had produced it myself for such a long time that, right then, I found I had no space left for it anymore. Instead, I used the truth. I said that I’d been drugged the week before and that my mind was addled, the past like a blur. I don’t know whether he believed me. But finally, I can’t be sure why, he told me I had two days. Two days to come up with names. Before he released me, he put his hands on his desk and said, with a voice measured and sharp like a scalpel, that I would regret it for the rest of my life if I didn’t turn up. I nodded and walked out, feeling nothing. Outside, night had fallen. I breathed in the winter air. I knew where I had to go.

The tram rumbled across the bridge. The trees lining the banks of the river were naked, their leaves having fallen into the water, swept away by the current. The Madonna in the courtyard was covered with a layer of frost, the yellow gladiolas gone. Every step on the staircase was an effort. Every creaking one, I thought, would alert you to my presence. There were no children playing, no people outside—just me and the dark old wood of the house. I knocked on your door, my body a mere shell. My heart beating as if I’d climbed the Tatra range. I wasn’t even sure why I’d come.

You opened the door, and a ripple passed over your face. As if it didn’t know what to express. Right then it showed nothing but determined strength. You looked at me. I looked back, trying to gauge the moment, feeling out of control. You seemed so much taller then, standing above me, looking down.

I thought we would stand like this forever. I thought I was too proud to even begin to speak, that I would not beg for anything, that I had no reason to feel sorry. But looking at you softened me—despite your new hardness, or because of it. It hurt to see you like that, to have nothing pass between us. Then I saw something in your eyes, an opening.

“Aren’t you going to let me in?” I said.

You stepped away from the door, opening the way for me.