That evening I left the others behind and went for a walk. The evening was mild. I crossed the fence, went past the beetroot fields, until I reached a small river. Red and yellow poppies grew by its bank, and tall grasses moved in the breeze. The murmur of the water calmed me, weaving itself into my subconscious. I kept walking. On the other bank, a hare ran across a field, stopping at the sight of me, ears propped up like furry ferns, tiny nose flickering up and down. There we stood, the two of us, motionless, taking each other in. Finally, he turned his head and hopped off.

It did me good, that walk. It reminded me of the aimless ones I would take in Wrocław, when I could no longer stand being in the same space as Granny or at school. There was nowhere I could be without being with others, having to interact or to act. Even on my walks around the block, neighbors greeted and appraised. There were times when I’d get on the tram and ride across the city. I would get off at the last stop, in a neighborhood where no one knew me, and I’d wander, not thinking, looking at the unknown streets and houses and people and feeling free and anonymous. Like an unwritten piece of paper. I’d forgotten the pleasure of this, and then and there, by the river, with the fields stretching out before me and the camp far behind me, something of that freedom returned. The water was clear, and at the bottom I could see the bed of pebbles and light-brown mud and small fish swimming to and fro.

I continued on, not thinking about where I was going until I stopped, not quite knowing why. There was something large moving in the water. Someone was swimming. The back of a head—black wet hair glued to it—moved away from me, and I stood and watched, seeing without being seen. Broad shoulders and fine back muscles moved in a quick, confident crawl, head underwater, coming up for air every couple of strokes. Before I knew it, the figure had turned around and started to swim in my direction. It got closer and closer with each move. The sun was behind me, and I threw a long shadow onto the water. As soon as the figure swam through this dark stretch, it stopped and raised its head.

You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand and stood up in the water, which was only waist-deep.

“Hello,” you said, sounding like you didn’t know who I was. Streams of water trickled down your torso. Your body was slim and strong, your chest and stomach drawn with lines and divisions, their own rules of gravity.

“Hello,” I said, torn between wanting to run and watching you.

You squinted and held your palm flat over your brow against the sun behind me. “You’re from our group, no?”

I nodded.