knew that she would not react the way they wanted.
She didn’t pretend not to hear everything.
When
someone crossed the border, she documented.
When someone followed the rules, she was not looking for a reason to provoke him.
When a conflict arose, he did not choose the “strong”, but the right.
That didn’t make her a favorite.
It wasn’t necessary.
One morning a young prisoner named Martin came to her.
He was twenty-three, thin, with cropped hair and constantly strained eyes. He was serving a sentence for theft.
“Mrs. Doneva?” He asked quietly.
“Yes?”
“Can you—” Can you help me with a letter?
She looked at him.
“You can write.”
“I can.” But I don’t know what to say.
Ralitsa led him to the office desk in the common room. She handed him a piece of paper and a pen.
“Who f?”
“On my sister.”
“What do
