I remember the church in winter.
Not the one next to the market. The smaller one. The older one. The one where I met Daniel. The one where he left his sweater. I went there sometimes. When the other church was too full. When I wanted to sit in the dark. When I wanted to be where no one knew my name.
He was there. The new face. Sitting in the last pew. The same pew where Daniel used to sit. His head was down. His hands were in his lap. He was not praying. I could tell. He was just sitting. Like me.
He was young. Younger than me. His skin was dark. His hair was short. His coat was thin. Too thin for winter. His shoes were worn. The soles were cracked. He sat very still. His hands did not move. His head did not lift. He sat. The candles were low. The church was cold. He sat.
I remember the first time I saw him.
It was snowing. The windows were gray. The candles were burning low. I came in from the market. My hands were cold. My pockets were empty. The old woman was not there. Her stall was closed. I had no tomatoes. I sat in the pew. Not the one where Daniel sat. The one across the aisle. I sat. I did not pray. I sat.
He was there. In the last pew. His head was down. His hands were in his lap. He did not move. I watched him. He did not look up. The candles flickered. The snow fell. He sat. I sat. We sat. Neither of us spoke.
I do not know how long we sat. The candles burned lower. The light was dim. The church was quiet. Then he stood. He walked to the door. He opened it. The snow came in. He went out. The door closed. The snow melted on the floor. I sat. I did not move.
I remember the day he spoke.
It was the same church. The same pew. He was there. I was there. The candles were low. The snow was falling. He looked at me. His eyes were dark. Not brown. Not black. Something in between. Like the river at night.
"You come here," he said. His voice was low. The words were slow. English. Not good English. But English.
I nodded.
"You come here many times," he said. "I see you. You sit. You do not pray. You sit."
I nodded again.
He looked at his hands. They were thin. The fingers were long. The nails were clean. He looked at the candles. The altar. The cross. The figure on the cross. Thin. Wounded.
"I come here," he said. "I sit. I do not pray. I sit. I remember."
He looked at me. His eyes were dark.
"You remember too," he said. Not a question.
I did not answer.
I remember the day he asked for help.
He came to me after the church. Outside. The snow had stopped. The street was white. He was standing by the door. His coat was thin. His hands were in his pockets. He was shivering. Not from cold. From something else.
"You speak English," he said. "You speak good English."
I did not know how he knew. I did not know he had been listening. I did not know he had been watching.
"I need help," he said. "I need to send a letter. To Sweden. My brother. He is there. He came last year. He says there is work. He says there is a place to live. He says I can come."
He took a piece of paper from his pocket. Folded. Old. The edges were soft. He opened it. There was writing on it. A name. An address. Sweden. The letters were strange. Not English. Not Polish. Something else.
"I cannot write," he said. "I cannot read. I cannot speak. I have no one. You speak English. You can write. You can help."
He put the paper in my hand. His hand was cold. The paper was cold. I looked at the address. The name. I did not know the language. But I could write the letters. I could copy them.
"I will help," I said.
I remember the letter.
We sat in the church. The candles were low. He had paper. I had a pen. He spoke. I wrote. His words were slow. His English was not good. But I understood.
"My name is Tsegaye," he said. "I am from Ethiopia. A small place. In the mountains. My brother's name is Dawit. He went to Sweden last year. He said there is work. He said there is a place to live. He said I can come."
He stopped. He looked at his hands. The thin fingers. The clean nails. He looked at the candles. The altar. The cross.
"I am here," he said. "In Poland. I have no papers. I have no work. I have no money. I sleep in a place. A basement. With other men. From other places. We do not speak the same language. We do not speak. We sleep."
He looked at me. His eyes were dark. Like the river at night.
"I want to go to Sweden," he said. "I want to work. I want to send money. To my mother. She is in Ethiopia. She is old. She is alone. My father is dead. My brother is in Sweden. I am here. My mother is there. She waits."
He was quiet for a long time. The candles flickered. The church was cold. I waited.
"Write," he said. "Tell my brother. I am in Poland. I am alive. I am waiting. I will come. Tell him I will come."
I wrote the words. In English. The address was in Swedish. I copied it. Carefully. The letters were strange. But I copied them. I folded the paper. I put it in an envelope. I gave it to him.
He held it. His hands were shaking. He put it in his pocket. Close to him. Close to his chest.
"Thank you," he said. His voice was low. Cracked. Like he had not used it for a long time. "Thank you."
I remember the photograph.
He showed it to me one day. After the church. Outside. The sun was out. Pale. Weak. But it was out. He took it from his pocket. The same pocket. Where the letter was. The photograph was small. The edges were soft. The colors were fading. There were people in it. A woman. A man. Two boys. The woman was sitting. The man was standing behind her. His hand was on her shoulder. The boys were in front. One was taller. One was smaller.
"This is my mother," he said. He pointed to the woman. "This is my father. He is dead. This is my brother. Dawit. He is in Sweden. This is me."
He pointed to the smaller boy. The boy was not smiling. The boy was looking at the camera. His eyes were dark. Like the river at night. Like his eyes now.
"This was before," he said. "Before my father died. Before my brother left. Before I came here. Before."
He put the photograph back in his pocket. Close to him. Close to his heart.
"I have nothing else," he said. "No papers. No money. No place. Only this. This photograph. This letter. This memory."
He looked at the sky. The sun was behind the clouds. The light was gray. The snow was melting. Water dripped from the roofs.
"I will go to Sweden," he said. "I will see my brother. I will work. I will send money to my mother. I will go back to Ethiopia. One day. I will see her. I will see the mountains. I will see the place where I was born. I will go back."
He said it like a promise. A promise he had made a long time ago. A promise he was still keeping.
I remember the day he left.
I came to the church. He was not there. The pew was empty. I sat in his place. The wood was cold. The candles were low. I waited. He did not come.
I went back the next day. He was not there. The day after. Not there. A week. Two weeks. He did not come.
I asked the woman who cleaned the church. The old woman. The one with the gray hair. The one with the red hands. She was mopping the floor. The water was gray. The tiles were gray.
"The Ethiopian man," I said. "He came here. He sat in that pew. Do you know where he is?"
She looked at me. Her eyes were gray. Like the floor. Like the tiles. Like the water in the bucket.
"He left," she said. "Went to Sweden. A week ago. He came to the church. He said goodbye. He said he would not come back."
She went back to mopping. The water was gray. The tiles were gray. I stood in the church. The candles were low. The air was cold. I thought about Tsegaye. His dark eyes. His thin coat. His worn shoes. The letter I wrote. The photograph in his pocket. His mother. His father. His brother in Sweden. The mountains in Ethiopia. The promise he made. "I will go back."
I do not know if he went back. I do not know if he saw his brother. I do not know if he saw his mother. I do not know if he saw the mountains. I do not know. But I remember. I remember his name. Tsegaye. I remember the way he said it. The way he said "Thank you." The way he held the photograph. His thin fingers. The soft edges. The fading colors. I remember the words I wrote. "I am in Poland. I am alive. I am waiting. I will come." I do not know if he came. I do not know if he is in Sweden. I do not know if he is alive. I do not know. But I remember.
I remember the church.
The small one. The old one. The one where I met Daniel. The one where he left his sweater. The one where Tsegaye sat in the last pew. The one where he showed me the photograph. The one where he said goodbye. I went there sometimes. When the other church was too full. When I wanted to sit in the dark. When I wanted to be where no one knew my name.
I do not go there now. I am in another city. Another country. Another language. But I remember. I remember the pew. The candles. The cold. The faces. Daniel. Tsegaye. The ones who came. The ones who left. The ones who stayed. The ones who did not come back. I remember their names. I remember their stories. I remember the words I wrote. The letters I sent. The promises they made. I do not know if they kept them. I do not know if they are alive. I do not know. But I remember. That is all I can do. I remember.