by Zary Fekete.
How old was she? Some thought late 60s. Others said more than 75. She lived on the old street since the war ended. Her row house was not among the few with two stories that were on the street corners. It was a simple house, a single story with two largish rooms off the small hallway leading to a makeshift kitchen at the rear. The back door opened onto a narrow plot of land, typical of the other row houses making up the majority of those small streets in the southern half of the 11th district.
She was from the countryside, a small town. She studied to be a school teacher, but, after the war, there was more need for secretaries than teachers. She bundled together what she had and came to the capital, finding a job as an office worker for a government branch. It was this that led her to the row house. No one had any money. None could afford housing. The house was one of many scattered throughout the capital, all owned by the government company. The company leadership used the small houses and apartments for employee housing, and she lived there rent-free thanks to her deftness with numbers which became more and more important to the company’s bottom line. It was through a simple twist of fate that the row house eventually ended up in her name. Her manager retired in the late 1970s and, as a gesture of thanks for her many years of tireless work, he quietly had the deed written into her name.
The years of the 1980s came and went and she toiled away, never drawing too much attention, always checking in on time and staying until the bell rang. The years went by but the wages stayed the same. Many couldn’t make ends meet and left the big city to live with family in the smaller towns. She tended to her small house, painting the inner walls a common shade of light grey and building up a fresh garden in the back. It was the small back yard that kept her going through those thin years. She used some of her pay on meat and for the few scant utility bills. Everything else she needed came from the thin plot of land: bright vegetables, sturdy root fare and potatoes, and the occasional plucked flower to garnish her bare table where she took her nightly meal.
The 1980s gave way to the worldwide political affairs of the 1990s. The government changed and the country turned toward capitalism. Her government office was closed down, but, by then, she was a retiree, and drew a tiny pension from her years of quiet work. The money was enough for the bills…just a few coins for electricity since she had never switched over to city-heat and still used wood. She cut back on the meat and made her garden do what else she needed, occasionally agreeing to invitations from the neighbors to dine with them, bringing home a few leftovers when they offered.
Today is moving day. She’s headed back to the countryside, her life now a full circle. Last month a government politician came through the neighborhood, rapping on the doors and explaining international conglomerate needs for property in that part of the city. The land must be had, and good prices would be paid. When the knock came at her door she had already decided to return to the country, so she agreed at once to the price offered. When her neighbors heard what she was paid they protested that she might have held out for more. But she knew little of bartering and haggling for land. In fact, it wasn’t until she arrived back at the small town of her birth and trundled down the street on her first morning back home to the local post office, that she finally received the official paperwork for the deed of sale. They paid her 750,000 euros for the small house. And for the love of God, she didn’t know what she would do with so much.