The man who went

So he had left it on the garden table, had gone for another cup of coffee and coming out in the garden again, he had looked at it again as if it spoke to him "open me now - there is no way of getting away from it". But the man had drunk his coffee, had listened to the birds and made himself think of something else. He had to mend that fence towards the little lake, so that the wild rabbits wouldn’t run in there. He had to check the roof of the old garage and he had to paint the mailbox… The letter. There really was no running away from it - he would have to open it. So reluctantly he had made his way back to the garden table and sat down. The letter had contained a single sheet of white paper. There had been nothing written on it. The man had looked at it - not believing. He had searched the envelope again and again. But there had been nothing else! How can that be? Where is the message? There has to be a message! He had started to get angry. What kind of joke was this? Who was doing this to him? And then the question, what should he do? Why did he have such a strange feeling? Should he tell someone? But whom? Then suddenly he had stood up, looked at the envelope again, recognizing the writing and realizing the warning. The chair had fell to the ground and he had thrown the sheet away as if it had burned his fingers. They were coming back for him. He had to escape; he would have to go - never to come back.

His life had not always been quiet and peaceful in the country house. He had had visits on and off from town. After the war they hadn’t left him alone. He had just wanted to go back to the secluded family place, finding himself again. Going about his daily chores, without the everchanging fear that would haunt him day and night. He had never been allowed to show it back then. He had been just as afraid as all the others, but it had been his duty to be strong. To keep the faith. And then when he finally thought he had gotten away, had found what he was looking for, they had come for him. They had said there were still things to be done, things that only he could do. He had tried to get away from them, not answering the phone, not showing himself, when he saw them coming up the road in the big black car. But they hadn’t let themselves be fooled. They had waited in the garden, seeming to need neither sleep nor food. And finally he had submitted himself to them. Asked them what they wanted him to do and agreed with it. Letting them promise it wouldn’t happen again. But it had. Over and over again. His contact had been a friend of his from the war. They had chosen him, because they knew the man wouldn’t let a friend down. The two friends had met in an odd bookshop, off the main road, with almost no customers. It had been run down, almost no books to sell and an ugly smell about it, like as if no one had been there for ages. His friend had taken over the shop and given it a personal look, being paid by them.