Actually, he is an Albanian, is no less than fourteen, and has lost all his family. He plays slowly and cautiously with the Rom children. Around this world of children, high fences prevent the suffering from pouring out and contaminating the world of tomatoes. Nobody knows who is running the camp, which seems to lead a life of its own. Food appears mysteriously, we come across helpful and courteous policemen and unpleasant red cross people, liars out of desperation.
Nobody knows what is to happen to the inmates, and some manage to escape across the tomato fields.
A week goes by. We come back and this time I decide to hitchhike so as not to wear Reska out. Two Albanians with faces of ancient ferocity give us a ride, on a dirty car. They ask Reska where she comes from, she answers, from Kosovo, so they speak Albanian to her. But her dialect is different, she starts to stammer, and I can feel all the stress until they leave us in front of the camp.