The Necessary Beggar by Susan Palwick

woman, an immigration lawyer, who explained patiently that to remain in the United States without papers, the family would need to fulfill certain conditions. If they were not already sponsored by relatives, or by an employer, or by a church, they could request asylum in the United States. But that was a complicated legal process, which would involve proving that they had left their own country out of justified fear of persecution based on race, religion, political views, social affiliation, or nationality.
    â€œAnd who,” Timbor asked, “decides if the fear is justified?”
    â€œWe do,” the lawyer said gently. “The court does, based on its knowledge of the region from which you came.”
    Zamatryna saw her grandfather squeeze his eyes shut in pain. “The court will have no knowledge of the region from which we came. To you, it never existed. To us, it no longer exists.”
    The lawyer shook her head. “I don’t understand. Your village has been destroyed? But we keep track of such destruction; if you’re from a war-torn region, there will be records—”
    â€œNo,” Timbor said bleakly, “there are no records. Just as we have no papers.”
    The lawyer sighed. “Mr. Timbor, you’re here. You must have come from somewhere.”
    â€œYes. But it is not a somewhere about which Americans have records.”
    â€œAsk her,” came a strange voice from the back of the tent, “ask her what will happen to the family if we cannot justify ourselves.”
    Zamatryna turned. It was Darroti who had spoken, Darroti who always hid in shadows now, who had said nothing in weeks. His voice sounded like wind blown through a hollow reed. “Ask her, Zamatryna. If we cannot justify ourselves and we cannot go home, what will happen to us?”
    Zamatryna asked. The lawyer frowned and said, “If your request for asylum were denied, you would be deported.”
    â€œAnd if we cannot be deported, because our home no longer exists, because there is no way for us to get back there? Ask her, Zamatryna.”
    Zamatryna asked. The lawyer shook her head, and said, “If that were really true, I suppose you would have to stay in the camp indefinitely. But it can’t be true. You came from somewhere, and you can go back, even if you don’t want to. I understand that you don’t want to. We’ll do whatever we can to help you, but to do that, we need to know where you came from.”

    â€œTell her,” Darroti said, “that we do want to go home and cannot,” but Timbor frowned and made the slashing X for silence. Mim-Bim echoed it in Zamatryna’s pocket. This was what the Americans must not be allowed to learn.
    No one spoke for a few moments after the lawyer left, and then the adults began talking all at once in low, guarded voices, even though they were speaking their own language, which no one else understood.
    â€œSo we are stuck here,” Erolorit said. “In limbo. We cannot go back home and we cannot leave the camp.”
    â€œIt is my fault,” Darroti said.
    â€œWe could invent a history,” Harani said. “Zamatryna and the cousins have heard enough stories by now of where other people are from. We can tell a story.”
    â€œBut we do not speak the languages of those countries,” Macsofo said. “We do not know the names of their cities. The deception would be discovered.”
    â€œIt is my fault,” Darroti said. “I am the reason you are all in limbo.”
    â€œDarroti,” Timbor said, “do not speak nonsense. Our home, of which these people have never heard, is the reason we are all in limbo.”
    â€œIf I were not here, you could tell the truth and you could leave the camp. You could say you were being persecuted because of me. I am the criminal. I am the reason you could not stay in Léma—”
    â€œNo,” Aliniana said. “Darroti, did you listen