The oranges of Krakow

For every kilo of oranges I pick, I get paid about twenty cents. Fortunately, the soil is fertile, making the oranges quite large and juicy; with every seven or nine of them, I've already secured a solid dollar. Not all of us earn the same here; other mothers come from different farms with pains and barely manage to get half of our wages. Sometimes I wish we were more supportive, but in need, the strongest survive.

"I take advantage of every season, whether it's grapes, strawberries, or olives. With about four months of work here, I can pay for my children's university. Hopefully, those scoundrels graduate, the worst part is that they take advantage of the fact that I'm away to indulge in revelry and partying," Juliana, the most experienced among us, would say. She's the one who heals our wounds, gives us courage on nights when despair won't let us sleep, or gives us ideas for investing our money. She does everything when we return to our country: she sells pots, has a hair salon, buys used clothes, candies, toys – she sees a profit in any activity.

I don't understand when my life has been reduced to this, to picking fruits. I'm a small worn-out cog in a production chain that I don't even understand. I have no idea where the heck these oranges will end up, maybe in the breakfast juice of some child, maybe they'll rot in a supermarket, perhaps they'll be sliced and part of the cocktail of some diplomat or some fool. Right now, I'm only sure of these juicy dollars; with half, I'll pay for my old man's operation, and with the other half, I'll go on a trip. I don't want to invest or work more; life shouldn't be a martyrdom. When death comes to me, I want to smile at it, show it the middle finger, and tell it that I was happy. In two weeks, I'll go to a nice hotel, one of those with a pool and a continental breakfast.

Of course, I won't even touch the orange juice.