Rosa Kovsaleska refused to leave. On that point she was completely clear. She had said it every way that she now how--in writing, verbally, even a sign on the door of her apartment. She said it over and over and she meant it. She was not going to leave. The apartment had been her home since she and her husband Saul moved in right after the war. They had married and moved in their five pieces of used furniture: a bed with a saggy mattress which they sat directly on the floor for want of a frame; a small, scratched dining table bought second hand, with two chairs, which they placed under the light that dangled precariously from the ceiling; and a small sofa that Saul's friend had offered them and which smelled of stale cigarettes. They had been good tenants, never once missing a payment. They never complained when the rent went up, even when it strained their budget. It was still cheaper, Saul reasoned, than trying to find another place to live in the cramped city.


From those humble beginnings, Saul and Rosa built a life. They had raised a son in that little apartment. They had painted the walls and decorated them with pictures of their small happy family, carefully framed and hung at eye level, a constant reminder of the things that mattered in their sheltered life. Her life was encased within those walls. The apartment engulfed her like a womb. It protected her from the outside world, the dangerous world beyond the maze-like halls of the building. Out there was death, sorrow, temptation.

The walls were covered with photographs, most taken by Saul, some by neighbors, and a few taken by Rosa. In some rooms, so many photos were hung that the frames scraped and bumped each other. In others, they kissed each other side by side, carefully hung in a mosaic of memories. Every day, Rosa walked by, vividly remembering the moment of each photograph. One of her favorites, a family portrait taken by a neighbor, hung prominently in the main room. The couple stood next to each other, angled slightly inward, with their son, who was six when the photo was taken, exactly in the middle between them. Saul and their son wore suits and ties, and Rosa wore a yellow dress, suitable for a spring day that she never enjoyed.


They were friends with the landlord many years ago. Their sons played together, bowling over paper cups in the long halls of the tenement, racing through the maze of hallways, catching mice that also called the old building home. At Halloween, the two boys would go door to door in the building, begging for treats from the neighbors. Rosa hung a picture, taken with their Rolleiflex camera, of the two friends poorly dressed as ghosts, standing in the hall in front of apartment 2D, each holding a chocolate bar. The picture, black and white and a little blurry, occupied the spot right in the middle of the hall, where it could be seen from the kitchen and the living area. It was a happy memory, joy amid poverty. They did not need much to be happy. They had each other.


When their son left home, the couple, now gray and somewhat slower, forced themselves to be happy in the little space they called home. They painted the walls in a cheery pastel blue, carefully rehanging the pictures they had collected over the years. They continued to pay rent, and the small apartment continued to be their refuge from the world. Rosa and Saul, content, agreed that they would never move from their little oasis. Who knew what the world was like outside, and who wanted to find out? All that they needed was contained within the freshly painted pastel walls of their modest home.


When Saul died, Rosa found herself alone. Her little apartment was empty. Only the pictures kept her company, ghosts of her past. Sometimes, Rosa would catch herself talking to the pictures. Sometimes, she imagined they talked back. They were talismans against the insanity of the outside world, holding up the walls that kept the world away.


Her son stayed only for the funeral, then resumed his own life in his own world. The outside world allows little time for consolation. Before he left, her son suggested politely that Rosa should move out west with him. She declined bitterly. “This is my home,” she said. “This has always been my home and it always will be.”


The landlords, too, had died, leaving the building with their son. Having grown up in the dusty halls among the cracked paint and fraying carpet, he saw only an insular world that belonged to the old and the poor. The elevators were a constant nuisance to keep repaired. The foundation was sagging. The plumbing needed overhauled. The roof leaked. Pigeons nested in the eaves. Southern Florida looked increasingly attractive, so he decided to sell.


The would-be buyers decided to raze the structure, and everyone was ordered to leave. Notices were mailed with enough time given for everyone to make arrangements. Leases were bought out. Moving trucks were summoned. The younger couples were the first to leave. Clutching their babies, they shuffled like zombies into the streets or packed into dilapidated automobiles laden with furniture and other possessions. Many of them had not found anywhere else to go, and they were swallowed by the world.


The older tenants, more insular, took longer. Many planned to move in with their children. It would save on rent and make visits with grandchildren more frequent. Rosa's son once again made the offer. Once again, she rebuffed. “This is my home,” Rosa repeated, “and I am not leaving. Ever.” The old who did not have children to go to found beds in the many facilities that punctuated the city. The beds were clean, and the food was bland. There, they waited to die.


Eventually, all the tenants were cleared--all except for Rosa Kovsaleska. She had sent back the first eviction notice with an enclosed response that went unread. The second notice she sent back unopened. The third notice she burned in a large glass bowl that sat on her coffee table overseen by the family portrait. The landlord, patient at first, came to visit. He was kind, and sympathetic. In many ways, Rosa was just as much a mother to him as his own parents. Even though he had not spoken to her in years and though their son was no longer among those he called a friend, out of respect for the past, he tread lightly. He tried to explain. He tried to implore. He tried to reason. Rosa Kovaleska hit him on the head with a soup bone. “I will never leave my home!' she screamed.


With the would-be buyers threatening to withdraw their offer, the landlord left the matter to the courts. The first summons Rosa returned with an enclosed response, written in a shaky hand that betrayed her age. The second summons she returned unopened. The third summons, she left on the scratched kitchen table.


His patience waning, the landlord arrived with the Sheriff, eviction notice in hand. He rapped gently on the door. There was no answer. He knocked a little louder. He heard a rustling behind the door.


“She is definitely in there,” he said to the Sheriff.


“Not for much longer,” the Sheriff replied.


“Mrs. Kovaleska,” the young landlord called through the door, “It's Dave. Can you open up?”


“I am not leaving,” said a voice from the other side.


“I just want to talk. I know this is hard, and I am sorry about this, but--”


“This is my home,” the old voice hissed. “I am never leaving.”


The Sheriff, losing patience faster than the landlord, pounded imposingly on the door with his nightstick. “This is the Sheriff. Open the door, Ma'am. I have an order from the court.”


“Go away,” protested Rosa Kovaleska.


Dave tried again. “Mrs. Kovaleska--Rosa--you know I have been good to you. I know you have lived here a long time.”


“I have lived here since before you were born,” called Rosa, “and I will still be here when you die.”


The landlord shuddered. “I want to help you, but I need to have you out. There is no other way.” The door rattled, but Rosa did not respond.


The Sheriff and the landlord discussed what was to be done about the stubborn old woman. “I don't want her arrested,” the landlord insisted.


“I can force the door,” said the Sheriff confidently. “I will drag her out if I have to.”


“Be gentle with her,” the landlord said. “She is incredibly old and frail. There is no need to get rough.”


The Sheriff went to his car. The landlord continued to try to reason with the stubborn old woman who refused to leave. The words of Rosa Kovaleska floated in the air like a spirit. “I will never leave,” the voice repeated until it faded into oblivion. The Sheriff returned shortly with a large crowbar. He forced the teeth of the bar into the jamb of the door and put his weight into it. Within moments, the old door gave way. The two men stepped into the apartment, which was illuminated only by the fading outside light that crept through the windows. The air in the apartment was still, and it took a moment for the fetid smell to register with them. The landlord choked on the stench. The sheriff had smelled it before, but it made him no less nauseated.


Their eyes scanned the room. The landlord found the last court summons, unopened, on the scratched kitchen table. Hanging above it from the light dangled the body of Rosa Kovaleska, suspended from an old scarf. Judging from the decomposition, the Sheriff knew that she had been dead for quite some time.