What She Lost

by Melissa W Hunter

  “Thank you,” Sam said again, reaching for my arm.

  “Do you have any belongings?” Harry asked.

  “Just what we have on us,” Sam replied, indicating the satchel he carried with our few articles of clothing and the small purse I clutched to my side. Harry nodded and led us into the hallway. Doors opened on either side of the corridor. “This is my room,” he said, pointing to a door on his left, “and this is my brother’s. This room is empty,” he said, opening the door to the room adjacent to his own. Over his shoulder, I saw a tall mahogany head and footboard centered between two large stained glass windows. Two chairs upholstered in rich velvet stood beside a window that looked out at a small garden. Gold-leaf sconces lined the walls, and a plush Oriental rug with gold fringe sat in the center of the room. I caught my breath. I was amazed at the wealth that had been spent to decorate this room.

  “It is a rather fine room,” Harry said, noticing my reaction. “This house belonged to one of the wealthier Nazi officers. Perhaps you would be comfortable here?” he asked, looking at me. Before I could answer, Sam squeezed my elbow and said, “I think maybe I’ll take this room.”

  Harry glanced at Sam and shrugged. “There is another room down the hall. It is a bit smaller, but pleasant as well.” He led us to a door at the very end of the hallway and opened it. The room inside was decorated in shades of white and cream, with lace hanging from the windows and draped over a small mattress. I stepped forward and said, “This is lovely.” Sam followed me into the room. Harry stood in the doorway for a moment. “We hope you’ll make yourselves at home,” he said after an uncomfortable silence and then left us alone.

  I put my purse on the bed and turned to see Sam closing the door and bending to look at the knob.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Looking for a lock,” he said. He turned a small key in the keyhole and withdrew it, testing to make sure the door was secure before handing me the key. “I want you to make sure you lock this door every time you enter the room.”

  “Why are you being like this?” I asked, frowning.

  Sam sat in a chair beside the door and looked at me. “Being here might not be such a good idea after all,” he said softly.

  “Why?” I asked again, sitting on the bed. The mattress sank under my weight.

  “You are the only girl in a house of men, Sarah,” Sam said. “I noticed the way he looked at you.”

  I felt heat rise up my neck. “I can take care of myself, Sam,” I said. He sighed and said, “Just promise me you’ll be discreet, Sarah. You need to be careful.”

  I lay in bed that night, acutely aware that I was alone in a strange room. When sleep continued to elude me, I threw back the blanket and padded down the hall to my brother’s room. I pressed an ear to the door, listening for any movement. Turning the knob gently, I peered into his room and saw him lying on top of the bed quilt, unmoving, arms folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He turned his head as I entered, and I saw moonlight from the window reflect in the dark pools of his eyes.

  “Can I come in?” I whispered.

  He sat up slowly and nodded. “Why are you awake?” he asked.

  “I can’t sleep,” I said, as I sat down beside him.

  “Neither can I.”

  We were silent, listening to the foreign sounds of the house settling around us. A wind swept down from the Owl Mountains, stirring the branches outside Sam’s window so I was reminded of fingers scraping against glass. I shivered. The night was darker and emptier there than in Reichenbach. I leaned against Sam, resting my head on his shoulder. His arm came around me, and for the moment, I felt safe. We sat like that for a short while as my eyes grew heavy and began to close.

  “You’re falling asleep,” he said softly. “Let me walk you back to your room.” He took my hand and pulled me gently to my feet. We padded to my room, and as I settled back against the mattress, he moved to the door to check the lock as he had done earlier.

  “Don’t go,” I said, suddenly awake again, reaching for him.

  “Sarah,” he said, walking back to me. “What’s the matter? Are you frightened of something?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted, feeling foolish. “It’s just—it’s too dark in here. Will you sit with me some more? Please?” I begged. He walked to my window and parted the curtains to let in the moonlight, then lifted the window from the sill to let in the cool, damp summer air. “There,” he said as he took my hand and sat on the edge of the bed. “Better?”

  I nodded, but I clutched his hand firmly in mine as I lay back against the pillows. Even in the darkness, I could tell he was troubled as well. We were strangers in unfamiliar rooms. In the hotel, Gutcha, Helena, and I had shared a room. In the camps, we had all been together, bodies stacked on other bodies. Now, I felt like a small boat in the ocean that was my bed. “Sam,” I said, “do you think about Esther at all?” The words surprised me even as I spoke them. I hadn’t thought about my sister in a long while, but now I felt her presence around me. Sam blinked and looked down at me. I noticed how his brow furrowed as he studied my face.

  “Do you remember how we shared a bed in that little alcove?” I asked, feeling a drowsiness settle over me again. “We used to braid each other’s hair when we couldn’t sleep, and sometimes we talked until morning. It was nice, knowing I wasn’t alone.”

  “You’re not alone. You’ll never be alone again.” Sam’s hand gently brushed my hair back from my forehead, and for a moment I felt like the young girl I had been, lying beside my sister, feeling her warmth next to me.

  Forty-One

  The following morning, I woke to a quiet house. I sat up in bed, confused at first by my surroundings. A breeze lifted lace curtains gently from a multipaned window where sunlight filtered onto a bare wooden floor. I blinked, listening to the silence, as I remembered the night before. Throwing back the blankets, I walked to my door, eager to find my brother. But as I stood in the stillness of the hallway and glanced toward the kitchen, I sensed I was the only one in the house.

  I knocked on my brother’s door. “Sam?” I called, but there was no answer. I pushed the door open a crack and looked inside. The quilt on top of his bed was a rumpled mess, as though he had tossed fitfully all night long. But his room was empty. I passed closed doors to rooms I had yet to explore. I peered into a large parlor and my breath caught at the sight of the rich antique furnishings and Oriental rugs. A huge marble fireplace dominated one end of the room, and silk screens depicting pastoral scenes hung from the walls in shades of palest rose, auburn, and gold. Slowly closing the door, I moved on to the next room. Inside, shelves crowded with books and expensive bric-a-brac lined the walls. A large mahogany desk stood in the center of the floor. I ran my hand over the desk’s surface, dust coating the tips of my fingers. A map of Europe was spread across the desktop, and I noticed the strategic markings that had been outlined around Germany and the surrounding countries. I glanced at the books on the shelves and noticed that they all had German titles. One book was set apart from the others and propped against an ornate stand. I read the title, Mein Kampf, and quickly turned away. I knew this had been the officer’s library, and a tendril of fear crept up my spine. I felt his presence acutely, as though he was still standing in the room, watching me. I hurried to the door and closed it behind me, leaning against it and breathing hard.

  Back in the kitchen, I sat in a chair at the table and put my head in my hands. At least in this room, filled with ordinary objects and the smell of burned wood and spices, I felt more at home. I noticed a piece of paper wedged beneath a pitcher and recognized Sam’s handwriting. “Sarah, went to town. Be back soon.” What was Sam doing? I wondered. I worried about him when he left each day. I worried about his volatile nature and quick temper. Was he getting into trouble? Was he staying safe? There was a thriving black market in town, an exchange of banned goods and services, but
those who got caught trading were quickly sent to jail. Sam may have made friends with Rubin, but would that be enough to keep him from being arrested if he was doing something illegal? I thought again of the guns he had kept hidden.

  Unable to sit still, I paced the length of the kitchen. The silence in the house caused the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end. Looking around, I saw a door that led out to the garden—through its window, I spied a well with a pump. Taking a bucket from the hearth, I turned the door’s knob and stepped onto a path that wove through Siberian irises, globeflower, and corn poppy, gathering baby’s breath as I made my way to the pump. A small greenhouse stood at the far end of the garden near a dilapidated wall, and I noticed pots where herbs were growing wildly. I pumped the handle of the well, filling the bucket and splashing cool water onto my face. I walked to the row of pots outside the greenhouse, fingering untamed leaves of basil and lavender and sage, feeling soil dampened by morning dew, when I was startled by a noise behind me. I jumped and turned. Harry stood on the path near the door to the kitchen, watching me. I blushed, aware I was still dressed in my nightclothes, and began to back away self-consciously.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, raising his hand in a conciliatory gesture. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “I … I … ,” I stuttered as my back pressed against the greenhouse wall, “I didn’t hear you.”

  “My brother and I learned quite effectively how to move without making a sound when we were in hiding. I guess it’s a hard habit to break.” His voice reminded me of honey—smooth and sweet. A wry smile twisted his lips as he reached into his coat pocket. “Cigarette?” he offered, holding a pack out to me. I hesitated. For a brief moment I remembered the first cigarette I had ever tried with Gutcha in Tarnoviche, the labor camp near Tarnosky Gura. The memory was fleeting but left me feeling weak. I frowned at Harry and asked, “How did you get those?”

  “I have my connections,” he said casually.

  “The black market?” I asked breathlessly. When he just shrugged, I asked, “Isn’t that dangerous?”

  Instead of answering, he took a tentative step toward me, pulling a cigarette from the pack and holding it out to me. I met him halfway along the path, taking the cigarette and putting it to my lips. He struck a match and held the flame to the end of the cigarette. I inhaled deeply, then blew a tendril of smoke into the space between us.

  Harry laughed, raising an eyebrow. “Where did you learn to smoke?”

  “Why?” I asked, looking into his blue eyes through the haze.

  He shrugged again and said, “I didn’t expect a girl like you to know how, is all.”

  “A girl like me?”

  He considered me for a second and said, “Didn’t you come from a rather observant home? I imagine you had a sheltered upbringing.”

  I frowned. “Who told you that?”

  “My brother and I wanted to know more about you and Sam before agreeing to have you live with us.”

  I blinked and looked away, not sure how I felt about him prying into my past—a past that belonged to someone else, a past I wasn’t sure I wanted to remember. “Then why did you offer me the cigarette?”

  “Curiosity?” he answered, grinning, and I couldn’t help but smile back.

  We walked to the brick wall and sat beside each other, both of us silently dragging on our cigarettes. The slow inhalation and exhalation calmed my nerves, and despite Harry’s proximity, I began to relax. He asked me again how I’d learned to smoke, and my thoughts returned to the boy my cousin and I had met. Though I could still picture his face, I had long since forgotten his name.

  “It was in Tarnoviche,” I said, remembering my brief time in the second camp I had been taken to after Klettendorf. When we had arrived, the camp was still being built, so we slept on straw in structures that were only half-erected. Exposure to the wind and bitter winter cold had made me long for the dirty bunks we’d had in Klettendorf. “There was little order in the camp, since it wasn’t finished,” I told Harry. “Men had to work laying bricks and hauling steel beams and pouring concrete to finish the barracks and buildings. It was so hard. But at night, we often met them outside before curfew. One of the prisoners had a pack of cigarettes. He taught us how.”

  The first time my lungs had filled with smoke, I had coughed violently. The man had showed us how to take the smoke into our mouths, gently inhale, hold the smoke in our lungs, and then exhale slowly. After a few attempts, I found I enjoyed the rhythmic, deliberate movement of breath, the controlled rise and fall of my chest, and the sight of smoke curling from my lips.

  For some reason, I found it easy to share this memory with Harry. He watched me intently as I spoke. I glanced at him, captivated by the blue shade of his eyes. They were the color of the sky. His face was thin and angular with a high forehead and cheekbones. Everything about him was long and lean.

  “What’s troubling you?” he asked, and I realized I was staring at him too closely. I blushed. He chuckled. “Is there something you want to ask?”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s just—you’re very blond.”

  Harry laughed again. “Blond hair and blue eyes,” he nodded. “I suppose I should thank those for keeping me alive. We were in hiding most of the war, surviving how we could. Looking Aryan helped.”

  “Who were you with?”

  “My brothers. Pinky and Joseph. Were you with anyone?”

  “My cousin Gutcha.”

  He took another long drag on the cigarette before crushing it against the stone wall. “Can I ask what happened to her?”

  “She’s still here in Reichenbach,” I said, my chest growing tight. “She lived with me in the hotel.”

  He regarded me curiously. “Where is she now, then?”

  I swallowed. “She’s leaving. She’s decided to go to Palestine.”

  I could tell in the silence that followed that Harry was watching me, but I couldn’t lift my eyes to his. I watched an ant crawling along the wall, feeling the warmth of the sun on the crown of my head, missing Gutcha already.

  Gutcha arrived on our doorstep a few days later holding a small valise and dressed in travel clothes. “I’ve come to say good-bye,” she said when I opened the door. “We’re leaving today.”

  “What?” I gasped, rushing forward to hug her close in disbelief. Sam stood behind me, and Harry and Pinky lingered just inside the foyer, watching silently. “You’re leaving already?”

  She nodded. “There’s a whole group of us who are leaving together. They are very nice, Sarah. I like them. We plan to settle on a kibbutz in Palestine. It will be like working on the farms here.”

  Sam stepped closer and put a hand on my shoulder, but I didn’t let go of my cousin. “How can I say good-bye?” I whispered, my voice trembling. I felt Gutcha’s cheek wet against my own. We hugged in silence for the longest time, unable to let go. When we finally pulled apart, Gutcha turned and strode with purpose down the front walk, shoulders squared, only turning when she reached the gate that led out to the road. She raised her hand in a silent farewell. I did the same, trying to memorize every detail of her face, her expression. I continued to wave, standing on the front step, until she turned a bend in the road and I could no longer see her, long after Sam and Harry and Pinky had gone back inside.

  I wondered if I would ever see my cousin again.

  Forty-Two

  Harry found me in the dark, quiet kitchen sometime in the early hours of morning. Sleep continued to elude me. I knew as I stood barefoot in the middle of my room that getting in bed would be a waste, that I would only lie awake thinking of Gutcha, all too aware of the emptiness that tugged at my heart, so I wandered into the kitchen like a sleepwalker.

  “Sarah?” I heard Harry say from the doorway. I shifted slightly in my chair but didn’t answer. I felt him move into the dark room. In the periphery of my vision, a sp
ark ignited, and I blinked. He walked to the table with a lit candle and sat down across from me. For a few moments, we didn’t speak. Then he leaned forward and said in a gentle voice, “You miss your cousin.”

  It was a statement, not a question, but still I nodded. “I don’t think I would have survived without her,” I murmured into the darkness.

  “I know what it’s like to lose everything too,” Harry said. Something in his tone roused me from my stupor. I looked across the table at him. The shadows of the flame danced over his face and reflected in his large eyes. As he gazed back at me, I noticed for the first time a vulnerability that hadn’t been there before.

  “If I hadn’t been with Pinky, I wouldn’t have survived either,” he said. “He saved my life in more ways than one.”

  “How?” I asked softly.

  Harry stood up and walked to the shelves above the sink. When he came back to the table, he was holding a bottle filled with an amber liquid. He held it out to me and said, “Scotch. A gift left for us from our German friend.” To my blank look, he explained, “I found it, along with a bottle of cognac, a ’27 Merlot, and a decanter of fine port, in the German officer’s library.”

  He held it out to me again. I could smell the rich aroma, but then I remembered the taste of the vodka and shook my head. Harry shrugged and took a drink directly from the bottle. Eyes closed, he sat back down. I noticed that his hand trembled slightly as he set the bottle on the table.

  “You see, before the war, I was married. I had a wife.”

  I leaned back against my chair, staring at him. A wife, I thought. Like Michal, he’d had a wife. He’d been married. When he opened his eyes and fixed his gaze on me, I could see the pain there even in the darkness. “Harry,” I started, “you don’t have to—”