by Monica Hesse
Josef is broken like me.
When he’s finished, he ties the horses to a post and comes back to the wagon, where he silently picks up the food I’ve laid out and eats with his back toward me. After a few minutes, he walks over, arm extended, a ripe purple globe sitting in the palm of his hand.
“There was a plum,” he says, holding out the fruit. “It rolled out onto the floorboard, but there was only one. Half of it belongs to you.”
“I don’t need it.”
He’s already pulling a small knife from his pocket and slicing the plum around the seam. “Well. Half of it’s yours. You can eat it or not; I’m not going to take what belongs to you.”
He sets my half on the stump next to me, making it rock back and forth on its lush, bruisy skin, and then moves to untie the horses. He pauses halfway, though, turning back toward me. He’s shoved his hands into his pockets and looks uncomfortable.
“I shouldn’t have said that. About your brother.”
“No, you shouldn’t have,” I agree stiffly.
He raises his eyebrows at the stump next to me, asking if he can sit. I shrug that I can’t stop him.
“Maybe you’re right,” he says once he’s settled. “The things I was saying were more about me than you. It’s just, you seemed—”
“Crazy,” I complete his thought. “I seemed crazy.”
“Hopeful.” He meets my eyes, full on, for the first time. “You seemed hopeful, and if we get to the Kloster Indersdorf and your brother isn’t there—you seemed hopeful, and I didn’t want it to break your heart.”
His shirtsleeve brushes against mine; he smells like grass and clean sweat. I take my half of the plum from the stump. Hold it. I’m not hungry anymore but can’t bear the idea of wasting food.
“I told him I would find him,” I explain. “The day I was separated from my brother, I said, we will meet in Sosnowiec. The very last day I saw him, I told him, if you’re not there, I will find you wherever you are.”
“I understand.”
“I don’t think you do. I didn’t say, if it’s convenient for me, and I didn’t say, until I get tired, and I didn’t say, unless you don’t want to be found. I said, I will find you.”
“When was the last time you saw him?” Josef asks. “The very last time.”
A laugh, bitter and rough, rips from my chest.
“What’s funny?”
“I thought I saw him a hundred times. Through a fence or from a distance or if one of us was being marched somewhere. I thought I saw him once when I was assigned to weed the commandant’s flower garden outside the fence. I’d arranged for Abek to work for the commandant; I thought I saw him in the window. I left him a turnip; I buried it in the ground. But when I worked there a few days later, the ground hadn’t been upturned, so he must not have been able to sneak away to dig it up.”
“But when did you tell him that you would find him again?” Josef asks. “What is your memory of that last time?”
“I don’t know.” The laugh that bubbles from my mouth this time is throaty and wild. I’m afraid to meet his eyes. This is the first time I’ve said any of this out loud. Not to nurses, not to the nothing-girls. I haven’t told anyone that I spent the war vowing to find my brother, and I can’t actually remember the last time we said goodbye.
“I don’t know how to answer your question. Because I actually can’t remember the last time I saw Abek. I’ve been trying. For months, I’ve been really trying. But it’s like my brain won’t let me. I remember goodbyes, but I don’t think they’re right. In my dreams, all the time, though, I keep seeing new goodbyes. I keep inventing them. There’s a block. There’s a big wall where that memory should be.”
“Why do you think there’s a block?” he asks. “In your memory, why do you think there’s a block?”
I swallow. My hands start to shake. “When we got to the camp—the chimneys were right there. The death was right there. Do you understand? I saw a soldier rip a baby from its mother’s arms and slam it against a truck because it wouldn’t stop crying. It went limp and crumpled like a piece of lace. I think—I can’t remember saying goodbye to Abek because I can’t stand to remember that day. I can’t stand to remember any more minutes of that day.”
I reach up and touch my face. It’s wet. I’ve started crying. The memory I’ve spoken out loud has dislodged something, and now instead of feeling foggy, I feel like I’m leaking, snot in my nose, tears on my cheeks.
“But what if the clue to finding my brother is in something I’m forgetting from that day? What if we made a new plan, or a new meeting place, and now I’ve forgotten it? What if I can’t find my brother because I can’t remember those things? What if I’m a terrible, terrible sister?”
Silently, Josef pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and hands it to me. He turns away while I clean my face, and he’s still facing away while he says the next part. “I don’t think that anything you did during the war because you were trying to survive could make you bad.”
His voice is throaty and full of emotion, more than I’ve heard the entire ride. His voice breaks on the last word. I see his hand dart up to his eye, swipe quickly. Stunned, I realize he’s crying, too, or close to it. For once, I’m drawn out of my own grief and into someone else’s.
“Josef. Do you have… experience with that?” I don’t know how else to phrase it; I don’t know exactly what I’m asking.
He draws in a breath, low and wavering. “I have experience with feeling guilty for the things I did to survive.”
A beat, two. We sit next to each other on this stump, on this gravelly dirt road in the middle of Germany.
“We should go now,” he says finally. “I’m sure you want to get to the Kloster Indersdorf.”
Josef puts his hands on his knees, readying himself, and the dirt crunches under his feet as he stands. In front of me now, he looks smaller than he did a few hours ago, and when he offers me his hand to help me rise to my own feet, I feel like I’m smaller, too.
WITH THE SUN RESTING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE SKY AND sweat pooling at my collarbone, Josef says we’re getting close. Houses pop up nearer one another; we’re no longer the only wagon on the road. Josef told me the Kloster Indersdorf is in the boundaries of a town, but when we slow to a stop near a building on the central square, I’m still surprised at how in the center of town it is: this displaced-persons camp for children is one old building, three stories of white stone taking up a full city block. At the far end of the side facing us, two square spires rise several more stories into the sky.
The windows aren’t clear glass but stained: At the top of a steeple, I can see a cross.
“This is the right place?” I ask doubtfully. “It looks like a church.”
“It’s a convent, actually. The nuns don’t run the camp, but they still live here. Why don’t you go to the door? I’ll tie the horses and then meet you.”
I climb out of the wagon, straightening my dress and smoothing my hair. “Zofia?” Josef calls after me. I turn, and he gives me a faint smile. “I hope he’s there. I really hope he’s there.”
I feel shy, somehow, going in the ornate main door, so I walk around the side until I find a smaller, plainer one marked OFFICE with a brass plaque. I knock twice, no answer, but as I’m raising my hand a third time, it swings open. I’m met by a woman in a black habit, a white veil covering her hair.
“Pardon me,” I say to the nun. “I was looking for the director?”
“Unfortunately, you’ve missed her. I’m Sister Therese. Did you have an appointment?”
“No, but I can wait. Will she be back soon?”
She shakes her head, apologizing. “A family emergency. She’ll be a few days at least.”
There was a convent not far from my school growing up, and those nuns all seemed to be a hundred years old, wrinkled as raisins. But I can see a lock of curly brown hair escaping from the corner of Sister Therese’s habit. Her cheeks are full, and on the shoes peeking out of t
he bottom of her habit, her shoelaces, impossibly, are untied.
“Maybe you can help me,” I try. “I’m looking for—”
Before I can finish my sentence, though, I’m interrupted by a knock. I look around, confused as to how there can be a knock at the door when I’m still standing in the doorway myself. But then I realize there’s another door behind Sister Therese in the back of the office, which must lead to the interior of the convent.
She beckons me inside and points to a chair. “Just a moment,” she calls toward the other entrance. The handle is already turning; I hear muffled giggling on the other side. Sister Therese sighs as she undoes the latch. “They all know when I’m in charge, and that I’m a soft touch. All right, you noisemakers. What do you want?”
The door flies open. Two boys, gangly twelve- or thirteen-year-olds, burst inside, and suddenly I’m struck mute.
They’re not Abek. They’re so clearly not Abek. Neither one looks a bit like him; their colorings are wrong. Not Abek, I tell myself immediately. But they could so easily have been.
“Sister,” the one in front says, the one with a dense moss of hair hanging low on his forehead. “Sorry, Sister, we didn’t know you had company. Frau Fischer keeps a bottle opener in her desk, and we came to borrow it.”
“Which drawer?”
“The top one.”
Sister Therese opens the drawer, rustling through pen cartridges and paper clips before she produces a small metal opener. Only as she’s handing it to the boy does she hesitate. “What’s this for, Lemuel?”
The boys exchange a conspiratorial glance, and then the silent one produces a bottle from his pocket. It’s curved glass and filled with a dark-colored liquid that appears to be fizzing. “It’s called a Coca-Cola,” he explains. “One of the American soldiers gave it to us. You can drink one sip, and your thirst is quenched all day.”
“Did he give it to you like the soldier gave you the comic books, or did he give it to you like the soldier gave you his watch?”
“Like the comic books,” Lemuel says. “I promise, we weren’t gambling.”
“How much alcohol is in it?”
“There’s no alcohol at all.”
Sister Therese uses the bottle opener to pop off the metal lid and sniffs the contents. When she’s convinced the boys aren’t lying, she hands the bottle back. “Share with your bunkmates. If there is any left after all your thirsts are quenched, bring some to me.”
“Thank you, Sister!” Lemuel calls over his shoulder. “You’re our favorite.”
“And if the kickball game is still going in the cloisters, each team gets one more at-bat,” she yells. “Then, dinner.”
The boys leave, a tumble of energy, and then Sister Therese turns back to me. “I’m sorry. As you were saying? You’re looking for something?”
I can’t find my words, though. I’m still staring after the two boys. Could one of their bunkmates be Abek? Is he waiting, just behind the door or just down the hall, to try a sip of the Coca-Cola? A stupid, stupid hope grows in my chest.
The door opens again, and this time it is the one I came through, this time it’s Josef, cap in his hand, looking at me without even exchanging pleasantries.
“Is he here?”
“Is who here?” Sister Therese asks, looking between us.
“Her br—”
“No, he’s not here,” I interrupt quickly, hoping Sister Therese doesn’t notice that my voice is unnaturally loud, but hoping Josef does. “And it’s a ‘she.’ The director is a woman, but we’ve missed her; she’s not here today.” I turn back to Sister Therese and prattle on. “Josef and I are from Foehrenwald. He was hoping to talk to Frau Fischer about trading supplies.”
Josef’s eyes are on me, confused. I look away because I can’t quite explain myself. I know what I’m doing doesn’t make any sense.
All I know is that this place, with its kickball games in the cloisters and red-cheeked boys who run in to ask for help opening bottles of Coca-Cola, I want my brother to be here. But if he’s not, I’d rather have twenty more minutes of hoping.
“I’m sorry you missed Frau Fischer,” Sister Therese says worriedly. “She didn’t tell me anyone was coming. I can put you in touch with the man who runs our storeroom; he should be able to tell you what we can spare.”
“That’s fine,” Josef says slowly, still trying to figure out what I’m doing.
“And if you like, you can stay for dinner. I was just about to go help with preparations.”
“Of course,” I say. “We’d like to stay and—and see the whole camp. All the children.”
Sister Therese leads us through the back door, and while she’s busying herself locking up the office, Josef pulls me to the side and raises both of his eyebrows.
“It just wasn’t the right time to tell her yet,” I whisper. “I just didn’t want to—”
“Here, let’s cut through the cloisters,” Sister Therese says, finishing up with the lock, sliding the keys into a hidden pocket.
The hallway we’re in is lined with low, arched doorways. She chooses one, heavy and oak, and before she even opens its door, I hear cheering on the other side; the tail end of the kickball game. And not just kickball. The whole cloisters are alive with children. Three girls with braids have scratched a chalk hopscotch game onto the pavement; two older boys toss a ball between them. My breath catches at the sight.
Abek isn’t in this group, either. I scan them all as soon as we walk through the door; it’s the first thing I do, without even thinking about it. None of the children look like him.
But when is the last time I have seen so many happy children? Was the last time five years ago, before we started whispering stories to one another about Auschwitz? Was it before the Nazis closed the schools to Jewish children, so we were forced to hold classes in our apartments, small groups sitting at a kitchen table, learning in secret? Was it before the war started at all?
“How many are there?” I whisper. “Where have they all come from?”
“About three hundred are here right now.” Sister Therese looks on approvingly over the group. “It changes every day, though. Parents come, or we receive telegrams. Or new children arrive. A nine-year-old, just yesterday. We don’t see many in that age range. He’d been traveling with the British Army. They adopted him, I suppose you could say, as a sort of mascot, but eventually they realized that was no life for a child.”
“Nine years old,” I repeat. “So most of the children are—”
“Most of the children who come here from the camps are between twelve and seventeen,” she says. “The younger ones…” she trails off, but I don’t need her to finish the sentence. Anyone younger would have almost no chance of being left alive in a camp.
“Do you have many twelve-year-olds?” That’s how old Abek is, right on the brink.
“At least twenty. The stories of how they survived are miraculous.” Sister Therese closes her eyes and raises her rosary to her lips. I’m jarred by this act of public devotion, a reminder that some people went through the war able to believe God was still watching over the world.
Then Sister Therese opens her eyes and briskly claps her hands. The yard games don’t stop, but most of the children at least look up at the sound. “This is really the final at-bat for kickball. Does everybody hear me? Supper is in fifteen minutes.”
The dining hall is much smaller than Foehrenwald’s, lined not with the round tables we have but with long rectangles, benches on either side, in a room where the windows are stained glass. As we walk in, a few children set the places with flatware, and adult women help them, most not in habits but in regular street clothes. From the kitchen, more volunteers appear, carrying vats of what smells like stew.
“Place of honor.” Sister Therese shows Josef and me to seats at a table near the front of the hall. “But your plates will be just as chipped as everyone else’s, I’m afraid.”
I take the spot facing the door so I can watch everyone as
they arrive. A girl with freckles. Not him. A boy with a limp. Not him. A boy on crutches, missing a leg. Not him, I think with relief, because I can’t bear the thought of Abek suffering enough to lose a limb. But then I think, of course my brother missing a leg, a foot, an arm would be a welcome sight to come through the door, of course we could work through that suffering. The children come in a stream first and then scattered clumps and then one solitary figure at a time, rushing in, late, wedging themselves between friends.
Not him. Not him. Not him.
“How long did the trip take you?” Sister Therese, presiding over the head of the table, passes me a basket of rolls.
“Most of the day, but we stopped to eat,” I say, distracted.
Not him.
He’s not here. I know that for sure when the doorway has stayed empty for a full minute and the tables are full, when my ears are ringing from the clatter of spoons. “This is everyone?”
“There are two girls in the infirmary. Their meals will be served there.”
“Other than those two girls—nobody else is sick or traveling with Frau Fischer?”
“Just the two girls. Otherwise, yes, this is everyone.”
I blink back the tears welling behind my eyes. Why did I let myself get hopeful? How could I imagine I could wake up this morning and pluck my brother out of a sea of orphans?
“You should eat your stew before it gets cold.” Sister Therese’s voice snaps me back to the dining hall. “It’s tolerable when it’s warm and not so much after that.”
I pick up my spoon and dip it into the greasy brown liquid.
Across from me at the table sits one of the smaller boys. He can’t be more than ten or eleven, with pointy ears and sharp features.
He’s not bothering with a spoon. He’s using his fingers to scoop bits of stew directly onto his bread. His elbows hunch around his plate, making a protective barrier to guard his food. Two bread rolls are piled next to his plate already, but when he thinks nobody else is looking, he reaches to the communal basket in the middle of the table and grabs another, tucking it up his sleeve. When he catches me looking, he stares me down.