The Red Thread

by Rebekah Pace

  “How kind of you to think of me.”

  “I am always thinking of you, Peter.”

  “And I’m always thinking of you. May I carry those for you?”

  She handed over the music and violin with a smile. “Now come.” She led the way down the marble stairs and over to the Markt in the center of the plaza. The clock tower chimed the hour as we went inside. Savory smells filled the main hall, and though we could have spent hours shopping for food, clothing, and even furniture, she beckoned me to follow her into the city museum. There we wandered through the exhibits and viewed everything from suits of armor to ancient books to velocipedes. Again, nothing hinted that Germany’s history had continued past the 1920s.

  It was useless to pry into the secrets of the dream, and pointless to mention my quest to Mira. I let her lead the way upstairs and through the feast hall, paneled in wood darkened with age. Long trestle tables flanked by heavy wooden chairs filled the space, and I tried to imagine people occupying all those seats. She continued into the ballroom, where she ran to the center of the floor and spun around. “Come dance with me.”

  “You’re feeling better. Was it the coffee?”

  “It might have been the pastry.”

  I set her things aside and took her in my arms. We glided around the room, in perfect time, as if we both heard the same music. “We must come back and dance more after you choose your gown for tonight.”

  “You’re making a few songs into a big deal.”

  “It is a big deal—it would please me, and it would please you, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Good. I’m sure the shops in town have everything you need to be properly dressed for the occasion. You once dreamed of playing a concert in an haute couture gown, didn’t you?”

  She giggled. “Yes, and it’s sweet of you to remember. But first, I’d like to get a few things from the market.” Though her cheeks were still pale, her energy had returned to normal, and I hurried to keep up, following her past stalls of cooking implements and unfamiliar foods and spices.

  She seemed to be searching for something in particular. “What’s your favorite food?”

  “Anything you cook tastes great to me.”

  “Well, all right then. I’ll surprise you.” She plucked up a market basket. Into it went fruit, vegetables, rice, and a bundle of ginger root so pungent it tickled my nose. The cut of meat she wanted was wrapped in paper and waiting at the butcher’s counter. On top of it all, she placed a round bamboo basket with sections that stacked together and a woven lid.

  “What is that? It looks like an apartment building for birds.” I took off the lid. “Robins on the first floor, wrens upstairs?”

  She swatted my hand away, pretending annoyance. “No, silly, I need it to cook with. You’ll see.”

  We moved on to the garment shop. I spent the next half hour watching while she tried on one frothy gown after another. When she came out of the fitting room in a midnight-blue strapless with a jeweled bodice, I could tell by her smile she’d found the one she wanted.

  The hem swept the floor in back as she turned. “It’s perfect. Even for a matinee performance.”

  At the theater, she paused before the stage door and gave me a lingering kiss. Then she held up a warning finger. “Don’t come back to the dressing room. I want to make an entrance.” With a wink over her shoulder, she headed off with the garment bag and her violin case.

  I set the market basket on a seat in the front row and went up to the control booth. When I’d flooded the stage with light, I found a seat in the center of the vast theater, where the acoustics were best. There I prepared to let the music wash over me.

  Mira’s dress sparkled as she stepped into the light and raised the bow to the strings. When she played “Muss I Denn,” she looked as comfortable and content as the first day I’d seen her in this dream—eyes closed, swaying to the music.

  After she drew the final note from the strings, she took the violin off her shoulder. Even without a microphone, her voice carried in the empty hall. “Ever since I was a small girl, it has been my dream to play a concert here, in my home city. All the pieces on the program tonight have special significance. The selection you just heard was the first song I learned to play, when I was six years old. It is very dear to me for many reasons. It reminds me of my guest of honor, who is my oldest friend and will be my dearest love, always, until the end of time.”

  The folk tunes, classical pieces, and German marching songs were all familiar. But then she surprised me by playing a piece with an Asian quality to the melody. Partway through, she stumbled over a note and made a clumsy recovery. I snapped out of my reverie, wondering if she was ill again. She had rarely made mistakes, even as a child, and I’d not heard a single one since we’d been together.

  Violin and bow clutched in her hands, she stormed toward the edge of the stage and jabbed the bow toward the balcony, off to my right. “Go away! I don’t want you here!” She collapsed in the spotlight in a puddle of midnight blue satin, rocking as she cradled the violin against her chest. “You’re ruining it. This is my time, do you understand? My time!”

  I leapt to my feet, rushed up the aisle, and took the stairs to the balcony two at a time. I arrived panting and searched every row, but there was no one in sight.

  Since our return from the devil’s bridge, I had not sensed Old Peter’s presence. He was not with us now. Something else had invaded our paradise.

  Though I ran all the way to the dressing room, Mira had changed back into her everyday clothes before I burst in. “What was it? What did you see? Why didn’t you wait for me to walk you back here?”

  Worry lines etched her face. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Can I help you pack up your dress?” Her lovely gown was draped carelessly over the back of a chair.

  She shook her head. “I’m not taking that with me. I never want to see it again.”

  I followed her out of the theater, blinking in the bright afternoon sunlight. Though I scanned every corner of the plaza, I saw nothing that would threaten her. Mira marched to the trolley stop, eyes straight ahead, and remained silent on the ride home. When we arrived, she took the shopping basket to the kitchen and shut the swinging door. Once I’d set the table, I retreated to the sitting room to give her some space.

  Before long, the house filled with good smells that made my mouth water. When she called me to the table, she laid two bamboo sticks beside my plate and took away the forks and knives before she served chicken soup with dumplings and little steamed buns stuffed with meat.

  I picked up my sticks. “What do you call these?”

  “Chopsticks.”

  “I know what chopsticks are. I meant those.” I used one to point to the buns.

  She laughed. “They’re called baozi, and they’re very popular in parts of Asia. I made them in the steamer I got at the market.”

  “Oh, the birdhouse thing?” Stabbing one of the baozi off the serving platter with a chopstick, I managed to get it into my mouth on the first try. “They taste great.”

  Mira wielded her chopsticks like she’d eaten with them a million times, and I tried to copy the way she held them between her fingers as she picked up the baozi without having to stab it.

  When she used the chopsticks to fish one of the dumplings out of her soup, I gave up and picked up my spoon. “I’m not quite dexterous enough to eat soup with chopsticks yet.”

  “I can do it.” She fairly sparkled with mischief as she picked up her bowl and tilted it to her lips to drink the broth, and I laughed. She seemed determined to put the afternoon’s incident at the theater behind her.

  When we were finished, I carried our plates into the kitchen, where Mira was already elbow-deep in the sudsy water. She giggled when I slid my arms around her waist and kissed her neck. “You cooked. I’ll d
o the dishes.”

  She lifted her hands out of the water. “If you’re offering . . .”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Then I accept.” She turned to face me and lifted her lips. I smiled down at her, pretending to consider my options. “The dishes will wait if you’d rather go upstairs first.”

  She flicked water off her fingers at me. “Sounds like you’re trying to renege on your promise.”

  “Never. I’d do anything for you.”

  “Would you really?” As she drew back, the smile faded from her lips.

  “Yes, of course.”

  Her face hardened and she gave a derisive snort. “I don’t know why you would say that.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, what am I thinking? It’s pointless to get angry with you.” She was talking to herself more than to me.

  “That suggests you are angry with me. But why? And why doesn’t it do any good?”

  “Never mind.”

  “What have I done? Have I hurt you somehow?”

  “Nothing. That’s the problem. It doesn’t matter.” She said it under her breath, more to herself than to me. “You’re not real.”

  I stared at her, thunderstruck, expecting her to vanish into thin air. When she did not, I protested, “I am too. You’re the one who showed up in my dream—so maybe you’re the one who’s not real.”

  “That’s a laugh. You’re just here for window dressing. Peter . . .”

  “Yes?”

  When her mouth twisted in anger, she looked like her mother. “I’m talking about the real Peter. He’s not like you. You’re so damned agreeable. He lied.”

  “Hang on just a minute.” I released her and took a step back, and she darted into the sitting room.

  When I caught up with her, she was holding the atlas against her chest. “Peter said he’d meet me at home. That he’d never stop trying to find me. That he’d marry me.” Tears sprang into her eyes. “You say you’ll do anything for me, like none of that ever happened and you haven’t let me down before.”

  This time the earth trembled in warning.

  “Why didn’t you keep your promise?”

  “I—” Cold sweat broke out on my forehead.

  “Did you think I would just forgive you? That I would forget?” Tears rolled down her cheeks.

  “No, I don’t expect you to forgive me.” The earth shook again, stronger than the last time. “But if I’m not real, could I do this?” I pulled her to me and kissed her lips. “Could I feel how soft your hair is, or lie awake at night and listen to you breathe beside me? We’ve both cut ourselves—and bled and healed again—since we’ve been here. Don’t you think we’re here because we’re supposed to help each other heal in other ways, too?”

  I held her chin so she wouldn’t look away. “You’ve been right all along, Mira. We deserve this time together. I have no idea how we got here, but it’s like a gift, to make up for the hard stuff and the disappointments. Some power in the universe has granted me my only wish. This is all I’ve ever wanted.”

  She pounded her fist against my chest. “But you didn’t come for me! And I couldn’t find you! You can’t help me now, either. Nothing can.”

  All these years, I’d blamed my isolation on forces beyond my control. But it was my fault that I had spent my life alone, and my fault that my fear had caused Mira to suffer. My anger turned inward. There was only one way to make it up to her.

  As the world tilted under me, I gasped, “It’s not too late. Let me prove it to you. Tell me where you are, Mira. I’ll find you.”

  Stony silence was her only answer as the negative gravity took hold of me.

  21

  I woke up back in Weequahic, still stunned by what Mira had said. It wasn’t just a dream. She was real. We’d been playing house—and doing a lousy job of processing the pain and trauma we’d suffered.

  Somehow, we’d been drawn into another dimension together, an antiseptic, amusement-park version of our old home.

  I wanted to slap that younger version of myself for promising to find Mira here, in this world. I had no idea if it was possible to reunite with her in the present, and the task of finding her would fall to me, not him. Where was I supposed to start looking?

  My thoughts whirled until I wanted to clap my hands over my ears. Instead, I did the next best thing. I turned on the television to drown them out. The Price is Right was coming on at the top of the hour. Maybe if I gave myself time to calm down, I’d come up with a plan. One of the morning talk shows was on, but I wasn’t paying attention until the announcer said, “Up next, a miraculous story. Two brothers separated during the Holocaust reunited after seventy-five years.”

  The brothers in the story were like me—after the war they had filed all the right forms with the Red Cross and HIAS to try and locate their loved ones, but they’d never connected. One brother ended up in Russia, the other in the US. These brothers, with their children and grandchildren grouped around them, had a family reunion over the computer. I could feel my hope surge as my brain kicked into overdrive. Modern technology could help me find Mira.

  The reporter who had covered the story explained about DNA profiling, which had been the key to reuniting the family. One of the grandchildren had submitted their DNA sample to a genealogy site—and the results revealed that they had first cousins on the other side of the world. From there, it wasn’t long before the families connected.

  To my knowledge, none of my family had survived, and I’d had no word about Mira’s, either. Even if DNA couldn’t help me, maybe there were ways to use a computer to find her—but I was going to need help.

  The public library was about a fifteen-minute walk from my apartment. Even though it wasn’t far, I hadn’t been to that neighborhood in years, and after all I’d been through, I was wary about wandering around by myself. But Mira’s voice rang in my ears, urging me on. When I saw her again, I’d be able to tell her that this time, I’d done everything in my power to find her. I headed out the door and down Lyons Avenue.

  The library was a redbrick building on Osborne Terrace, off the main drag and tucked in among houses and apartments. It took me a while to get up the steps. The younger me would have run all the way to the door. I guess most old people reminisce about what it was like to be young, but the memory of having a body that could do whatever I wanted was so fresh that my reality was doubly hard to accept.

  Inside, I approached the desk clerk. “I am trying to locate someone I was knowing a long time ago.” I lowered my voice a little. “I was losing track of her during the war. In the camps. Is there someone here who can help me?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m so sorry that happened to you. There are records available online, and we can help you access the Internet. Let me call Jacob, one of our volunteers.” She pushed her glasses up and picked up the phone.

  Soon Jacob, a nice young guy of around sixty, joined us at the desk. He was wearing a yarmulke. I didn’t see many Jews in the neighborhood these days.

  I introduced myself, and when we shook hands, I saw him glance down at my arm, where my tattoo was just visible inside my rolled-up sleeve. “Auschwitz?”

  I nodded. “Birkenau.”

  “Did you know that only prisoners at Auschwitz and its sub-camps were tattooed?”

  “No, I didn’t. But then, I am never talking about it with anyone.”

  “With transfers from camp to camp, we see the tattoos on survivors from all over.”

  “I think you are knowing more about it than me, and I lived it.”

  “You could probably tell me a thing or two. I hear stories from lots of survivors where I volunteer—at the Jewish Museum of New Jersey. I spend a lot of time there helping people research their ancestors.”

  “It sounds like I am hitting the jackpot. I am hoping you can help me search for my friend.”

&nb
sp; He led the way over to a row of computers on a long table. “So, Mr. Ibbetz, tell me more. Who are you looking for?”

  “Please call me Peter. Her name is Mira. I knew her from where I was living when I was a boy. We got separated in 1944, at Theresienstadt. Later, I was sent on to Birkenau.”

  He nodded, encouraging me to go on.

  “I am for many years doing everything I can to find her. Letters I send to our neighbors, and many postcards to her old address. I am writing to the Red Cross every month and leaving word with the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society. Every agency I can find knows I am alive and searching for Mira, but I am never hearing about her or any of our relatives, either.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Situations like yours are all too common.”

  “After a long time of searching, I am giving up on finding Mira and thinking she has died. Then this morning on TV people who survived the Shoah are still finding loved ones after all this time. I am wanting to try again. I am sure—in my heart—Mira is alive. She is so real to me; it is as though I spoke to her only yesterday.”

  “I’ll help you search all the available records online. They’re updated frequently, but I don’t think you should get your hopes up. Reunions like the one you saw on television are rare after so many years.”

  Tears welled up in my eyes and I got out my handkerchief. “Still we must try to find the truth. I am thinking I gave up too soon.”

  Jacob sat at one of the computers, pulled the keyboard closer, and typed something. “Let’s start at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum online. They have a database—a list—of survivors and victims.”

  A photo of young boys wearing striped uniforms and standing behind barbed wire came up on the computer screen. One glance at their gaunt faces and I started to tremble. What if there was a picture of Mira, or me, being used on a website or in a museum somewhere? People might study our faces and wonder who we were and what had become of us. If I saw such a photo, would I recognize her? Would I recognize myself?

  Jacob cut across my thoughts. “Let’s start with her name.” He tapped a few keys and a new screen asked for information to begin a search.