The Red Thread

by Rebekah Pace

  While I listened, I looked through a box of programs from concerts and photographs of her with her students. A much younger Marjit was present in several.

  The next thing I drew out of the satchel was a book of Chinese folk tales, with a red ribbon marking her place. I opened it to the tale of The Red Thread of Fate.

  At the very bottom, I found the leather-bound album I’d seen just recently in the dream. There were photos of us, as children. Somehow, they’d been saved, and she’d gotten them back. Tears blurred the images as I reached out to touch the snapshots my father had taken.

  On another page was a photo of Mira, at the age she might have been in our dreams, but instead of glowing with good health, she had sunken cheeks and dark smudges under her eyes. Her hair, which was short and still growing out, was held back by a ribbon tied around her head.

  She was arm in arm with a young man, who also bore signs of time in the camps—skin stretched tight over angular cheekbones and close-cropped hair. He was smiling with his lips closed, probably to hide damage to his teeth. It was not her German officer.

  I flipped through the rest of the album, but there was just that one photo of her with the young man. I pulled the crumbling snapshot gently from the album page and put it in my shirt pocket.

  When I opened her suitcase, my toy airplane lay on top of her clothing and the scent of Evening in Paris cologne wafted out. Mira’s violin played on in the background as I clutched the airplane to my chest and broke down all over again.

  35

  At the hospital, I carried the compact disc player as Marjit led the way to the long-term care unit. Marjit and Yu Yan chatted while we waited for Mira’s doctor to meet with us. I paced the hall and looked into the closest rooms, hoping for a glimpse of Mira, but all the patients in sight were Chinese.

  When the doctor arrived, I prayed she would offer some glimmer of hope, some change in Mira’s condition. Instead, she was matter of fact. “Ms. Schloss suffered a stroke and has been in a coma for almost a month.”

  “What is the chance she will wake up?”

  The doctor’s face was expressionless. “We expect no improvement. We’re keeping her comfortable, but there is little we can do. I’m sorry, sir, but she is dying. You may sit with her if you wish.”

  I picked up the compact disc player. “Yes. Please take me to her.”

  Yu Yan and Marjit stayed in the waiting area while I followed the doctor down the hall to a dimly lit room. The figure in the bed was so tiny it could have been a child. A monitor beeped softly.

  I thought I was prepared until I saw her face. Though it was lined with age and drawn out of shape on the right side, I could see her at every stage of her life—the little girl and the young woman were still there in the curve of her brow, the tilt of her nose, the faded rose of her lips.

  “That is my wife.” I wept. “That is my wife. Oh, Mira.”

  The doctor bowed and quietly shut the door behind her as I sat beside the bed and took Mira’s withered hand in mine. It was the same hand that had touched my cheek, picked flowers, and coaxed music from the strings of a violin. Now her bones felt fragile beneath her papery skin, and she didn’t return the gentle pressure when I squeezed. I rubbed my thumb over the scar on the knuckle of her index finger. It was just a faint, white line, well healed, as though it had been made many years before.

  The words spilled easily from my lips in German, just as they had in the dreams. “Mira, I’m here. Everything’s all right now. I found you, just like I promised.”

  I leaned closer. “You’ve known about the legend of the red thread since we were children, haven’t you? That’s why you gave me your locket that day at Theresienstadt. I don’t know if it was magic that brought us together in the dream. Maybe it was like Einstein said, and objects that travel at a high rate of speed experience time differently than ones who stand still. I wish we could have stayed together longer, but I feel like we’ve jumped forward seventy-five years, practically overnight. When we jump again, I don’t know where we’ll go, but I’ll find you every time—no matter where you are.”

  Mira had suffered, survived, and defied those who had tried to destroy her. She had found a way to thrive and to make the world a better place, while I’d stayed hidden in my apartment, living in fear. She had lived a full life, traveling and performing into her nineties. Now she was lying here waiting to die. I wished I could trade places with her. Tears rolled down my cheeks and splashed on our hands. “I’m sorry I didn’t get here in time.”

  But for the beep of the monitor and the whoosh of the machine that was helping her breathe, there was no sound in the room. The murmur of voices in the hall seemed so far away, they might as well be on another plane.

  “I brought you something.” I plugged in the compact disc player and set it on the stand beside her bed. “Listen, Mira. It’s a recording of your concert. That’s you talking.” As I held her hand, I remembered waltzing with her around the living room. In the dance hall at Augustusplatz in Paris.

  She didn’t react, and I begged silently, Please, Mira. Come back to me. Just for a moment. Then the sweet, simple violin solo filled the space and I felt her hand twitch in mine. Was it just a reflex? It happened again, and again, until I was sure she was moving in time with the music.

  “You are here, aren’t you? Move two times for yes. One for no.”

  She twitched twice and was still. I hit the call button, and when a nurse came in, I pointed at Mira’s still form. “She can hear me! She moved her hand.”

  She shook her head, but unlike the doctor, she was sympathetic. “I know you’d like to believe that, sir, but we’ve monitored her. She hasn’t responded to stimuli since she went into the coma.”

  “That’s because she was waiting for me to get here.”

  “Sir, it’s hard to accept, but—”

  “No. Listen to me. What about dreaming? Can she dream?”

  She hesitated before answering. “I should summon the doctor and let you speak with her—”

  “Please, tell me what you think.”

  “Dreams could be an early indicator of a return to life, but we can’t be sure because we can’t ask the patient. People who are deep in a coma don’t dream.” She looked at me sadly. “I would like to give you hope, but she has shown no signs of waking up.”

  “But she did. Just now she is moving her hand in time to the music. I am asking her to squeeze twice for yes if she could understand me and she did.” I turned up the volume. “Stay here a minute and watch. Please.”

  “Sir, we have cared for many coma patients here. It was good of you to come to visit, and I hope it comforts you to know she’s resting peacefully.” She turned the music down and put a hand on my arm. “But I must be frank. There is no chance she will regain consciousness and speak to you. Her vital signs have weakened over the past week, and we don’t expect her to live more than another day or two.”

  “Please do not talk about her like she cannot be hearing you.” I waved the nurse away and turned the music back up.

  ***

  When visiting hours were over, the nurse returned to usher me out. I kissed Mira’s forehead. “Goodnight, my love. I’ll be back in the morning.”

  I cradled the compact disc player as I plodded down the hall. As I came into the waiting room, Yu Yan and Marjit rose to their feet.

  Yu Yan hurried to my side. “Mr. Peter, I’m so sorry. I’m afraid we found your Mira too late. Are you all right?”

  I looked down. My hands were shaking, but I nodded. “Yes, yes. I’m okay. It is difficult to see her like that, when I am remembering her so clearly as young and vibrant and funny. She is still my Mira, the love of my life. I kept my promises—to her and to myself. I found her.”

  Yu Yan wiped away a tear. “I’m afraid your red thread stretched so far across the ocean that it took too long to reunite you.”
<
br />   “It is my fault. I am not blaming the red thread or the gods or Einstein. I had thought that keeping to myself was keeping me alive. But living in fear wasn’t really living, and I am learning this too late.” I turned to Marjit. “Thank you for telling me stories about Mira so I am getting to know her again. I will treasure the recording. May I borrow the player until I am leaving for home?”

  “Of course. Maybe you’ll come back and take part in some of next season’s programming. You’ll always be welcome here.”

  “Thank you. It has been a very long day. I am ready to go back to the hotel now.”

  I held Mira’s locket tight in my fist on the drive back to the Crowne Plaza. When we arrived, Yu Yan parked beside the camel. “I will come and take you to the hospital again in the morning. You should spend her remaining time together.”

  “My time in Shanghai is almost up. I have only tomorrow.” I took a deep breath. “But I am not going. I am staying with Mira until they are finding me and kicking me out. You will not be telling on me, right?”

  She shook her head. “I will not tell a soul.”

  “I will take a cab to the hospital tomorrow. You are doing so much for me I can never thank you enough.” I didn’t know the customs or what was proper in Shanghai, but I was glad that she hugged me goodbye before I got out of the car.

  “You do not need to take a cab, Mr. Peter. I will be here first thing in the morning. Míng tiān jiàn. See you soon.”

  36

  Tao hailed me from the reception desk when I came into the lobby. “You were out late, Mr. Peter. You look tired. Did you eat?”

  I had to think about it for a moment. “I had lunch. But I am not hungry.” I fought back tears. “I found my friend.”

  Tao nodded sympathetically. “Yu Yan telephoned earlier to tell us your friend was in the hospital. I’m very sorry she is not well. Please, Mr. Peter, come sit down and tell me about it.”

  He took my arm and led me to one of the sofas in the lobby, and I poured out the whole story. When I was done, he stood.

  “You must eat to keep up your strength. I will bring you room service. Anything you want.”

  “Thanks, Tao. I suppose I could maybe be eating soon. But first, I am wanting to play this for you. It is my Mira.”

  I plugged in the compact disc player. As we listened, the music drew the chef and another of the night clerks out to see what was going on, until several of the hotel staff had gathered in the lobby. As we listened to “Lustig ist das Zigeunerleben,” Tao stepped out in front of the reception desk, took one of the waitresses by the hand, and they began to waltz. I imagined Mira was smiling.

  When the music ended, everyone applauded, and I realized I was hungry after all. “Tao, could you see if the guys in the kitchen can make me a turkey sandwich? If you are not having rye bread it is okay. Maybe with a dill pickle?”

  “Right away, Mr. Peter.”

  I unplugged the disc player and took the elevator up. Alone in my room, I felt the full impact of my exhaustion. It was all I could do to slip off my shoes before I lay back on the bed and closed my eyes.

  ***

  Mira shook my shoulder to wake me. She was sitting up in bed beside me, the blanket clutched to her chest. “Please wake up, Peter. I’m afraid to be alone. The darkness never leaves me now.”

  Something was waiting in the shadows on the far side of the room. “I know.”

  “I’m glad you’re here. There are things I must tell you while there’s still time.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t want to risk—”

  “Yes. I’m ready to talk now.” She didn’t look at me. “Thank you for bringing the music to me. It was so good to hear all the songs one last time.”

  “Marjit gave me the recording of your concert. She filled me in on a lot of things, so you don’t have to—”

  “There are things she doesn’t know. I want to tell you the rest.”

  “None of it matters. Mira, all that matters is that I love you.”

  “And I love you.” She took my hand. “The last time I saw you, before the concert, I couldn’t tell you that I was helping my professor smuggle information out of Theresienstadt. No matter what you may have thought, I was not an innocent. I kept on with Resistance work after they released me, after I went to Krakow with the German officer. I kept notes, encoded in my music, the way my professor had taught me, but with a different code that escaped detection.

  “At the war’s end, I had a great deal of information that I passed on to the Allied authorities. It was I who made sure the German officer who’d saved me was arrested. I had no pang of conscience. I wanted to avenge everyone I’d lost during the war. If I’d had the opportunity, I would have shot that officer myself. I was a different person then, and you could not have protected me. You probably would not have liked me much. That time is over, and I have no regrets.”

  I must have looked shocked, for she smiled as she touched my cheek. “Now show me the photo in your pocket.”

  I reached into my pajama pocket and brought out the picture of her and the young man.

  She studied it with a sad smile. “His name was Lev. I met him after the liberation, in Poland. When we got settled in one of the DP camps and made inquiries about survivors, we both learned our parents were dead. You had been sent from Theresienstadt before they released me from the Little Fortress, and I didn’t know where you’d gone. Lev and I applied for visas, thinking it would be months before we heard anything. We weren’t too far from Leipzig, and I believed you would come home if you could, as we had promised. Lev traveled with me.

  “At home, everything was in ruins. Our tree had been shattered by a mortar shell and our homes were nothing but rubble. Lev wanted to go back to the DP camp right away, but I insisted on waiting. We camped in your father’s workshop.

  “I carved my initials and the year into the bark of the tree, so when you came, you’d know I’d been there. Lev was kind and understood what I was going through. I wanted to believe you were on your way to meet me, and I insisted we wait.”

  “Stop. Don’t tell me anything else.”

  “Please. I need to finish. It was almost more than I could bear, to be at home without you, but I pressed Lev to stay, even after we ran out of food. When we went foraging, we came across gangs of men roaming the ruins, looting, and we hid from them. If they had found us, they would have—you know. I would never be safe there. Finally, I had to admit you weren’t coming. Lev made me promise we’d go back, and we left the next day.”

  “That was the night I let you go, Peter. And when I let you go, I had to let someone else in. Otherwise I’d have been nothing but a shell. We went back to the camp and waited for our futures to move forward. Within days, Lev got a visa to Palestine. I thought he’d wait for me, but he didn’t. He was gone before I realized I was with child.”

  “Oh, Mira. I’m so sorry.”

  She wiped away a tear. “It’s all right. It’s been all right for a long time. I wasn’t the only girl who got pregnant after the war. But the baby was stillborn. My body wasn’t healthy enough to nurture another life. A couple I met had just had a baby, and they took me in as a member of the family and a nanny. They were kind to me, and eventually I went with them to Denmark. I still had my violin and began to give lessons. Soon, I had more pupils than I could handle.” She looked up at me. “I kept the music, Peter. I had a good life. The only thing that was missing was you.”

  “I’m not missing anymore. You don’t have to wait around, feeling afraid of the darkness. In fact”—the idea was unfolding as I spoke— “I think we should go.”

  “Where?”

  “Back to Bastei. The sandstone hills. Right now.”

  “In the middle of the night?”

  “Why not?”

  I found a kerosene lantern and matches in the kitchen and she carried folded bla
nkets in her arms. The lantern cast a wide circle of light as we made our way to the car.

  Wrapped in one of the blankets, she slept with her head on my shoulder as I drove through the night. When we reached Bastei, she leaned on me as we climbed the path through the woods to a small clearing near the looming silhouettes of the craggy peaks. There, I spread one blanket on the grass and drew the other one over us, and we lay side by side, looking up at the starlight that filtered through the tree limbs.

  I needed to make my confession too. “I let my fear drive me deep inside myself, and it ruined my life. I didn’t take chances in my adult life. I didn’t give anyone a chance to love me.” I bit my lip before blurting out, “Fear kept me from looking for you, but I’m done being afraid. Mira, I can help you face your fears now that the darkness is closing in. You don’t have to run from it anymore.”

  She nodded. “I couldn’t let go until I knew you were all right. Then, once we were together, I couldn’t bear to let you know the worst of me.”

  “There is no worst of you. You are good and kind. You’ve taught me so much.” I pulled her closer. “The energy and the love—the part that is you—doesn’t end. It has to go somewhere—if you believe in physics, that is.”

  She kissed me. “At the hospital today, when I felt you touch my hand and heard your voice, and realized we were together, both here and there, I wasn’t afraid anymore. I can let go and you can live. Promise me you’ll travel and give talks to share our stories. Go to shul, even if it’s just one time, and observe yarzheit for me and for your parents so you can finally have closure. Leave nothing undone in the time you have left.”

  I tightened my hold on her and felt the hair on the back of my neck prickle. I didn’t tell her I could feel the dark presence eyeing me, too. “Let’s take one thing at a time and wait for the dawn together.”

  Even a week ago I would’ve made love to her in panic and desperation, terrified of the impending loss. But instead, as I held her, I savored the experience, memorizing every curve of her body, and the way her touch burned and cooled my skin at the same time. When it was over, I knew we were bound together for all time, in defiance of anything that that might try to separate us.