to help the paperwork along. It was a match.
I have not—Pavel glanced quickly at Fela, then looked away—I have not yet—
Ah, said Fishl, nodding. They embraced again.
Fela watched the men, a veil of sweat cooling on her brow. Pavel did not look at her.
W HAT STONES? SHE SAID later, on the journey back to Celle. Pavel was looking out the window as the train rattled past the German towns.
He meant money, answered Pavel. Fishl was always a good trader. He found someone to help him with the papers. We should do the same.
Fela did not respond.
But first, Feluchna, I write to Landsberg. I feel, I have a feeling. He took Fela’s hand into his lap without looking. Perhaps Hinda is alive.
Pavel, said Fela. But then she kept quiet.
I had six brothers and sisters, said Pavel. Now I am one. But perhaps we are two. He was stroking her palm with his fingers. Two is a stronger number than one.
Two is a stronger number than one. It was true. Still she did not speak. Who was to say that Moshe, even if he was alive, did not think the same thought, did not find his own new woman to make a wife, to sail to Australia or Sweden or, God in heaven, South America? She was stupid, stupid, refusing to accept, wanting to interrupt Pavel’s thoughts and say, I still look too. I still look too. But she was sure he knew what she thought. She was sure he knew she still waited.
She leaned her head against his shoulder, feeling the gesture itself was a lie to Pavel, a theft from Moshe. A chill of anger at both of them, at everything each wanted to take from her, rose in her face. She and Pavel now slept every night in the same bed, and she wanted her solitude back, the loneliness no one watched, the privacy of grieving.
Go, she said. Go yourself to Landsberg.
Will you not come with me?
No, she answered. We will be two in the house, myself with Chaim. We are two. The poor boy should not be alone. Go. Take your bicycle.
He looked at her, eyes almost begging, scanning her face for an explanation. His hand went to his breast pocket, tapped at his chest, touching, Fela knew, the cloth that protected his photographs.
Go, she repeated. Pretend I am with you, a bit ahead of you. Pretend. But go.
P AVEL FOUND HIMSELF AWAKE in the night, no dream to remember. Fela slept next to him, breathing quietly, and Chaim, his things in a neat pile in Fela’s old room, would not return from his trip for at least another day. He got up to open his drawer and look inside. He did not dare take the stones out of the pouch. If she knew what he had, if she knew how he had it! But was it such a crime? Perhaps if he had come across the men now he would have stopped himself, he would have felt sickened at what he had, jewels taken from the murdered—but then he had been in a different world—and even then there were certain things—terrible things—that he had not permitted himself to do, not even in the most desperate of moments. And if he and Fishl had not taken, who would have had the stones instead? No, dirty gold and stolen gems had helped him take her into a home, make a warm place for Chaim. Now it could help him find his own. He still had anumber of silver bracelets to leave with her, along with the money he had saved from trading.
He fingered his parents’ pictures in their brown envelope. If he should find Hinda—he dared not think it even—if he should find her, he would show her what he had preserved—no, he would not think it.
He should tell Fela about the stones. He should give them to her for safekeeping. But even as the thought moved through his head, he wrapped his parents’ pictures in a paper and slipped them inside the velvet pouch of diamonds.
I will carry them both, he thought.
Quarantine
October–November 1945
I N THE LITTLE MOUNTAIN cabin a child began to cry. After some minutes another child began to shout at him, and then another. Be quiet, stop this sniffling and weeping, let us sleep, let us sleep. Chaim got up
I have not—Pavel glanced quickly at Fela, then looked away—I have not yet—
Ah, said Fishl, nodding. They embraced again.
Fela watched the men, a veil of sweat cooling on her brow. Pavel did not look at her.
W HAT STONES? SHE SAID later, on the journey back to Celle. Pavel was looking out the window as the train rattled past the German towns.
He meant money, answered Pavel. Fishl was always a good trader. He found someone to help him with the papers. We should do the same.
Fela did not respond.
But first, Feluchna, I write to Landsberg. I feel, I have a feeling. He took Fela’s hand into his lap without looking. Perhaps Hinda is alive.
Pavel, said Fela. But then she kept quiet.
I had six brothers and sisters, said Pavel. Now I am one. But perhaps we are two. He was stroking her palm with his fingers. Two is a stronger number than one.
Two is a stronger number than one. It was true. Still she did not speak. Who was to say that Moshe, even if he was alive, did not think the same thought, did not find his own new woman to make a wife, to sail to Australia or Sweden or, God in heaven, South America? She was stupid, stupid, refusing to accept, wanting to interrupt Pavel’s thoughts and say, I still look too. I still look too. But she was sure he knew what she thought. She was sure he knew she still waited.
She leaned her head against his shoulder, feeling the gesture itself was a lie to Pavel, a theft from Moshe. A chill of anger at both of them, at everything each wanted to take from her, rose in her face. She and Pavel now slept every night in the same bed, and she wanted her solitude back, the loneliness no one watched, the privacy of grieving.
Go, she said. Go yourself to Landsberg.
Will you not come with me?
No, she answered. We will be two in the house, myself with Chaim. We are two. The poor boy should not be alone. Go. Take your bicycle.
He looked at her, eyes almost begging, scanning her face for an explanation. His hand went to his breast pocket, tapped at his chest, touching, Fela knew, the cloth that protected his photographs.
Go, she repeated. Pretend I am with you, a bit ahead of you. Pretend. But go.
P AVEL FOUND HIMSELF AWAKE in the night, no dream to remember. Fela slept next to him, breathing quietly, and Chaim, his things in a neat pile in Fela’s old room, would not return from his trip for at least another day. He got up to open his drawer and look inside. He did not dare take the stones out of the pouch. If she knew what he had, if she knew how he had it! But was it such a crime? Perhaps if he had come across the men now he would have stopped himself, he would have felt sickened at what he had, jewels taken from the murdered—but then he had been in a different world—and even then there were certain things—terrible things—that he had not permitted himself to do, not even in the most desperate of moments. And if he and Fishl had not taken, who would have had the stones instead? No, dirty gold and stolen gems had helped him take her into a home, make a warm place for Chaim. Now it could help him find his own. He still had anumber of silver bracelets to leave with her, along with the money he had saved from trading.
He fingered his parents’ pictures in their brown envelope. If he should find Hinda—he dared not think it even—if he should find her, he would show her what he had preserved—no, he would not think it.
He should tell Fela about the stones. He should give them to her for safekeeping. But even as the thought moved through his head, he wrapped his parents’ pictures in a paper and slipped them inside the velvet pouch of diamonds.
I will carry them both, he thought.
Quarantine
October–November 1945
I N THE LITTLE MOUNTAIN cabin a child began to cry. After some minutes another child began to shout at him, and then another. Be quiet, stop this sniffling and weeping, let us sleep, let us sleep. Chaim got up
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