back then, but when they saw his name on a list of survivors, they sent a letter without a second thought. So for the past two years they had seders together in Augsburg where the couple had settled into another camp in the American zone.
The two women friends around Ruby and Fanya’s age began telling first how they knew each other and then how they had met Motek last year: at a restaurant like this one, but noisier and closer to the train station. Dining at separate tables, they had ended up inviting him to join them for dessert. And he had told enchanting stories of his parents’ coffee house in Krakow where he was put to work as a young boy. They recalled his telling how he helped out, making people happy with enough whipped cream to keep them returning. It was the years of want; it was good to have a little extra. “Creamy flesh,” he said to us, the dark one recalled. “Motek said the whipped cream used to make him dream of touching his cheek to some girl’s. He talked about ‘stroking the softness’ of women.” Ruby’s memories linked with theirs. It could have been her sister Pearl he still remembered, she thought, but would never know. The memories were hers alone.
The day had ended hours ago and they were all still talking, in every possible combination. It was another link in their broken chains, under repair now. They promised to get together after the ritual thirty days of mourning to toast Motek’s memory. Fanya and Ruby were exhausted with talk. The train ride back to Landsberg was soothing. They were silent together. Filled with stories to pass on. For Ruby, her brother Max, and another part of her missing sister was laid to rest in her heart. She and Ilya were to be married. The love she had for him she would live for two, and many more. She would make her heart big enough to love all that Max and Pearl would never get to see.
As the train slowed its pace coming into the station, from the window seat she could see Ilya waving both his arms to catch her and Fanya’s attention. Before he could even realize it, she was hooked to his eyes. By the time they had their arms around each other on the platform, they could have been swimming together, tightly coiled, like the eels in a pail she remembered seeing one day when she and her sister passed an old man fishing from a bridge in town.
• • •
Dearest Masha,
Nothing is better for my mind than when I have time to write to you. I see your face as I remember you. I imagine the place I see in the photo you sent me. I think back to the dining room table in my parents’ house, and I can see them, sometimes writing letters. Here I am now, at my small desk with quiet moments to share words with you. Stories from my small world.
Let me begin with some good news. I have to tell you about the connection I made with a young German woman in town here. She and a friend own a fabric store that I have been stopping in from time to time. We began to speak to each other in a more and more friendly way over the past few months. And we made an arrangement that I would sew a skirt for her and she would let me have some fabric for very little money so I could make something for myself as well. A few weeks ago I brought her what I had made, a skirt and a vest because I had extra material, and she loved it! It was such a rare moment of us both being happy because of something we could do for each other. A German and Jew, imagine that, in such a short time. But really, we are just people to each other. That’s what she and I became. It makes it feel more possible to simply be living here in Bavaria, while we all keep waiting for the next stop.
But there is sad news, too, that I want to share with you. You must remember the beautiful coffee house owned by the Lencher family? Not too long ago I found in a list of names their son, Motek, who was alive, and living nearby. I made efforts to write and find out more about exactly where he was staying only to learn that he was in the hospital in Munich. Ilya and I visited about three weeks ago, and last week, my friend Fanya and I went to his funeral. Oh, Masha, how can I begin to tell you what it felt like to be at a funeral? And I had only just found him, in time to see him once before he died. The visit we had was so wonderful. He remembered me and Pearl as young women he knew through our brother, Max. I always thought he had feelings for Pearl, and when we spoke of her, even as pale as he was I thought I could see him blushing. He remembered our parents bringing us there on Sunday afternoons when he would be working at the café. So satisfying it was to be talking to someone from home. And now so sad to have lost him again. I needed to tell you this. I know you understand in your own way since you left everyone behind so many years ago. Your courage then helps me now to go on. And Ilya’s love and Fanya’s friendship. I hope you don’t mind being the audience for my sorrows and my joys. It is so very meaningful to know you are there, to be in touch as adults, and to continue to hope that one day we may see each other.
All my love to you and all your loved ones,
Ruby
• • •
I’ve been breaking into pieces too much these past few days, Ruby told Mala. And today was just about it! I don’t want to think about it! I don’t want to know from that place!
What place, Mala asked? She was bracing herself; she knew Ruby would explain, but she wished she didn’t have to hear. Ruby, always making it her business to think, to feel. When it was better not to.
You know, my always kvetching Mr. Grynbaum? I do my best to ignore him even as I hear his latest fury. Today, first thing in the morning, there he is at my door, at the office. I just want quiet time to catch up on paperwork. But no, he comes to report on an insult. Always wounded, this one. Like we don’t all have our bruises to rub smooth.
What was it this time with him?
Someone told him to mind his own business.
So, what’s so insulting?
Exactly! But here’s what made me so upset…. He made me remember. Those words, “Mind your own business.” They frightened me once. Pearl and I were walking home from school. We were thirteen. You want to hear this? It’s a long and bad story. More than one story.
Do I want to hear it? No, but you know I’m listening now.
We were walking fast because it was cold, windy and snowing. We decided to take a short cut through an alley not far from the building where we lived. We thought the wind wouldn’t be so hard there and it would save time. We were carrying school books. I know because we dropped them nearby in a frozen puddle. When we turned into the alley, two boys were fighting. The bigger one had his foot on the smaller boy’s chest. He was spitting in the boy’s face. We saw it. We were close enough to hear it. We stopped in our tracks, too nervous to move or to turn around. I knew Pearl would be too scared to speak, but I couldn’t stop myself. It was awful. We could see the boy on the ground had a bloody nose. There was light on his face from a window. I said before I could think, “Leave him alone. He’s already hurt! Leave him be!” The bully kept his foot on the boy and looked right at us. So did the boy on the ground. And then the big one said, also without thinking just the kind of thing he probably said when he could get away with it, “Mind your own business, nosy Jewish bitch!”
And you and your sister? You didn’t talk back then, did you?
I knew who I was dealing with in that moment. I put up my hands and dropped the books in a bit of a shock, and I let him see we were getting out of his way. I knew he wasn’t finished with beating the other boy, but I also knew there wasn’t anything I could do to stop him. We backed away to go the way we came from, the longer way home. I picked up the books fast, took Pearl’s arm in mine and we turned toward home. We were shaking from the cold and the fear and the shock of his calling us names. But the sight of him stepping on that boy and the sound of him spitting in his face—I can see it like it was this morning when Grynwald showed up at my door.
I felt bad for him, even if he is such a pest and a miserable man most of the time. You
