and we’re ready to not be lonely together. Chaim is a good man. I won’t let another wedding pass me by.”
When they leave, I make my own bed and wash my face, then I gather my pile of letters to see if Mrs. Yost can tell me how to mail them. In her office, the telephone receiver is crammed against her ear. She depresses the button on the cradle again and again, trying for an operator.
“Darnit. I just had—hello? Hello?—Darnit.”
On the desk in front of her, the Foehrenwald arrivals log is open to a fresh page, with Feldafing written at the top. She must be preparing for the new influx of residents. Mrs. Yost catches my eye, then registers the sheaf of papers in my hand.
“Put them here,” she instructs, nodding to a wire mail bin on her desk, already overflowing with other people’s problems. “Hello?” This greeting isn’t to me but to the phone receiver. “Hello?” she tries one more time before cupping her hand over the receiver and acknowledging me again. “And don’t forget to remind Josef about tomorrow.”
“Josef?”
“He’s the one going for supplies. We don’t have the other car working yet; he’s best with the horses.”
“But,” I start to say.
“But?”
But nothing, but what am I supposed to say? That I met this man once and insisted he looked familiar? That I got carried away by his laugh when I’m supposed to be doing nothing but looking for my brother? That I kept sneaking glances at him all through dinner, wondering why he was alone and whether I should join him?
Should I tell her I made Josef so uncomfortable he left without even shaking my hand?
Mrs. Yost frantically depresses the telephone button, and I hear the faint, faraway sound of someone on the other end of the line. Her eyes light up.
“I’ll go,” I mouth, shutting the door behind me.
I find him in the stables, a whitewashed building on the outskirts of camp. It smells like dust and the clean hay tamped down on the floor.
He’s sitting on a low, three-legged stool, tending to one of the horses, a fawn-colored animal whose mane is nearly white. A second one, chestnut with an inky-black mane, swishes its tail in a stall. The one Josef is with—a palomino, I think it’s called—stands with its hooves in shallow pans of water. As I step through the doorway, Josef lifts the horse’s right leg, tucking the hoof between his own knees, and begins scraping the bottom with what looks like a long nail file. The horse flicks its tail but otherwise submits.
“Cleaning its feet?” I ask. Josef must have heard someone at the door, but he doesn’t turn to acknowledge me, focusing instead on his precise work.
“Trimming back her hooves. They grow just like people’s fingernails.”
“Does it hurt her?”
“Not if you do it the right way.” His voice is—not friendly, exactly, but not as brusque as it was yesterday. But then he looks up for the first time, and when he realizes it’s me standing there, they darken. He lowers his eyes and continues with his work.
“The water is to prepare her hooves?” I stumble on, pretending I haven’t noticed the change in his mood.
“To make them softer. Easier to sculpt. Why are you here, Zofia?”
I try to ignore the small thrill of hearing him say my name, but I can’t ignore how much I like watching him. There’s an ease to his movement, a gracefulness. I like that when he finishes the front hoof and moves on to the horse’s hind leg, he trails his hand along her back and makes clicking sounds so she never loses track of where he is. I like the way he smoothly draws the stool back to his new position with one foot. I like the slight unevenness of his shoulders, the way one is just a bit higher than the other.
“Can I help?” I ask, instead of answering his question. As soon as I answer, my reason for being here will disappear.
Josef presses his lips together and nods back toward the door. “Actually, yes. You can get an apple for Feather to have as a treat when I’m through—there’s a sack of bruised ones outside.”
On a bench a few meters away, I find a canvas bag and carry it in. Josef motions for me to hang it on a nail, but first I take an apple out to have something to do with my hands. It’s soft and warm; I bring it to my