in Breine’s eyes—and they tell her it’s perfect. The mood is gay and laughing, like the day each year when the women in my family would all go to the factory to preview the spring line. Or on special-occasion shopping trips, when my mother and Aunt Maja and I would go to Kraków and accept the glasses of champagne at the department store.
“Isn’t it perfect?” she asks again.
“If that’s the dress you want,” I say, smiling, “then you’ll be the most beautiful bride.”
Breine continues to admire her gown, and I turn back to the piles of fabric on the table. Breine was right earlier. More would-be shoppers are continuing to appear, scooping up garments, and the table is quickly becoming bare. If I don’t get something for myself now, there won’t be anything left.
I grab a dress in plaid, another in plum, a sturdy sweater, socks, and a pair of gloves. The gloves are impractical—they’re made of soft kid, the leather so supple it ripples like silk. My father bought my mother a pair like this once. She wore them to go shopping, but only when she didn’t have to carry home meat or cheese or something that could leave an odor. Only when she was buying nice things.
“Zofia?” Breine is looking at me curiously. I’ve pressed the glove against my cheek. I’m holding it there like a memory, like a memory that needs to be tied down.
My mother was wearing those gloves when we went to the soccer stadium. I can see that now, clearly. And she was wearing them after we left the soccer stadium. She smoothed back my hair with them; she used them to mop Abek’s brow. I know this happened. I know this is a true memory.
What happened next?
I push a little further. My hands start to shake. My head is pulsing. The monster at the door is stirring; I don’t want to push anymore.
I LEAVE BREINE AND ESTHER THE NEXT MORNING WHILE IT’S still dark. Breine’s bedsheets are tangled and half falling off the bed frame while her nose whistles in a snore. A few feet away, Esther sleeps with her pillow over her head.
When I get to the stables, Josef is hitching up the horses to a wagon that looks at least twenty years old. The ends of his curls are still wet from his morning washing. A drop of water clings to the back of his neck and then slowly rolls forward, tracing the curve and sinew of his skin as he works on the wagon, until it finally disappears down the open collar of his shirt. I picture it rolling down his collarbone. Rolling down his chest, rolling over his stomach.
“Hi,” he says, but there’s an element of surprise to the greeting. Maybe he wasn’t sure I’d actually show up. As early as I am, he was still almost ready to leave, and I can’t help but think he wouldn’t have waited long to find out if I was coming or not.
“Good morning,” I say. “Thank you, again, for taking me.”
“Technically, I’m not taking you,” he says, loading a crate of what look like canned goods onto the back of the wagon, the same crates that yesterday held donated dresses. “You’re just coming along on a preplanned route.”
“I guess this means that if the wagon gets crowded, you’ll leave me by the side of the road instead of the C rations.”
“Well,” he grunts as he shoves the box toward the back. “I can’t eat you in an emergency.”
When he’s hooked up Feather and the other horse, Josef nods to the spring seat at the front of the wagon, and I climb on. At the last minute, I decided to pack everything I own in case I don’t return. It’s a few more things than what I arrived with on the train, but I can still carry it all in the valise under one arm.
Josef points to a pail of food on the floorboard and then falls silent. The sun is still rising, but I know our trip is several hours long. The horses seem unhurried and unbothered; Josef drives them with the reins in one hand, a slight curve to his spine, his lean body rhythmically giving in to the movement of the wagon. Several hours of sitting next to Josef.
“Mrs. Yost says you go on supply runs,” I offer after a few kilometers of silence. “Foehrenwald trades with other camps?”
“Sometimes. Right now, the administration is worried about housing all the