He sets my half on the stump next to me, making it rock back and forth on its lush, bruisy skin, and then moves to untie the horses. He pauses halfway, though, turning back toward me. He’s shoved his hands into his pockets and looks uncomfortable.
“I shouldn’t have said that. About your brother.”
“No, you shouldn’t have,” I agree stiffly.
He raises his eyebrows at the stump next to me, asking if he can sit. I shrug that I can’t stop him.
“Maybe you’re right,” he says once he’s settled. “The things I was saying were more about me than you. It’s just, you seemed—”
“Crazy,” I complete his thought. “I seemed crazy.”
“Hopeful.” He meets my eyes, full on, for the first time. “You seemed hopeful, and if we get to the Kloster Indersdorf and your brother isn’t there—you seemed hopeful, and I didn’t want it to break your heart.”
His shirtsleeve brushes against mine; he smells like grass and clean sweat. I take my half of the plum from the stump. Hold it. I’m not hungry anymore but can’t bear the idea of wasting food.
“I told him I would find him,” I explain. “The day I was separated from my brother, I said, we will meet in Sosnowiec. The very last day I saw him, I told him, if you’re not there, I will find you wherever you are.”
“I understand.”
“I don’t think you do. I didn’t say, if it’s convenient for me, and I didn’t say, until I get tired, and I didn’t say, unless you don’t want to be found. I said, I will find you.”
“When was the last time you saw him?” Josef asks. “The very last time.”
A laugh, bitter and rough, rips from my chest.
“What’s funny?”
“I thought I saw him a hundred times. Through a fence or from a distance or if one of us was being marched somewhere. I thought I saw him once when I was assigned to weed the commandant’s flower garden outside the fence. I’d arranged for Abek to work for the commandant; I thought I saw him in the window. I left him a turnip; I buried it in the ground. But when I worked there a few days later, the ground hadn’t been upturned, so he must not have been able to sneak away to dig it up.”
“But when did you tell him that you would find him again?” Josef asks. “What is your memory of that last time?”
“I don’t know.” The laugh that bubbles from my mouth this time is throaty and wild. I’m afraid to meet his eyes. This is the first time I’ve said any of this out loud. Not to nurses, not to the nothing-girls. I haven’t told anyone that I spent the war vowing to find my brother, and I can’t actually remember the last time we said goodbye.
“I don’t know how to answer your question. Because I actually can’t remember the last time I saw Abek. I’ve been trying. For months, I’ve been really trying. But it’s like my brain won’t let me. I remember goodbyes, but I don’t think they’re right. In my dreams, all the time, though, I keep seeing new goodbyes. I keep inventing them. There’s a block. There’s a big wall where that memory should be.”
“Why do you think there’s a block?” he asks. “In your memory, why do you think there’s a block?”
I swallow. My hands start to shake. “When we got to the camp—the chimneys were right there. The death was right there. Do you understand? I saw a soldier rip a baby from its mother’s arms and slam it against a truck because it wouldn’t stop crying. It went limp and crumpled like a piece of lace. I think—I can’t remember saying goodbye to Abek because I can’t stand to remember that day. I can’t stand to remember any more minutes of that day.”
I reach up and touch my face. It’s wet. I’ve started crying. The memory I’ve spoken out loud has dislodged something, and now instead of feeling foggy, I feel like I’m leaking, snot in my nose, tears on my cheeks.
“But what if the clue to finding my brother is in something I’m forgetting from that day? What if we made a new plan, or a new meeting place, and now I’ve forgotten it? What if I can’t find my brother because I can’t remember those things? What if I’m a terrible, terrible sister?”
Silently, Josef pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and hands it