a little too long in the hopes he would lean down, slowly.
“What’s not simple, Josef?” I demand. “If you don’t like me, you need to just say it.”
Josef opens his mouth, a struggle on his face. “It would be easier if I didn’t—but I do, and…”
“What are you talking about?” I start to say, but then I’m interrupted.
Behind Josef, a clatter—the heavy door to the dining hall has opened, and the person responsible for it has dropped something. A satchel or a half-filled pillowcase, it looks like; I can only see in silhouette. A few people look up briefly, then return to their card games, but Josef looks over in elaborate concern. An act. He just wants an excuse to leave the conversation.
The newcomer has scooped their belongings back into the bag but still lingers near the door, scanning the room. A Feldafing straggler, probably, one who missed the last car.
A male volunteer finds his way over and asks if he can be of help. Now that the new arrival is obviously cared for, I think Josef will have to turn back to me, but he continues to pretend to be deeply interested in the exchange by the door. Frustrated, I try to focus on Breine’s dress. I try to tell myself that his lack of an answer is an answer in itself.
“I’m so sorry, but we only have places for adults and families,” the volunteer is saying to the new arrival. A boy—I can tell it’s a boy now from the straight-hipped way he hoists the bag over his shoulder. “Of course you can stay for the night, but tomorrow we’ll have to find the camp director and figure out the best way to get you resettled at one of the homes for people your own age. The nearest one is less than a day’s drive, and we have—”
“I’ve just come from there,” the boy interrupts.
“Did they say they’re full?” the volunteer interrupts sharply. “They know they’re not supposed to do that.”
The boy shakes his head. He fishes into his satchel and pulls out a folded piece of paper. “There was a letter left for me there.” He traces his finger to the bottom and points to where the signature must be. “I’m here to find her.”
I’m standing without even realizing it. I’m dropping the pins without even realizing it. Breine’s dress is clinging to my skirt with static; I’m pulling it off the table along with the scissors and tape measure.
I feel like I’m in a dream because it turns out nothing that’s happened in my waking life has prepared me for how this feels right now.
The scissors have clattered to the ground, and the boy finds my eyes.
“Zofia, is that you?” he says.
“Abek?” I say, and my world falls into place.
Part Three
Foehrenwald, October
MY BROTHER IS ALIVE. HE IS ALIVE, AND HE HAS RECOGNIZED me. He’s spoken my name out loud.
Other people heard him, too. This is the second thought to come to mind, and it’s such an odd thought to have in this moment that I first can’t figure out why.
Because it means you’re not imagining things, I answer my own question. If other people in this room have also spoken to Abek, it means I’m not crazy and I’m not seeing ghosts. Ghosts are spirits, and my brother is flesh, and he is alive.
Abek is faster than I am; he’s run across the room while I’ve barely moved from the table, and now he throws his arms around my waist. The way he used to, I think, when he was too short to reach any other part of me. Now he’s grown. I’m still taller than him, but not by much; the downy-soft of his head hits at my nose instead of my rib cage.
My own arms are still at my sides, which I don’t even realize until Abek whispers something.
“What?” I ask, my voice sounding hollow to me and like it’s coming from far away.
“A to Z,” he repeats. “Abek and Zofia, A to Z.”
And then I throw my arms around him and start to sob.
Standing in the middle of the dining hall, we’re surrounded by an audience. Someone has run for Mrs. Yost, and she’s here, crying. I see Esther and Ravid and the others I normally eat with. And then people I haven’t even met come over to touch my hair, or Abek’s hair, as if good news can be absorbed through proximity.
We are possible, their touches say. All things are possible. Someone