her being dead.
She had not been in Landsberg, and months had passed with few clues. But he had not allowed himself disappointment; a chaplain at Feldafing had responded after some time to his inquiry; her name had appeared on a list in a camp newspaper, with a contact address at Foehrenwald. He had sent a letter telling her he would arrive, he would arrive and wait for her, and with the letter he posted a box of cigarettes and scarves with an American army truck to the camp. He had bicycled in the heat for the next two days, his American papers secure inside his shirt, and now in the little office where a clerk at a metal desk ran through her list of recent arrivals, the papers seemed to press against his chest, making his breathing thin and slow.
He heard voices outside, more American attempts at German, and Pavel stood to wait in the doorway. Two figures approached, walking slowly. Was she weak? Was she sick? There had been a tuberculosis epidemic in the camp. Could she—the women came closer, and Pavel felt his heart hurtling against his ribs, as if to push his body toward the pair. But his body did not move. The woman’s face became clear, sharp jaw, dark eyes, the same high forehead that marked the whole family, her tiny body a shadow in front of him, blocking his view of the dirt path, the row of barracks, the watchtower, the soldiers and inmates moving between the buildings. In his head Pavel knew that she came accompanied by a young messenger, but his eyes saw only Hinda.
S HE LOOKED SOMETHING LIKE her own self, older, of course, thinner than the last time he had seen her, in the spring of 1942. She hadcome to Foehrenwald with a bundle of typhus-ridden women liberated from a barn crowded with remnants of a death march, hospitalized in one camp, then transferred to another. She was a small girl—no longer a girl, Pavel supposed, she had grown to womanhood in camps—but still sharp. Her chestnut hair, still short, had returned to its wavy beauty. He touched it as they embraced, and as they walked from the camp office he let his hands roam through it and embraced her again. He stopped every few steps to look at her. It was hard to breathe: a body created from the same bodies that created him, a living being from the same mother and father.
Hinda, he said, again and again. Hinda, Hinda.
Pavel, she said, Pavel.
They walked together to a small area near the camp school. They would have some privacy. As they moved behind the building, toward a small garden, Pavel heard his sister coughing. He looked at her. So reserved a moment before, Hinda now had tears streaming down her face, and as he watched her, he realized he himself was weeping. They wept the same way: in silence. They sat on a bench, and Pavel felt his skin chapping where the salt water had dried on his cheeks. It was a humid and cloudy day.
After some time Hinda spoke: I want to get married.
Hmm? he said, surprised. To whom?
She had a friend, it seemed, someone who had gotten through the war on Aryan papers—he fought on the Polish side in the Warsaw uprising! Hinda said, with an uncharacteristic excitement—and who cared for her, who had a great future in front of him, who wanted to marry her and take her out, to England or to America, whichever came first, to escape this new prison, to take her away and make her life something calm and peaceful.
Pavel frowned. I should meet him before you decide anything, he said.
No, Hinda said. I have decided. You should meet him, of course.But I have decided, Pavel. You are not my father. You are my brother.
He said nothing.
My only living brother, she said. Her tears again flowed.
She seemed to think he had no say in the matter. After a moment, he said, I have a house. I live in a house. After I meet him, there we will make your wedding.
It would be something beautiful. Nothing like what the other refugees had, more and more marrying after one meeting, two meetings, a walk with the intended, a dozen
She had not been in Landsberg, and months had passed with few clues. But he had not allowed himself disappointment; a chaplain at Feldafing had responded after some time to his inquiry; her name had appeared on a list in a camp newspaper, with a contact address at Foehrenwald. He had sent a letter telling her he would arrive, he would arrive and wait for her, and with the letter he posted a box of cigarettes and scarves with an American army truck to the camp. He had bicycled in the heat for the next two days, his American papers secure inside his shirt, and now in the little office where a clerk at a metal desk ran through her list of recent arrivals, the papers seemed to press against his chest, making his breathing thin and slow.
He heard voices outside, more American attempts at German, and Pavel stood to wait in the doorway. Two figures approached, walking slowly. Was she weak? Was she sick? There had been a tuberculosis epidemic in the camp. Could she—the women came closer, and Pavel felt his heart hurtling against his ribs, as if to push his body toward the pair. But his body did not move. The woman’s face became clear, sharp jaw, dark eyes, the same high forehead that marked the whole family, her tiny body a shadow in front of him, blocking his view of the dirt path, the row of barracks, the watchtower, the soldiers and inmates moving between the buildings. In his head Pavel knew that she came accompanied by a young messenger, but his eyes saw only Hinda.
S HE LOOKED SOMETHING LIKE her own self, older, of course, thinner than the last time he had seen her, in the spring of 1942. She hadcome to Foehrenwald with a bundle of typhus-ridden women liberated from a barn crowded with remnants of a death march, hospitalized in one camp, then transferred to another. She was a small girl—no longer a girl, Pavel supposed, she had grown to womanhood in camps—but still sharp. Her chestnut hair, still short, had returned to its wavy beauty. He touched it as they embraced, and as they walked from the camp office he let his hands roam through it and embraced her again. He stopped every few steps to look at her. It was hard to breathe: a body created from the same bodies that created him, a living being from the same mother and father.
Hinda, he said, again and again. Hinda, Hinda.
Pavel, she said, Pavel.
They walked together to a small area near the camp school. They would have some privacy. As they moved behind the building, toward a small garden, Pavel heard his sister coughing. He looked at her. So reserved a moment before, Hinda now had tears streaming down her face, and as he watched her, he realized he himself was weeping. They wept the same way: in silence. They sat on a bench, and Pavel felt his skin chapping where the salt water had dried on his cheeks. It was a humid and cloudy day.
After some time Hinda spoke: I want to get married.
Hmm? he said, surprised. To whom?
She had a friend, it seemed, someone who had gotten through the war on Aryan papers—he fought on the Polish side in the Warsaw uprising! Hinda said, with an uncharacteristic excitement—and who cared for her, who had a great future in front of him, who wanted to marry her and take her out, to England or to America, whichever came first, to escape this new prison, to take her away and make her life something calm and peaceful.
Pavel frowned. I should meet him before you decide anything, he said.
No, Hinda said. I have decided. You should meet him, of course.But I have decided, Pavel. You are not my father. You are my brother.
He said nothing.
My only living brother, she said. Her tears again flowed.
She seemed to think he had no say in the matter. After a moment, he said, I have a house. I live in a house. After I meet him, there we will make your wedding.
It would be something beautiful. Nothing like what the other refugees had, more and more marrying after one meeting, two meetings, a walk with the intended, a dozen
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