Lore by Rachel Seiffert

back in silence, an orderly distance. In front of Lore is a picture of a trash dump, or it might be a heap of ashes. She leans in closer, thinks it could be shoes. Below each of the photos is a place name. One of them sounds German, but the other two don’t. All unfamiliar. The glue under the photos is still wet, the paper is wrinkled and the images confusing. Lore squints, frustrated, hot in the silent crush. She steps forward out of the group, smoothes out the damp creases with her palms. A whisper sets off behind her and makes its way around the group.
    The pictures are of skeletons. Lore can see that now, pulling herhands back, tugging her sleeves down over her glue-damp palms. Hundreds of skeletons: hips and arms and skulls in tangles. Some lying in an open railroad car, others in a shallow depression in the ground. Lore holds her breath, looks away, sees the next picture: hair and skin and breasts. She takes a step back, trapped by the wall of the crowd.
    People. Lying naked in rows. Skin thin as paper over bone. Dead people in piles with no clothes on.
    An old man next to Lore clears his throat. The group shifts, and Lore is pulled back and moved along as the people gather round. Enclosed by hot backs and sleeves and shoulders, the smell of cigarettes on wool.
    The two old ladies are back alongside Lore. A gentle pressure under her arms, pushing her down the line of photos to the edge of the crowd. The last picture is clearer: a man lying against a wire fence. He is wearing pyjamas with the jacket open, and Lore can see his ribs. The trousers are knotted in folds around his narrow waist, and his ankles are huge fists of bone at the ends of his fleshless legs. The man’s eyes are black shadows. His mouth is open and his cheeks are hollow because he has no teeth.
    The old women are still moving, gently pushing Lore away from the photos, away from the tree. One on either side, they take hold of her arms and propel her forward, off the main square, back to the road. Behind them, the group settles back into silence, closing over the gap they have left. Lore looks round. No one is watching them. The people have turned their wordless attention back to the photos on the board.
    The old woman on Lore’s right has her handkerchief pressed over her mouth, and she doesn’t speak. The other is urging Lore along the road. She is thin, too. Her bony hand lets go of Lore’s elbow and pats her softly on the arm.
    —Go home, child. Quickly now. There is nothing here for you to see.
    Lore walks, doesn’t look round. She feels hot, faint, hasn’t eatensince yesterday and it is already afternoon. She sits down at the side of the road, thinks she must have some bread, find the children, walk on again.
Something to eat
. She rests her forehead on her knees, squeezes her eyes closed. Behind her eyelids, she sees the photos on the tree. Perhaps the people had no food and they starved to death. She can’t remember the place names under the pictures, doesn’t even know the name of the town she is in now. Lore goes over their route north again, eyes closed, face tilted up to the sky. The sun burns at her cheeks and she tries to remember if the man in the last photo had his eyes open or closed. She wonders if he was dead, and if it is possible to die with your eyes open. She recites to herself, from
Ingolstadt
, to
Nuremberg
, then past
Frankfurt
to
Kassel, Göttingen
, and then
Hannover
and up to
Hamburg
. His photo was taken somewhere in Germany.
    —Drink this.
    There is a young woman standing over her with a small cup of milk.
    —When was the last time you ate? Drink it, child.
    Lore reaches for the cup and drinks. The woman presses a heel of bread into her hand, takes the empty cup and goes back into her house. Lore eats, swallowing the crust in painful chunks, sitting with her eyes closed until the ache in her stomach subsides. She thinks about the children, doesn’t know how long she has been away, knocks at the woman’s