“Oh.”
I’d thought his explanation would have to do with the vulgarity of it all, with his wanting to protect me from profane words. That’s what Dima would have done. Protected me. Gallantly, like a knight. Josef’s explanation—transactional, matter-of-fact—isn’t one I was prepared for. It throws me off balance.
Josef finishes Feather’s last hoof, moving to the other horse and telling me I can feed Feather the apple now.
I notice for the first time that he’s wearing the same shirt from the fight. It’s been laundered; the bloodstains are barely visible, and the two buttons have been sewn back on. Sewn clumsily—I can tell that from here—but attached nonetheless. The ripped pocket still hangs loose, though, a flap against his chest.
“I could fix your pocket for you,” I offer. “The one that got torn in your fight.”
“No, thank you. As I said, I don’t want us to be beholden to each other.”
“This isn’t you being beholden to me; it’s me evening the score. For Rudolf. Besides, it’s just a pocket. And I’d do a professional job. I’ve been sewing since I was six.”
I see hesitation in his shoulders before they hunch protectively. “No.”
The air around us has shifted a little; it’s uncomfortable now. But I try not to take it personally. In the camps, I would not have handed my clothes over to a stranger, either. They were as likely to be stolen as mended.
“So I’ll see you tomorrow morning?” I try. “Bright and early? Dark and early?”
This time, he doesn’t even bother responding; he merely nods, shortly, as if I’m barely present.
Feather finishes the apple from my hand, and as soon as she’s through, I wipe my hands on my dress and make for the door.
THE COTTAGE IS EMPTY WHEN I GET BACK TO IT, HOT AND quiet in the middle of the day. The pen still lies where I left it before, next to the few sheets of paper I didn’t use for my letters to the relief organizations.
There are other kinds of letters I didn’t write, which I know I should. The one weighing on me most heavily is to Dima. I should tell him I arrived safely in Foehrenwald. I should apologize to him properly for taking the money from his pockets and thank him properly for the help he gave me. But when I press the pen to the paper, words don’t come. I know writing to him would be a kindness, but I wonder if it would also be unfair, that it would sound as if I was asking more from him or telling him to wait for me.
Dear Dima.
Was I telling him to wait for me? I want to make sure my apartment is safe for when I bring Abek back to it, but do I want Dima to be waiting in it? Right now, he feels far away. Right now, when I try to picture his face, I instead picture him telling me that he’d kept things from me because he thought I needed to be protected.
I cross out his name, using thick black lines, and start again.
Dear Gosia.
Before I can figure out what to say next, the door swings open, saving me from myself. Breine dashes in, sunny and pink from her work outside, out of breath as she scans the small room. “Esther isn’t here?”
“I just got back and haven’t seen her. Is everything all right?”
“We’ll try to find her on the way.” She dashes to the writing desk and glances at my feet to make sure I’m wearing shoes. “Quick!” she says, extending her hand.
I’d be worried by Breine’s rush, but she’s laughing—it’s clear that whatever she wants us to hurry for isn’t something bad. Slowly, too slowly for her liking, I cap my pen and slide my chair back.
“Breine, where are we—”
“Donation boxes! A big truck. Hurry, before all the good things are gone.”
I let her drag me out of the cottage, through the camp, and to the dining hall.
A cluster of people has formed inside, with more streaming in every minute, flushed and excited like Breine. They’re gathered around the central dining tables, which are piled with wooden crates. The lids are already removed, clothing and books spilling out.
“Grab some things quickly, even if you don’t like them,” Breine advises as we shoulder in at one of the tables. “That way, even if you don’t find anything else, you’ll have some things to trade later.”
The two women we squeeze between hover possessively over the table, positioning their bodies so the crates in front of them are just out of our reach. But when one of them recognizes Breine, she immediately makes room and tells the others to do the same.
“Breine’s getting married,” she loudly admonishes. “She gets first choice of anything that could work as a wedding dress.”
The other women step aside for Breine, who pulls me forward with her.
“What are you looking for?” I ask her. “If you could have any kind of wedding dress you liked?”
“White,” she says. “Long sleeves. And a neck that goes like—” She traces a curly pattern along her collarbone.
“A sweetheart neckline,” I offer.
“Yes, like that. Tell me if you find anything like that.”
I move next to Breine and dip my hands into the box. Familiarity shoots through my fingers like an electric buzz.
Cotton. Wool. Gabardine. Twill. The coarse butcher linen used for homemakers’ aprons, the nubby, textured Shetland used for winter suits. My hands get lost in the fabric. Deep inside the crates, I can identify them by touch. If I couldn’t touch them, I could probably identify them by smell. The quiet musk of a flannel suit; the pungent blush of taffeta transformed into a woman’s first party dress. The doll dresses I made as a child, dozens of them, out of the scraps of fabric my father brought home. The handkerchiefs, the coin purses.
Even more than walking into my family’s abandoned apartment in Sosnowiec, the expectedness of these clothes feels comforting. It feels like home.
Around me, women pluck sweaters and skirts from the crates, holding them up to one another for size or slipping them on right there over the clothes they’re wearing. The unwanted garments are left spread on the tables, a chaotic kaleidoscope of color.
“Oh, can I try that if it doesn’t fit you?” one woman says, pointing to the skirt another is wriggling over her hips. “Robin’s-egg blue is my favorite color.”
“It’s yours,” the other woman promises, stepping out of the skirt again. “But help me find something in a floral pattern. I always wore flowers.”
There’s something so tender in the discerning, critical way these women pick through the clothes. Not just grabbing things because they’re warm or because they fit, but looking for clothes that will help them reclaim the pieces of themselves they had to give away.
That’s what my family’s business did, at its best. Zayde Lazer was a businessman, and so was Papa when Zayde first hired him. But Baba Rose was the one who understood that clothing isn’t always a practical business. Customers buy things that make them feel more like themselves.
A young woman jostles into me, trying to maneuver her way into a fitted woolen jacket. “I love this, but I can’t raise my hands above my head,” she complains to her friend, demonstrating the tight squeeze, the strained threads.
“You just need to insert some extra fabric under the arm,” I say automatically.