“Did he give it to you like the soldier gave you the comic books, or did he give it to you like the soldier gave you his watch?”
“Like the comic books,” Lemuel says. “I promise, we weren’t gambling.”
“How much alcohol is in it?”
“There’s no alcohol at all.”
Sister Therese uses the bottle opener to pop off the metal lid and sniffs the contents. When she’s convinced the boys aren’t lying, she hands the bottle back. “Share with your bunkmates. If there is any left after all your thirsts are quenched, bring some to me.”
“Thank you, Sister!” Lemuel calls over his shoulder. “You’re our favorite.”
“And if the kickball game is still going in the cloisters, each team gets one more at-bat,” she yells. “Then, dinner.”
The boys leave, a tumble of energy, and then Sister Therese turns back to me. “I’m sorry. As you were saying? You’re looking for something?”
I can’t find my words, though. I’m still staring after the two boys. Could one of their bunkmates be Abek? Is he waiting, just behind the door or just down the hall, to try a sip of the Coca-Cola? A stupid, stupid hope grows in my chest.
The door opens again, and this time it is the one I came through, this time it’s Josef, cap in his hand, looking at me without even exchanging pleasantries.
“Is he here?”
“Is who here?” Sister Therese asks, looking between us.
“Her br—”
“No, he’s not here,” I interrupt quickly, hoping Sister Therese doesn’t notice that my voice is unnaturally loud, but hoping Josef does. “And it’s a ‘she.’ The director is a woman, but we’ve missed her; she’s not here today.” I turn back to Sister Therese and prattle on. “Josef and I are from Foehrenwald. He was hoping to talk to Frau Fischer about trading supplies.”
Josef’s eyes are on me, confused. I look away because I can’t quite explain myself. I know what I’m doing doesn’t make any sense.
All I know is that this place, with its kickball games in the cloisters and red-cheeked boys who run in to ask for help opening bottles of Coca-Cola, I want my brother to be here. But if he’s not, I’d rather have twenty more minutes of hoping.
“I’m sorry you missed Frau Fischer,” Sister Therese says worriedly. “She didn’t tell me anyone was coming. I can put you in touch with the man who runs our storeroom; he should be able to tell you what we can spare.”
“That’s fine,” Josef says slowly, still trying to figure out what I’m doing.
“And if you like, you can stay for dinner. I was just about to go help with preparations.”
“Of course,” I say. “We’d like to stay and—and see the whole camp. All the children.”
Sister Therese leads us through the back door, and while she’s busying herself locking up the office, Josef pulls me to the side and raises both of his eyebrows.
“It just wasn’t the right time to tell her yet,” I whisper. “I just didn’t want to—”
“Here, let’s cut through the cloisters,” Sister Therese says, finishing up with the lock, sliding the keys into a hidden pocket.
The hallway we’re in is lined with low, arched doorways. She chooses one, heavy and oak, and before she even opens its door, I hear cheering on the other side; the tail end of the kickball game. And not just kickball. The whole cloisters are alive with children. Three girls with braids have scratched a chalk hopscotch game onto the pavement; two older boys toss a ball between them. My breath catches at the sight.
Abek isn’t in this group, either. I scan them all as soon as we walk through the door; it’s the first thing I do, without even thinking about it. None of the children look like him.
But when is the last time I have seen so many happy children? Was the last time five years ago, before we started whispering stories to one another about Auschwitz? Was it before the Nazis closed the schools to Jewish children, so we were forced to hold classes in our apartments, small groups sitting at a kitchen table, learning in secret? Was it before the war started at all?
“How many are there?” I whisper. “Where have they all come from?”
“About three hundred are here right now.” Sister Therese looks on approvingly over the group. “It changes every day, though. Parents come, or we receive telegrams. Or new children arrive. A nine-year-old, just yesterday. We don’t see many in that age range. He’d been traveling with the British Army. They adopted him, I suppose you could say, as a sort of mascot, but eventually they realized that was no life for a child.”
“Nine years old,” I repeat. “So most of the children are—”
“Most of the children who come here from the camps are between twelve and seventeen,” she says. “The younger ones…” she trails off, but I don’t need her to finish the sentence. Anyone younger would have almost no chance of being left alive in a camp.
“Do you have many twelve-year-olds?” That’s how old Abek is, right on the brink.
“At least twenty. The stories of how they survived are miraculous.” Sister Therese closes her eyes and raises her rosary to her lips. I’m jarred by this act of public devotion, a reminder that some people went through the war able to believe God was still watching over the world.
Then Sister Therese opens her eyes and briskly claps her hands. The yard games don’t stop, but most of the children at least look up at the sound. “This is really the final at-bat for kickball. Does everybody hear me? Supper is in fifteen minutes.”
The dining hall is much smaller than Foehrenwald’s, lined not with the round tables we have but with long rectangles, benches on either side, in a room where the windows are stained glass. As we walk in, a few children set the places with flatware, and adult women help them, most not in habits but in regular street clothes. From the kitchen, more volunteers appear, carrying vats of what smells like stew.
“Place of honor.” Sister Therese shows Josef and me to seats at a table near the front of the hall. “But your plates will be just as chipped as everyone else’s, I’m afraid.”
I take the spot facing the door so I can watch everyone as they arrive. A girl with freckles. Not him. A boy with a limp. Not him. A boy on crutches, missing a leg. Not him, I think with relief, because I can’t bear the thought of Abek suffering enough to lose a limb. But then I think, of course my brother missing a leg, a foot, an arm would be a welcome sight to come through the door, of course we could work through that suffering. The children come in a stream first and then scattered clumps and then one solitary figure at a time, rushing in, late, wedging themselves between friends.
Not him. Not him. Not him.
“How long did the trip take you?” Sister Therese, presiding over the head of the table, passes me a basket of rolls.
“Most of the day, but we stopped to eat,” I say, distracted.
Not him.
He’s not here. I know that for sure when the doorway has stayed empty for a full minute and the tables are full, when my ears are ringing from the clatter of spoons. “This is everyone?”
“There are two girls in the infirmary. Their meals will be served there.”