He fiddles with the hem of his pants. Twenty meters away, I hear the thud of a soccer ball, the cheer of a team scoring a goal. “I know you wish we could go back to how we were before,” he says. “I know it’s disappointing.”
“No.” I start to reach for his arm and then think better of it. “I mean, of course I do. I want the world to go back to where it was before. But not because of you. I’m so happy you’re here. Are you? Aren’t you happy you came here?”
He pauses long enough that I don’t know what will come out of his mouth. I worry he’ll say he’s not glad, or he’s leaving, or that I’m a disappointment to him. But finally he hunches his neck down into his shirt collar and says, “I am. I think I am.”
You are worried about nothing, I repeat to myself. See, everything is fine.
THE NEXT MORNING, ONE OF THE FOEHRENWALD OFFICE workers brings me a note: Could I stop by the administration building that afternoon to talk about housing?
I can already anticipate the conversation. In the front room of the cottage, Miriam has left, but she was replaced almost immediately by two more girls, in a space that is now so filled with cots it’s nearly impossible to maneuver around them. I know it’s this crowded all over camp. Esther and I have been allowed such relatively luxurious accommodations because of Abek’s presence. Esther has been kind enough not to complain about sharing her space with a boy, but they wouldn’t assign other women into this situation. The administration probably wants to know what our plans are, whether they should reassign us to family housing or make different arrangements.
Before I can make it inside the administration building, though, I spot Breine on the edge of the courtyard, repotting some of the plants from the herb garden. She’s proudly wearing her new ring, even as her nails and hands are caked in dirt. Chaim is just a row over; they work in unison. They already look like a matched set, and she waves when she sees me.
I owe her an answer about whether Abek and I will go with them. She told me I needed to think quickly; she told me there wasn’t endless time.
The idea that there’s not endless time seems crazy to me. For years, it seemed as if there was nothing but time, stretching out like a nightmare, days that felt like years as we all prayed for an ending and for reunification with the people we loved. Nothing happened at all, and now everything is happening at once.
I owe Breine an answer, but I can’t give her one yet, so instead of stopping to talk to her, I return her wave from a distance and call out, “I promise I’ll talk to you soon.”
Inside the administration building, I pass Mrs. Yost’s office, and the door is ajar. I hear paper rustling inside, and I step inside to say hello, but she’s not at her desk. The rustling is coming from Mr. Ohrmann, the caterpillar-eyebrowed man from the aid organization. The desk in front of him is again piled with ledgers and composition books.
“Mr. Ohrmann! I’m sorry to disturb you; I’m here for an appointment with someone else, and I thought I’d just say hello to Mrs. Yost.”
“She told me she’s just running a few minutes late—a small fire to put out.”
“I’ll come see her another time,” I say, already retreating through the door. “I didn’t mean to disturb your work.”
“Miss Lederman—it’s Miss Lederman, isn’t it? Wait a moment. Mrs. Yost tells me you have been reunited with your brother.”
There’s nothing accusatory in the statement, but it still makes me feel guilty. Mr. Ohrmann tried to help me with my search, and I can’t even imagine how many cases he must be juggling. He looks exhausted, eyes red-rimmed. I should have found a way to leave word with him that he could take me off his list.
“I know; I need to contact organizations—yours, especially—and tell them they can close my file,” I apologize. “It’s just… it happened fast, barely a week ago.”
He’s already waving me off, unbothered. “I don’t get to hear nearly as many happy stories as I’d like, much less in person,” he says. “I’m just glad this is one of them. Have you decided what you’ll do next?”
“We’re trying to figure that out now. That’s partly why I’m in the building.”
“I wish you the best. I’ll tell Mrs. Yost you stopped by.”
I’ve already walked through the door when I hear Mr. Ohrmann calling my name again. When I step back into the office, he’s holding aloft a single sheet of paper with just a few typewritten paragraphs on it.
“Miss Lederman? If I’m going to close your file, I don’t suppose any news relating to Alek Federman is relevant now, is it?”
“Alek Federman? I suppose not. Thanks for checking.” I start to leave again, but this time it’s me who stops myself. “Why do you ask?”
Mr. Ohrmann is already sliding the letter back into a folder. “We found some news about him. But obviously not news that concerns you. The name similarity must just be a clerical coincidence.”
“Just out of curiosity, though, what is the news? Is he… alive?”
“I believe he is,” Mr. Ohrmann affirms. “It turns out he wasn’t in any of the records—death, transfer, or liberation—because he’d actually escaped a few months before liberation. He and another boy.”
“So you’ve talked to Alek?”
“My colleague talked to the other boy. They didn’t stay together after the escape—it hadn’t been planned, and they didn’t even know each other before it. They were both assigned to work outside the camp, and the truck left them behind. They thought splitting up would give them each a better chance of surviving. The other boy didn’t know where Alek is now, but it answers the question of why he wasn’t in any records.”
“I didn’t know anyone escaped,” I say.
Mr. Ohrmann nods. “It’s incredibly rare.”
“How did you learn about it?”
“I happened to be talking to a colleague about your search, and he remembered an interview he’d conducted months ago. The notes were still in a file. The young man—Alek’s escape partner—mentioned Alek’s name. The young man was looking for him, too.”
“But his name was really Alek,” I confirm. “It wasn’t a misspelling; his name was really Alek after all, not Abek?”
Mr. Ohrmann looks pained. “We believe so. It’s a little complicated. The interview was conducted through an interpreter. The boy was Romanian, a language none of us speaks. He was getting confused by the foreign names.
“Anyway. This isn’t your concern now,” he finishes brightly. “Yours is a file I can close.”
“But it sounds like Alek Federman’s is one you’ll have to open? Will you still find him? Is anyone looking for him?”
“You can’t get caught up in everyone else’s searches,” Mr. Ohrmann warns me.
“I know; I’m just wondering. Will anyone find out where that boy is?”
“Believe me, this is a lesson I have to employ myself.” Mr. Ohrmann shuffles more papers, a stack that never seems to get tidier despite his attempts to organize. “You just have to tell yourself: Yours is a file I can close.”