She addresses the question to the whole table, and almost everyone takes the opportunity to look at her and laugh.
Now I think I’ve seen something. Abek looks up from his plate. At me and then back at his plate again.
Is it because he’s worried about how strangely I’m behaving, or because he was the one reading the book?
Next to me, Esther keeps her head down and her voice low as she leans over. “Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m fine,” I say shortly, not wanting to engage in a conversation that would force me to take my eyes off Abek. But he doesn’t meet my gaze again. I want to bang my fist on the table, make a noise that will force him to look up. But what would that accomplish, besides alarm everyone else at the table?
What is any of my behavior accomplishing? My stomach is filled with dread. My stomach is filled with so much ill-defined, terrified dread.
“Please excuse me,” I say, rising abruptly, dropping my napkin on the table. “I’m going to go lie down.”
“Do you need any help?” Esther sets down her own napkin. “I can walk you back.”
“It’s just a headache coming on.” I improvise, trying to sound reassuring. “A migraine.”
“Oh, oh. My mother used to get those. They’re terrible.” Esther and the rest of the table make clucking sounds of sympathy. But also, I think, relief at having an explanation for my odd behavior. “I’ll definitely walk you.”
“No, I think I just need to be still.” I hold up my hands, preventing her from accompanying me. “In a very quiet room,” I add, hoping the last sentence will signal that I want to be alone and she and Abek shouldn’t come check on me. “I’ll lie down for a few hours, and then I hope I’ll feel better.”
“You don’t have a headache, do you?”
I jump at the hand on my arm. Josef has followed me out of the dining hall, appraising me knowingly.
“I think there’s something wrong with my head.” It’s the truest statement I can make.
He measures what I’ve just said. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not right now.”
“Is it about—”
“It’s not about you,” I interrupt. “It’s about something I need to figure out.” I continue on before he can offer the help I can see he’s about to offer. “And you can’t help me figure it out, and I don’t even know if there’s a way to figure it out. I just know I need to do it alone.”
He removes his hand from my arm. “I’m not sure how to do this,” he says.
“Do what?”
“I’m not sure if I’m supposed to just let you go, or if I’m supposed to insist on helping you because we’ve—because we’re…”
“You’re supposed to let me go this time, Josef,” I say, looking anxiously down the path toward my cottage. “Maybe not every time, but right now you’re just supposed to let me go.”
Reluctantly, he steps back. I can see him struggling with himself, wanting to listen to me but still certain something’s wrong. Finally, he forces a smile on his lips. “All right. But you’ll tell me if you need anything? I think I’ve proved that I will commit violence on your behalf. And that was before I liked you. Now I’m willing to be even more brutal. I’m willing to punch all the latrines.”
He leans in and kisses me. And for a moment, I kiss him back; for a moment, I consider that this is what I could do instead. I could stand here and kiss him back, his fingers tangled in my hair, his lips urgent against mine. We could go back to the dining hall, and I could behave normally around Abek. Tonight I could kiss Josef again, and life could just continue. Moving forward, as Breine suggested it should. For a moment, this version seems like a possibility. For a moment, my life goes in two different directions.
But then I pull away. Put my hand on Josef’s heart and step backward. I don’t think this version is a possibility. No matter how deeply and desperately I want it, I don’t think it’s ever been a possibility for me.
THE COTTAGE IS TIDY AND EMPTY. OUR THREE BEDS ARE neatly made. Esther’s stenography book rests on her nightstand, opened to where she was studying for a test, and my sewing supplies are on mine. Nothing is on Abek’s. He hasn’t collected any personal effects since he arrived.
What did he come with? I try to remember. He was holding a bag when he first appeared in the dining hall. I thought it was a pillowcase at first, but up close I later realized it was a satchel. Dirty, but well made and canvas. He was protective of it. He didn’t let me carry it when I offered.
On the other side of his bed, there it sits, propped against the wall.
After only a moment’s hesitation, I unbutton the flap and empty out the contents: The shirt he was wearing when he arrived. Two spare sets of underthings. A spare pair of socks. A crumpled piece of paper with painstaking handwriting providing directions to Foehrenwald.
Another sheet of paper, which I unfold. The handwriting on this one isn’t familiar, either, but the words are: It’s the notice about Abek I composed for Sister Therese at the Kloster Indersdorf. I can’t tell whether this is her handwriting, or whether it’s one of the copies she promised to dictate to personnel at the other facilities for children.
Did I ever even ask Abek exactly which one he’d come from, which one he’d seen the notice at? I don’t think I did. I don’t think I wanted to ask too many questions. I remember physically blocking the doorway with my feet because I was so afraid he’d leave. I needed so badly for this story to end the way I wanted it to.
The bag is empty. There’s nothing else inside. I turn it upside down to be sure, shaking and shaking it, sweeping my hand over the bottom lining to be sure.
The lining—could something be sewn into the lining?
I rush to my nightstand and open the drawer, tossing all my belongings onto the floor until I find my scissors, leaving the drawer open as I take them back to the satchel. I hold the scissors aloft. I’m about to stab through the canvas when I stop and picture what I must look like. Hair wild. Breathing heavy. Scissors held in the air.
What am I hoping to find? What evidence could possibly answer my questions either way? A detailed confession letter? A diary? None of that would be sewn into a lining. There’s nothing. What am I doing?
What am I doing?
What am I falling back into? My body feels, all at once, the way it did in the hospital months ago. My heart is heavy with nothing. My brain is aching with nothing. I have nothing, I weigh nothing, I am nothing except for the weight and grief I’ve been carrying around for what feels like forever.
I slump against the wall, sliding to the floor, my head scraping against the plaster.
And that’s when I see it: a dingy triangle. A scrap of cloth, peeking out from between the mattress and frame of Abek’s bed.
I crawl over to it on my hands and knees and take it between my fingers.
Muslin. I immediately recognize the material as muslin. But it’s older, tattered, dirty. White at one point, now rust-colored and stained. When I pull it out, I see it’s a much bigger piece of fabric than I expected. The bundle looked tiny because it was rolled into a small tube. I spread it flat on the ground and begin to unfurl it.