“That’s not true.”
“It might be true,” she said, and took his cigarette from him.
“Why must you be so negative about everything?”
She sucked in smoke, drew her arm over her belly. “I don’t know, Gerhard. Why do you think?”
“Perhaps I should go check on Harry,” Rose said. “He’s awfully quiet.”
“I’ll come with you,” Gerhard said. In the hall, he whispered: “You mustn’t mind her.”
“I don’t,” Rose said. “I don’t mind her at all.”
Gerhard exhaled, opening the door to the boys’ room. It was strangely silent inside. Harry was . . . where? Then Rose spied him, lying on the rag rug facedown—one leg to his chest, the other splayed out akimbo, arms above, framing his head. Nothing about the position looked comfortable, but he was steadfastly asleep. “He looks so peaceful,” she said.
“Probably cried himself to sleep,” Gerhard said matter-of-factly. He knelt down and scooped the boy up. Rose was surprised when he didn’t wake up, but Gerhard seemed to take it for granted. He sat down next to his son’s balled-up sleeping form, patted the plaid coverlet beside him. “How’s your new Englishman—is he for God and love and country?”
“Thomas?” she asked, though of course that was who he meant. “He wants to leave too.”
“Screw the whole lot of them.”
“Indeed.” Here, in the moment with her brother, her ally no matter how great their differences, she meant it. “I’m not leaving England.”
“Now, that’s good to hear.” Gerhard leaned back on his elbows against Harry’s bedspread. He looked like a giant, Rose thought, a blond English giant. “But you’re not really finished with him, are you? I hear you’re bringing him to supper next week. I want to meet this man who has captured my sister’s heart.”
“I don’t know,” she said. She was so worn out. “Captured my heart is not exactly the way I’d put it.”
“I didn’t ask how you would put it,” Gerhard said, and gave her an appraising look. “You’re going to marry him. I know it.”
“How can you say that?” His certainty rankled her. “You haven’t met him. You don’t know if you like him, or if he’s good for me.”
“But you like him,” Gerhard said, unfazed. His hand was on Harry’s small back. She watched it rise and fall with every breath. They both did.
His calm conviction infuriated her. She had vowed not to say anything to Gerhard, but now the words tumbled out: “I thought I had found Mutti’s picture. I thought I had, but I didn’t.”
“What? What picture?”
“The Bellhop, Mutti’s Bellhop,” she said softly.
Gerhard’s confusion turned to irritation. She could see it, plain on his broad face. “Why in heaven would you think it was here in England, of all places?”
“It has to be somewhere.”
“No, it doesn’t. Good Lord, mausi, you’ve been searching for it?”
She didn’t answer, and he stood. The mattress shifted with the lessening of weight, and Rose reached out, hand on the bed, steadying herself.
“Why not?” she said, looking down at her chapped hands, nothing like the slender long-fingered hands of her mother. “What’s wrong in thinking that we might find something?”
“It’s over,” he said roughly, with sudden force. “That life, it’s gone.”
She shook her head. She was staring at the bureau, at the leather-bound book of Harry’s she’d been reading before, written in a language that she worked so hard to claim as her own, when she repeated: “Gone? They didn’t vanish. They were stolen. They could be anywhere—houses, basements, museums, collecting points. But they didn’t disappear.”
Gerhard emitted a strange, horrible laugh. “Fine. But they’re gone.”
Rose shook her head, trying to rid herself of his words. How could he? Didn’t he realize how ugly this sounded, what a betrayal it was?
All she wanted was proof. All she knew was this: February 1942, their parents had been sent to Theresienstadt. In January 1945, most of the camp’s prisoners were sent east. In May 1945, when the camp was liberated by Russian troops, their parents were not among the survivors. Had they died in the chaos of the brutal winter of ’45? Were they shot on the march east? Did they stumble into a ditch somewhere? Were they together at the end? All she wanted was proof of their deaths. She who didn’t pray prayed for corroboration.
“Things do not disappear. People don’t disappear.” She was shocked to hear that she sounded—not uncalm. She wanted to hit her brother, do him true bodily harm. He had a body; how dare he not recognize what a gift that was. How dare he not feel, as she did, that their parents’ paths had been their paths. There was no godly reason they had survived and their parents hadn’t. Didn’t he feel, as she did, like a ghost? “They were killed. Murdered,” she said softly. “They did not disappear.”
Gerhard looked at her with a gentleness she was startled to recognize as pity. “I know that. You think I don’t know that? But it’s over. For your sake—and mine—it’s enough, Rose. Enough.”
“You are wrong, so very wrong,” she said, and she was crying openly now. All she could think was, I need to leave right now. Because the truth of what he was saying would destroy her. She thought this, and she realized: it already had.
11
Los Angeles, 2006
Why couldn’t she stop thinking about it? Why couldn’t she let go? Lizzie awoke alone and headachy in Max’s lovely, low, king-sized bed. Light was bleeding in along the edges of the heavy curtains; the day had long begun. She was feeling the detritus of last night, the booze and so much food and all that was said. She pulled on the jeans she’d worn yesterday and the first T-shirt she could find, made her way into the kitchen. It took her a moment to realize that Max was seated at the table, already dressed and groomed.
“You came in late last night,” Max said.
“Not that late. I was back by ten. You must have fallen asleep early.”
He got a mug and went to the carafe to pour, the coffee already made.
“I can do it,” Lizzie said. Even she heard the bristle in her voice.
“Sure thing.” He made a show of backing off. “If you want.”
“Don’t,” she said, shaking her head. She was too tired.
“Lizzie, I’m sorry.”
She focused on her tasks: milk, sugar, stirring. “I really cannot talk about this now.”
“Okay,” he said. “But we need to, at some point. I mean, I want to.”
She glanced at the digital display on the stove. “I need to get going, actually.”
“Where?”
She was still so angry at him, she couldn’t believe how angry. “Are you surprised that I have places to go?”
“No, not at all. Come on.”
She blew into her mug, cooling it down, trying to calm herself down. She took a swallow. “I’m sorry. I’m going to synagogue,” she said, though it had only occurred to her in the last few moments to do so.
“You are? Why?”
“I went last week,” she said, aware she wasn’t answering his question.
“You didn’t tell me.”