togetherness. We never hold one another and cry. But with Gaby I can
allow myself to grieve. One day I ask Gaby about Eric. He remembers
him but doesn’t know what became of him. Gaby has colleagues
working at a repatriation center in the Tatra Mountains. He says he
will ask them to see what they can learn about Eric.
One aernoon Gaby examines my back. He waits until I am lying
down on my stomach to tell me what he has learned. “Eric was sent to
Auschwitz,” he says. “He died in January. The day before liberation.”
I erupt in a wail. I think my chest will break. e blast of sorrow is
so severe that tears won’t come—only a jagged moaning in my throat. I
am not yet capable of clear thoughts or questions about my beloved’s
last days, about his suffering, about the state of his mind and his spirit
when his body gave out. I am consumed by the grief and injustice of
losing him. If he could have held on for a few more hours, maybe even
just a few more breaths, we could be together now. I moan into the
table until my voice goes hoarse.
As the shock dissolves, I understand that in a strange way the pain
of knowing is merciful. I have no such certainty about my own father’s
death. To know for sure that Eric is gone is like receiving a diagnosis
aer a long ache. I can pinpoint the reason for the hurt. I can clarify
what has to heal.
But a diagnosis is not a cure. I don’t know what to do with Eric’s
voice now, the remembered syllables, the hope.
* * *By the end of July my fever is gone, but Gaby still isn’t satisĕed with
my progress. My lungs, compressed too long by my broken back, are
full of Ęuid. He worries that I might have contracted tuberculosis and
recommends that I go to a TB hospital in the Tatra Mountains, near
the repatriation center where he learned of Eric’s death. Klara will
accompany me on the train to the nearest village in the mountains.