25

The clues are elsewhere. In a colour photo, Sonia sits on the edge of a sofa. She wears a blue-and-white striped skirt, black high heels and a white cardigan. Her back is partly turned to the camera. Her dyed brunette hair falls over the nape of her neck to her shoulders. A pearl earring can be made out on her right earlobe. Beside her lies a newspaper and, at the end of the sofa, a pillow. Toys are scattered over the carpet.

Sonia is bending forward, and her face is turned to a crawling toddler. The child’s back is arched, and his hands are planted firmly in front of him. His head is tilted up to her. The two have clear eye contact, each fully focused on the other.

The energy between them is palpable. There is trust and intimacy. The toddler is at ease. He is safe and protected. Sonia’s arms are outstretched, her hands turned upwards. Her fingers are spread wide, and her palms are open. Her entire being is a forward gesture. There is no past. There is no future. Just this moment: a grandmother reaching out for her grandchild. Nothing else exists, nothing else matters.

And there are two black-and-white photos of Sonia and Simche, taken in Bergen-Belsen. One is a family portrait of the couple and their first-born son, Zalman, named after Sonia’s father—Solly in English. He is a few months old.

Simche wears a dark shirt and a well-cut jacket of light flannel. He is a snappy dresser. He has a tailor’s eye for fashion. Sonia wears a vest over a dark blouse with floral patterns. The fabric looks like silk. The shoulders are lightly padded, and the sleeves just above elbow length. Elegant. After all, she too is a tailor. Little Solly sits between them, in a white woollen jacket. He clasps a furry animal. He is smiling.

Simche too is smiling; a toothy grin, but there is something else, something unexpected. He wears his fatherhood lightly. Father and mother are at ease with themselves, and at ease in each other’s company. There is clarity. There is love between them.

And love too in the third photo. Sonia and Simche are younger. It must have been taken soon after the couple’s arrival in the displaced persons camp. They are in a hospital ward. Most likely Sonia is pregnant with Solly.

The ward is identifiable, even though only Sonia’s bed and part of a neighbouring bed are visible. They are two among the many iron-framed army cots that stood side by side in the spacious rooms of the Glyn Hughes Hospital. A medical chart is attached to wooden staves behind them.

Sonia is sitting up in bed. Her head rests upon Simche’s left shoulder. She leans into him. Her bearing emanates trust. His left arm is draped round her back. He wears a crew-necked shirt and dark trousers. His hair is short and black. He looks very young, barely older than a teenager.

Sunlight streams in through an unseen window, shaped, it seems, by gaps in the curtain. One stream illuminates the white sheet wrapped round Sonia’s shoulders; and another, her left cheek and forehead. It extends to Simche’s left hand and highlights his face in profile. It accentuates Sonia’s beauty.

For a time the fight is over. Simche and Sonia have ceased running. Other battles are yet to come, ferocious, unrelenting. Terrifying. But in this blessed interlude, the two are as one. At peace. Together.