Chapter 12

Bern, August, Sunday—Present Time

Bern was cleverly designed with covered, arched passageways for walking and window shopping. Red-and-white streetcars glided quietly on rails in the middle of the street, and trolleybuses followed. I enjoyed the walk to my hotel, only a few blocks from the train station. It had the same gray stone facade decorated with colorful flags as many other buildings along my way. The reception area was efficient, with the computer kiosks checking travelers in and out with the push of a few buttons and a clerk only supervising the process and handing out the room keys.

“You’ll need your credit card and passport, please,” the clerk instructed me.

“Oh, sure.”

The passport was quickly in my hand, but my wallet wasn’t in its usual spot. I kept searching, wishing I hadn’t overstuffed the backpack.

My wallet had to be here, didn’t it? When was the last time I used it?

I’d bought a muffin on the train, I remembered. Right before I ran into David. A sudden chill went through me and gripped my throat. I didn’t use the wallet when I bought the muffin; I used those small euro coins in my pocket. I sat down on a chair nearby, spilling the contents of my backpack onto the floor, to the obvious displeasure of the clerk. I searched furiously.

It wasn’t there.

Makeup—check. Phone charger—check. Kocher book—check. Good luck charm—check. Everything else seemed to be in its place.

I clapped my hand to my mouth, a scream ready to escape.

Something else was missing. Something I never bothered to check if it was there anymore, because it was always there in the backpack or any purse I carried. A tiny photograph of Ella and me standing in front of a cherry tree, our hands and faces stained with cherry juice, wearing matching peony-print sundresses. It was always zipped safely into the same pocket as the wallet, safe from rain and from accidentally falling out.

I tried to breathe, panic rising, dizziness settling in my head like a thick fog. I put my head between my shaking knees. I refused to believe this was happening. I’d had the picture since I was a little girl. I had carried it in my backpack throughout high school, brought it to the U.S. as a refugee, and taken it to college and then to medical school every day. It had survived travel through the cities and villages of Guatemala.

I searched my mind frantically for how this could’ve happened. I shopped at the bookstore yesterday, and then we went to have drinks. Today, I bought the ticket at the Gare de Lyon. Then I remembered: That person who was sleeping across the seat from me on the train, when I woke up from my nap! Whoever that was likely stole my wallet and the picture, and then pretended to be asleep!

I hit myself on the forehead. What an idiot! How could I have fallen asleep? I was always so careful. I knew to watch over my stuff. I knew to watch out for pickpockets. I’ve never had anything stolen in any cities or in South America. I must’ve let my guard down now that I was in Europe. How could I have let this happen?

“Hey, you okay?” Two dusty hiking boots appeared in front of me.

I looked up, forcing myself to take in enough air to answer. A young woman in a beanie, with earbuds in her ears and a piercing in her lip, was looking at me kindly.

I shook my head to clear the fog. “My wallet was stolen on the train on the way here.” Tears came, but I didn’t care.

“You got any other money?” she asked. Her eyes appeared sympathetic.

“What for?” I wiped the tears on my sleeve.

“You need a room here, don’t you?”

It hadn’t even occurred to me that I had no way to pay for a room now. It was evening and I had no place to sleep. I stood up and kicked the couch I was sitting on, desperation giving way to anger.

She took out her earbuds and handed me her cell. “Better call someone to bail you out.”

“No. Thanks. I still have my phone.”

She shrugged her shoulders and left.

Shit. Shit. Shit!

I bit my lip and called Pauline. She paid for my room and breakfast, after giving me a quick lecture on watching out for pickpockets. I didn’t tell her about the picture. She never knew I had it.

I dragged my suitcase and backpack into the elevator, down the hallway, and into my room. At least I had eaten on the train, as I had no way to pay for any food tonight. A few phone calls and identity checks later and my new credit and debit cards were on their way to the hotel. The thief had only purchased a few items so far. I should’ve felt relief, but I felt awful. An aching in my chest kept reminding me of my sister’s picture, gone forever because of my utter stupidity.

I allowed myself to wallow for another few minutes, then washed the tears off my face, brushed my hair into a ponytail, and bravely went out to the tourist information center. The streets were lively in the warm summer evening, with people enjoying the weather and dining out at small tables filled with fragrant food, wine, and beer. My stomach growled as I passed by a chocolate store and spotted perfect round truffles of all colors. I inhaled the sweet aroma and thought of killing the thief if I ever got my hands on him. I really wasn’t very hungry at all, I kept telling myself. It was the thought of not having money to buy food that was so distressing. Especially when I was alone in a strange city where everyone was out and eating. Somehow being alone no longer felt like an adventure. A fleeting thought to call David occurred to me, but I had had enough embarrassment for one day.

It happened when I left the tourist information center at the Bahnhofplatz. My mind ordered me to turn and look at a grand building across the street, with a wide green lawn in front. I knew exactly what the structure was in my heart, but my rational mind searched for confirmation. I ran back inside and jumped in front of a man restocking street maps.

“What is that building across the way?” My heart was beating rapidly.

“That’s the University of Bern. The main entrance. Would you like a map of the campus?”

“No need, thanks.” I was already off.

A week ago, I would’ve been frightened. But today I stroked my ring gently, then found myself walking down Länggassstrasse, making a left on Bühlstrasse, and standing in front of another university building. I knew the archives would be closed this late at night, but I was desperate to see something—anything. With my multiple layers of grief about so many things, I had completely forgotten why I was even here. I didn’t need a map, as I had a perfect memory of the campus in my mind, although a thought did occur to me that perhaps things might have changed since the beginning of the last century.

Now what? I asked no one in particular, then saw the plaque on the building: “Institute of Anatomy, Bühlstrasse 26.” It didn’t take long for the memories to come. The images came almost like a slideshow, except at the speed of a hundred slides at a time. Wooden seats in a small lecture hall, full of men in suits and women in long-sleeved lace blouses and their hair in chignons, all listening intently. A man at the center of a lecture hall, in a white apron, holding a human heart and talking. Women’s faces as they ran up the steps of the auditorium while picking up their long skirts. And a young man with small round glasses and love in his eyes.

I stood still, letting this play in my mind. Was this young man Mark? Suddenly, as quickly as this slideshow began, it was over. I tried the handle on the door. Open! I looked around for any security, but there was none. I walked in cautiously, nervous about being caught. The place was deserted, but lights were on in a large corridor with a ficus tree and a bust on a white pedestal.

My nervous heartbeat echoed my footsteps on the stone floor as I approached a door next to the bust. Emil Theodor Kocher. I carefully opened the door next to the bust, and it revealed a large room finished with woodwork and paintings, set up as a theater. An anatomy lecture theater! I walked in, all fear of discovery forgotten, and sat down in one of the seats in the middle row, listening to the ticking of the wall clock and looking at the skeleton in the corner. I didn’t have to wait long to see the image of a professor, in a long white coat over an old-fashioned suit, lecturing at the center. My fingers ached suddenly, as if I had been taking notes for a long time. The professor looked sternly in my direction and my heart sank, with a sudden desperate desire to run. But I knew the woman whose memories I had inherited never ran away. I felt her resolve and pride and determination.

I walked out a few minutes later, all fears gone. It felt good to be her. She was strong. She was loved. She was not afraid. And she was definitely not alone.