The camp was deserted. After Reiniger’s victory, the place—and all the others, far, far too many others—had been seized, exorcised. There were no SS at the gates. No rifles resting on their shoulders. No bristling Alsatian dogs at their sides. The watchtowers stood blind. Weeds sprouted through the rocks between the railroad ties—the ones that had whispered Yael’s name to her so many years ago. (Yah-ell, yah-ell, yah-ell.)
They said nothing now, adding to the silence that lay thick over the place. It hovered above smokeless stacks, walked the empty barracks, seeped through every brick and board, soaked into the souls of all who heard.
They were few; they were more than Yael could have hoped—the ones who’d come to pay their respects. Most of the community from Neuberlin made the journey, bearing candles and matches, stones and prayers. There were others, too, men and women Yael didn’t recognize. Some spoke Russian. One couple had a baby. There was a young man whose face reminded Yael so strongly of Aaron-Klaus that she had to stare at him a good three seconds before deciding that, no, she was not seeing ghosts, just visiting them. Some were already lighting their Yahrzeit candles, flames shivering against their palms as they coaxed their matches, set them to the wicks.
Yael’s candle and matches remained in her pocket. She didn’t want to light it alone, because she did not have to. Miriam was here, somewhere. They’d endured the drive from Neuberlin together, navigating the final stretch of gravel road, past the pines that grew along it. Again, Yael wanted to run into the trees, but as soon as they reached the gates where Rabbi Rosenthal and the others were beginning to gather, Miriam clapped her on the shoulder and said, “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
So Yael stood, taking in the quiet. A wind rushed through the forest—carrying pine-needle whispers and a sappy scent she couldn’t remember from her childhood. Evergreen had outlasted the smoke.
When Miriam returned, there was a strange look on her face: heavy and hard and hopeful. Soil was wedged into her knuckles and nail beds. She held her hand out to Yael, unfurled her palm.
Soft flesh, life line, grainy wood.
Yael couldn’t speak when she picked up the doll. She could not cry when she twisted the biggest one open and found the next, and the next, and the next. Four faces, each different, all of them there. Aside from some loose clods of dirt, the set of matryoshka dolls looked untouched. Plucked straight from dark-night memories: the offering of the Babushka’s wrinkled hands, Yael falling asleep with the family knotted against her chest, Miriam’s promise to keep them safe.
They’ll all be together again someday, she’d told Yael.
Neither of them believed that day was a real, tangible thing. That twelve years later they’d be standing outside the open gates, preparing to light candles for the dead.
Yael took the smallest doll from her pocket and placed it inside the rest. Snap, snap, snap, safe. Not ten steps away, Rabbi Rosenthal cleared his throat to greet the group and bring them into a more organized mourning. Those who’d been lighting their candles stood, and though they had all the space they’d ever need, their group drew inward, shoulder to shoulder, knit tighter than any. Miriam’s hand found Yael’s, squeezed hard. Yael squeezed back and did not let go. Her other hand held the doll tight.
Wind was still sweeping down from the pines when it was time to recite the Kaddish. It wrapped itself around the voices of Rabbi Rosenthal and the other men, gave their words wings. The prayer lifted up, up, out.
Yael shut her eyes and listened.
Here was a people. A family. A faith.
Her people. Her family. Her faith.
Here was a silence broken.