They Went Left

by Monica Hesse

There’s something so tender in the discerning, critical way these women pick through the clothes. Not just grabbing things because they’re warm or because they fit, but looking for clothes that will help them reclaim the pieces of themselves they had to give away.

Slowly, I slide my own hand down his arm and lace my fingers between his. This exchange takes forever, whole minutes. Only when he lets out a little breath am I sure that this is what he was hoping I’d do, and only when he gratefully curls his fingers around mine, like they’re starving, like I am safety, do I realize he was afraid I wouldn’t. His fingers are cooler than mine, and they feel solid and real.

He sighs. “I don’t know. I’m not the right person to ask about stupid things. I start fights with people bigger than me, remember?” “I get on trains and cross countries,” I say. “That’s not stupid. That’s brave.”

Watching the whole exchange, I’m overcome by a memory. “Use three dots,” I suggest to Esther. She hovers her fingertip just over Breine’s cheek. “Three dots?” “My aunt Maja always told me: one dot of rouge lined up below the pupil, one about two centimeters lower, in line with the tip of the nose, and a third high on the cheekbone. You make a triangle with three dots, and then blend in between for the most flattering appearance.” I laugh. “I can’t believe I suddenly remembered that.” “We’ll do three!”

I forgot that pleasure could feel this strong. After years of feeling nothing but perpetual, insistent pain, my body had begun to feel like an instrument of it. Like it was built to withstand things rather than experience them.

there’s a difference between loving a person and loving a memory of them. Or loving who someone is and who you want them to be.”

But as we are sitting here at this table, two desperately, desperately lonely people, what I keep thinking is this: It is its own kind of miracle. For the boy who found my muslin letter, years ago, to have managed to keep it all this time. And for him to then come and look for me, after the war. And for him to then hear about another letter that I wrote, three years later and hundreds of miles away, that I pinned on a board in the middle of a camp where all the children were looking for something. For me to have met the nun in a convent who happened to be in charge that day, who happened to remember a boy that sounded like my brother. For me to have met a Russian commander who told me about the existence of Foehrenwald. For me to have invited an old family friend to that dinner, who spoke Russian and could help translate. To bring me to this moment, a hundred things had to happen in order, and they all happened. None of these are the miracles I was looking for. But they’re miracles nonetheless.