The Things We Cherished

by Pam Jenoff

  Charlotte accessed the Internet on her phone and found the Jewish Historical Institute. She dialed the main number. “Alicja Recka, prosze,” she requested when the operator answered. There was a moment of silence, then a click as she was connected to another line. Charlotte’s hopes rose, then fell again, as the phone rang four times before dropping her into voicemail.

  “Hello, Alicja,” she said when the prerecorded greeting had ended. Recka’s English was good enough that she did not bother to leave the message in Polish. “This is Charlotte Gold. I don’t know if you remember me but you helped me on some Holocaust research at Oświecim many years ago.” She spoke faster now, not wanting to run out of recording space. “I’m trying to find out the fate of a woman who was interned in the camps, name of Magda Dykmans. Any information you could provide would be greatly appreciated.” She finished by leaving both her cell phone number and e-mail address.

  Setting down the phone, she lay back on top of the duvet, closed her eyes. It was a long shot, the odds of finding information on Magda slim to none. Roger said he had looked everywhere and he undoubtedly had the benefit of additional information, such as Magda’s date of birth and maiden name. But she had to try.

  Suddenly, there was a loud knock at the door. She stood up groggily. How much time had passed? The heavy closed curtains shrouded the room in semidarkness, making the hour impossible to gauge. She opened the door. Standing there, juggling an armful of files, was Jack.

  She braced herself, expecting a continuation of their earlier argument or at least a comment about the fact that she had stalked out. “Roger was feeling tired and asked to excuse himself,” he said, as if that explained everything. “We can get more time with him tomorrow.”

  So they were done for the day. Then what was he doing here? He shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. “Can I come in?”

  “Sure.” She stepped aside, watching him as he set the files on the edge of the now-rumpled bed.

  He turned back to her, bit his lip. “I don’t want to fight anymore.” Neither, Charlotte realized, did she. But he had not apologized. In that way at least, the Warrington brothers were alike. “It’s been a long day,” he added.

  Charlotte’s mind reeled back and suddenly it seemed impossible that just this morning they were in the attic, searching the boxes—and waking up beside each other.

  “I brought some of the files from Wadowice with me. Why don’t we grab some dinner?” he suggested. “Then we can look these over, regroup, and figure out what to do next. Or do you want to rest some more?”

  Exhaustion swept over her then, vying with hunger for primacy. It was an old joke she’d shared with a roommate at college, the battle of sloth versus gluttony. But she was unwilling to admit to Jack that she was tired, lest he perceive it as a sign of weakness. “I’m going to hop in the shower and try to freshen up,” she said. “Why don’t you order some room service and we can go over the files.” She felt the blush creep up into her cheeks, worried about how her suggestion might sound. “I just meant it might be easier to spread out the documents here.”

  Twenty minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom, drying her hair, clad in a Philadelphia Eagles T-shirt. Jack sat on the edge of the bed, a series of papers from the files spread before him. “I ordered some dinner and—” He looked up then and faltered.

  What was it, she wondered? Her rumpled sweatpants and wet, tangled hair could hardly be considered alluring.

  He cleared his throat. “Food should be here in a few minutes.”

  “Great.” She dropped to the far side of the bed. “So when we last left off, you were saying you didn’t think we should necessarily go to Salzburg.”

  He nodded. “It just seems so improbable. The notion that the clock Roger is searching for still exists, or that this clockmaker might actually have it, or that even if it is still there, it would somehow help his case. I mean, how can a clock prove anything?”

  “He didn’t say the clock was the proof. He said it contained the proof.”

  “Proof of what?”

  “I don’t know,” she conceded. Roger had not said, in fact, that the clock contained evidence of his innocence.

  “It just seems like a needle in a haystack to me.”

  “You have a better idea?”

  He gestured to the papers before him. “Stay here, keep pressing Roger. Go over the evidence again to see what we missed.”

  “You’ve done that a half dozen times already. The clock is something new.”

  “I just don’t see it, Charley.” His voice was a note softer now. They stared at each other for several seconds, neither yielding. “Well then, maybe we split up. You can go to Salzburg and I’ll stay here and keep plugging away at the files.”

  Her stomach sank unexpectedly hard. She was not, she realized with discomfort, ready to separate from Jack. “What about Wroclaw?” she asked, searching for another option. “If Roger lived there with Hans and Magda during the war, do we need to search that house too?”

  “I already looked into that. After Hans’s arrest, the Nazis confiscated the property. Anything of value that was left there is gone.”

  Before she could reply, there was a knock at the door. She leapt up, grateful for the interruption. “That was fast.”

  “I didn’t know what you wanted,” Jack apologized, as she signed for the food. “So I ordered a bunch of stuff.”

  “I’ll say.” She surveyed the half-dozen dishes that crowded the tray. She lifted a cover off the first plate to reveal a veal cutlet bathed in savory sauce. “Why not? Brian’s firm is footing the bill.” She reached for one of the small bottles of wine that accompanied the meal.

  “I hope they’re paying you well, by the way,” he remarked as they sat down with their plates, she in the chair by the night table, he on the edge of the bed. “I mean, not that it’s any of my business, but you did sort of drop your life to do this for him.”

  Charlotte considered this last comment, searching for signs of judgment or reproach and finding none. “They aren’t. Paying me, that is.”

  He cocked his head. “Seriously?”

  She shrugged. “I guess they would have. I didn’t ask. I just negotiated Kate Dolgenos to handle Marquan’s case while I’m gone.” Which was worth, she reflected, more than she made in a year. But thinking now of the new roof her townhouse needed, the student loans that lingered accruing interest, she cursed herself for not driving a harder bargain. “He just caught me off guard, I guess.”

  “Brian can be very persuasive,” Jack agreed, chewing. “It wasn’t easy, you know, growing up with a brother like that. He was so much larger than life.”

  Charlotte paused. She had always thought of it the other way, Jack being the older and more intimidating of the two. But now she saw it through his eyes for the first time, living in the shadow of boisterous, confident Brian. “Is that why—” she hesitated, considering whether the question was too personal. “Is that why you stopped speaking?”

  He gave a laugh that came out equal parts chuckle and snort. “Sibling rivalry? Hardly.” Charlotte bristled, deciding whether to take offense at his derisive tone. In that moment, he seemed like the Jack of old, all of the warmth that had developed between them in the past day or so gone. But he didn’t mean it that way, she realized quickly. Rather, the topic was a raw one, and her question had touched a nerve.

  “And your family?” she pressed. “What do they think of you and Brian not speaking?”

  Jack shrugged. “No idea. Brian sort of won them in the custody dispute. That is, I still keep in touch, holiday cards and the like. But Brian’s so much nearer geographically, it just made sense that he would be the one to keep close.”

  “So you’re on your own.” He nodded. And as alone as I am, she thought. “I didn’t know, that is, I always wondered why you never—” She stopped, fumbling over the question.

  “Why I’m single?”

  “I suppose.” She finished the last o
f the roast potatoes that had accompanied the dish, then returned her plate to the cart. “Not that it’s any of my business.”

  He rubbed his chin. “I never did date much. You know, in the early years when we were teenagers, it was so awkward and Brian was such a natural at it. For me it was easier to bury my nose in a book. And then I guess the pattern just kind of stuck.” He laughed once, a short huff that seemed to bounce off the walls. “Brian asked me once if I was gay.”

  “Really?” She tried her best to feign surprise.

  “Yes, and he did it in that trying-to-be-concerned-but-rather-afraid-of-the-answer kind of way.”

  Charlotte smiled, picturing the conversation. “I know just what you mean.”

  “I’m not,” he added quickly. “In case you were wondering.” She did not know quite how to respond. She had never seriously considered the possibility and any doubts she might have had were erased by the kiss in the attic. He continued, “Anyway, love finds all of us, even if we aren’t looking for it. There was someone once …” His voice trailed off in the silent ellipses of pain she recognized from her own narrative. “Meeting people over here is just so difficult.”

  She nodded in understanding. Dating at home was awkward enough with the cheesy bar scene and posturing. Once upon a time she had thought that Europe, with its sophistication, might be better. But it was hard being the foreigner, dealing with the nuances of a different language and trying to fit in with the cultural norms, which in Poland had been right out of the 1950s. And there was always a sense of uncertainty whether a person was legitimately interested or just wanted something. One man had asked her on a date only to request midway through dinner that she go to the embassy the next day and pretend to be his cousin to improve his chances of getting a visa to the States. After that she had stopped trying.

  “What about you?” he asked. “Has there been anyone since my brother?”

  “Oh, yes,” she replied hurriedly. She could not bear to have him think that she had spent all of these years pining for Brian. And really she hadn’t—she seldom thought of him anymore, at least not until he appeared in her office a few days ago. She had gone on the blind dates that had been offered over the years, joined a running club that met once a week to jog the banks of the Schuylkill, even tried one of those crazy online dating services that everyone recommended, the one with all of the compatibility questions. There had been the obligatory first meetings over drinks, and once or twice even a second dinner leading to awkward sex. But there was never a connection and she soon retreated home with her cat. It was easier to be alone than in bad company. “I just never found anyone …”—she searched for the word—“… right.”

  He held her gaze for several seconds, not blinking. Until now, she thought, stunned. Despite her view of Jack from years ago and their frequent bickering now, she felt more comfortable with him than she had with just about anyone. But why was he staring at her? He could not possibly be thinking the same thing.

  “Are you sorry you came?” Jack asked, changing the subject abruptly.

  She looked at him, caught off guard by the question. Did he mean because of the nature of Roger’s case, or leaving Philadelphia? Or was he referring to something else entirely? She waited for a clarification and when none was forthcoming decided to take the easiest interpretation.

  “No. It’s a fascinating case. Fun to be back in Europe. And,” she swallowed, then spoke before she could decide whether or not to let the words come out, “it’s good to see you again after so many years.”

  She held her breath, wondering how he would take this last comment. A moment of silence passed between them.

  “Yeah, it’s great,” he replied wryly, “to meet up not in the shadow of my brother.” She looked at him, puzzled. He’s joking, she realized, as his face broke into a smile. He chuckled then, a lone scratchy sound that seemed wholly foreign to his being. The full irony of the situation descended upon her then, and she too began laughing, welcoming the indescribable sense of release from all of the tension and stress that had been building, within herself and between them, over the past few days.

  A moment later, their laughter subsided. He cleared his throat. “Earlier, when you said I didn’t like you …” He looked away.

  “You don’t—I mean, you didn’t,” she insisted, emboldened by the wine.

  A look of confusion crossed his face, so immediate and genuine she thought she had been wrong. “That’s not it.” He faltered, then shook his head. “Never mind. It’s getting late,” he said, rising. “I should go.”

  “Okay.” She stood up, stung by the abruptness of his announcement. It was after eleven, she noted, looking at the clock on the nightstand.

  He gathered his files, not looking back. “Good night.”

  She closed the door behind him. As she listened to his footsteps recede down the hall, she was surprised by a wave of disappointment at his departure. Well, what had she expected? This was not rural Poland; his apartment, located somewhere in the compact city center, was likely not more than a few minutes from here. There was simply no reason for him to stay.

  What’s wrong with me, she wondered? Jack’s effect on her felt unexpected and strange. It was just the history, she decided, his resemblance to Brian and the memories his presence generated. But he was what to her, exactly? She considered the question. A colleague, she decided, for the limited purposes of this case. And at some point in the days or weeks to come they would go their separate ways. But an uneasiness continued to tug at her stomach as she brushed her teeth.

  As she climbed into bed, there was a knock at the door. “Jack,” she said, surprised to see him standing there when she opened it. She scanned the room over her shoulder: Had he forgotten something?

  “Sorry to bother you again,” he said, then looked away, fumbling. “But I wanted to tell you, earlier, when you said I didn’t like you, well, nothing could be further from the truth.”

  There was a pause that seemed to last both a second and a lifetime, and suddenly his lips were on hers, with none of the hesitation or strangeness that there had been in the attic in Poland. Later, she could not remember who had kissed whom, or how the door had gotten closed behind him, but they were in bed, and this time there was no question of stopping.

  As his mouth trailed her neck, she reached out and caressed his cheek. He shuddered then, sort of a heavy sigh and a tremble that was visible in his lower lip. In that second, she knew how hard this was for him, how terrifying it was to let someone in. Knew because she realized that it was just as hard for her too. It was as if she had looked over the abyss, seeing for the first time how high up she was standing, how far down she had to fall.

  Afterward neither spoke. Charlotte lay in the crook of Jack’s arm, staring at the ceiling, letting the emotions—pleasure and confusion and awkwardness and doubt—wash against her like waves, waiting to see which one would stick. Terror swept over her then. What was she doing? This was exactly what she didn’t want to have happen. She rolled away, stiffening, fighting the urge to leap from the bed.

  “What is it?” he asked, turning to face her.

  “Nothing,” she said, but then the words seemed to spill from within her, from a place too deep to control. “It’s just that being here again … I ran away, Jack,” she confessed. “From all of this. I ran home years ago and I hid and this is the first time I’ve been out since.”

  “And it terrifies you,” he concluded for her. She looked up. “Surprised? Don’t be. I ran too, though I think retreated would be the fairer characterization.”

  “You?” she asked, perplexed. “How can you say that? You’re still out here, in the Great Wide World, living and working.”

  He smiled ruefully. “Retreat is more than a question of geography, Charley. Years ago, I met a woman,” he said. “The baroness.” Charlotte’s breath caught and she held it expectantly, waiting to hear the story at long last. “She was beautiful and cultured, but it was more than that. Caroline was br
illiant, made me see the world in a way I never had before. But she was married, and she strung me along for years with promises of a future together. Not that I was innocent. I knew what I was doing, the lives that I was compromising with my selfishness.”

  He reached up, running his hand through his hair. “Anyhow, her son died suddenly of an illness at the age of seven. It was a freak virus, and one of those things that all the money in the world, the very best doctors, couldn’t prevent. She decided that it was God’s way of punishing her for her transgressions with me. So she returned to her husband and I never saw her again.”

  Hearing the hollowness in his voice, Charlotte tried to imagine his pain, the guilt of the affair, and the heartbreak he could share with no one. “Afterward, I returned to work and tried to function as well as I could. But I was drinking too much, and things just spiraled downward. I was handling a major trial at The Hague and … I blew it, Charley,” he said, his face falling. “I mishandled a key witness and compromised her testimony, and as a result a war criminal who had slaughtered dozens of innocents was allowed to go free.”

  So that was the story, she thought, as the last piece of the puzzle fell into place. Not just about the baroness, but how he had come to be here. “Of course there was no question of my staying on after that,” he continued. “They let me resign and I was able to get the job at the firm. It’s safer, you know. The stakes aren’t as high.”

  At least until now, she reflected. Now someone’s life was in his hands once more. “I stopped drinking too, in case you’re wondering,” he added. She realized then that he had not touched the wine that had come on the tray with dinner.

  And what of their initial night together in the attic in Wadowice? She had presumed that the kiss had come as a result of them both being intoxicated. But now, looking back through the haze of the vodka at the events that had transpired, she could not remember him downing a single shot at the dinner party. Suddenly the portrait of the evening shifted, her drunk, him watching bemusedly. “So you see,” he said, “I retreated too.”