The Lost Letter

by Jillian Cantor

  I consider Karen’s question, about whether or not he’s cute, and he kind of is, when he stammers like this, like I make him nervous. I blush thinking about her other comment, that I should have sex with him. But I push that ridiculous thought away and open the door wider. “Come on in,” I say. “I really don’t sleep much anymore. Just happened to have a little bit of wine and fall asleep on the couch.”

  Benjamin eyes the half-empty bottle of chardonnay on the coffee table, and I quickly pick it up and move it to the kitchen counter. “I do that sometimes,” Benjamin admits, then looks a little sheepish, as if he’s just admitted something too personal to me, something he shouldn’t have said.

  “Have a seat.” I gesture toward the couch.

  “No, I can’t stay. I just wanted to give you this.” He pulls an envelope out of the inside pocket of his coat.

  I take it from him, and at first I think it’s another letter, another piece of the Fräulein Faber puzzle, but there’s no stamp, no address. The outside of the envelope is blank. “What’s this?”

  “Jack called me back with the address right after you left. And you just looked so upset. And then I figured, well . . . I thought maybe you have some time off for Thanksgiving next week. And I thought we could go visit Mrs. Kleinfelter in person.”

  “Wait, what?” At his office earlier he hadn’t even seemed that interested in pursuing things any further. And anyway, it didn’t seem like Mrs. Kleinfelter was in any shape to be pursued. “I can’t just go to England next week,” I say after a moment of shock. “It’s . . . expensive.”

  “I have miles,” Benjamin says. “I travel a lot. Go to a lot of philatelic conferences. I have a lot of miles.”

  “I couldn’t take your miles.”

  “You already did,” Benjamin says, pointing to the envelope in my hand.

  I shake my head, still confused, though I peek inside the envelope and there is indeed an airline ticket to London with my name on it.

  He clears his throat. “You don’t have to go. I can trade your ticket back in. After you left my office, I just decided I should go. That it would be a good time for me to get away next week. And I wanted you to be able to come along.” His cheeks get redder as he rambles on, and it’s endearing that he’s attempting to include me in this crazy scheme of his. “I mean it’s fine if you can’t or don’t want to or you’re busy . . . if you have plans for Thanksgiving or something.”

  I’ve spent every Thanksgiving of my adult life either at my dad’s house or, for the past few years, at Daniel’s mother’s house. This year I’d planned a lunch at the Willows with my dad and then turkey and wine for one back here, which barely counts as plans. Not plans that can’t be changed, anyway. “Don’t you have plans for Thanksgiving?” I ask him. I find it hard to believe that he doesn’t.

  “I hate Thanksgiving,” he says.

  “Who hates Thanksgiving?”

  He ignores my question. “I’m leaving on Tuesday. Coming back the following Sunday.” Then he adds, “If you don’t want to go, can I get the letter back from you so I can take it with me?”

  But I don’t want to give the letter back to him. I do want to go. I want to take the letter to Mrs. Kleinfelter myself, meet her in person, hear her story, and I hope that she’s in good enough shape to tell it. “I’ll go,” I say. Benjamin opens his mouth, raises his eyebrows a little, surprised that I’ve taken him up on his offer, which also seems odd given that he showed up here with a plane ticket. “Thank you for doing this,” I add. “Really. It means a lot to me. And I’ll find a way to pay you back for the ticket, and your time, too.”

  “Not necessary.” Benjamin turns around, and he’s already halfway out the door. He seems more uncomfortable now than he was when I was calling his idea crazy a few minutes ago. He’d expected me to say no.

  “But I want to,” I say.

  “You don’t need to pay me. It really wasn’t a big deal. I have a lot of miles, like I said.”

  I put my hand on his shoulder to stop him from running out, and he turns and looks back at me for a minute. “It is a big deal. To me,” I say.

  He averts his eyes, shakes my hand off, and starts walking down my path toward his car in the driveway. “I’ll see you next week, at the airport,” he calls behind him. Then he adds: “Don’t forget to bring the letter.”

  Austria, 1938

  AFTER ELENA AND MIRIAM left to get on the Kindertransport, Kristoff returned to the workshop. It had been only a few weeks since he’d been here last, but in that time a new law had been passed for the Aryanization of all Jewish businesses, and it felt like it had been forever since Kristoff had actually worked here, with Frederick. It was the middle of December, and the weather was colder than Kristoff could ever remember. It seemed the world had frozen, just after it had been scorched.

  Kristoff held the burin in his hand and it felt like a foreign instrument all over again, the way it was when he first came to live here. He didn’t feel like working with it, practicing, having the attention to detail and the concentration to force metal into tiny difficult lines. And besides, he had no real work to do, no stamps he should create even if he wanted to. So he put down the burin, got his charcoal and his sketch pad, and he began to sketch instead.

  He imagined Miriam and Elena, on a long train ride across Austria, headed toward a new life in England. He sketched them until his hand began to cramp up from holding the charcoal for so long. He sketched and sketched for days, until the entire workshop was filled with his drawings of the girls, as if by drawing them he could conjure them back, here, with him.

  A few days after Miriam and Elena left, Kristoff received his first visit from Herr Bergmann, who came to the Fabers’ home accompanied by two German soldiers.

  Kristoff was in the workshop sketching when they arrived, and had just come back from bringing Frederick lunch at the cabin. When he was there, Frederick had told him that he wished to come home, to work again. It’s too dangerous, Kristoff had told him, and besides that, illegal now. Frederick had said he didn’t care. But as Kristoff saw the three Germans walking around the back side of the house, toward the workshop, he knew that he’d been right. He was relieved he’d talked Frederick out of coming back here, and then immediately terrified to face these men.

  Kristoff quickly gathered all his drawings into a pile and turned them facedown, and then he opened the door to the workshop for the men before they knocked, or before they could kick it down. The truth was, he’d been expecting them. If not them, specifically, then someone. With Frederick out of commission, he had no idea who in Austria was engraving the stamps, and he didn’t know how the German engravers and printers would be able to suddenly keep up with the overwhelming demand of having to frank a whole new annexed country’s mail.

  “Hallo.” Kristoff waved and called out to the men, trying to keep his demeanor friendly, trying not to show that he was actually terrified and seething inside. That he hated these men and what they stood for. That he hated that they had taken Mrs. Faber away, somewhere. That Miriam and Elena had been forced to leave home, to run so far, so quickly, and that Frederick was living in a one-room cabin, hidden in the woods.

  Herr Bergmann introduced himself as head of the Ministry of Postage, and he and the other men walked inside the workshop and began looking around, as if they belonged here. Herr Bergmann examined the engraving tools on the worktable. “Where are the Fabers?” he asked. His features were unflinching, devoid of any emotion. It seemed he was not asking after people, a family who used to live and work here, but about a cut of meat he might be ordering from the butcher.

  “Frederick died in the fires a few weeks back. And Mrs. Faber . . .” Kristoff shrugged, hoping they would tell him where she was, but they didn’t. Herr Bergmann simply nodded, in recognition. He knew that they had already come for her, and though Kristoff wanted to ask whether she was okay, whether she could come
back here, he held his tongue out of fear.

  “What about the children?” Herr Bergmann asked sharply.

  Kristoff wasn’t sure whether it would anger them to know about the Kindertransport, that Elena and Miriam had left the country. So he simply said that they had left, too, gone to Vienna, which was also the truth.

  Herr Bergmann nodded again, seeming satisfied. “And you were the engraver’s apprentice?”

  “Yes,” Kristoff said.

  “And you know how to use the tools?”

  “Yes,” Kristoff said again.

  “Good, then we have rid the place of Jews. And we have kept all the equipment and your expertise.” He ran his hand across the worktable, over the burins and the chiseling tools. Kristoff swallowed hard, fighting back all the angry words he felt building up inside of him. “I’ve come here with a request for you. A job from the Führer himself. You should feel very honored,” Herr Bergmann said.

  Kristoff felt full of anger. He did not want to do anything Herr Bergmann—or Hitler—asked of him. But he knew they weren’t actually asking. He couldn’t say no. Perhaps that was why Herr Bergmann had brought the soldiers along, in case they’d found Kristoff uncooperative. “Yes?” Kristoff heard himself saying, trying his best to sound eager, though he was certain he was failing. That Herr Bergmann could see straight through him.

  But he appeared not to have noticed. “The Führer would like to have some new German postage stamps, paying homage to the beautiful places that now belong to Germany. Scenes from Österreich, if you will.”

  “Scenes from Österreich?” Kristoff repeated. Pay homage to the beautiful places of Austria? It seemed at odds with burning them down, didn’t it? But again, he didn’t speak his mind.

  “Yes, come up with some sketches. Landmarks, scenery. We have pride in Österreich. We want to show this on our stamps.” He stared closely at Kristoff’s face as he spoke, and Kristoff tried not to react to any of Herr Bergmann’s words with the horror he was feeling. “I’ll be back in a few weeks to see what you’ve come up with. The Führer himself will choose the ones he likes best and you will engrave those into plates to make into stamps.” He paused and stroked his mustache. “We will compensate you, of course.”

  “Of course,” Kristoff murmured. It made his stomach churn to think of drawing sketches for the Führer’s approval. Taking money for it. That Hitler would see and touch and enjoy his sketches made him feel even more ill.

  Herr Bergmann raised his hand in a salute. “Heil Hitler,” he said, and the soldiers followed suit.

  Kristoff raised his hand up and did the same, but after the men left, his stomach continued to heave, and he ran outside to be sick.

  It was hard to focus on the beauty of Austria, the awe Kristoff had once felt in Vienna as a boy. He’d used his sketch of Stephensdom in order to get his apprenticeship, and Frederick had told him then he had a good eye. He remembered once having sketched the Opera House from just across the plaza. It was a lazy summer day, and he’d taken his lunch from the orphanage—a stale piece of bread with apricot jam (because it was summer, and Sister Marta made her own apricot preserves especially for the boys). He’d sat in a patch of grass, his sketchbook on his lap, and had drawn all the beauty of the Opera House with this feeling of greatness filling up his bones: the vast blue summer sky above him, the sounds of chirping of birds and the smell of newly opened flowers, of his own freedom, surrounding him.

  Sitting in the workshop, cold and alone, Kristoff wished that he could feel as happy and free as the memory of that day in Vienna. He wished that he didn’t understand the pain of a synagogue burning, of Mrs. Faber being stolen from her home, of Frederick being forced to stay away from a profession that he loved, and most of all of Miriam and Elena having to run. Elena. He wished he had never met her. Never kissed her cold lips in the woods. The emptiness he felt now was never-ending, unyielding. Could he run from that, from here? Just abandon the engraving tools, the Fabers’ house, Frederick and Josef. Just disappear onto the streets of Vienna that once had been his own. Could he get it back, that feeling of contentment and peace? Could he forget about Grotsburg, flames, engraving plates, burins, Elena’s lips?

  Every time he closed his eyes he saw her. He could still taste her, still smell the apricot of her hair. He knew he would not be able to forget about her, no matter where he went.

  And anyway, Kristoff couldn’t run away. He wasn’t a runner. He did not abandon people who needed him, the way his mother once left him on the steps of the orphanage. As tempting as it was, he knew he couldn’t leave Frederick’s fate in Josef’s hands. He couldn’t abandon the Fabers’ home and Frederick’s workshop either. He’d promised Frederick he would look after it, keep it safe. Kristoff didn’t break his promises.

  And so Kristoff drew what Herr Bergmann asked of him. Scenes from Österreich. He drew them from memory, the beautiful buildings in Vienna, which he realized he had no idea now whether or not they were still standing. But he drew them as they were, the Austria he knew, the Austria he once loved.

  Kristoff showed his sketches to Frederick a few days later. He carried his sketchbook with him, along with the food he brought to Frederick daily. As he walked through the woods he was careful to check if anyone was following him, since he didn’t know exactly when Herr Bergmann and the soldiers might return. But no one was. Kristoff was all alone, living in more solitude than he ever had. The quiet haunted him, and he had trouble sleeping at night inside the Fabers’ large empty house, all by himself.

  Kristoff walked inside the tiny cabin, and found Frederick sitting on the floor this afternoon, leaning up against the wall, reading a book Kristoff had brought him earlier in the week. Kristoff had pulled a pile out of Frederick’s former study, and the one Frederick was reading now was Edelweiss by Berthold Auerbach.

  “Good book?” Kristoff asked as he walked inside and set the bread and hard cheese by Frederick.

  Frederick’s face looked so thin, his still-singed beard seemed to hang at an unnatural angle, and his hand that had gotten frostbite did not look so good. He’d unraveled the bandage and his fingertips had a greenish-bluish cast. It was his left hand, though, at least, and Frederick was right-handed. So he would be able to draw and engrave again. Someday.

  “I’ve read this before,” Frederick said, his voice quieter than usual, nostalgic, and perhaps in rereading it he was remembering another time, a happy time. “You know what Auerbach says of the edelweiss flower?” Kristoff shook his head. He had never come across this particular book in the orphanage. “He says, ‘the possession of one is a proof of unusual daring.’” Frederick paused to take a bite of the stale bread.

  Kristoff knew the special meaning of the edelweiss flower, how important it was in Austria, how it symbolized purity and love, nobility. How the flowers grew in the most unexpected and hard-to-reach places high up in the mountains. But he’d never before heard this particular expression.

  “You know many men have died trying to go up to the rocky cliffs where the edelweiss grow. They want to show their love for a special fräulein, perhaps, give her such a beautiful, noble flower. And they are stupid, who knows.” Frederick grimaced.

  “Proof of unusual daring,” Kristoff repeated.

  “That’s why I made the edelweiss stamp, you know?” Frederick’s voice grew raspier. “I wanted to give my Minna an edelweiss flower of her own, but I didn’t plan on dying doing it.” His eyes filled with tears, and he turned away from Kristoff.

  Kristoff leaned down, touched Frederick’s shoulder gently. He wanted to comfort Frederick, to tell him that everything would be okay, but he wasn’t sure it would be, and he couldn’t bring himself to lie. “It was a beautiful stamp,” he said instead. “A beautiful gift. I bet she loved it.”

  Frederick wiped his eyes a little with his good hand. “At least the girls will be safe now,” he murmured. “The best things I ever
created. Better than any stamp.” Kristoff wondered what it would be like to create a person, a child, and he wasn’t sure he ever would want to. That he would have it in himself to be a father knowing how terrible and cruel the world can be.

  “If nothing else,” Frederick said, “at least the girls will be safe in England.” He put his book down, and finished off the food. “What’s that?” he asked, suddenly noticing the sketch pad Kristoff had brought along with him, and Kristoff hesitated before handing it over and explaining what had happened with Herr Bergmann and the soldiers.

  Frederick took the sketch pad and began to flip through. “These are very good,” he said. “The Führer will be pleased with you.”

  “I hate that.” Kristoff felt anger rising in him, his neck flushing with warmth in the cold cabin. “I hate him.” He was nearly shouting. He felt nauseous again.

  “I know,” Frederick said calmly. He handed Kristoff back the sketch pad. “But better he should be pleased than you should disappoint him, my boy.”

  Kristoff thought about what Frederick had said on the freezing, lonely walk back to the house. So it was better to please a madman than to anger him? Better to do what he asked than to fight him? But he’d promised Elena in the woods, the day he’d kissed her.

  You’ll fight them, won’t you, Kristoff?

  Working with them, making the stamps they wanted, beautiful scenes from Österreich, seemed the exact opposite of fighting them.

  Kristoff gathered firewood from the dwindling pile and walked inside the house to light a fire in the dining room. The table looked long and empty, almost foreboding. It was a Friday night, and the house was so cold, so empty. No one had a baked a challah—he didn’t have the slightest inkling how to—and the house was devoid of all its former good, warm smells that Friday nights and the Sabbath had always brought.

  Kristoff tried to remember where Mrs. Faber kept the Shabbat candles. He went into the kitchen and searched through the cupboards until he found them, and he walked back into the dining room, put them on the table, and lit them.