The Things We Cherished

Roger wiped his boots on the mat and looked up expectantly. Forty-three, the number above the doorway of the row house read. He compared it to the slip of paper in his hand once more. The address was correct. He raised his arm, then hesitated, wondering if it was too soon to knock again.

As he reached forward, the door swung open, leaving his hand flailing in mid-air. A slight woman with dark hair and pale skin appeared in the doorway. They stared at each other for a moment, not speaking. Roger had never met his brother’s wife. There had been a photograph of an impromptu wedding in Geneva, a hastily scrawled letter, as Hans’ invariably were, apologizing that circumstances had not enabled them to have proper nuptials, or at least come to Wadowice and make introductions to the family before they wed. Their mother, always eager to find an excuse for Hans’ inattentiveness, had speculated in a more outspoken way than was proper that perhaps Hans’ bride might be with child. But six months later, the woman who stood before him was willowy, showing no evidence of an impending birth.

“You must be Roger,” she said, stepping aside. “I’m Magda. Come in.”

“Vielen Dank.” She was taller than he had imagined. In the photograph she had appeared more slight, clinging to Hans’ side in the shadow of an alpine slope, gazing up at him with an expression that seemed midway between trepidation and awe. Here in her own home without her husband, she seemed to fill the space, moving through the light-filled house with ease.

“I can show you to your room, if you’re tired from the journey,” she offered, as she led him into the sitting room. “Or perhaps some tea.”

“Tea would be nice,” he replied, setting down his bag and taking the chair she indicated. “If it isn’t too much trouble.”

“Not at all. Hans would have been here,...