“They can be pen pals,” she said.
“I had a pen pal once,” I said, a secret grin on my face. But she was too busy imagining what our daughters would teach one another about their cultures to notice.
Eventually the women who’d made it to the hospital were well enough to leave, family members coming to collect them in some cases, others leaving of their own accord, a small bag of secondhand clothes they’d been given in one hand, a train ticket in the other.
Jelena was among them.
There were promises of keeping in touch, hugs, and a lot of tears, her hands shaking as she hugged Brigitte, gave Willa a last kiss, and then held me to her.
“Thank you, Lena,” she whispered. “I will never forget you and your unfailing kindness and bravery.”
My body shook as I sobbed. This woman had become my lifeline in our last weeks at the camp. She had delivered my baby. Her presence had saved my life in more ways than one. Saying goodbye felt impossible.
We watched her go, stepping onto a bus with several others, her face appearing in a window as she waved, the tears streaking down her face as the door closed and she was driven away into another unknown.
As more and more women left, the rooms becoming emptier, I grew nervous. I was still recovering, my body ravaged from malnutrition and giving birth. And I was scared.
“Have you sent your letter?” Brigitte asked me as we once more sat outside in the shade.
I’d written to my aunt, telling her where I was now, but I was scared to give the letter to the nurses to send. The war was over, but what if someone saw the address and asked questions? Was anyone still reading and censoring content? What if the letter was read and I was reported? What if it was found out that I was a German who had posed as an American for years? Would they make me stay here? Would I go back to jail? What would happen to Willa? Without my American passport to switch to at the borders, I would be seen for what I was, a German. And I couldn’t imagine that would get me home to New York. I had no idea where I stood post-war in a country that was mine, but that I’d rejected.
“I wrote it,” I said. “But I haven’t sent it yet.”
“Why not?”
I shrugged, averting my eyes.
“Lena...”
I nodded. “I’ll send it tomorrow,” I said.
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
The following day I held the letter in my hands, flipping it over, reading my aunt’s name and the address below.
“Is that for me?”
I looked up to see one of the many nurses entering my room. She smiled and pointed to the envelope in my hand. Hesitating, I stared down at the letter, then back at her. I nodded.
“We’ll get it out in today’s post,” she said, removing it from my fingertips before I could have second thoughts. She glanced at the address. “Ooh. New York. I’ve always wanted to go. You have family there?”
I held my breath and nodded. “I do. The only family I have left. Besides Willa.”
But if the nurse was suspicious, she didn’t show it. “Well,” she said. “Let’s hope this gets to them soon then.”
After tucking it in her pocket, she checked my vitals, moved aside as my breakfast was brought in, and promised to be back shortly with Willa.
“Would you like a room for just the two of you?” she asked as she took my temperature.
“Is that a possibility?”
“We just had a single clear out.”
“I’d like that.”
“Then it’s yours. We’ll move you after your morning walk.”
