“Sofie, read it,” Jürgen said, gently taking my elbow to ease me down to sit on the step of our porch. I was grateful he did—my knees had gone completely weak.

Dearest Jürgen and Sofie,

I thought you were both dead, and I imagine you might have assumed the same about me. But you are alive! And I am alive and well and living in Washington, DC. Please call me as soon as you get this!

Love always,

Mayim

“How far is Washington, DC?” I blurted. The corners of Jürgen’s eyes crinkled as he smiled and pointed to the phone number beneath her signature.

“It’s a long way by car. No distance at all by phone.”

She answered on the first ring, and I imagined her sitting by the phone waiting, ever since she posted the letter.

“Hello?”

Her soft voice, hopeful and anxious and beautiful. I croaked out her name in response.

“Mayim…”

“Sofie…”

“How?”

She was laughing and crying—something about my snow boots and money and a husband and children and a newspaper. Over the sound of her sobs and mine, I couldn’t make out half of the words. But who cared about specifics? I was speaking with a real-life miracle. It was some time before we calmed down enough to swap stories through our sobs.

“I had two precious years with my family after I escaped Germany, and then two years in the Krakow Ghetto with them too,” she said, but the smile in her voice faded as she went on. “I survived two years in Auschwitz, although I cannot tell you how. They all died—Grandfather and Mama and Moshe’s wife and son on the first day at the selection, then Moshe a few weeks later. It was hell on earth, Sofie—things I cannot even allow myself to think of now—but later, when we meet in person, I will tell you…”

“You don’t have to,” I replied. “But if you want to, I’ll listen.”

“And finally, it seemed to be ending and Soviets were coming and those Nazi monsters sent us on the death march. For all of that time, I’d held on to those snow boots of yours. Some nights I would be sleeping on the ground, so cold and scared and tired, but at least my feet were warm, and I always thought of you. Every night, I thought of you. We were liberated and I was taken to a Red Cross camp, and then I met Ben and I wrote to you.”

At this, I gasped.

“I didn’t get a letter from you!” I was so sure she’d write to me if she’d survived, so when years went by without word from her, I forced myself to come to terms with her death.