Slowly Jakub leads Adam across the courtyard. When they reach their mother, they pause while she sinks to her knees. I imagine she’s longing to wrap them in her arms and smother them with kisses, but she’s waiting for permission, afraid of overwhelming them. I watch with bated breath, praying Jakub will reach into the depths of his memory, will recognize the poor woman who has lost everything and has spent four agonizing years dreaming of this moment. Surely he’ll recall something, anything, about the mother who loves him so much.

Hania studies the little boys who emerged from the toddler and infant she once knew, drinking in every detail. “Do you know who I am?”

“Your name is Hania, and you’re our mother. That’s what Matusia Matylda said,” Jakub replies, and I smile at his use of the endearing title. “She said my name is Jakub, not Andrzej, and Henryk’s name is Adam.”

Hania nods and fights to contain a fresh wave of tears while she murmurs in Yiddish. Jakub’s eyes narrow, and he looks at Mother Matylda for an explanation. The mother provincial casts a sympathetic glance at Hania; again my heart twists into a painful knot. None of the sisters could help Jakub retain knowledge of the language. The one Adam hasn’t had the chance to learn.

The same understanding must come over Hania, and she pauses midsentence. She swallows hard and produces the family portrait she kept throughout our time in the camp. After handing it to her sons, she points to their faces. “That’s me, and that’s you.”

Her sons consult the image, then Jakub assesses her. “You look different.”

She chuckles. “So do you. This photograph was taken four years ago. And this is your father, Eliasz.”

“Where is he?” Adam asks.

“We’ll see him again someday,” Hania says softly, but her voice wavers. She takes their hands in her own. Adam takes a trusting step closer to her, and though Jakub still looks uncertain, he doesn’t pull away. “You were so small when your father and I sent you away to keep you safe. We missed you terribly, but Matusia Matylda could protect you in ways we couldn’t. Even though we weren’t together, I kept you with me each day because I thought of you, I missed you, and I loved you. Do you remember the day you left?”

Jakub shakes his head. Adam shakes his head, too, as if he feels left out. I expected the response, but it’s still disappointing.

“That’s all right, because I remember it. Adam, you were a baby—”

“Like this?” He points to himself in the photograph.

“Yes, exactly like that. Jakub, you were hardly three years old, but you promised to be a brave boy. I can see you’ve kept that promise. Will you continue being brave?”

After considering the query, he nods.