Silence falls. This long-awaited news felt so far off for so long; now it’s here, real. A few relieved sighs and breathless prayers of praise fill the quiet even as a sudden tightness seizes my chest. This nightmare of a war is over, but mine lingers. Sometimes I feel closer to the end, surrounded by these people whose presence strengthens and sustains me. Other times I feel as I did that first day in Auschwitz, finding my family and realizing that the life I had known was shattered beyond repair. What is life after war? Returning to the lives we left is impossible, yet creating a life anew feels nearly as insurmountable. We live, fight, and survive while the memories—and the past—endure.

As murmurs and chatter take over, Irena leads me to her bedroom. Once there, she pulls a box from underneath the bed and runs a finger along the closed lid.

“I’ve had this since the twenty-seventh of May, 1941. When you didn’t meet me for our resistance work, I went by your apartment. I didn’t think you’d be alive to claim any belongings, but I gathered these before pillagers had a chance. That way, if anyone came looking for you, I’d have a few items to offer them. It’s not much, but it’s something.”

Irena places the box in front of me. Slowly I remove the lid and pull each item out, one by one. Three of Karol’s toy soldiers and two of Zofia’s hair ribbons. Tata’s favorite gray fedora with the wide brim and blue Petersham ribbon and Mama’s favorite crystal vase. Our rosaries. Best of all, a framed family portrait. It’s the last photo we took together, and I clearly remember that April day in 1941. We dressed in our finest clothes and spent hours with the photographer, taking picture after picture so we could get the perfect shot. That was a few weeks before everything changed.

I look at Irena, but I can’t speak through the tears that close my throat and blur my vision.

“Don’t forget these.”

She produces the items I didn’t notice, too distracted by the keepsakes. A few large stacks of zloty, money my parents likely withdrew from their bank account and kept hidden in the apartment. I hardly glance at them.

“This didn’t fit into the box.”

Irena reaches under the bed and produces Tata’s cane. The wood is as dark and rich as I remember, and though the silver head is tarnished, it’s as beautiful as I recall. I clutch the handle, smooth from his grasp, and tap the cane to the floor, then grip it with both hands. Suddenly it’s the only thing keeping me on my feet.

“One more thing. This didn’t fit into the box, either.”