“I’m sorry about your brother,” I offered, several minutes later. “And about Shifra.” I wanted to comfort him in his grief about her, too, but it seemed I was the wrong person to do it.

He kept walking, not speaking. I tried again. “I understand. When my father...” Then my voice trailed off. I wished that my own sorrow and loss might have given me some wisdom, something I could say to ease his pain. Each person was an island in grief, though, isolated and alone. My sorrow could not help Saul any more than Mama’s sorrow could help mine when my father died.

We reached the annex. Saul did not reach for a book, but stared off into the distance. “Tell me a story,” I started. “About your brother.”

He looked at me, puzzled. “Why?”

“I think talking helps. So often since my father died, I have wanted to share memories of him. But my mother never speaks of him. I think it would help if she did.” I hadn’t been able to share that part of me after Papa died. But I could do this for Saul now.

Saul didn’t say anything at first and I wondered if he wouldn’t or couldn’t talk about his brother. Perhaps it was too soon. “He was the least likely of us to become a rabbi,” he said finally. “He was always getting into trouble. One time when we were little he decided that we should clean rocks with bleach. All over the house. Our mother was fit to be tied.” He smiled in spite of himself. “He could have left, you know, come with us. But he stayed in the village to help those who could not leave, to be with the women and children and offer religious comfort. Only now he’s gone.” His tears, the ones that he couldn’t shed while comforting his father and grandmother, began to fall. I reached out and put my arm around him, hoping he wouldn’t mind. He tensed for a second, as if to pull away, but did not. I drew him close, as if trying to shield him from the grief and pain that coursed through him, or at least share the burden so he wouldn’t have to carry it alone. I could not, of course, mourn for him. Being there, that was all I could do.

Saul talked on and on through his tears, telling stories of his brother, as if pressing the memories of his brother between pages to preserve like dry flowers. I listened quietly, asking a question or two when he paused and squeezing his hand when the saddest parts came. Usually after a while, when the moon dropped too low to light the annex, we stopped reading and returned to the chamber.

“We should go back,” I said after a while.

He nodded. Our families might wake and worry if they noticed us gone. Neither of us moved, not wanting to leave this quiet place where we could be away from the world. “And then there was the time that my brother fell in the creek,” Saul said, beginning another tale. He went on, his voice growing hoarse and cracked, pouring forth his memories in the darkness. When at last there was nothing more to say, he tilted his head toward mine and we closed our eyes and slept.