There is something more sticking inside the envelope that had contained the engagement portrait. Rebecca fishes it out gingerly. It’s a small slip of paper, torn along one side. It’s hardly anything, just a slip of brittle paper printed with the words:

Day:……………..

Name:….….…….

No. Pieces:….………

There is very faint pencil writing on the dotted lines, but because of where the slip is torn, Rebecca can only make out part of the writing all the way down. “Mar—” is on the first line, “P. Auerb—” is on the second, and “25—” is on the third line. At the bottom, in a different hand, in a darker grease pencil or crayon, is printed “Jaco—.” Whatever this slip of paper signifies, it is important enough for Esther to save it all these years with her engagement photograph. Rebecca tucks it, with the photo, back into the envelope with care.

What else? Sales contracts for cars long gone. A union lapel pin. A Brooklyn Public Library card for Isaac. A class photo of Isaac’s from Brooklyn PS 3, with all the boys in jackets and ties. Rebecca notes with interest that there are five blacks in the class. Were they called colored then, or Negroes? Isaac’s diploma from Boy’s High School. A report card of Isaac’s, also from Boy’s High. A certificate of appreciation from ORT, folded inside a cardboard folder, with gratitude for Esther’s meaningful years of service. A 1972 letter from Teddy Kollek, mayor of Jerusalem, inviting Esther to go to Jerusalem as his guest. Rebecca recalls no such trip ever taking place. In fact, Esther never left the country, so far as she knows. A letter dated March 31, 1911, from Mayor William J. Gaynor of New York City, addressed to Miss Esther Auerbach, c/o Mr. and Mrs. Solomon Loeb, Hartsdale, New York, offering her his sincerest condolences on the loss of her sister and her fiancé, whose “heroic deeds and brave demeanor shall be remembered in the city of New York for decades to come.” Several of Rebecca’s elementary school report cards, stapled together. A postcard of Bear Mountain that Rebecca suddenly remembers, the moment she sees it, having chosen it and mailed it to her grandmother from Girl Scout camp her first summer away. A 1956 news clipping from the Long Island Express, in a small unmarked envelope of its own, with the headline TRIANGLE FIRE SURVIVOR SUCCUMBS TO SUSPICIOUS BLAZE, reporting on the death of Morris Jacobs. A 1990 note card from Rose Freedman, postmarked California, saying, “It was good to see you at the ceremony. It’s hard to believe we were both so young, now that we’re both so old. Nisht schlect!” One more worn brown envelope remains in Rebecca’s lap, along with a confetti of brittle paper crumbs shed by all the papers she has been unfolding and refolding.

The train is pulling into Bridgeport. The nosy businessman has closed his laptop and tucked it into his briefcase, which he now snaps shut on his lap with weary precision. He tosses his Wall Street Journal on the floor under the seat in front of them before standing up. His suit jacket is folded fussily in the overhead rack, and he reaches over Rebecca for it carefully so as not to drop things from the pockets. Rebecca waits for him to leave before opening this final envelope, which is sealed closed with tape newer than the envelope, which has many folds and creases from previous use.