She finally looked at him. He looked like all of them. Not eyes with light. Just dark eyes. Dull. No contrast. A shell with a skeleton frame and a fine-shaped head. His dark hair was sparse, and she could see his scalp. It was red in parts. It needed ointment. A caring hand to apply it. You couldn’t see those places by yourself.

“Marry you?” She managed to laugh.

“You are Jewish, I am Jewish. We can start a new life in America.”

“You are crazy.” She swept away from this crazy man.

“Don’t you want to get out of this place?” he called. “Don’t you want to get away from the memories?”

And the thing was, she did. Very much so.

“I will think about it,” she finally said.

He stood. He was not tall and not short, but of medium height. Somehow Sarah liked it, his medium-ness. A tall life was no longer possible, of that she was certain. But meeting this man was like tasting the first bite of some potentially medium life.

“Please, do,” he said. “My name is Sam, by the way.”

And Sarah watched crazy Sam walk away.

The next day, she was sifting through the Mahzor Romania prayer books, to see what might be salvaged, when she heard a familiar voice echo from downstairs.

“Sarah Batis?” the voice asked. “I am looking for Sarah Batis.”

Sarah didn’t think, just burst across the room toward the aron and leaped inside the ark. She’d once hidden there as a child, among the Torah scrolls, playing hide-and-seek with Rachel. But there were no Torahs anymore, because the Nazis had looted them.

“Sarah?” she heard. “Sarah, are you here?”

Sarah peeked through the crevice of the doors of the aron and watched Milos wandering through the pews. Milos, in his sweet tweed cap, searching for a person who no longer existed.

Sarah held her breath, watching him, wanting him—and yet willing him away.

When he’d gone, she went to find Sam. She said, “I will marry you.”

Six months later, she found herself on a boat with him, heading to America.

Well, that’s all I have for you for now, Milos. It’s a relief to have written it. It’s a relief to have it outside of me. I want you to know something. It’s important I tell you this. I forgive you. I forgive you, Milos. It’s not your fault they died. It’s not your fault I died inside. It’s not your fault we couldn’t be together.

I loved you then and I love you now. Love doesn’t die, Milos. Love doesn’t even need to be reciprocated. Love just is. It doesn’t get to make a choice. That’s what I know to be true.