A Private State: Stories by Charlotte Bacon Page B

other called "Pursuit of Happiness: The Character of Thomas Jefferson."
Elizabeth's students earned their diplomas in fragments, at night, which made her tolerant when they couldn't turn papers in on time. She understood working in pieces from her experience with genealogy, with its hunt for links and separations, its attempts at the neat articulation of relations, so tactile but evasive.

 

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It always amazed her how branches of information just disappeared. All this was why she asked her visitor, "Mr. Krystowicki, why don't I have your information on the chart?"
It was an early summer morning when he had heard the gunfire, the whine of rusted gates, the echoes of boots on concrete. The ones who were left had known someone would be coming soon, Americans or Russians. But it was bad to hear the sounds of an army again, even a liberating one. He had hoped for Americans; they were supposed to have food. The Nazis and their Poles had poisoned the well and burned the warehouse before retreating, although someone had found a bottle of wine in the officers' mess.
Then the Americans appeared, looking like tall, fat babies, with their long legs, their round cheeks. The first thing that had struck him at the evacuation camp was the smell of trees. All of them had been cut down at the lager. But everything was sharp and strange: the stiff arms of the new shirt, the hiss of jazz from a radio. He was beyond hungry, though all he could manage was a little rice. The tea was hot and bitter.
Instead, he walked. He heard the click of his hips as he tracked circles around tents in the light of a half moon. It was better with the sun down. He picked up speed. The air tingled his stubble. He jumped at a sound in the nearby woods, then realized it was the rattle of wind in leaves, as sharp to him as coins rapping glass. Going back to his tent, he ran into two soldiers with dark faces and bright eyes. He was on his knees. They had hands with callused finger tips that lifted him to his feet. One soldier put his rifle down and said, "It's OK, mister, it's OK."
"So that was the first thing I really knew about America," Joseph said. "Those soldiers. It's not the same place now; the soldiers aren't the same. Even then, just because you'd won didn't mean you were a friend to Jews. But it was enough. It made me say, no more Europe."

 

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Joseph lifted his cup to make sure it hadn't left a ring of mist. "In my camp, there were over two hundred thousand of us, Jews from all over, Gypsies, Jehovah's Witnesses. One hundred and seven were liberated." He made a fist that stayed planted on the arm of the chair.
Sun lit his face, his black eyes. He peered out the window, squinting. "It's three o'clock. What time do you have to pick up your daughter?"
Elizabeth jumped. Kate had been the last thing on her mind. Would he like to come to dinner? Was there anything she could do for him? There was still the chart to discuss.
He stood up and said, "No thank you. I will talk to you later about the chart." He complimented her coffee. She helped him with his coat and waited while he wound a muffler around his neck. They left through the kitchen door, which Elizabeth tried twice before she was satisfied that the lock had held.
Elizabeth nestled herself in a cluster of adults wearing sensible boots with crinkled soles. Au pairs, Tortolans and Finns, whispered to each other in the weak suburban light. The northern girls bore the cold with the stare of Samoyeds. The islanders blew clouds of breath on hands curled in ski gloves borrowed from busy mothers. Mothers who cleaned bathrooms, mothers who never had disturbing encounters with anyone, much less sharp, sad survivors of the Holocaust.
Elizabeth thought she would find comfort in the company of American grown-ups after her conversation with Mr. Krystowicki. Instead, she found herself wanting to tell the story to these young foreigners. They looked kind but tough. She wondered if this was why the children who