Free Finding Sophie by Irene N.Watts Page A

windows.
    When I come down at nine next morning, there are two letters lying on the front mat. A bill for Aunt Em and a letter addressed to me c/o Miss Simmonds.
    My letter is from someplace in Germany – not from Berlin, where my parents live. The return address on the back is marked U.S. ARMY HOSPITAL, MUNICH, GERMANY .
    My mouth goes dry. This must be the letter I've been half expecting since the end of the war.
    I can hear Mandy's voice in my head: “Why don't you open it, idiot?”
    I can't. The minute I touch the envelope, I feel exactly the way I did on V-E night when I saw Marianne again.
    Who else is going to appear from the past? Isn't that what Aunt Em said?
    I sense the letter staring at me, urging me to open it.
    The phone rings. It's Aunt Em.
    “Oh, yes, everything's fine. No, there's nothing wrong. Myvoice doesn't sound funny. It must be a bad connection. … Tuesday … you're staying over for Whit Monday?”
    I'm repeating everything Aunt Em says. She must wonder what's the matter with me.
    “Honestly, Aunt Em, I don't mind a bit. We're having fun. See you Tuesday, then.”
    An envelope is a piece of paper, that's all.
I draw two eyes and a smiling mouth on the back. I slit open the envelope and pull out a thin sheet of writing paper. It's dated May 21, 1945.
    My Dearest Daughter,
    Yes, I am alive. I have been in hospital since the U.S. Army liberated Dachau Concentration Camp. An army nurse is helping me write to you. I am making a good recovery from typhus and feel a little stronger each day.
    I hope this letter will reach you and that you and dear Fräulein Margaret still live at the same address. I was so worried that I would not remember it. Each night, before I slept, I repeated the words and numbers.
    I have sad news for you, Sophie. Your mother died on January 12, 1943. The factory where she worked received a direct hit in an air raid.
    In February, in the last sweep to make Berlin
Judenrein –
Jew free, I was picked up by the Gestapo. I was no longer a “privileged” Jew, married to an Aryan.
    Dear child, your mother and I spoke of you every day. She was a loving and courageous woman.
    I hope to leave the hospital before long and will look for work. There will have to be much rebuilding. I long to see you again. I pray it will be soon.
    Write soon to your loving father,
Jacob Mandel
    By the time I get to the end, I can't remember what I've read. My heart is pounding so hard, I can hear it thumping away.
Papa wants me back!
    I read the letter again slowly. Mama, Mama is dead.
    It's my fault. I didn't wish hard enough for her to be safe.

F or a long time I sit reading and rereading every word. The signature at the bottom of the page looks as if the person who'd formed the letters is just learning to write. Jacob Mandel.
    I don't know what I'm supposed to feel – should I be crying with joy that Papa's alive, or heartbroken that Mama's dead?
It's hard being happy and sad at the same time. The feelings cancel each other out. It's as if I'm reading a letter meant for someone else. I can imagine telling Mandy, “Think how awful – she heard her mother died on the same day she found out that her father was still alive.”
    Last year I had to have a second tooth out. My left cheek was numb all day where the dentist froze it. That's how I feel inside, numb.
    I read the letter once more, then fold it back along its original creases and replace it in the envelope. I put it in my pocket.
    Mother died on January 12, 1943. That's two years and four months ago.
What was I doing that day? Why didn't I know? Shouldn't a person feel something when their mother dies? Have some kind of premonition at least?
    I always thought people got telegrams in one of those special buff-colored envelopes from the post office when someone dies. You couldn't send one, of course, not in the middle of the war, not from Germany.
    I go into the sitting room and take Aunt Em's photograph album off the bookshelf. I turn the pages