“There was a young woman, Elena. She kept coming to the gates every morning. She always asked about her husband — Anton. He’d gone missing in the fighting. She just wouldn’t leave.”
Ruth squeezed my hand. “Did Dad ever talk about her?”
“Not really,” I said, studying Paul. “I can’t remember.”
He nodded.
“Did Dad ever talk about her?”
Advertisement
“He shared his rations, helped her write letters in broken French, and kept asking after Anton. Some days, Walter could even get her to laugh. He promised he’d keep asking.”
Toby, standing close now, spoke up. “Did they ever find him?”
Paul’s shoulders dropped.
“No, they never did. One day Elena was told she’d be evacuated. She pressed this ring into Walter’s hand and begged him, ‘If you find my husband, give him this. Tell him I waited.'” He paused, his voice thick. “A few weeks later, we learned she had not made it. Neither had Anton.”
Paul’s shoulders dropped.
Advertisement
I stared at the ring in my palm, the weight of seventy-two years suddenly heavier.
“But why did you have it?” I asked.
Paul met my eyes.
“After Walter’s hip surgery a few years back, he sent it to me. He said I was still better at tracking people down. He asked if I’d try again to find Elena’s family, just in case. I tried, Edith. There was nothing left to find.”
I wiped my face with Walter’s old handkerchief.
“But there was nothing,” Paul said. “So, I kept it safe for him. When he passed, I knew this belonged with you, with him.”
“There was nothing left to find.”
Leave a Comment