For a week she sat shivah for him at the house on Frangepán kóz; as far as she knew, she was the only member of their family still alive. Then she went back to the synagogue again, hoping for news of Andras. Instead she learned something that she must tell him now. A woman from Debrecen had come to Bethlen Gábor tér to look for her children. Not long before, this woman had been in a camp herself; she had been in Oświęcim, in Poland. She had seen Andras’s parents on a railroad embankment there, before she herself had been moved into a group of those who were well enough to work. Of the other group, the old and sick and very young, nothing more had been seen, nothing heard.

As Klara delivered the news, Andras began to shake with silent grief. József sat beside him in hollow-eyed shock. In a single day, in this strange small house filled with photographs of the dead, they had both become orphans.

…

For months after Andras came home, they went to the synagogue at Bethlen Gábor tér every day. Hungarian Jews were being exhumed from graves all over Austria and Germany, Ukraine and Yugoslavia, and, whenever it was possible, identified by their papers or their dog tags. There were thousands of them. Every day, on the wall outside the building, endless lists of names. Abraham. Almasy. Arany. Banki. Böhm. Braun. Breuer. Budai. Csato. Czitrom. Dániel. Diamant. Einstein. Eisenkberger. Engel. Fischer. Goldman. Goldner. Goldstein. Hart. Hauszmann. Heller. Hirsch. Honig. Horovitz. Idesz. János. Jáskiseri. Kemény. Kepecs. Kertész. Klein. Kovacs. Langer. Lázár. Lindenfeld. Markovitz. Martón. Nussbaum. Ócsai. Paley. Pollák. Róna. Rosenthal. Roth. Rubiczek. Rubin. Schoenfeld. Sebestyen. Sebök. Steiner. Szanto. Toronyi. Ungar. Vadas. Vámos. Vertes. Vida. Weisz. Wolf. Zeller. Zindler. Zucker. An alphabet of loss, a catalogue of grief. Almost every time they went, they witnessed someone learning that a person they loved had died. Sometimes the news would be received in silence, the only evidence a whitening of the skin around the mouth, or a tremor in the hands that clutched a hat. Other times there would be screams, protests, weeping. They looked day after day, every day, for so long that they almost forgot what they were looking for; after a while it seemed they were just looking, trying to memorize a new Kaddish composed entirely of names.

Then, one afternoon in early August-eight hours before the Enola Gay’s flight over Hiroshima, and eight days before end of the Second World War-as they stood scanning the lists of dead, Klara’s hand flew to her mouth and her shoulders curled. In that first moment Andras wondered only who she could have had left to lose; it didn’t occur to him that her reaction might have anything to do with him. But he must have sensed unconsciously what had happened. When he looked at the list, he found he couldn’t bring the names into focus.

Klara held his arm, trembling. “Oh, Andras,” she said. “Tibor. Oh, God.”

He moved away from her, unwilling to understand. He looked at the list again but couldn’t make sense of it. Already people were stepping away from them, giving them a respectful space, the way they did when people found their dead. He stepped forward and touched the list where it bled from K to L. Katz, Adolf. Kovály, Sarah. László, Béla. Lebowitz, Kati. Lévi, Tibor.

It couldn’t be his Tibor. He said this aloud: It’s not him. It’s someone else. It’s not our Tibor. Not our Tibor. A mistake. He pushed his way through the crowd around the list, toward the door of the synagogue, up the stairs to the administrative offices, where an explanation would be found. He terrified a woman at a desk by roaring for the person in charge. She took him to an anteroom where, unbelievably, they made him wait. Klara found him there; her eyes were red, and he thought, Ridiculous. Not our Tibor. And in the office of the person in charge, he sat in an ancient leather chair while the man leafed through manila envelopes. He handed one to Andras, labeled with the name LÉVI. The envelope held a brief typewritten note and a metal dog-tag locket, its clasp twisted. When Andras opened the dog tag he found the inner document still intact: Tibor’s name, his date and place of birth, his height and eye color and weight, the name of his commanding officer, his home address, his Munkaszolgálat number. Your dog tags might come home, but you never will. The brief typewritten note stated that the tag had been found on Tibor’s body in a mass grave in Hidegség, near the Austrian border.

That night Andras locked himself into the bedroom of the new apartment he shared with Klara and Polaner and the children. He sat on the floor, cried aloud, beat his head against the cold red tile. He would never leave that room, he decided; would stay there until he was an old man, and let the earth burn through its years around him.

Sometime in the night, Klara and Polaner came in and helped him to bed. In the vaguest way, he was aware of Klara unbuttoning his shirt, of Polaner sliding his arms into a new one; vaguely, through a veil, he saw Klara washing her face at the basin and getting into bed beside him. Her arm across his chest was a warm live thing, and he was dead beneath it. He couldn’t move to touch her or respond to anything she said. He lay spent and exhausted and awake, listening as her breathing fell into its familiar rhythm of sleep. He saw Tibor in those last weeks, the nightmare of their life at Sopron: Tibor going to the village for food. Tibor overturning Andras and József’s bowl of beans. Tibor bathing Andras’s forehead with a cold cloth. Tibor covering him with his own overcoat. Tibor walking thirty kilometers with a handful of strawberry jam. Tibor reminding him that it was Tamás’s birthday. Then he thought of Tibor in Budapest, his eyes dark behind his silver-rimmed glasses. Tibor in Paris, lying on Andras’s floor in an agony of love for Ilana. Tibor hauling Andras’s bags to Keleti Station one September morning a lifetime ago. Tibor at the opera, the night before Andras’s departure. Tibor dragging an extra mattress up the stairs to his own small room on Hársfa utca. Tibor in high school, a biology book open on the table before him. Tibor as a tall young boy, chasing Andras through the orchard, throwing him to the ground. Tibor pulling Andras from the millpond. Tibor bending over Andras where he sat on the kitchen floor, tipping a spoonful of sweet milk into his mouth.

He turned over and pulled Klara against him, cried and cried into the damp nebula of her hair.

There was a funeral at the Jewish cemetery outside the city, a reburial of Tibor’s remains and the remains of hundreds of others, a field of open graves, a thousand mourners. Afterward, for the second time that year, he observed a week of shivah. He and Klara burned a memorial candle and ate hard-boiled eggs, sat on the floor in silence, received a stream of guests. In accordance with the ritual, Andras did not shave for thirty days. He hid inside his beard, forgot to change his clothes, bathed only when Klara insisted. He had to work; he knew he couldn’t afford to lose his new job as a dismantler of bombed buildings. But he performed the work without speaking to the other men or seeing the houses he was taking apart or thinking of the people who had lived in them. After work he sat in the front room of the apartment they’d taken on Pozsonyi út, or in a dark corner of the bedroom, sometimes holding one of the children on his lap, stroking the baby’s hair or listening as Tamás described what had happened at the park that morning. He ate little, couldn’t concentrate on a book or newspaper, didn’t want to go out for a walk with József and Polaner. He said Kaddish every day. It seemed to him he could live this way forever, could make a permanent employment of grief. Klara, whose motherhood had prevented her from sinking into an all-consuming mourning for her own mother and György and Elza, understood and indulged him; and Polaner, whose grief had been as deep as Andras’s own, knew that even this abyss had a bottom, and that Andras would reach it soon.