She laughs when she sees the letter in the mailbox, addressed to her in his hand—however logically she knows that this letter cannot bring any good words, the thought of communication between her and him brings her an unbridled joy, even if for a few precious moments.
She opens the letter carefully, savoring the feeling. It's been too long without a word from him.
She reads it several, several times. The handwriting is cleaner than it had been before—even, steady, and the paper is free of wrinkles or tear stains. And it is very, very bare.
Her eyes race over the entire sheet; she flips it over, holds it up to the light, anything to find more words. This can't be it, this can't be all he has to say, she thinks, wildly, shivering at the threshold of the mayor's house. He went to Ravensbrück, he must have spo-.
It stops her cold, but she forces herself to finish the thought.
He must have spoken with the guards, or with a survivor. He must have spoken. He must know.
He must know.
He'd told her, what felt like lifetimes ago, a list of the camps he wanted to visit, and he'd told her what he had predicted he would hear from every one.
Ravensbrück, he'd said, when it hadn't been so cold, was a prison just for women. I think that, if I'm going to learn what happened to my mother, I'll most likely learn it here.
He must know.
Oh, Christ. Oh, crucified Christ.
She doesn't remember crumpling the letter, she doesn't remember crumpling to the ground, uselessly, on frozen knees. But she does remember crying. She does it silently, with shuddering shoulders.
She is still crying when Ilsa comes out—it is only later when it occurs to her that she must have been kneeling outside for at least an hour. She is half-frozen, the tears nearly icicles dripping from her cheeks. She is led inside and rubbed down with Ilsa's own chilly hands. She is sent to bed and sleeps for several hours, the destroyed letter still clutched in icy palms.