That trunk, she'd say to her grandfather. I need to see it.

Asher never encouraged Zoe to open the trunk. But even as he tried to dissuade her, she would pry it open, breathing the smell of moldy paper, the faint aroma of tea-rose. The top was covered with Ferdinand La Toya's handkerchief; folded and refolded so many times it looked like the bare palm of someone thousands of years old. Zoe-Eleanor saw stamps of every color and nationality, and pictures of statesmen whose names had umlauts, cedillas, tildes, and graves. She saw letters in every imaginable language. Most were on thin, brittle paper; a few typed on thick ivory stock, with deep seals and official letterhead. Some were on vellum in old-fashioned, calligraphic handwriting. Beneath the letters were green notebooks that reminded Zoe of her own diary. There was also a ma.n.u.script her grandfather said almost sixty people had written, in a language only they knew, and he'd never translate because-he said with an ironic smile-translators are traitors.

There were also numerous objects: velvet roses shredded from age, empty perfume bottles, a blue and white coffee mug, two fur coats, five fingerless gloves, a lace blouse, an ermine scarf, a black lace corset, a silver hand-mirror, a broken wool carder, black cigarette holders, two maps, a gun, photographs, and a pair of gla.s.ses marked fur Martin Heidegger fur Martin Heidegger.

When Zoe tried on the gla.s.ses she saw the world in a blur, a place with no distinct edges, and her grandfather told her to take them off. Everything in the trunk had come from an unbelievable place, ten meters under the earth, he said. It was a place that had saved his life and the lives of her mother and father, even though none of them wanted to talk about it. And it contained an infinite number of objects. Every time he closed the shop in the evening, Asher had to pull Zoe away.

It's a magic trunk, he said to her. There will always be one more thing left to find. And one more thing after that.

Zoe turned into a wispy teenager and majored in philosophy of science to the mixed reviews of her grandfather, who said to her, more than once: Philosophers engage in endless arguments. They have principles but never live by them. Philosophers engage in endless arguments. They have principles but never live by them.

Like Martin Heidegger? said Zoe.

Like everybody, said Asher.

Zoe was no longer interested in the trunk, and Asher never mentioned it. But when he was closing his shop, he summoned Zoe. She floated in with the same distracted authority she'd had as a child, except she had a diamond in her nose and purple streaks in her hair. Asher took her to the back of the shop and pulled out the trunk.

I want you to have this, he said.

I haven't thought about it in years, said Zoe.

But you used to love it as a child, said Asher. Maybe you'd even like to archive this world someday.

Why didn't you?

You know why I didn't, Asher said. I never wanted to be another found object from the Holocaust. Neither did your mother and father.

Zoe, who'd heard all this before, didn't say anything. She opened the trunk, was overcome by the smell of mold, closed it and took it by taxi to her Lower East Side apartment. When she opened the trunk again, she couldn't remember what she once found so compelling. Its contents, once mysterious and totemic, now bristled with darkness, captivity, and reproach. She picked up a letter in German-a language she could read now-and saw that it extolled conditions in the camps. She picked up a letter in Polish, which she couldn't read, and sensed terror in the short, hurried script. She knew she was reading lies.

Besides letters there were diaries, concealing old photographs. Zoe saw the illuminated face of a red-haired man named Benyami Nachtgarten. The slightly bewildered face of a baby named Shalhevet Nafissian. The studious face of a teenager named Alexei Markova. The whimsically elongated face of a woman named Miriam La Toya, who looked like she was laughing at a party. It was clear these people had died because there were two dates on the back of the photographs. Zoe a.s.sembled them and imagined these people in a country of their own. They looked alive, curious, happy together.

She also looked at the old letters-to a 19th-century dressmaker in Alsace, a b.u.t.ton dealer in Dresden, a coach-maker in Stuttgart. Letters from the time before before the time that mattered; a time when no one ever thought about writing to make false records; a time when the dead didn't need letters to stop the world from falling apart; a time when people didn't depend on knowing languages to save their lives; a time when letters brought the living together, sentenced no one to live below the earth, and weren't used as weapons to rewrite history. the time that mattered; a time when no one ever thought about writing to make false records; a time when the dead didn't need letters to stop the world from falling apart; a time when people didn't depend on knowing languages to save their lives; a time when letters brought the living together, sentenced no one to live below the earth, and weren't used as weapons to rewrite history.

Because most of the letters were just that. And, like things that one didn't want to see but saw anyway, they reminded Zoe of the numbers on the arms of her father and grandfather. Even worse, the letters conveyed terrible news because of what they left out. They reminded her of silences she'd felt as a child when grown-ups pretended there wasn't tension while she knew-sitting at the dinner table, at her desk at school-that something unspeakable was in the air. They even reminded her of silences now, when people hardly mentioned anything difficult-in their own lives, in the lives of other people. The last time she'd heard about anything painful was when a neighbor said that he'd told his son to see the world-meaning he should visit relatives in Italy, not join the Marines and take a p.i.s.s by the banks of the Euphrates. But that, in fact, was just what he was going to do. Holy places Holy places, he'd said. Bombed to ruin Bombed to ruins.

What's the use of talking about what's difficult, if people aren't going to listen? Zoe asked her grandfather when she visited his book-strewn apartment. And what good would it do to archive a trunk?

Maybe no good at all, said Asher. But don't ever get rid of it.

When Asher died at ninety-five, Zoe was living on the Upper West Side in an apartment that had been chopped into three smaller apartments. She lived in the part that had a maid's room, and she gave the trunk to it so she'd never have to look at it. After his memorial service, where she'd shaken hands with innumerable people, she went to the maid's room and spent some time looking at the trunk, but she did not open it. It was the most vibrant link to her grandfather. At the very least she should look at the letters. Instead, she shut the door.

A few mornings later, she got a call from a man with a German accent who said his name was Gerhardt Lodenstein. His English was precise, and he apologized for intruding. He said he'd just read her grandfather's obituary-they'd corresponded for a while. And he wasn't calling from below the earth but from Germany.

It took Zoe a moment to believe she was hearing from someone who had lived in that place. And before she was able to say she was glad to hear from him, Lodenstein said he understood her grandfather had given her the trunk, and there were a few more photographs he'd like to send. He also asked if she'd consider exhibiting the contents.

Zoe knew her grandfather would like this. He'd telegraphed his desire when he gave her the trunk. And he'd always made what happened to him clear by the way he kept his shirtsleeves rolled up, even in winter-so anyone who came into the shop could see the numbers on his arm. But Zoe had come to loathe the trunk. So she told Lodenstein she would have to think about it-sure her final answer would be no-and surprised herself by bringing a few letters to the public library the same evening. People with stacks of five-by-eight cards looked curiously at the wispy woman with purple streaks in her hair. The letters emanated the dank mineral smell of the mine, as if determined to broadcast their history to the library.

That night Zoe went back into the maid's room and opened the trunk slowly. Here was an empty bottle. She could almost smell the tea-rose. And here was a red woolen glove. She could see the ragged edges where someone had cut off the fingers. And here were Heidegger's gla.s.ses-an object of such fascination when she was a child. She remembered putting them on, seeing the world in soft edges, her grandfather's consternation. And here was a blue and white coffee mug.

She took each letter to the laundry room of her apartment building and hung them on a clothesline. But they still smelled of dank minerals and mold-and emanated so much reproach Zoe started to believe that the dead really did expect answers.

As if they could see her dismay, people in the library began to give her things. A man studying bonding behavior in primates bought her an eraser that glowed in the dark. A woman doing a thesis on number sequence gave her pens with red and silver ink. Zoe got arrows for marking pages, paper clips, translucent folders. She took everything, whether she needed it or not.

Lodenstein kept sending things too-more than a few photographs: He sent typewriter spools, braided candles, diaries decoded by relatives of Scribes, more velvet roses, blue cashmere wool, another red fingerless glove. German detective stories from the 1930s, a recipe for soup, a spade. There was no more room in the trunk. Zoe began to pile things on her couch. They reminded her of a jumble shop, and she covered them with blankets.

He also sent letters from raided houses-obviously interrupted while they were being written. They talked about lengthening hems on children's clothes, vacations to the Alps. Each letter pointed to a life far back in time-a life Zoe could never reach. Sometimes she stared at the fabric on her sweater and thought she could see people from the Compound in the tufts. Sometimes she toyed with the idea of answering the letters-as if this would bring people back to life or at least would silence their voices. And once, when she was visiting her parents, she started to talk about the number of unanswered letters in the world.

Are you doing something with that trunk? Maria said.

Yes.

I knew we should have thrown it away, said Maria. It belongs at the bottom of the Hudson.

They were in the kitchen, and Maria was making dinner. Zoe watched her pour spices into leek-and-potato soup and make dressing with three different kinds of vinegar. She said that Maria shouldn't go to all that trouble for a salad.

You might if you'd been in that place, said Maria. People worked hard to make good food. And they were always kind. I was lucky to be there during the war.

So you don't want that trunk at the bottom of the Hudson? said Zoe.

No, I suppose I don't, said Maria. And neither does your father. So do what you want with it.

One morning in May, over sixty years after Berlin surrendered, Zoe ran her hands along the trunk. She felt the same splintered wood on the top that she'd felt as a child-and the rough ridges on the bottom that her grandfather said didn't exist. The trunk was finally empty.

The man who studied primates had found a small museum in Manhattan-called The Museum of Tolerance-that wanted to exhibit the contents of the trunk. The head of the museum helped Zoe catalog and found translators for the letters and diaries. Two of the translators, with numbers on their arms, said they would have given anything to have been in that place.

Zoe had annotated everything. She had even traced the origins of the Tiffany lamp and-on the promise that she'd never tell-gotten Lodenstein to confess that he'd broken the wool carder when he was angry. And now the objects and letters were ready for the exhibit. A brochure said that the Compound was one of the few places in the war that had sheltered survivors from Auschwitz. It also said the Scribes were, in a sense, bred for their languages. Maria and Daniel thought this was an exaggeration-as did Zoe, who had written that the Scribes were chosen at deportations because they knew languages besides German. But the head of the museum had transformed this and put it in the brochure. It was the first time Zoe noticed how someone turned her words around to make a different sentence. She remembered how deeply her grandfather distrusted newspapers and history.

Lodenstein, who knew about the exhibit, hadn't sent anything for a month. That morning Zoe sent him the brochure and enclosed a note, asking whether he'd like the trunk back.

His answer-that he would not-came two weeks later with a package that included her grandfather's original prescription for Heidegger's gla.s.ses, a dark red notebook, and a photograph of a woman near a stand of trees. The woman had delicate features, penetrating eyes, and wore a white blouse with a rose pinned to the collar. Her blond hair was drawn back with a bow and a tangle of curls spilled around her shoulders. Her face was lit by sun.

Zoelooked at the photograph for a long time. Then she looked at Heidegger's prescription in her grandfather's handwriting. How long ago had it been that the two of them were in that office; Heidegger looking at an eye chart, saying Besser Besser and and Nicht Besser Nicht Besser, her grandfather pretending he wasn't terrified of his shop being raided or of his family being deported? She looked again at the woman lit by sun. Her face was so compelling she wondered if there were more photographs and realized if she didn't stop asking Lodenstein to send things, the exhibit would never be ready. It felt like a journey with no end.

But when she called him, Lodenstein sounded surprised that she didn't want anything more. He was sure Asher would want to include everything he had. He kept running across objects in a desk, cupboards. Or relatives of Scribes sent him diaries.

Zoe told him that Asher once said the trunk was a magic trunk, and she'd never see the end of it. The prospect of getting more and more objects from him was overwhelming.

My head is starting to spin, she said. And every time you send something, I only get more interested. Like that woman with the rose. Was she a Scribe?

Lodenstein paused. When he spoke his voice began to crack.

She was the heart of the Compound, he said. Without her, no one would have kept going. We would not have survived.

She looks lovely, Zoe said.

More than lovely, said Lodenstein.

There was grief in his voice-grief imbued with hope. Zoe imagined him after the war, looking for her wherever people gathered-in lines, under awnings, in bookstores, waiting for buses, taking shelter in the rain. She imagined the woman looking too.

Suddenly Lodenstein said: The red notebook was hers.

Zoe looked at the tattered notebook. The dark red cover had faded and the pages were brittle. Many were blank or had only a few phrases. Only two pages were filled.

Did you ever have it translated?

For a moment Lodenstein was quiet. Then he said: I never had the heart to.

My dearest Gabriela, I had to write you before leaving this place. If you knew what this place was, the things we have done here, you'd understand why-because if there's a chance that you can ever read this letter, it would be from this place.I helped save a lot of people in this war, but I never brought you back. And I keep thinking about what I would have done if I'd paid more attention. Whenever I go to a new city, I imagine I'm going to see you. I see your face every night before I fall asleep.Once I drove to the town where you were shot because I thought I could find you. But all I found was a stain by a linden tree.I remember everything about being with you, Gabriela-making angels in the snow, swimming in the river, listening to ice crack in the spring. I remember the play where I forgot my lines, and you said them for me. I remember how you poked me when I fell asleep in Ma.s.s. And how we snuck eye shadow into the house and made each other into movie stars.Heidi told me how you died. She said you kept raising your head again and again after they shot you.Forgive me for not paying attention sooner. I should have known you were in danger. I should have helped. Instead, while you were forging pa.s.sports, I was at Freiburg, acting as though nothing bad could ever happen to us. Never to dissenters. Never to Polish Catholics. And never, ever, to you.I'll never stop talking to you, Gabriela. I'll never stop asking your forgiveness. None of the people I've helped rescue ever made up for losing you.

I love you forever,Elie The translator shut the dark red notebook and handed the translation to Zoe.

I shouldn't have done this for you, he said. Some things should stay between two people, whether they're alive or dead.

Zoe nodded. I won't let anyone see this.

Good, said the translator, pointing to the fragments on a page. Because she was trying to write this for a long time.

He pointed to the blank pages, the false starts, the s.p.a.ces in between.

And then something-who knows what?-made her snap. Does anyone know what happened to her?

No, said Zoe. She disappeared before the war was over.

Like so many people, said the translator.

Zoe nodded. She was glad she didn't know. She could almost hear ice cracking in the spring; see Elie and her sister making angels in the snow. She felt a sense of protection for both of them. She placed the dark red notebook in her bag.

The translator was wiry, well into his eighties. He lit a cigarette, Zoe coughed, he opened a window, and the Lower East Side wafted up. Zoe heard children's voices, the sounds of traffic. She smelled the sharp fumes of exhaust.

You look upset, said the translator. Do you want a drink?

No, said Zoe, who was trying not to cry. I just need to walk.

It was late afternoon when Zoe left the small cramped office. She crossed Ca.n.a.l Street, where bins overflowed with paraphernalia. She saw cheap watches, fake designer bags, mysterious pieces of metal, and every kind of tool.

Another jumble shop, she thought, walking past one more clot of fake designer bags, neon T-shirts, beaded rings. She noticed a bin of small wooden boxes: one had dark polished wood, with a clasp like a trunk. She stopped.

It's old, said the man behind the bin.

How old? said Zoe.

That I can't tell you.

Zoe walked away, then came back and bought the box. Maybe for the translation of Elie's letter; maybe for the dark red notebook. Or maybe just for herself-for whatever in her own life she wanted to keep.

She pa.s.sed through Chinatown, Little Italy, and walked farther and farther north until it was dark and she was in Times Square among looming buildings, stale air, and its carnival of red and white lights.

Zoe wandered among throngs and hawkers and knew, as she'd never known before, that letters to the dead were for the living: They were justifications, records, appeas.e.m.e.nts, excuses, deceits, apologies, atonements, laments, confessions. They categorized. They beseeched. They invoked. Some told of unspeakable grief. Some tried to rewrite an entire history. And sometimes-more often than anyone could admit-even the most sophisticated letter writer imagined the dead could hear. Zoe was holding the translation of Elie's letter and felt it brush against a stranger's sleeve. For a moment she thought of letting it drift into the acrid air. Then she placed it in the wooden box.

The conversation with the dead goes on forever, she thought, and so does everything in the trunk: The spools and the candles. The letters and the lamps. The gloves and the roses. She wished the trunk were the Compound, and that everything in it could bring those people back. But nothing will ever do that. And there will always be one more thing left to add. And one more thing after that.

THANKS.

to Dan Smetanka for unfailing patience, brilliance of vision, hours of encouragement, and for putting up with caveman script

to Diana Finch for being smart in the best of ways

to Elizabeth Rosner, Harriet Chessman, Sarah Stone, and Ron Nyren for supreme generosity

to Steve Gilmartin and Hat for impeccable advice

to Anne Fox for impeccable reading

to Casey for creative listening