In 1947, Marta Grün, a Hungarian Jewish mother, returned to Vienna carrying a bundle of baby clothes — the only things left from her son, David, taken from her during the deportations. Every Sunday, she walked to the orphan registry, scanning endless pages of names. None were his. Yet she kept returning, clutching a small blue sweater she had knitted before the war.
One cold morning, as snow began to fall, a nurse led in a group of children from a nearby shelter. Among them was a thin boy with the same brown curls and shy smile she once knew. Marta dropped the sweater — her knees gave out. “David?” she whispered. The boy turned, uncertain, until she pulled the small knitted sleeve from her coat. He reached out slowly, touching the fabric, and then her hand.
They wept — not with joy, but with the quiet exhaustion of two souls who had waited too long to believe in miracles.