Nechuma rests her hands on the carved mahogany back of a dining chair. No one has actually said the words yet, not out loud at least. ‘I can’t either.’
A pair of Wehrmacht soldiers had rapped on their door early that morning with the news. ‘You have until the end of the day to collect your personal belongings and get out,’ one of them said, thrusting a slip of paper in Sol’s direction with their new address stamped across the top. ‘You will return to work tomorrow.’ Nechuma had glared at the man from beside her husband and he’d glared back, looking at her with his face pinched, as if he’d ingested something rotten. ‘The furniture stays,’ he added, before turning to leave. Nechuma had thrown a fist in the air and whispered a string of profanities once the door was closed, then huffed down the hall to the kitchen to wrap a cold cloth around her neck.
The soldiers’ visit was no surprise, of course. Nechuma had sensed it was only a matter of time before the Nazis came around. There was an influx of Germans in Radom; they needed homes, and the Kurcs’ five-bedroom apartment was spacious, their street one of Radom’s most desirable. When two Jewish families in the building were evicted the week before, she and Sol had begun to prepare. They’d counted and polished their silver, tucked a few bolts of fabric behind a false wall in the living room, even contacted the committee that allocated new addresses for evicted Jews in order to request a space that was clean and large enough to fit them all, Halina, Mila, and Felicia included. Still, nothing could truly prepare Nechuma for how it would feel to leave her home of over thirty years at 14 Warszawska.
‘Let’s pack quickly and get it over with,’ she declared, once she’d calmed. While Nechuma and Mila arranged their most precious possessions into piles, Sol and Halina made trips back and forth to their assigned two-bedroom flat on Lubelska Street in the Old Quarter, lugging copper pots and bedside lamps, a Persian rug, a favourite oil on canvas purchased years ago in Paris, a sack full of linens, a sewing kit, a small tin of kitchen spices. With no indication as to when they’d be able to return to their home, they stuffed their suitcases full of clothes for all seasons.
By noon, Sol declared the flat nearly full. ‘Once we bring the valuables,’ he said, ‘we won’t have room for much else.’ It came as no shock, but still, Nechuma’s heart dropped. She knew that the bathtub, her writing table, and the piano would have to stay, as would the antique vanity bench that she’d upholstered in French silk brocade; the brass headboard with its beautiful scalloped castings and rounded posts, a surprise gift from Sol on their tenth anniversary; the mirrored china cabinet that once belonged to her great-grandmother; the wrought-iron basket on the balcony that she filled each spring with geraniums and crocuses – she would miss them, too. But how could they leave behind the portrait of Sol’s father, Gerszon, that hung in the living room? The indigo tablecloths and ivory statuettes she’d collected over the years from her travels? The crystal serving bowl filled with blown-glass grapes that she’d placed on the parlour windowsill to catch the morning light?
The afternoon had slipped away as Nechuma wandered around the apartment, running her fingers along the spines of her favourite books and picking through boxes of drawings and assignments she’d saved from her children’s school days. Though they wouldn’t do them any good in the new flat, these were the things that mattered, Nechuma realised as she turned them over in her hands. These were the things that defined them. In the end, she allowed herself one suitcase of keepsakes with which she simply couldn’t part: a collection of Chopin waltzes for the pianoforte, a stack of family photos, a book of Peretz’s poetry. She packed the sheet music for a piece Addy learnt when he was five – a Brahms lullaby, with his piano teacher’s note scrawled in the margin: Very good, Addy, keep up the hard work. A gold-plated picture frame engraved with the year 1911, and inside, a photo of Mila, bald and big-eyed, no bigger than Felicia is now. The tiny red leather shoes that were laced first to Genek’s, then Addy’s, then Jakob’s feet, when they took their first steps. The faded pink hair clip Halina had insisted on wearing every day for years. The rest of her children’s things she placed carefully in boxes, which she then pushed to the very back of her deepest closet, praying she would return to them soon.
Now, at the dining-room table, Nechuma sets a silver bowl and ladle aside for the Sobczaks. The rest, she decides, will come with them. ‘Let’s start with the porcelain,’ she says. She lifts a teacup from the table, gold-trimmed, with delicate pink peonies painted beneath its rim. They wrap the cups and saucers individually in linen napkins, nestle them into a box, then move on to the silver – two sets, one passed down from Sol’s mother, the other from Nechuma’s.
‘These I thought I’d cover with fabric and sew onto a shirt, to look like buttons,’ Nechuma says, pointing to the two gold coins she’d set atop a substantial pile of zloty bills – the fraction of their savings they were able to withdraw before their bank accounts were frozen.
‘Good idea,’ Mila says. She picks up a sterling hand mirror and peers at her reflection for a moment, wrinkling her nose at the sight of the dark circles under her eyes. ‘This was your mother’s, yes?’ she asks.
‘It was.’
Mila sets the mirror gently into the box, folding a few metres of ivory Italian silk and white French lace into squares on top of it.
Nechuma stacks the zloty and rolls them, along with the gold coins, into a napkin, which she slips into her purse.
The table is bare now, save for a small black velvet pouch. Mila picks it up. ‘What’s this?’ she asks. ‘It’s heavy.’
Nechuma smiles. ‘Here,’ she says. ‘I’ll show you.’ Mila hands her the pouch and Nechuma loosens the string cinching the top of it closed. ‘Open your hand,’ she says, emptying its contents into Mila’s palm.
‘Oh,’ Mila breathes. ‘Oh, my.’
Nechuma peers down at the necklace glittering in her daughter’s palm. ‘It’s an amethyst,’ she whispers. ‘I found it a few years ago, in Vienna. There was something about it … I couldn’t resist.’
Mila turns the purple stone over, her eyes wide as it catches the light from the chandelier overhead.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she says.
‘Isn’t it?’
‘Why don’t you ever wear it?’ Mila asks, holding it up to her own neckline, feeling the weight of the stone, the gold chain resting on her collarbone.
‘I don’t know. Seems a bit ostentatious. I always felt self-conscious wearing it.’ Nechuma recalls how, on the day she first saw the necklace, the idea of owning such an extravagance had made her knees weak. It was 1935; she’d been in Vienna on a buying trip and had spotted it in a jeweller’s window on her walk back to the train station. She tried it on and decided on an uncharacteristic impulse that she should have it, wondering the instant she left the store whether she would regret her decision. It was an investment, she told herself. And besides, she’d earned it. The shop had been doing well for a number of years by then, and her children were for the most part independent, finishing their final years in university, making a living for themselves. It was exorbitant, yes, but she remembers thinking that it was also the first time in her life that she could easily justify a splurge.
Nechuma starts at the sound of banging on the door. She’s lost track of the time. The Wehrmacht soldiers must be back to escort them out. Mila drops the necklace quickly back into its pouch and Nechuma tucks it into her shirt, between her breasts.
‘Can you see it?’ she asks.
Mila shakes her head no.
‘Stay here,’ Nechuma whispers. ‘Don’t take your eyes off of these,’ she adds, setting her purse atop the box of valuables at their feet. Mila nods.
Nechuma turns and straightens her back, inhaling deeply, gathering her composure. At the door, she lifts her chin, almost imperceptibly, as she tells the Wehrmacht soldiers in rudimentary German that her husband and daughter will be home soon to help them carry the last of their things. ‘We need another fifteen minutes,’ she says coolly.<
br />
One of the soldiers glances at his watch.
‘Fünf minuten,’ he snaps. ‘Schnell.’
Nechuma says nothing. She turns from the door, resisting the urge to spit on the officer’s polished leather jackboots. With her fingers curled around the key to the apartment – she isn’t yet ready to hand it over – she pads through her home one last time, stepping quickly into each room, scanning for something she might have forgotten to pack, forcing her eyes to jump over the things she’d decided earlier she couldn’t bring; if she looks too long she’ll have second thoughts, and leaving them behind will be torture. In her bedroom she adjusts the base of a lamp so it aligns with the front of her dresser and smooths a wrinkle from the bedsheet. She folds and refolds a linen towel in the powder room. She pulls at a curtain in Jakob’s room so it’s even with the other. She tidies as if she is expecting company.
In the living room, which she’s left for last, Nechuma lingers for an extra moment, staring at the space where her children had practised for hours upon hours at the piano, where for so many years they’d gathered after meals with someone at the keys. Making her way to the instrument, she runs her hand along its polished lid. Slowly, soundlessly, she closes the fall over the keys. Turning, she takes in the room’s oak-panelled walls, the desk by the window overlooking the courtyard where she loved, more than anything, to sit and write, the blue velvet couch with its matching club chairs, the marble mantle over the fireplace, the floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with music – Chopin, Mozart, Bach, Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, Mahler, Brahms, Schumann, Schubert – and with the works of their favourite Polish authors: Sienkiewicz, Żeromski, Rabinovitsh, Peretz. Walking quietly to her writing table, Nechuma brushes a bit of dust from the satinwood surface, grateful that she’d remembered to pack her stationery and favourite fountain pen. Tomorrow she will write to Addy in Toulouse, telling him of their circumstances, of their new address.
Addy. The fact that he will be leaving Toulouse soon to join the army troubles Nechuma deeply. Already, she’s coped with the stress of two sons in the military. Genek and Jakob’s duty, at least, was short; Poland had fallen quickly. France, on the other hand, has yet to join the war. If the French get involved, and it seems only a matter of time before they do, there is no telling how long the fighting will last. Addy could be in uniform for months. Years. Nechuma shudders, praying that she’s able to reach him before he leaves for Parthenay. She will need to write to Genek and Jakob in Lvov, too. Her sons will be furious to learn that the family has been evicted from their home.
Nechuma looks up at the ceiling as her eyes fill with tears. It’s just temporary, she tells herself. Exhaling, she glances at the portrait of her father-in-law; he stares down at her, his gaze austere, penetrating. She swallows, then nods respectfully. ‘Watch over our home for us, will you?’ she whispers. She touches her fingers to her lips and then to the wall, and makes her way, slowly, toward the door.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Addy
Outside Poitiers, France ~ April 15, 1940
Beneath the deep green spires of an endless row of cypress trees, a dozen pairs of leather soles crunch the dirt. The men have been walking since dawn; soon, it will be dusk.
Addy has spent the past several hours listening to the synchronised rhythm of footfall behind him, ignoring the blisters on his feet, and thinking of Radom. Six months have passed since he’s heard from his mother – it was the end of October, just before he left Toulouse, when he received her last letter. She’d written to tell him that the family was safe – all but Selim, who had gone missing; that his brothers were still in Lvov; that Jakob and Bella were soon to be married. The shop has been closed. We’ve been put to work, Nechuma wrote, detailing their new assignments. There were curfews and rations and the Germans were despicable, but all that mattered, Nechuma had insisted, was that they were in good health and, for the most part, accounted for. Before signing off, she said that two Jewish families in their building had been evicted and forced into tiny flats in the Old Quarter. I fear, she wrote, that we will be next.
In his reply, Addy had begged his mother to let him know right away if she was forced to move, and to send addresses for Jakob and Genek, but he hadn’t received a response before he left Toulouse. Now he’s on the move, impossible to reach. A knot has formed in his chest, and as the days and weeks slip by, it tightens. He loathes the unease of feeling so far away, so helplessly removed from his family in Poland.
Addy switches on his headlamp, willing himself to stay positive. It has become easy to think the worst. He mustn’t fall into that trap. And so, rather than imagine his parents and sisters evicted from their home and slaving away in some kitchen or factory under the Wehrmacht’s watch, he thinks of Radom – the old Radom, the one he remembers. He thinks of how springtime in his hometown has always been his favourite time of year, for it is the season of Seder dinners and of birthdays – his and Halina’s. Spring is when the Radomka and Mleczna Rivers flanking the city run high, feeding the city’s rye fields and orchards, and when the domes of the horse chestnuts bordering Warszawska Street begin to leaf, offering shade to patrons perusing the ground-floor shops for leathers, soaps, and wristwatches. Spring is when the flower boxes adorning the balconies on Malczewskiego Street overflow with crimson-red poppies – a welcome reprieve after the long, grey winters; when Kościuszki Park bustles with vendors selling pickled cucumbers, shredded beets, smoked cheese, and sour rye-meal mash at the Thursday market; when the Kurcs’ neighbour Anton invites the children in the building to see his hatchlings, which barely even look like birds, all tiny and dusted in cream-coloured down, unable, even, to hold up their heads. When he was a boy, Addy loved watching as Anton’s flock of doves would fly from his window up to the eaves of the building’s steepled rooftop, where they’d coo softly, presiding for a few minutes over the courtyard before returning through the window to the wooden crate their keeper had built for them.
Addy smiles at the memories but is jolted back to the present, the images vanishing as a sound filters into his consciousness. A rustle. He stiffens and halts, lifting his elbow to ninety degrees, palm forward, fingertips skyward. In an instant the soldiers behind him freeze. Addy cocks his chin, listening. There it is again, the rustling, coming from a cluster of elder bushes at the base of a cypress a few metres ahead. He toggles his rifle’s safety to the off position.
‘Ready,’ he whispers in Polish, resting his index finger gently on the metal curve of his trigger and aiming its muzzle at the shrubbery. Behind him, the soft click of twelve safeties sliding off. The rustle continues. Addy contemplates shooting but decides to wait. What if it’s just a raccoon – or a child?
A year ago, he could count on the fingers of one hand the times he’d carried a gun. When Addy was growing up, his uncle occasionally invited him and his brothers to go pheasant hunting, and while Genek seemed to enjoy the sport, Addy and Jakob preferred to stay back, warm by the fire, finding the whole process of flushing a bird from its cover unappealing. Now, to think about the responsibility he assumes every time he points his rifle makes his head spin.
He and his men train their barrels on the cluster of bushes and wait. After a minute, something small appears at the base of one of the bushes, triangular, black, and shiny. A moment later, a pair of lower branches part and a hound dog emerges. He sniffs at the darkening sky, then glances nonchalantly over his shoulder at the men staring at him, at the thirteen muzzles aimed in his direction. Addy exhales, grateful he hadn’t been quick to shoot. He lowers his rifle. ‘You scared us there, kapitan,’ he offers, but the hound, uninterested, turns and trots along the road, headed east.
‘We have a new guide,’ Cyrus jokes, from the rear. ‘Captain Paws.’ A murmur of laughter.
‘Let’s go,’ Addy calls. Safeties are reset and the men march on, the air around them filled again with the steady lilt of boots meeting the earth.
Overhead, the cloud cover is thick. The air is cool and smells of rain. I
n another kilometre or two, Addy decides, they’ll set up camp, before they lose their light, before the rain comes. In the meantime, he lets his mind slip to Toulouse, thinking of how different his life is now from how it was six months ago.
Addy had reluctantly left his apartment on Rue de Rémusat on the 5th of November and reported for duty in Parthenay with the 2nd Polish Rifle Division of the French Army, the 2DSP, on the sixth as he was ordered. After eight weeks of basic training, he was awarded an official uniform of the French Army and assigned, thanks to his engineering degree and to his fluency in both French and Polish, the rank of sergent de carrière, which put him in charge of twelve sous-officiers. Addy enjoyed the company of the others in the 2DSP; surrounding himself with a group of young Poles filled a tiny bit of the void that had consumed him since being denied the right to return home – but that was about all he found comforting about the army. While he did his best to mask it, his rifle felt awkward in his hands, and when his captain barked orders in his direction, his instinct was to laugh. During drills, he found himself composing music in his head to distract himself from the monotony of wind sprints and target practice. Despite his distaste for the military, though, he found the days passed more enjoyably if he embraced the routine. After a while, he wore his double chevron stripes with a modicum of pride, and discovered that he was actually quite good at leading his small squad. Good, at least, at the logistics of it all – at getting his men from point a to point b, and in the meantime, discovering their strengths and delegating jobs. When they were on the move, for example, Bartek started the fires each night at camp. Padlo cooked. Novitski climbed the tallest tree in the vicinity to confirm that the lookout was clear. Sloboda schooled his men on how to safely pull the pin on the WZ-33 grenades they carried on their belts, and on what to do should a bullet get stuck in the barrel of their Berthiers in a squib load malfunction. And Cyrus, the best of the lot if Addy had to choose, called out marching songs to kill time. Thus far the favourites were ‘Marsz Pierwszej Brygady’ and, of course, Poland’s most patriotic anthem, ‘Boże, coś Polskę’.
We Were the Lucky Ones Page 9
