The water has crawled to her thighs. Halina curses, wishing she’d been blessed with Franka’s height. Damn, it’s cold. If it gets much deeper she’ll be forced to swim. She and Franka are good swimmers – they learnt together one summer at the lake, taught by their fathers – but this water is nothing like the beautiful water at Lake Garbatka. This water is January-cold, jet-black, and running fast. To swim it would be treacherous. They’d risk hypothermia. And the basket – would it stay dry? Halina thinks again of the money, of what it had taken for her mother to scrape together the fifty zloty. All the more reason to get to Lvov, to replenish our savings. The cold is nothing, she tells herself. It’s all part of the plan.
They’d stayed the night before in the town of Liski with the Salingers, family friends whom Halina had first met at the fabric shop some ten years ago. Mrs Salinger was the only woman Halina knew who could sit and talk for hours about silk. Nechuma adored her and looked forward to her visits, which Mrs Salinger made twice a year before the shop was closed.
The small town of Liski sits fifteen kilometres from the Bug River, the designated dividing line between German- and Soviet-occupied Poland. Mrs Salinger told Halina and Franka that the bridges over the river were manned on either side by soldiers, and that the safest way to cross was to wade through the water. ‘The river is narrow, and we’ve heard the water is shallowest at Zosin,’ Mrs Salinger explained. ‘But Zosin is swarming with Nazis,’ she warned, ‘and the river runs fast. You must be careful not to fall. The water is freezing.’ Mrs Salinger’s nephew had made the same trip in reverse just the week before, she said. ‘According to Jurek, after you cross, you can follow the river south to Ustylluh and hitch a ride to Lvov.’
That morning, Mrs Salinger had filled Halina and Franka’s basket with a small loaf of bread, two apples, and a boiled egg – ‘a feast!’ Halina had exclaimed – and whispered, ‘Good luck,’ kissing the girls on their cheeks as they left.
Halina and Franka used back roads to walk to Zosin to avoid being spotted and questioned by German soldiers, trying not to think too much about what would happen if they were caught without an ausweis, the special permission slip needed in order to travel outside one’s village. The journey took nearly three hours. They arrived in Zosin at dusk and prowled the riverbank for the narrowest stretch of water they could find, then waited until dark to begin the crossing.
The portion of the river they chose is no broader than ten metres; Halina guesses that they are nearly halfway to the far bank. ‘Still okay?’ she asks, bracing herself with her stick as she turns again to look over her shoulder. Franka has begun to fall behind. She looks up for a moment and nods, the whites of her eyes jerking up and down in the moonlight. As Halina returns her attention to the liquid abyss in front of her, she catches a flash in her periphery. A tiny flash of light. She freezes, staring hard in the direction from which it came. It disappears for a moment, but then she sees it again. A prick. Two pricks. Three! Flashlights. In the trees to the east, lining the field on the opposite side of the river. They must belong to Soviet soldiers. Who else would be out in the cold this time of night? Halina looks to see if Franka has noticed, but her cousin’s chin is pinned to her chest as she struggles to navigate the river. Halina listens for voices but can hear only the steady rush of moving water. She waits another minute, deciding at last not to say anything. It’s nothing to panic about, she tells herself. Franka doesn’t need distracting. They’ll be across soon, and once on dry land they can lie low, wait for the owners of the flashlights to pass.
Underfoot, the mud of the riverbed gives way to rocks, and after a few steps, it feels as if Halina is walking on marbles. She contemplates turning back, looking for a better, shallower place to cross. Perhaps they could return tomorrow, or on a rainy day, when the clouds are thicker, when they are better camouflaged. But what’s the point? It doesn’t matter where they cross, for there is no way of knowing how deep the water runs. Plus, they don’t have any acquaintances in Zosin. Where would they stay? They’ll freeze to death if they try to spend the night outside. Halina scans the tree line. The pinpricks of light, thankfully, have disappeared. They’ve only four more metres to go, five at the most. We’ll have better luck on the Russian side, she reassures herself, pressing on.
‘We’re halfw—’ Halina calls, but her words are cut short by a shrill ‘Whoop!’ and the distinct plunk of a body meeting the water behind her. Halina whips her head around in time to see Franka, her mouth curved into a perfect o, disappear, her scream muted as she vanishes beneath the river’s surface.
‘Franka!’ Halina gasps, holding her breath. A second ticks by, then two. Nothing.
Only the sound of coursing water, the rippling reflection of the moon and the night sky, a few bubbles where her cousin once stood. Halina scours the river, searching desperately for movement. ‘Franka!’ she whispers, her eyes frantic.
Finally, several metres downriver, Franka springs up out of the water, spitting, gasping for air, tendrils of hair plastered over her eyes. ‘The basket!’ Franka yowls, reaching toward a beige orb that has surfaced in front of her. She lunges, grasping at the handle, but the current is too quick. Dipping and weaving in the racing water, the basket disappears.
‘Noooooo!’ The panic in Halina’s voice severs the thin air. Without thinking, she drops her stick, holds her breath, and throws herself, arms outstretched, into the water. The cold is shocking. It slices at her cheeks, wraps itself around her like a suit of armour, and for a moment she’s paralyzed, her body frozen, a log caught in the current. Lifting her head, she gulps at the air and paddles fiercely, craning her neck to keep her chin above water. She can barely make out the basket, its handle bobbing like a buoy in rough seas, several metres downriver.
‘Stop,’ Franka wails from behind her. ‘Leave it!’ But Halina paddles harder, her cousin’s pleas drifting farther and farther into the distance until all she can hear is the sound of her breath and the slap of water against her ears. She paddles desperately, scraping a knee on the riverbed. She could stand, but she knows that if she does the basket will be gone. Frog-kicking her legs, she trains her eyes downriver, fighting the numbness overtaking her body and the impulse to quit, to swim to the bank and rest.
As she rounds a slight bend, the river widens and for a brief moment the current slackens. The basket slows, gliding peacefully along an eddy, the water’s surface now as smooth and shiny as the lacquered lid of her parents’ old Steinway. Halina begins to close the gap. When the river narrows and the current picks up again, she’s within arm’s reach. Extracting the last few drops of strength left in her screaming muscles, she rockets her torso out of the water and lunges, one arm thrust forward, fingers spread wide.
When she opens her eyes she’s surprised to see the basket in her hand. Her extremities might as well be useless; she can’t feel a thing. She lets her feet sink to the riverbed and finds her footing. Standing slowly, keeping her body low to the water to resist the current, she wrestles her way along slippery rocks to the far bank, gripping the handle of the basket so tightly that her fingers, white at the knuckles, begin to cramp and she has to peel them loose with her free hand once she’s safely across.
On dry land, Halina collapses on the muddy bank, her shoulders heaving, her heart thrashing against her chest. Crouching, she peers into the basket. The food is gone. She slips her fingers into the slit in the lining, feeling for the panel of waxed canvas. The zloty! ‘They’re here!’ she whispers, forgetting for a moment how terribly cold she is. She removes her coat and beats it against a rock before draping it over her shoulders. Her shivers come in spasms. They’ll need to find shelter soon.
Hurrying upriver, it’s only a few minutes before she hears Franka’s cry. ‘I’m here!’ Halina calls, waving, her body still laced with adrenaline. Franka has made it across the river as well and is jogging along the bank in Halina’s direction. Halina holds the basket up over her head in triumph. ‘We lost the food, but the zloty are there!
’ she beams.
‘Thank God!’ Franka gushes, panting. She wraps her arms around Halina. ‘My foot slipped on a rock. I’m so sorry!’ She takes Halina in. ‘Look at you, you look like a drowned cat!’
‘So do you!’ Halina crows, and under the steely blue light of the moon, numb with cold, dripping and shivering from their heads to their feet, they laugh – quietly at first – and then louder, until tears run from their eyes, warm and salty down their cheeks, and they can barely breathe.
‘What now?’ Franka finally asks, once they’ve regained their composure.
‘Now we walk.’ Halina slips her arm through Franka’s, blowing warmth into her free hand as they begin making their way east, toward the tree line.
As quickly as they’d set off, Franka stops. ‘Look!’ she gasps. She is no longer smiling. ‘Flashlights!’ There are a half dozen, at least.
‘Red Army,’ Halina whispers. ‘Must be. Kurwa. I was hoping they’d be gone by now. They must have heard us.’
‘You knew they were there?’ Franka’s eyes are wide.
‘I didn’t want to scare you.’
‘What should we do? Should we run?’
Halina bites down hard on the insides of her cheeks to keep her teeth from chattering. She’d thought about running, too. But then what? No, they’ve come this far. She pulls her shoulders back, determined to remain strong, outwardly at least, for Franka’s sake as much as her own. ‘We’ll talk to them. Come. We need to find warmth. Maybe they’ll help us.’ Halina tightens her grip on Franka’s elbow, coaxing her on.
‘Help us? What if they don’t? What if they shoot? We could swim downriver a bit, hide.’
‘And freeze to death? Look at us; we won’t survive another hour in this cold. Look, they’ve seen us already. We’ll be fine, just be calm.’
They walk on, tentatively, into the constellation of flickering lights.
When they are ten metres from the soldiers, a silhouette from behind one of the lights shouts.
‘Ostanovka!’
Halina sets the basket down slowly at her feet and she and Franka raise their hands over their heads. ‘We are allies!’ Halina calls, in Polish. ‘We have no weapons!’ Her mouth goes dry as she counts ten uniformed bodies advancing. Each holds a long metal flashlight in one hand, a rifle in the other; both are aimed at Halina and Franka. Halina turns a cheek to avoid the burst of white light boring into her eyes. ‘I’ve come to find my fiancé and my brother in Lvov,’ she says, willing her voice to remain steady. The soldiers draw closer. Halina looks down at her wet clothes, at Franka, who is shaking with cold. ‘Please,’ she says, squinting at the soldiers, ‘we are hungry, and freezing. Can you help us find something to eat, a blanket, some shelter for the night?’ Her breath, caught in the light, escapes her in fleeting grey wisps.
The soldiers form a circle around the young women. One of them picks up the basket, looks inside. Halina holds her breath. Distract him, she thinks. Before he finds the zloty.
‘I would offer you something to eat,’ Halina continues, ‘but by now our lone egg has made its way to Ustylluh.’ She shivers dramatically, allowing her teeth to knock together like castanets. The soldier looks up and she smiles as he studies her face, then Franka’s, surveying their wet clothes, their mud-soaked shoes. He is no older than me, Halina realises. Perhaps even younger. Nineteen, twenty.
‘You come to see family. And her?’ the young soldier quizzes in rudimentary Polish, aiming his flashlight at Franka.
‘She—’
‘My mother is in Lvov,’ Franka says, before Halina has a chance to answer. ‘She is very ill – she has no one to take care of her.’ Her tone is so clear, so matter of fact, Halina must make an effort not to look surprised. Franka is an open book; the art of deception has never come easily to her. At least, not until now.
The soldier is silent for a moment. River water drips from the young women’s elbows, landing with a pat on the earth at their feet. Finally, the soldier shakes his head, and in his expression Halina can sense a hint of sympathy, or perhaps amusement. She can feel the tension dissolving in her neck, a bit of blood returning to her cheeks.
‘Come with us,’ the soldier orders. ‘You peel potatoes, stay night at our camp. In morning we discuss if you free to go.’ He hands Halina the basket. She accepts it casually, loops it over her elbow and then finds Franka’s hand as they begin to make their way north, flanked on either side by men in uniform. No one speaks. The air is filled with the cadence of their footsteps only – the thump of heavy boots and the squelch of wet soles on grass. After a few minutes, Halina looks over at Franka, but her cousin stares ahead as she walks, expressionless. It is only because Halina knows her so well that she can detect the slight twitch in her jaw. Franka is terrified. Halina squeezes her hand in a gesture to convey that all will be all right. She hopes it will, at least.
They walk for nearly an hour. As her adrenaline wanes, Halina can think of nothing but the cold – of the pain in her joints, in her hands and feet, and in the tip of her nose, which is no longer numb but searing. Is it possible, she worries, for her blood to freeze while she’s moving? Will she have to amputate her nose, if she arrives at camp to find it frostbitten? Enough, she tells herself, forcing her mind to turn a corner.
Adam. Think of Adam. She pictures herself at the door of his flat in Lvov, her arms wrapped around his neck as she tells him of Franka’s fall, of her own icy paddle down the Bug. It sounds rather demented when she replays it in her mind. What was she thinking, jumping like that into the water? Would Adam understand? Her parents wouldn’t, she’s sure of that – but he would. He might even admire her for it.
She glances at the soldier to her right. He, too, is young. In his early twenties. And he, too, is cold. He shivers beneath his army-issued coat, looking miserable, as if he would rather be anywhere else but here. Perhaps, Halina thinks, beneath the big guns and important-looking uniforms, these young men are harmless. Perhaps they are just as eager for the war to be over as she. She could have sworn she’d caught one of them, the tallest of the lot, stealing a glance at Franka. She knows the look – part curiosity, part longing; usually it’s directed at her. She’ll turn up the charm, she decides. She’ll compliment the soldiers’ patriotism; convince them with a smile that it’s in their best interest to let them continue on their way. Maybe Franka can flirt a little with the tall one, promise to write, leave him with a kiss. A kiss! How long it’s been since she’s felt Adam’s lips against hers. Halina’s blood warms a degree as she convinces herself that her plan will work. They’ll have to keep their guard up, of course, but she will get what she wants – she always has; it’s what she’s best at.
It is their third night at the makeshift camp. Beneath a wool blanket, Halina listens from her tent as Franka and Yulian whisper by the fire. Halina had left the pair a few minutes before, sitting beside a diminishing flame, Yulian’s winter coat draped over Franka’s shoulders. Franka has surprised Halina again with her flirtatiousness. Halina has seen her before with boys. Around a crush, or someone she’s trying to impress, Franka often flails. Apparently, Halina marvels, she hasn’t any trouble leading on a boy when she’s faking it. Halina wonders if Yulian will catch on eventually, to the fact that he’s nothing more than a tall bump in the road that will, she prays, eventually lead them to Lvov.
She had hoped they’d be well on their way by now. These last few days have been trying. The soldiers have treated them with a brusque courtesy, but Halina is all too aware of the fact that she and Franka are two pretty girls far away from home, surrounded by lonely men; she worries about what could happen should the soldiers decide not to be polite. So far, Yulian, it seems, is content just to talk.
She blows into her fingers, flexes her toes for warmth. The blanket helps, but she’s still bitterly cold. Her clothes are finally dry and she doesn’t dare take any of them off to sleep; every layer helps. Closing her eyes, she drifts, shivering, into a half sleep, only to be awoken a few minut
es later by the sound of someone crawling inside the tent. She sits up quickly, her hands balled reflexively into fists, half expecting to find the silhouette of one of the Soviets coming at her. But it is only Franka. She sighs, lies back down.
‘You scared me,’ Halina whispers, her heart racing.
‘Sorry.’ Franka slips beneath the blanket and pulls it up over their heads so they can talk without being heard. ‘Yulian told me he’s going to get us out of here,’ she whispers. ‘Tomorrow. Says he’s already talked to his captain about letting us go.’ Halina can hear the relief in Franka’s voice. ‘He said he would give us a ride in the morning to the nearest train station.’
‘Well done,’ Halina whispers.
‘I promised I would stay in touch,’ Franka says.
Halina smiles. ‘Of course you did.’
‘You know, he’s not so bad,’ Franka says, and Halina wonders for a moment if she’s joking or if Franka really has softened to him. ‘Can you imagine it,’ Franka adds, ‘me and Yulian? Our children would be giants,’ she says, and the thought sends the pair into a fit of muffled laughter.
‘I’d rather not imagine it,’ Halina finally says, pulling the blanket back down to their chins. She rolls over and presses her body close to Franka’s.
‘I’m only joking,’ Franka whispers.
‘I know.’
Halina closes her eyes, letting her mind drift, as it tends to in the darkness, to Adam. What would their children look like, she wonders? It’s premature to think that far ahead, but she can’t help it. Hopefully, she and Franka will be on their way tomorrow. Finally. One more night, Adam. I’m coming to you.
Part II
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Addy
The Mediterranean ~ January 15, 1941
The pier is a swarm of bodies. Some shout, gripped with panic as they elbow their way toward the gangplank; others speak only in whispers, as if raising their voices might strip them of the privilege of boarding the ship – one of the last passenger vessels, they’ve been told, permitted to leave Marseille with refugees on board. Addy moves steadily with the throng, clutching a brown leather satchel in one hand and a one-way, second-class ticket in the other. The January cold is biting, but he’s barely noticed it. Every few minutes he cranes his neck, scanning the crowd, praying he might see a familiar face. An impossible wish, but he can’t help but hold on to the minute chance that his mother had received his last letter, had made her way with the family to France. Whatever it takes, he’d written, please, just get to Vichy. There is a man there by the name of Souza Dantas. He’s the one you need to speak with about visas. He’d included the details of Souza Dantas’s address, both at the hotel and at the embassy. Addy sighs, realising how preposterous the proposition now felt. It’s been fifteen months since he last heard from his mother. Even if she had received the letter, what were the odds of an entire family making it out of Poland? On the lucky chance that his mother could find a way out, she would never leave the others behind, that much he knows.
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