At first, Bella had hoped that the change of scenery in Warsaw might help her shed some of her grief. But it seemed that everywhere she went, everywhere she looked, there were reminders. Three sisters, playing in the park. A father helping his little girl into a wagon. The mother–daughter pairs who frequented the shop where she worked. It was torture. For weeks, Bella couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t eat. Not that there was much to eat in the first place, but she found the thought of food repulsive and refused it. Her cheekbones grew more pronounced, and under her shirt, her ribs jutted from beneath her skin like a keyboard made up of only sharps and flats. It felt as if she were treading water with weights strapped to her wrists, as if at any moment she might drown. She was heartsick, and hated the way Jakob asked her, constantly, if she was all right, the way he was always trying to coax a bit of food into her mouth. ‘Come back to me, love,’ he would plead. ‘You seem so far away.’ But she couldn’t. The only time she felt a semblance of her old self was when they made love, but even then the feeling didn’t last. The touch of his skin against hers reminded her that she was alive – and the guilt that consumed her afterward was so powerful it made her sick.
Bella knew during those first few weeks in Warsaw that she couldn’t live much longer chin-deep in a sea of sorrow. She wanted, badly, to feel herself again. To be a better person, a better wife. To accept what had happened. To move on. But losing her sister, and then her parents – it was crippling. Their deaths gnawed at her in her waking hours, and haunted her in her sleep. Every night, she would see her sister being dragged into the woods, she would see her parents boarding the trains that would deliver them to their deaths. Every night she dreamt of ways she could have helped them.
In November she began pinning the waistline of her skirt to keep it from falling from her hips. It was then that she realised she was in trouble, that Jakob was right. She needed to eat. To take care of herself. She needed him. She wondered, though, if it were too late. They’d been living apart for months – Jakob had said they were safer, their forged IDs more believable that way – but Bella knew there was part of him that couldn’t stand by, futile, watching her deteriorate. How could she blame him? She’d been mourning so deeply she’d forgotten what it meant to love the man who, before her world came crashing down, was her everything. She vowed to try to pull herself together.
‘We’ll take it,’ the mother says, laying the dress over the counter.
Bella takes a deep breath, willing away her tears. ‘Of course,’ she says.
Her German is now perfect. ‘It’s a nice choice.’ She musters a smile. Don’t let her see that you are upset. She hands the woman her change.
As the pair leaves, Bella closes her eyes, drained from the effort of keeping her composure. There will always be reminders, she thinks. There will be days that are not so bad, and others that are unbearable. What matters, she tells herself, is that even on the hardest days, when the grief is so heavy she can barely breathe, she must carry on. She must get up, get dressed, and go to work. She will take each day as it comes. She will keep moving.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Mila and Felicia
Warsaw, German-Occupied Poland ~ February 1943
When her mother told her she had finally found a safe place for her to live – a convent, she called it – Felicia was dubious. ‘You will have children around you,’ Mila said, trying to cheer her up. ‘Girls of all ages. And a nice group of nuns who will care for you. You won’t have to be alone anymore.’ Though Felicia was desperate for company, it was her mother’s companionship she craved. She hated the fact that Mila would once again be leaving her. ‘Will the others be like – like me?’ she’d asked, wondering if, in fact, any of the girls in this place her mother spoke of would actually want to be her friend. They were Catholics, Mila said, explaining that while she was there, Felicia would be Catholic, too. Surely the other girls would want to be her friends. ‘Just do as the nuns say, love,’ she added, ‘and I promise, they will take good care of you.’
On her first day at the convent, Felicia’s cinnamon-red hair is dyed blonde. She is no longer Felicia Kajler; she is Barbara Cedransk. She is taught how to cross herself, and to take communion. A week into her stay, when one of the nuns notices her mouthing the words to her prayers, she drags Felicia into the office of the Mother Superior and questions her upbringing. Felicia is surprised to hear the conviction in the Mother Superior’s voice as she snaps, ‘I’ve known this child’s family for a long time. We treat her like the rest.’ In fact, malnourished as she is, Felicia is treated slightly better than the rest. The Mother Superior often sneaks Felicia a bite of cake when the others aren’t watching, allows her a few extra minutes each day outdoors in the sun, and keeps a close watch during the children’s free time, intervening when the older girls, who’ve deemed the skinny newcomer the runt of the group, hurl insults, or sticks.
Pulling her wool cap low over her brow, Mila strolls along the split-rail wooden fence of the convent’s garden, trying to make out the faces of the children playing inside. She’s allowed one visit per week, but this one is unscheduled. She can’t help it. She hates being apart from her daughter. She scans the garden, trying to decipher which of the small bundled bodies is Felicia’s. The children look alike in their dark winter coats and hats. They run and shout, their breath puffing in fleeting clouds from pink-lipped mouths as they play. Mila smiles. There’s something about the sound of their laughter that fills her momentarily with hope. Finally, she notices a girl, slighter than the rest, standing still, staring in her direction.
Mila makes her way casually toward the fence, fighting the urge to wave, to jump the wooden beams, to gather her daughter up in her arms and sneak her back to Warsaw. Felicia approaches the fence, too, her chin cocked, curious as to why her mother has come – she keeps close track, and must realise it’s too soon for her next scheduled visit. Mila smiles and nods gently. There’s no reason to worry, she says with her eyes.
Felicia nods, too, in understanding. A stone’s throw from her mother, she stops beside a bench, props her foot on it, and bends over, as if tying her shoelace. Upside down, her hat falls off and her bleached-blonde hair spills toward the earth, haloing her small, freckled face. She peers between her legs at her mother, and, knowing the others can’t see, waves.
I love you, Mila mouths, and blows a kiss.
Felicia smiles, and returns the kiss. I love you, too.
Mila watches, blinking back tears, as Felicia stands, adjusts her hat on her head, and trots back to the other children.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Genek
Tel Aviv, Palestine ~ February 1943
Genek’s stomach pains are back. When they come – typically every thirty minutes or so at their worst – he doubles over, grimacing.
‘What does it feel like?’ Herta asked, when the pains first started, the winter before. ‘Like someone’s twisting up my intestines with a pitchfork,’ he said. Herta had begged him to see a doctor, but Genek was reluctant to do so. He assumed that his digestive system just needed time to readjust to a somewhat normal diet. ‘I’ll be fine,’ he insisted. And anyway, there were so many people in Tehran worse off than he, it was difficult to justify using up the one medic’s precious time and resources.
But that was in Persia. Now they’re in Palestine, where, under the care of the British Army, he and his Polish colleagues in Anders’s Army have access to half a dozen medical tents, a host of supplies, and a team of doctors. Now, the pains are persistent – and have escalated to the degree that Genek wonders if an ulcer has eaten through his stomach lining. ‘It’s time,’ Herta said, the day before, her tone filled less with pity than with frustration. ‘Please, Genek, go see someone, before it’s too late. Don’t let something that could have been fixed bring you down now, after all that we’ve been through.’
He’s seated at the edge of his cot, his toes grazing the ground beneath him, naked but for a white cotton
gown that opens in the back. Behind him, a doctor presses the cool, round chest piece of a stethoscope to his ribs, making hmm sounds through his nose as Genek answers each of his questions.
‘Lie down,’ the doctor instructs. Genek swings his legs onto his cot and leans back, wincing as the doctor’s fingers press into the pale flesh of his stomach. ‘My guess is you’ve got an ulcer,’ he says. ‘Stay away from citrus, and anything acidic. No more oranges or lemons. Try to eat only mild foods. I have some medicine, too, to help neutralise you. Let’s start there, and we’ll see how you’re doing in a week.’
‘All right,’ Genek nods.
The doctor adjusts his stethoscope around his neck and tucks his pen into the breast pocket of his lab coat. ‘I’ll be back,’ he says. ‘Stay put.’
Genek watches him disappear. The last time he was made to wear a hospital gown was at fourteen, when he had his tonsils removed. He doesn’t remember much of the surgery, except for the constant supply of freshly pressed apple juice he enjoyed afterward, along with a week’s worth of doting from his mother. A wave of longing. What he would do right now, to see his mother. It’s been three and a half years since he left home.
Home. He thinks about how far he’s travelled in the last forty-two months. About his apartment in Lvov and the night the NKVD came pounding on his door; how he’d packed a suitcase, somehow knowing when they left that they wouldn’t return. He thinks of the cattle cars to which he’s been confined for weeks on end – dark and dank and riddled with disease, and of his barracks in Siberia and the ice-cold night Józef was born. He thinks about all the corpses he’d seen on his exodus from Siberia, through Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, and Turkmenistan to Persia, about the military camp he called home for four months in Tehran, and about the trip from Tehran to Tel Aviv and how, as their truck had snaked along the narrow roads of the Zagros mountain range, he’d contemplated the very real possibility of careening 1,500 metres to the valley floor. He thinks of Palestine’s beautiful beaches, and of how much he will miss them when he’s shipped off to battle; there has been much talk of late, of Anders’s Army being sent to Europe to fight on the Italian front.
His true home, of course, will always be Radom. That he knows. He crosses his ankles and closes his eyes, and in an instant his mind has left the medical tent and arrived at a scene he knows well – a family gathering on Warszawska Street, in the apartment where he grew up. He’s in the living room, seated on a blue velvet couch beneath the portrait of his great-grandfather Gerszon, for whom he was named. Herta nurses Józef beside him. Addy is at the Steinway playing an improvised version of Cole Porter’s ‘Anything Goes’. Halina and Adam dance. Mila and Nechuma chat by the walnut mantle over the fireplace, watching, laughing, as Sol twirls Felicia in the air. In the corner, Jakob stands on a chair, taking in the spectacle through the lens of his Rolleiflex.
Genek would do anything to relive an evening of dinner and music at home in prewar Radom. But as quickly as the scene in his parents’ living room entered his mind, a new thought arises, another memory. His gut tightens, sending a shock of pain through his abdomen, as he recalls the conversation he’d overheard as he passed by the captain’s quarters earlier that week: ‘It has to be an exaggeration,’ one of the captains had said. ‘Over a million?’ ‘Someone said two,’ another voice replied. ‘They’ve liquidated hundreds of camps and ghettos.’ ‘What sick fucking bastards,’ the first voice replied. It was quiet for a moment, and Genek had to fight the instinct to claw his way inside, to demand more information. But he knew better. The panic in his eyes might give him away – he was supposed to be Catholic, after all. But millions? Surely they were talking about Jews. His mother, his father, his sisters and little niece – last he knew, they were all in the ghetto. Aunts and uncles and cousins, too. He’s written home a dozen times but hasn’t received a reply. Please, he prays, let the numbers be an exaggeration. Let the family be safe. Please.
With a lump in his throat, Genek reminds himself that he should be grateful, he is with Herta and Józef. They are together and, for the most part, in good health. Who knows how long they’ll stay, but for now he is lucky to make Tel Aviv his home. The city, perched on the white sand and palm-fringed banks of the blue-green Mediterranean, is more beautiful than any he’s ever seen. Even the air is pleasant, somehow smelling always of sweet oranges and oleander. Herta had summed it up in one word on the day they arrived: ‘Paradise.’
The din of the medical tent filters back into Genek’s consciousness – the murmur of voices, the groan of canvas stretching as his neighbour rolls to his side, the clang of a chamber pot being replaced beneath a cot – and as he comes to, something draws his attention. A voice. One he recognises. One from a previous life. A voice that reminds him of home. His real home. He opens his eyes.
Most of the patients in the tent are asleep or reading. A few talk quietly with doctors beside them. Genek scans the room, listening intently. The voice is gone. He’s imagined it – part of him is still stuck in his memory of Radom. But then he hears it again, and this time he sits up. There, he realises, looking over his shoulder – it’s coming from a doctor standing with his back to him, three beds down. Genek swings his legs over his cot, intrigued. The doctor is a head shorter than Genek, with stick-straight posture and dark hair shorn close to his scalp. Genek stares until finally he turns, peering through perfectly round eyeglasses as he scribbles something on his clipboard. Genek recognises him immediately. His heart vaults into his throat as he stands.
‘Hey!’ Genek yells. The two dozen men, half a dozen doctors, and handful of nurses in the tent stop what they’re doing for a moment to look in Genek’s direction. He yells again, ‘Hey, Selim!’
The doctor looks up from his clipboard, surveying the room until finally his gaze lands on Genek. He blinks, shakes his head.
‘Genek?’
Genek leaps from his cot, oblivious to his half-exposed backside, and rushes toward his brother-in-law. ‘Selim!’
‘What …’ Selim stammers, ‘what are you doing here?’
Genek, too overcome to speak, wraps his arms around Selim’s torso, nearly lifting him from the floor in his embrace. The others in the medical tent watch for a moment, smiling. A few of the nurses to Genek’s exposed rear exchange glances and suppress giggles before going back to their business.
‘You have no idea how happy I am to see you, brother,’ Genek says, shaking his head.
Selim smiles. ‘It’s really good to see you, too.’
‘You disappeared in Lvov. We thought we’d lost you. What happened? Wait, Selim –’ Genek holds him at arm’s length, studying his face. ‘Tell me, have you heard from the family?’ Seeing his brother-in-law has ignited something in Genek – a mix of hope and longing. Perhaps this is a good sign. Perhaps if Selim is alive, the others are, too.
Selim’s shoulders drop and Genek lets his hands fall to his sides. ‘I was going to ask you the same,’ Selim says. ‘They shipped me off to Kazakhstan, wouldn’t let me write from the camp. What letters I’ve sent since have gone unanswered.’
Genek lowers his voice so the others in the tent won’t overhear. ‘Mine, too,’ he says softly, deflating. ‘The last I heard from anyone was just before Herta and I were arrested in Lvov. That was almost two years ago. Back then, Mila was in Radom, living in the ghetto with my parents.’
‘The ghetto,’ Selim whispers. His face has gone white.
‘It’s hard to imagine, I know.’
‘They’ve – they’ve been liquidating the ghettos, have you heard?’
‘I’ve heard,’ Genek says. The men are quiet for a moment.
‘I keep telling myself over and over they’re fine,’ Genek adds, looking up to the tent’s rafters, as if searching for answers. ‘But I wish I knew for sure.’ He lowers his eyes to meet Selim’s. ‘It’s terrible, not knowing.’
Selim nods.
‘I think about Felicia often,’ Genek says, realising he hasn’t told his brother-in-law yet
about Józef. ‘She must be – three now?’
‘Four.’ Selim’s voice is distant.
‘Selim,’ Genek starts. He pauses, licks his lips, embarrassed at his riches when, for all either of them knows, Selim might have lost everyone. ‘Herta and I have a son. He was born in Siberia. He’ll be one year old in March.’
Selim looks pleased. He smiles. ‘Mazel tov, brother,’ he says. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Józef. We call him Ze for short …’
The two men stare at their feet for a while, unsure of what to say next. ‘What was the name of your camp in Kazakhstan?’ Genek finally asks.
‘Dolinka. I was a medic there, and for the nearby town.’
Genek nods, struck by the notion that it took an internment camp, an amnesty, and an army to enable Selim to practise the profession he’d been denied in Radom. ‘Wish we’d had a couple medics like you at our camp,’ he says, shaking his head.
‘Where were you?’
‘I have no idea, to be honest. The nearest town to us was called Altynay. A total shitscape. Only good thing that came of it was Ze.’
Selim scans Genek’s lithe frame, quizzical. ‘Are you feeling all right?’
‘Oh. Yes, fine – just my stomach, is all. Altynay ruined me. Goddamned Soviets. Doc thinks it’s an ulcer.’
‘I’ve been treating quite a few of those. If you’re not better soon, let me know. I’ll see what I can do to help.’
‘Thanks.’
A patient calls from across the room, and Selim motions with his clipboard. ‘I’d better get going.’
Genek nods. ‘Of course.’ But as Selim turns, something occurs to Genek and he reaches for his brother-in-law’s shoulder again. ‘Wait, Selim, before you go,’ he says, ‘I’ve been thinking I should start writing to the Red Cross, now that I’m traceable through the army.’ Genek’s friend Otto had just been able to connect with his brother this way, and Genek couldn’t help but wonder whether he might have similar luck. ‘Perhaps we could go together, fill out some forms, send some telegrams.’
We Were the Lucky Ones Page 29
