We Were the Lucky Ones

by Georgia Hunter

  He slips a pair of woollen undergarments and gloves into his pack along with a journal and his deck of cards. Eyeing a worn copy of Jasieński’s I Burn Paris beside his mat, he pulls a spare piece of army-issued letterhead from the inside cover and reaches to his breast pocket for a pen. Taking a break from packing, he lies on his side, setting the blank page on the book’s cover.

  Dearest Herta, he writes, and then pauses. He’d feel better if he could tell her about his mission – his first: to capture the Cassino! The linchpin of German defence! He tries to picture himself in battle, but the image feels surreal, like a scene out of a film. Would she be impressed to learn of his orders? To know he was about to be part of something so noble? So monumental? Or at least something that had the potential to be monumental? Or would she be terrified, as he is, by the enormity of the task at hand – by the prospect of finding himself in the wrong place at the wrong time? She would be terrified, Genek knows. She would beg him to be safe. But Herta will never know, Genek reminds himself. He’s been forbidden to put anything to paper that would, if intercepted, offer a clue of their plan. So instead he writes:

  How is Tel Aviv? Sunny, I hope. We are here still on Italian soil. The rain is relentless. My tent, my clothes, everything is perpetually damp – I can’t remember what it feels like to pull on a dry shirt. Without much to do but take cover and wait, I’ve spent hours playing cards and reading and rereading the handful of books passed around – Strug, Jasieński, Stern, Wat. There’s a work of poetry by Leśmian which you would enjoy, called ‘Forest Happenings’. You might look for a copy.

  Genek listens to the drum of raindrops on the A-frame of his tent, thinking of the weekend in the mountains when he first laid eyes on Herta. He pictures himself in his white cable-knit sweater and English tweed pants, Herta close by his side in her smart goosedown ski jacket, her cheeks pink from the cold, her hair freshly washed and smelling of lavender. How surreal it felt now, looking back on it – as if he’d dreamt it.

  Despite the rain, he continues, morale here is surprisingly high. Even Wojtek seems to be in good spirits, lumbering happily around camp in search of handouts. You should see how big he’s grown.

  Private Wojtek, the only official four-legged member of Anders’s Army, is a bear. He was discovered in Iran as an orphaned cub. Wojtek, Polish for ‘smiling warrior,’ is now the unofficial mascot for the Polish II Corps. He’s travelled with the army from Iran, through Iraq, Syria, Palestine, and Egypt, and finally to Italy. Along the way, he’s learnt to haul ammunition and to salute when greeted; he enjoys a good boxing match, and he nods in approval when rewarded with a bottle of beer or a cigarette, both of which he eagerly devours. Understandably so, Wojtek is easily the most popular member of the Polish II Corps.

  Genek rolls onto his stomach, reads what he’s written. Will his wife see through it? Herta knows him well enough to sense when he’s hiding something. He flips to the back of I Burn Paris and retrieves a photo. In it, Herta, perched on a low stone wall in Tel Aviv, wears a new grey collared dress. He’s standing beside her in his army attire. He remembers when Otto took the photo. Julia had held Józef while Otto counted to three, and just before he snapped the picture, Herta had looped her arm through Genek’s, leant into him, and flipped her toe playfully, like a school girl on a date.

  He misses her – more than he knew was humanly possible. Józef, too.

  I’m not sure when I’ll be able to write next. We’ll be restationed soon. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can – please don’t worry.

  Of course Herta will worry, Genek thinks, regretting his word choice. He’s worried. Petrified. He chews on the end of his pen. Three failures. An army of ex-prisoners. The odds aren’t in the Polish II Corps’s favour.

  How are you? he concludes. How is Ze? Reply soon. I love you and miss you more than you can imagine. Yours, Genek

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Addy

  Rio de Janeiro, Brazil ~ April 1944

  On the night Addy returned from Minas Gerais, he and Eliska ended their engagement. They weren’t meant to be married, they agreed. It wasn’t easy – neither of them wanted to be alone, nor did they want to be seen as people who would voluntarily give up, even though they both knew that giving up, in this case, was for the best. They would remain friends, they said. And as hard as it was, Addy felt a thousand kilos lighter on his feet, once the decision was made.

  Madame Lowbeer, of course, was thrilled to learn that the engagement had been called off, and shortly after, in an ironic twist, she took a new liking to Addy. Apparently with the prospect of having him as a son-in-law officially erased, the Grande Dame was capable of socialising with a Pole. She’d begun inviting Addy to her apartment on the weekends to play the piano and requesting his handyman help when her radio malfunctioned. She’d even offered to put him in touch with a contact at General Electric in the States, should he ever decide to emigrate north.

  Addy spent the months following the breakup focusing on his work, on his weekly trips to the post office, and on the radio broadcasts and periodicals that brought him news of the war. None of it was encouraging. The constant battling in Anzio and Monte Cassino, Italy; the bombs dropped in the South Pacific and over Germany – Addy was sickened by all of it. The only auspicious bit of information he stumbled across was that of American president Franklin Roosevelt issuing an executive order to create a War Refugee Board, which would be responsible for ‘rescuing victims of enemy oppression in imminent danger of death,’ as the article phrased it. At least someone somewhere was helping, Addy thought, wondering what the chances were of his parents, brothers, and sisters being among the rescued.

  Addy’s spirits were particularly low when his friend Jonathan knocked on the door to his apartment in Copacabana. ‘I’m throwing a party next weekend,’ Jonathan said in his smart British accent. ‘You’re coming. If I recall, your birthday is right around the corner. You’ve been hibernating long enough.’ Addy waved his hand in protest, but before he could decline the invitation, Jonathan added, ‘I’ve invited the embassy girls,’ flashing a smile that said, You could use a date, brother. Addy had heard plenty about the American embassy girls – amid Rio’s small circle of expats they were rather famous for their good looks and adventurous spirits – but he’d never met any of them. ‘I mean it. You should come,’ Jonathan pressed. ‘Just for a drink. It’ll be fun.’

  On Saturday evening Addy stands in the corner of Jonathan’s Ipanema flat nursing a cachaça and water, slipping in and out of conversation. He’s distracted by thoughts of home. In two days, he will turn thirty-one. Halina, wherever she is, will be twenty-seven. It will have been six years since they celebrated together. Addy recalls how, for that last birthday, his twenty-fifth, he and Halina had spent the evening at one of Radom’s new clubs, where they’d drunk too much champagne and danced until their feet hurt. He’s sifted through the details of the night a thousand times, rolling them over in his mind to keep them sharp: the tangy aftertaste of the lemon chiffon cake they’d shared; the way his sister’s hands had felt in his as they danced; the thrilling pop of their second bottle of Ruinart being uncorked, how the bubbles had burnt his throat and, a few sips later, made his tongue go numb. Pesach had been the night before. The family had celebrated in the usual boisterous fashion, gathered first at the dining table and then around the piano in the living room on Warszawska Street.

  Addy swirls his drink, watching a single ice cube orbit the glass, wondering if Halina is somewhere thinking about him, too.

  When he looks up his eyes are drawn to a figure across the room. A brunette. She stands by the window with a wine glass in hand, listening to a friend – a single point of calm amid the cacophony. An embassy girl? Must be. Suddenly everyone else in the room is invisible. Addy studies the young woman’s tall, slender frame, the graceful slope of her cheekbones, her easy smile. She wears a pale green cotton halter dress that buttons down the front and ties at the waist, a watch with a simple band, brown l
eather sandals with thin straps that wrap loosely around the fine bones of her ankles. Her eyes are soft, her expression open, as if she has nothing to hide. She is beautiful – strikingly so – but in an unassuming way. Even from afar he can sense her modesty.

  What the hell, he decides. Maybe Jonathan was right. With a disconcerting jitter in his gut, Addy sets his glass down and makes his way across the room. As he approaches, the girl turns. He offers her his hand.

  ‘Addy,’ he says, and then in the same breath, ‘Please excuse my English.’

  The brunette smiles. ‘Pleasure to meet you,’ she says, taking his hand. Addy was right – she is definitely American. ‘I’m Caroline. Don’t apologise, your English is lovely.’ She speaks slowly, and the way she pronounces her words, soft and round so he can’t quite tell where one ends and the next begins, makes Addy feel at home beside her. This woman, Addy realises, emanates an air of acceptance and ease – she is perfectly content, it seems, to simply be. Something stirs in Addy’s heart as he realises he was once that way.

  Caroline is patient with Addy’s broken English. When he stumbles over a word, she waits for him to gather his thoughts, to try again, and Addy is reminded that it’s okay to slow down, to take his time. When he asks where in the States she is from, she tells him about the town in South Carolina where she was born. ‘I loved growing up there,’ Caroline says. ‘Clinton was a close-knit community, and we were always very involved with the schools and the church … but I think I always knew I wouldn’t stay. I just – I had to get out. It started to feel so small. My poor mother.’ Caroline sighs, describing her mother’s shock upon hearing that she and her best friend, Virginia, had made plans to travel to South America. ‘She thought we were crazy to up and leave our lives in South Carolina.’

  Addy nods, smiling. ‘You are – how do you say … you have no fear.’

  ‘I suppose you could say we were brave for coming here. I think, though, we were just after an adventure.’

  ‘My father leave his home in Poland, too,’ he says. ‘For America. For adventure. When he was young man. No children. He always tell me how much I will love New York City.’

  ‘Why did he return?’ Caroline asks.

  ‘For helping his mother,’ Addy says. ‘After his father die, she care for five children in the home, all alone. My father want to help.’

  Caroline smiles. ‘He sounds like a good man, your father.’

  Their conversation ends when a friend Caroline introduces as Virginia, who goes by Ginna, finally pulls her away. They are headed to another party, Ginna says, winking a blue eye at Addy as she links elbows with Caroline. Addy watches the backs of the women’s heads as they bob toward the door, wishing the conversation hadn’t ended so quickly.

  He leaves shortly after, offering Jonathan a friendly slap on the back on his way out. ‘Thank you, amigo,’ he says. ‘I’m glad I came.’

  He thinks of Caroline on his walk home, and nearly every minute for the next week. There was something about her that made him want, badly, to get to know her better. And so, after tracking down her address in Leme, he musters the courage to leave a note under her door, written with the help of a newly purchased French/English dictionary.

  Dear Caroline,

  I enjoyed to speak with you last weekend. If you will be so obliged it would please me to take you to dine at the restaurant Belmond, near Hotel Copacabana Palace. I proposition we meet at the Palace for an aperitif at eight o’clock this Saturday, April the 29th – I hope to see you there.

  Yours, Addy Kurc

  A few days later, wearing a freshly pressed shirt and carrying a purple orchid he’d picked up at a flower stand along the way, Addy arrives at the Copacabana Palace, the same flutter tickling at his insides that he’d felt when he and Caroline first met. He’s checking the time – eight o’clock to the minute – when Caroline steps through the lobby’s revolving glass door. She waves when she sees him, and in an instant Addy forgets to be nervous.

  At the hotel bar, they talk about their days and the things they love about Rio. Addy’s English has improved – never before has he been so motivated to learn – but it is still rough. Caroline, though, doesn’t seem to notice.

  ‘The first time I ate at a churrascaria,’ she blushes, ‘I ate myself sick. I felt so awful leaving any meat on the plate, so I’d force it down, and then they’d bring me more!’

  Addy jokes about the excruciatingly slow pace at which the locals in Rio move, parading his first two fingers along the bar to demonstrate his cadence compared to that of a typical Brazilian. ‘No one here is in hurry,’ he says, shaking his head.

  Later on at Belmond, Caroline asks Addy to order for the two of them. As they converse, this time over bowls of moqueca de camarão, shrimp stewed in coconut milk, Addy learns that Caroline is one of four Martin siblings, and that her three older brothers, whose names he asks her to repeat again and again – Edward, Taylor, and Venable – still live at home in Clinton.

  ‘We had a cow in our backyard when we were children,’ Caroline says, her eyes lighting up as she reminisces. Addy nearly chokes when she reveals that the cow’s name was Sarah – his little sister Halina’s Hebrew name, he explains. Caroline blushes. ‘Oh, I hope I haven’t offended you,’ she says. ‘Sarah was part of the family!’ she adds. ‘We’d milk her, and sometimes even ride her to school.’

  Addy smiles. ‘It sounds like your Sarah was a lot less stubborn than mine.’ He goes on to tell Caroline about Halina, reminded of the time, after seeing It Happened One Night, that she insisted on cutting her hair short to look like Claudette Colbert, and how she’d refused to leave the apartment for days after, convinced the look didn’t suit her. Laughing, Addy realises how good it feels to talk of his family, how hearing their names helps, in a way, to confirm their existence.

  Caroline tells him about her family as well, about her father, a mathematics professor at Presbyterian College in Clinton, who had taught right up until his death in 1935. ‘We didn’t grow up with many luxuries,’ she says, ‘except for our schooling. You can imagine with a professor for a father how he felt about our education.’

  Addy nods. His parents weren’t professors, but receiving a good education was paramount in his household growing up, too. ‘What did you call your father?’ Addy asks, curious. ‘What was his name?’

  Caroline smiles. ‘His name was Abram.’

  Addy looks at her. ‘Abram? As similar to Abraham?’

  ‘Yes, Abram. Derived from Abraham. It’s a family name. Passed down from my great-grandfather.’

  Addy smiles, and then reaches to his pocket for his mother’s handkerchief, laying it flat on the table between them. ‘My mother, she …’ he mimes the act of sewing with a needle and thread.

  ‘She sews?’

  ‘Yes, she sews this for me, before I leave Poland. Here,’ Addy points, ‘these are my – how do you call them?’

  ‘Initials.’

  ‘These are my initials – the A is for my Hebrew name, Abraham.’ Caroline leans over the handkerchief, studying the embroidery. ‘You are an Abraham, too?’

  ‘Si.’

  ‘Our families have very good taste in names,’ Caroline says, smiling.

  Addy folds the handkerchief and slips it back into his pocket. Perhaps they are woven from the same thread, he decides.

  Caroline is quiet for a moment. She looks down at her lap. ‘My mother passed away three years ago,’ she says. ‘It’s one of my biggest regrets, that I wasn’t there when she died.’

  It is a confession that surprises Addy, for he has just met Caroline. In the years that he was with Eliska she hardly ever spoke of her past, let alone her regrets. He nods in understanding, thinking of his own mother and wishing he could say something to comfort her. Maybe Caroline would feel less alone knowing that he, too, missed his mother terribly. He hasn’t told her, of course, about losing contact with his family. He’d grown so accustomed to avoiding the subject he wasn’t even sure he could bring
himself to talk about it. Where would he begin?

  He looks up, meeting Caroline’s eyes. There is something so earnest about her, so gentle. You can talk to her, he realises. Try.

  ‘I know how it is you feel,’ he says.

  Caroline looks surprised. ‘You’ve lost your mother, too?’

  ‘Well, not exactly. I don’t know, you see. My family, I think, is still in Poland.’

  ‘You think?’

  Addy glances at his lap. ‘I don’t know for sure. We are Jews.’

  Caroline reaches for his hand across the table with tears in her eyes, and all of a sudden the story that he hasn’t told for so many years comes tumbling out.

  Two weeks later, Addy and Caroline sit at a desk pushed up against an east-facing window in Caroline’s apartment overlooking Leme Beach, a stack of parchment before them. They’ve seen each other almost every day since their first dinner at Belmond. It was Caroline’s idea to contact the Red Cross for help locating his family. Addy dictates, leaning over Caroline’s arm as she writes. Her optimism has energised him, and the words spill from his lips faster than she can keep up.

  ‘Wait, wait, slow down.’ Caroline laughs. ‘Can you spell your mother’s name for me again?’ She looks up, the velvet brown of her irises catching in the light. Her fountain pen hovers over the paper. Addy clears his throat. The softness in her eyes, the soapy smell of her auburn hair, make him lose his train of thought. He spells Nechuma, trying not to butcher the English pronunciation of the letters, then his father’s name and those of each of his siblings. Caroline’s cursive, Addy notes, is effortless and elegant compared with his own.