CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
The Kurc Family
Adriatic Coast of Italy ~ July 1945
Felicia sleeps curled into the fetal position on the seat next to Mila’s, her cheek propped on her mother’s thigh. Mila, too nervous to close her eyes, rests a hand on Felicia’s shoulder and presses her forehead to the window, taking in the azure of the Adriatic as the train speeds south along the heel of Italy’s boot toward Bari. She rehearses for the thousandth time what she will say to her husband when she sees him. It should be obvious – I’ve missed you. I love you. So much has happened … where do I begin? But even in her mind, the words feel forced.
Nechuma had told her to be patient. To try not to worry so much. But Mila can’t help herself. She wonders if Selim will be the same man she knew before the war, tries to imagine falling back into the rhythm of husband and wife – Selim playing the role once again of patriarch, money earner, keeper of their fate. Could she do that? Could she learn to take a back seat, to depend on him again? It’s been just her and Felicia for so long, she’s not sure she’s ready yet to let someone else take the reins. Even if that someone is Felicia’s father.
Across the aisle, Halina fans herself with a newspaper. She’d begun the trip sitting opposite Mila, but conversing with her sister while watching the scenery stream by in reverse had made her stomach turn, so she moved to a seat where she could face forward. She’s pregnant. She’s sure of it now. Her stomach heaves when it’s empty, her breasts are swollen and tender, and her slacks have grown snug around the waist. Pregnant! It is a truth as daunting as it is thrilling. She hasn’t said a word to the family yet. She plans to tell them after they reach Bari. And she’ll have to come up with a clever way to share the news with Adam back in Łódź – perhaps she’ll splurge on a telephone call. I’ve just walked over the Alps, and I’m pregnant, she’ll say. If someone had told her before the war that at twenty-eight she’d lead her family across a mountain range, pregnant and on foot, she’d have laughed wholeheartedly. She’s not a country girl! A three-week haul over the mountains, sleeping on the dirt, with stale bread and water for sustenance? While carrying a child? Not a chance.
Halina replays the past few weeks of their journey in her mind, marvelling at the fact that, despite the circumstances, she hasn’t heard a single complaint. Not from Mila, who trekked for hours each day with Felicia on her back; not from her parents, whose limps grew more apparent by the day; not even from Felicia, whose shoes were so small her blistered toes had finally poked a hole in one of them, and who, when her mother wasn’t carrying her, had to take two strides for every one of the adults’ to keep up.
Their border crossing into Italy, thankfully, had been uneventful. ‘Siamo italiani,’ Halina lied to the British authorities manning the checkpoint in Tarcento. When the guards balked, Halina opened her purse. ‘Returning home to our families,’ she said, reaching for the remaining cigarettes.
It was a strange feeling to walk for the first time on Italian soil. Nechuma was the only one in the group who’d been before – she used to visit Milan twice a year to buy silk and linen for the shop. To pass the time and as a distraction from their aching knees on their descent through the Alps, she’d told stories of her travels – of how the vendors at the Milanese markets had nicknamed her la tigre cieca, ‘the blind tiger,’ as she would travel from stall to stall rubbing fabric swatches between thumb and forefinger, always with her eyes closed, before making an offer. There was no fooling her when it came to quality – ‘I could guess the price to the nearest lira,’ she said proudly.
Once in Italy, Halina asked directions to the nearest village. They then walked another six hours, depleted of their water supply; it was dusk and they were all close to delirium when they knocked on the door of a small home on the outskirts of the town. Halina could see that they were in no shape to sleep another night out in the elements, with only a crust of bread to eat and nothing to drink, and gave a silent prayer that whoever opened the door would look at their filthy, bedraggled group with sympathy and not suspicion. She breathed a sigh of relief when a kind-eyed young farmer and his wife opened the door and waved them inside. Nechuma was able to talk to them using the small bit of Italian she had, and soon they were devouring warm plates of peppery pasta aglio e olio. That night, all five Kurcs slept better than they had in months, on blankets the couple had spread across the floor.
The next morning, after offering up profuse thanks to their Italian hosts, the Kurcs continued on by foot toward the train station. En route, they crossed paths with a group of American soldiers who stepped out of their army-green Jeeps when Halina waved and flashed a smile at them. The Americans, one of whom fortunately spoke French, were eager to learn news of the situation in Poland. They shook their heads in disbelief when Halina told them briefly of the unfathomable devastation in Warsaw and the path that she and her family had followed in order to flee their homeland and arrive safely in Italy.
Before they parted, a young, blue-eyed sergeant with a T. O’DRISCOLL patch sewn to his fatigues reached into his pocket and squatted beside Felicia. ‘Here y’are, darlin’,’ he said in an accent unlike any Felicia had ever heard before. She had blushed as the handsome American handed her a brown and silver foil package. ‘It’s a Hershey bar. I hope you like it,’ Sergeant O’Driscoll said.
‘Merci,’ Mila said, squeezing Felicia’s free hand.
‘Merci,’ Felicia imitated quietly.
‘Where to from here?’ the American had asked, patting Felicia on the head as he stood. The soldier who spoke French translated.
‘To family in Bari,’ Halina explained.
‘You’re a long way from Bari.’
‘We’ve gotten pretty good at walking,’ Halina said, smiling.
‘Wait here.’ Sergeant O’Driscoll left, and returned a few minutes later with a US twenty-dollar bill. ‘Train’s faster,’ he said, handing Halina the bill, returning her smile.
Across from Halina, Nechuma and Sol drift in and out of sleep, their chins nodding as the train ricochets on its tracks. Studying them as if through Genek’s eyes, Halina can see how much the war has aged them. They look twenty years older than they had before they’d been locked up in the ghetto, forced into hiding, nearly starved.
‘Bari, cinque minuti!’ the conductor calls.
Mila runs her fingertips over the scurvy scars still pockmarking Felicia’s neck and cheeks. Her hair is shoulder length now, and blonde from her ears down. Beneath her eyelids, Felicia’s eyes jump. Her forehead twitches. Even in her sleep, Mila realises, her daughter looks scared. The last five years have stripped her of her innocence. A tear spills from Mila’s eye, down her cheek, and onto the collar of Felicia’s blouse, leaving a small stain on the cotton, a perfect grey circle.
Mila wipes her eyes, her mind turning again to Selim. To the questions she can’t ignore. What will he think of Felicia, the daughter he’s never known? What will Felicia think of him? Yesterday, she had asked what to call Selim. ‘How about just Father, to start,’ Mila had suggested.
A few minutes later, as the train begins to slow, Mila’s heart rate hastens. She pleads with herself to embrace the gift of the husband and father she and Felicia are about to receive. Heaven knows what’s happened to his family – to his father, a watchmaker of modest means, to his eight siblings. Last she knew, a sister, Eugenia, had emigrated to Paris, a brother, David, to Palestine; the rest, she believed, had remained in Warsaw. She’d tried to locate them before the uprising, but they’d either left on their own accord or been sent away – she could find no trace of them. It’s a blessing, she realises, to soon be reunited with her husband, amid the inconceivable tragedy the war has left in its wake. Most would do anything to be in her position.
Brakes squeal. The scenery outside her window slows to a crawl. Mila can see the Bari station a hundred or so metres ahead, and on the platform, people, waiting. As she rubs Felicia’s shoulder gently to wake her, she makes a promise to herself: she’ll embrace her hu
sband with an open heart. She’ll paint a picture of stability, no matter how hard it might be. For Felicia’s sake. And what happens next – what Selim will think of the girl on her lap with unsightly hair and pink scars running down her face, whether Felicia will learn to love the man she has no recollection of ever knowing – these are things, Mila tells herself, best left in the hands of fate.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
The Kurc Family
Bari, Italy ~ August 1945
It’s chaos at the Bari station. Bodies, three rows deep, crowd the platform: men in uniform, small children gripping the hands of what appear to be grandparents, women in their best dresses, waving, standing on their toes, the backs of their calves painted with long charcoal lines to give the illusion of stockings.
As the Kurcs make their way from the train, Halina leads; Nechuma and Sol follow close behind; and Mila brings up the rear, the straps of a leather satchel looped over a shoulder, her hand holding tight to Felicia’s. They shuffle their feet so as not to step on each other’s heels, a body of five moving as one.
‘Let’s wait over here,’ Halina calls over her shoulder as they make their way through the throngs to a marquee reading BARI CENTRALE, and beside it, a sign with an arrow for PIAZZA ROMA. Gathered beneath the marquee, they remain close, standing in a knot, searching the platform for familiar faces. Unaccustomed to seeing Genek and Selim in military garb, they remind themselves to look only for men in Polish uniform.
‘Kurde,’ Halina grumbles, ‘I’m too damned short. Can’t see a thing.’
‘Listen for Polish,’ Nechuma suggests.
There are several languages being spoken on the platform – Italian, of course, and some Russian, French, Hungarian. But so far no Polish. The Italians are the loudest. They move slowly, and talk with their hands, gesticulating wildly.
‘Can you see anything?’ Halina shouts over the din of the crowd.
Mila shakes her head. ‘Not yet.’ She’s the tallest of the group. Pivoting in place, she scours the sea of strangers around her, letting her eyes linger occasionally on the back of a head until it turns, revealing a face that bears no resemblance at all to her husband or her brother, then jumping quickly to the next in the mob.
‘Mamusiu,’ Felicia calls, squeezing Mila’s hand.
‘Yes, darling.’
‘Do you see him?’
Mila shakes her head and tries to smile. ‘Not yet, love. But I’m sure he’s here.’ She bends quickly to kiss Felicia on the cheek.
As she stands, her eyes catch something in the crowd and her heart pauses. A profile. Handsome. Tall. Dark-haired, albeit with a hairline that receded farther than she remembered … could it be? ‘Genek!’ she yells, flailing an arm over her head. Behind her, Nechuma gasps. Genek turns, his eyes bright, scanning the faces in the direction from which he’d heard his name, finally meeting Mila’s.
‘Where? Where do you see?’ Halina shouts, hopping up and down.
Genek’s voice hurtles overhead, somehow audible amid the racket. ‘Mila!’ His arm shoots up over his head, knocking the cap from someone in front of him. He disappears for a moment to retrieve the hat, and when he surfaces again he is moving toward her. ‘You stay there!’ Genek shouts. ‘I’ll come to you!’
‘It’s him! It’s him! It’s him!’ Halina, Sol, and Nechuma echo each other’s elation, bouncing rapidly in place. Hearing Genek’s voice is reason enough to celebrate.
Mila drops her satchel and hoists Felicia up to her waist. The child has yet to gain back the weight she’d lost in the convent bunker – Mila can easily hold her on her hip with one arm. Mila points at Genek. ‘You see? Just there. Your uncle, Genek! He’s the handsome one, with the big smile and the dimples. Wave!’ Felicia smiles and waves along with her mother.
‘And Father? Is he with him?’ Felicia’s voice is nearly swallowed in the cacophony.
A thought strikes Mila fast and hard like a mallet to a gong – what if Selim isn’t here? What if something’s happened since they last corresponded? What if he’s gone? What if he hadn’t the courage to meet them? Where are you, Selim? ‘I don’t see your father just yet,’ she starts, but as her brother draws closer, she notices a body following closely behind. Dark-haired, a head shorter than Genek. She had missed him at first. ‘Wait. I think I see him! He’s just behind your uncle.’
Felicia cranes her neck. ‘You say hello first,’ she says, suddenly shy.
Mila nods, and lowers Felicia to the ground, taking her hand. ‘Okay.’
‘Genek – is he close?’ Nechuma asks. ‘Is Selim with him, too?’
Mila turns around to face her mother. ‘Yes, Selim is with him. Come,’ she says, reaching for Nechuma and pulling her gently to stand in front of her. ‘Genek is nearly here. You should be the first to greet him.’
Genek is stuck behind a group of locals. Mila watches as he loses his patience, turns his body sideways, and pushes his way through. A couple of the men yap at him in Italian, but he is unfazed.
The tears that have welled in Nechuma’s eyes stream down her cheeks like water from a broken dam when she finally sees her eldest striding toward her, even more dashing in his army attire than she remembered him. ‘Genek!’ is all she can manage when he sees her. His eyes are wet, too. He reaches for her and she for him, and they meld together in a long embrace, shaking with laughter and sorrow and raw, uninhibited joy. Nechuma closes her eyes, feeling her son’s warmth radiate through her as he rocks her gently from side to side.
‘I missed you so much, Mother.’
Nechuma is too emotional to speak. When she finally peels herself away, Genek wipes his eyes with the palms of his hands, and beams at his family. Before he can say a word, Halina jumps into his arms.
‘You made it.’ Genek laughs. ‘I can’t believe how far you’ve come.’
‘You have no idea,’ Halina says.
‘And you –’ Genek beams, marvelling at the sight of his niece. ‘Look at you! You were no bigger than a kitten the last time I saw you!’ Felicia blushes. He squats and wraps his arms around Felicia, and then around Mila, who squeezes him tight.
‘Oh, Genek, it’s so good to see you,’ Mila cries.
When Genek finally makes his way to his father, he finds himself on the receiving end of the longest, most bearish hug of his life. ‘I missed you, too, Father,’ he says, his throat tight.
As father and son cling to one another, Mila turns her attention back to the crowd. Selim stands a metre away with his cap in his hands. They lock eyes for a moment and Mila lifts a hand awkwardly, as if to wave, then motions for Felicia to join her.
‘I didn’t want to interrupt,’ Selim says, stepping toward them.
Mila barely breathes as she takes in the image of the man before her – his brown hair, cut short, his round spectacles, his perfect posture. She’d expected him to look different, but in fact he looks very much the same. She opens her mouth. ‘I – Selim, I …’ But after so many weeks of ruminating on what to say in the moment, she finds her words have left her.
‘Mila,’ Selim says, stepping toward her.
Mila closes her eyes as he brings her to him. He smells of soap. After a moment’s embrace, she pulls away and bends down, cradling one of her daughter’s hands in hers. ‘Felicia, darling,’ she says softly, looking from her daughter to Selim, ‘this is your father.’
Felicia follows her mother’s gaze, resting her eyes on her father.
Selim clears his throat, looking from Felicia to Mila. Mila stands. Go on, she nods. Selim lowers himself to his knee so Felicia won’t have to look up to meet his eye.
‘Felicia …’ he starts, and then swallows. He takes a breath, begins again. ‘Felicia, I brought something for you.’ He reaches into his pocket, retrieving a minted silver coin, and hands it to Felicia. She holds it in her palm, studying it. ‘A young family in Persia gave this to me,’ Selim adds, ‘after I helped to deliver their baby. Do you see the lion here?’ He points to the embossing. ‘He’s carrying
a sword. Up here is his crown. And on the reverse …’ He flips the coin over gently in Felicia’s palm. ‘This here is a Farsi symbol for the number five. To me, though, it looks like a heart.’
Felicia rubs her thumb over the embossing.
Selim looks again to Mila, who smiles.
‘What a very special gift,’ Mila offers, resting a hand on Felicia’s shoulder. Felicia glances up at her mother and then again at her father.
‘Thank you, Papa,’ Felicia says.
Selim is silent for a moment as he takes in the young girl before him. ‘Would it be all right if I gave you a hug, Felicia?’ he asks. Felicia nods. As Selim wraps his arms gently around his daughter’s narrow frame, Felicia turns her cheek to rest it on his shoulder, and Mila has to bite her lip to keep from weeping.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Jakob and Bella
Łódź, Poland ~ October 1945
It’s a German train. The letters scrawled in white paint over the splintered, rust-coloured cattle cars read KOBLEN, for Koblenz, where it originated.
A soldier in Home Army attire walks the track, sliding car doors closed as the few remaining passengers on the platform are helped inside. Jakob and Bella are two of the last to board.
‘Ready?’ Jakob asks.
Next to him, Bella nods. Their son, Victor, two months old, is asleep in her arms. ‘You first.’
Someone has set a wooden crate by their car, making it easier to climb in. Jakob hands his suitcase up, breathing in the stale aroma of dust and decay. He shudders as he hoists himself from the crate to sit at the edge of the car, trying to push aside the image of the hundreds, thousands, maybe more, who undoubtedly boarded the same car before him, bound for places like Treblinka, Chełmno, and Auschwitz – names now synonymous with death. His chest tightens to think that Bella’s parents must have been on a train just like this.
Bella peers up at him from the platform and smiles, and Jakob is nearly brought to tears. He is in awe of her strength. Two years ago, she’d nearly given up the will to live. He’d barely recognised her. Today, she reminds him of the girl he fell in love with. Except now, it’s not just them. Now they are a family. Jakob extends his arms.
We Were the Lucky Ones Page 37
