CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
The Kurc Family
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil ~ April 6, 1947
Addy and Caroline have squeezed eighteen chairs, two high chairs, and a bassinet around three card tables pushed together in their living room. Most of the furniture is borrowed. The oven has been on for most of the day, churning out heat that has turned their small apartment into a sauna of sorts, but no one seems to notice, or if they do, they don’t care. Chatter, clinking china, and the smell of freshly baked matzah fill the flat as the family puts the finishing touches on a much-anticipated meal – the first Pesach they’ve celebrated together since before the war. Six months ago a ship called the Campana had brought the remainder of the family to Rio. The only people missing are Jakob, Bella, and Victor. Jakob writes often. He has found a job in the States as a photographer, he said in his most recent letter. Typically, he includes a photograph or two in his correspondence, most often of Victor, who will be two years old in a few months. On special occasions he sends a telegram. They had received one earlier that day:
THINKING OF YOU FROM ILLINOIS. L’CHAIM. J
They’ll telephone him from a neighbour’s apartment after dinner, Addy’s decided.
Sol arranges the table, humming as he smooths the tablecloth Nechuma sewed from a small bolt of lace they’d bought in Naples. He sets his Haggadah by his seat at one end of the table and the prayer books they’d managed to collect at each of the chairs.
In the kitchen, Nechuma and Mila dole out bowls of salt water, peel eggs, and check the oven every few minutes to be sure not to overbake the matzah. Mila dips a wooden spoon into a pot of soup and blows on the clear broth before extending the spoon for her mother to taste.
‘What is it missing?’
Nechuma wipes her hands on her apron, and guides the spoon to her mouth. She smiles. ‘Just what I swallowed!’
Mila laughs. It’s been years since she heard her mother use the expression.
At the table, Genek pours generous portions of wine, glancing now and then at Józef, who’s just celebrated his sixth birthday, as he plays with his older cousin Felicia, who will be nine in November. They sit on the floor by the window, engrossed in a game of pick-up sticks, arguing in Portuguese about whether or not Józef nudged a blue stick with his little finger on his last move.
‘You did, I saw it move!’ Felicia says, exasperated.
‘Did not,’ Józef persists.
Adam sits on the floor as well, beside his one-year-old son, Ricardo, who seems perfectly content to watch his ten-month-old cousin Kathleen crawl circles around him.
‘She’s going to be running before you learn to stand,’ Adam teases, squeezing one of Ricardo’s doughy thighs.
Ricardo was born on the first of February at the Federico II Hospital in Naples. In September, however, a few months after the family arrived in Rio, Halina conveniently ‘lost’ his Italian birth certificate and applied for a new one. When Brazilian naturalisation officials asked her son’s age, Halina lied and said he’d been born in August, on Brazilian soil. Halina and Adam had agreed – Ricardo would be better off leaving his European identity behind. With Adam’s family gone – he’d learnt, finally, that they’d perished at Auschwitz – and with Halina’s family now in Brazil and the States, they had no ties any more to their homeland. Had the Brazilian officials taken a closer look at Ricardo’s ample jowls, they’d have undoubtedly deduced that he was far too large to have been born just a month before. But Ricardo was asleep, concealed beneath a mound of blankets in his carriage, and the officials didn’t pay him much attention. Within a month, he was issued his second birth certificate, this one Brazilian, with a birth date of August 15, 1946. Ricardo’s real birthday, it was decided, was to be kept a secret.
Next to Adam, Caroline kneels on the floor showing Herta how to swaddle her second-born, Michel, just two weeks old. ‘Nechuma taught me how to do this for Kathleen,’ she says quietly, adjusting the soft muslin cloth beneath Michel. Caroline had worried before their arrival about what Addy’s family might think of her – the American their son invited into his life, who knew nothing of the suffering and hardships they’d endured. Addy had assured her again and again that they would adore her. ‘They already do,’ he’d said. ‘You are the reason they are here, remember?’
Herta nods appreciatively and Caroline smiles, grateful that, despite the language barrier, she can be helpful. ‘The trick is to pin down the arms,’ she adds, demonstrating as she talks.
In the corner of the room where Addy keeps his turntable – a last-minute splurge before the family arrived – he and Halina flip through a small record collection, discussing what to play next. Addy suggests Ellington, but Halina objects. ‘Let’s listen to something local,’ she says. They agree on the young Brazilian composer and violinist Cláudio Santoro. Addy adjusts the volume as the first piece begins – a piano solo with a modern, jazzy melody – and watches, smiling, as across the room, his father reaches for his mother, loops a hand around her waist, and sways with her to the rhythm, his eyes closed.
It is just before six o’clock when dinner is ready. Outside, the sky has begun to darken. It’s the tail end of fall in Rio, and the days are short, the nights cool. Addy lowers the volume on the turntable before removing the needle; the room grows quiet as the others make their way to their seats. Caroline and Halina prop Ricardo and Kathleen in high chairs and tuck cotton napkins into their collars. Across from them, Genek pats the chair next to his and sneaks a pinch to Józef’s ribs as his eldest slides into his place. Józef bats Genek’s hand away, narrowing his blue eyes and flashing a dimpled smile. Herta sets Józef’s baby brother, Michel, cocooned comfortably in his swaddle, gently into Kathleen’s old bassinet.
Across from Genek, Mila and Selim sit with Felicia between them.
‘You look pretty,’ Selim whispers to Felicia. ‘I like your bow,’ he adds.
Felicia brings her hand to the navy blue ribbon – a gift from Caroline – that holds her ponytail in place. She smiles shyly, still unsure of how exactly to accept a compliment from her father, but relishing his words; they have a way of filling her with happiness.
Terza, Franka, Salek, Ala, and Zigmund sit in the remaining chairs.
As Sol takes his seat at the head of the table, Nechuma offers Caroline a box of matches. Normally Nechuma would do the lighting – it’s tradition at Pesach for the eldest woman of the house to light the candles – but Nechuma had insisted. ‘It’s your home,’ she’d said, when Addy asked if she would like to do the honour. ‘I can say the blessing, but it would please me very much if Caroline would light the candles.’
Caroline had been hesitant at first to accept the responsibility. Not only was this her first Passover, but it was the first holiday spent with her new family – she would do anything to help, she said, but would prefer to do so quietly. ‘This isn’t about me,’ she insisted. Addy had coaxed her into it by telling her how much it would mean to him – and to his mother.
Caroline strikes a match and brings the flame to the two wicks. Beside her, Nechuma recites an opening prayer. When the prayer is complete, the women take their seats, Caroline beside Addy and Nechuma at the head of the table opposite her husband, and attention is turned to Sol.
Sol looks around, silently greeting everyone at the table, his eyes glistening in the candlelight. Finally, he rests his gaze on Nechuma. Nechuma takes a deep breath, pulls her shoulders back, and dips her chin in a gesture to begin. Sol returns the gesture. Nechuma watches his shoulders rise and fall, wondering for a moment if her husband might cry. If he does, she realises, a lump climbing up her throat, she certainly will, too. But after a moment, Sol smiles. Opening his Haggadah, he raises his glass.
‘Barukh atah Adonai eloheinu …’ he baritones, and immediately goose bumps spring to life on the arms of each of the adults in the small room.
Sol’s blessing is short:
‘Blessed art thou, Lord our God, Master of the universe,
<
br /> Who has kept us alive and sustained us,
And has brought us to this special time.’
The words rest delicately in the humid air as the family takes in the depth of Sol’s voice, the significance of his prayer. Kept us alive. Sustained us. Brought us to this special time.
‘Today,’ Sol adds, ‘we celebrate the Festival of Matzahs, the time of our liberation. Amen.’
‘Amen,’ the others echo with glasses raised.
Sol recites the blessing of the karpas and the family dips sprigs of parsley into small bowls of salt water.
Across from him, Nechuma takes in the beautiful faces looking on – her children, their spouses, five grandchildren, her cousins, and in-laws, resting her gaze for a moment on the chair left empty for Jakob. She glances at her watch, a gift from Addy (‘For all of the birthdays I missed,’ he’d said); Jakob, far away in Illinois, was no doubt sitting at his own Pesach dinner at the very same moment, celebrating with Bella’s family.
When Nechuma looks up, tears fill her eyes, and the faces around her grow blurry. Her children. All of them. Healthy. Living. Thriving. She’d spent so many years fearing the worst, imagining the unimaginable, her heart hollow with dread. It’s surreal to think back on it now, to consider all of the places they’d been, the chaos and death and destruction that had followed a half step behind their every move, the decisions they’d made and plans they’d orchestrated, without her knowing if she would live to see her family again, or if they would live to see her. They’d done what they could, then waited, prayed. But now – now there is no more waiting. They are here. Her family. Finally, miraculously, complete. Tears roll down Nechuma’s cheeks as she says a silent thanks.
A moment later, she senses warmth. A hand on her elbow. Addy’s. Nechuma smiles and signals with a nod that she’s fine. He grins, his own eyes wet, and slips her his handkerchief. When she’s patted away her tears, she spreads the handkerchief over her thigh, running her fingers over the white threaded AAIK, remembering the afternoon she’d embroidered it.
Opposite her, Sol makes a to-do over breaking a piece of matzah to set aside for the afikomen. Mila whispers something in Felicia’s ear. Halina bounces Ricardo on her knee, keeping him content by dipping her fingertip into a bowl of salt water beside her plate and offering him tastes. Genek wraps an arm each around Józef and Herta, resting his hands on their shoulders. Herta smiles and they glance together at Michel, sleeping peacefully in his bassinet.
Herta had discovered she was pregnant not long after learning that her parents, her sister Lola, her brother-in-law, and her niece – all but her brother Zigmund – had been killed at a concentration camp near Bielsko. The news had crushed her, and she’d wondered how she might carry on knowing she was an aunt to a little girl she would never meet, knowing Józef would recognise his maternal grandparents only by name. For months, she was blind with sorrow and anger and remorse as she lay awake at night, questioning – was there something she could have done to help them? Her pregnancy had helped her to see straight again, to draw upon the resilience that had gotten her through her years as an exile in Siberia, as a new mother alone in Palestine, awaiting news from the front. And when their second son was born in March, she and Genek readily agreed – he would be named Michel, after her father.
A plate of matzah is passed around the table and Felicia fidgets in her seat. As the youngest in the room who is able to read, her grandfather has asked her to recite the Four Questions. They’d practised together every day for weeks, with Felicia asking the questions and Sol singing the answers.
‘Are you ready?’ Sol’s tone is gentle.
Felicia nods, takes a deep breath, and begins. ‘Mah nishtanah halaila hazeh …’ she sings. Her voice, soft and pure as honey, casts a spell over the room. The others are rapt.
At the end of the maggid, Sol recites a blessing over a second cup of wine, and then over the matzah, a corner of which he breaks off and eats. Bowls of horseradish and charoset are passed for the blessings of the maror and the korekh.
When it is finally time to feast, conversation erupts as bowls of matzah ball soup are doled and platters of salted gefilte, thyme-roasted chicken, and savory beef brisket are passed.
‘L’chaim!’ Addy calls, as plates are piled high.
‘L’chaim,’ the others chime.
With full stomachs, the family clears the table, and Sol slips out of his chair. He’s spent weeks plotting the perfect place to hide the afikomen, and since it would be the first traditional Pesach Józef and Felicia would remember, he’d made a point earlier in the day to explain the significance of the ritual. He tucks the matzah behind a row of books on a low shelf in Addy and Caroline’s bedroom – not too difficult for Józef to find, and not too easy for Felicia. When he returns, the children tear off down the small hallway, and the adults smile at the sound of their quick, receding footsteps. Sol beams, and Nechuma shakes her head. Finally, his wish has been granted – to celebrate among children old enough to enjoy the hunt. She can only imagine the thought that will go into a hiding place next year, when Ricardo and Kathleen are able to partake.
Felicia returns a few minutes later, carrying the napkin.
‘That was too easy!’ Sol bellows as she presents him the matzah. ‘Come,’ he says, motioning for Felicia and Józef to join him at the head of the table. With a grandchild on either side, Sol wraps his arms around each. ‘Now tell me, Mademoiselle Kajler,’ he says, suddenly serious, lowering his voice a few octaves, ‘how much are you asking for this afikomen?’
Felicia doesn’t know what to say.
‘How about a cruzeiro?’ Sol offers, digging a coin from his pocket and laying it on the table. Felicia’s eyes widen and she stares, eventually reaching for the coin. ‘That’s all?’ Sol teases, before she picks it up. Felicia is confused. She looks up at her grandfather, her fingers still hovering above the cruzeiro. ‘Don’t you think you deserve more?’ Sol asks, winking at the others looking on. Felicia has never haggled before. This is her first lesson. She pauses and then pulls her fingers away, smiling.
‘Mais! It’s worth more!’ she declares and then blushes as the table erupts in laughter.
‘Well, if you insist.’ Sol sighs, setting a second cruzeiro on the table.
Felicia again reaches, instinctively, but pauses this time, catches Sol’s eye. She lets her hand drop to her side, shakes her head, proud of herself for resisting.
‘You drive a tough bargain,’ Sol says, puffing out his cheeks as he exhales loudly, digging once again into his pocket. ‘What do you think, young man; should we offer her some more?’ he asks, turning to Józef, who’s been following along, transfixed.
‘Si, dziadek, si!’ he exclaims, nodding enthusiastically.
When Sol’s pocket is empty, he lifts his hands overhead in defeat.
‘You’ve taken everything I have!’ he declares. ‘But, young lady,’ he adds, resting a palm atop Felicia’s red head, ‘you’ve earned it.’ Felicia smiles, kisses her dziadek on the cheek. ‘And you, sir,’ Sol says, turning his attention to Józef. ‘You worked very hard as well, I’m sure of it. Next year maybe it will be you who steals the afikomen!’ He pulls a final coin from his shirt pocket and slips it into Józef’s palm. ‘Now go on, you two. Find your seats. We are nearly through with our Pesach.’
The children make their way back to their spots at the table, Józef beaming, Felicia gripping her collection of cruzeiros tightly in her fist, opening it ever so slightly to show her father. Selim oohs silently, his eyes wide.
Wine glasses are filled for a third and then a fourth time as Sol recites a prayer to the prophet Elijah, for whom they’ve left the door to the apartment open. They sing ‘Eliyahu HaNavi,’ and Addy, Genek, Mila, and Halina take turns reciting psalms.
As Sol sets down an empty glass, he looks once again around the table, smiling. ‘Our Seder is complete!’ he says, his voice thick with pride and loose from the wine. Without hesitation, he breaks into song – ‘Ad
ir Hu’ – and the others join in, their voices growing louder and more emphatic with each refrain.
Yivneh veito b’karov,
Bim’heirah, bim’heirah, b’yameinu b’karov.
Ei-l b’neihl Ei-l b’neih!
B’neih veit’kha b’karov!
May He soon rebuild His house,
Speedily, speedily and in our days, soon.
God, rebuild! God, rebuild!
Rebuild your house soon!
‘Is it time, at last?’ Halina sings. ‘Can we dance?’ On cue, her brothers jump from their seats, and the tables are pushed aside, the windows shimmied open as wide as their small frames will allow. Outside, darkness has fallen.
Addy leans his head out of a window to breathe in the night. Above him, a quarter moon beams its cockeyed grin across the velvet sky, casting a silver-blue light over the cobblestone street below. Addy returns the grin and ducks back inside.
‘Mila first,’ Genek charges.
‘I’m out of practice,’ Mila says as she takes a seat at the piano stool, ‘but I’ll do my best.’ She plays Chopin’s ‘Mazurka in B-flat major’ – a popular, upbeat piece with an energy that is so intrinsically Polish the Kurcs are still for a moment as the notes flood their hearts with memories of home. Despite her years away from the keys, Mila’s rendition is flawless. Halina plays next, and then finally it’s Addy’s turn. He brings the family to their feet with a lively rendition of Gershwin’s ‘Strike Up the Band.’ On the street, passersby crane their necks, smiling at the laughter and melodies drifting from the Kurcs’ open windows four stories above.
We Were the Lucky Ones Page 40
