by Anita Abriel
“Adolf,” Edith whispered to him in German. “Today is my birthday.”
The guard glared at her.
“Why did you call me Adolf?” he asked warily.
Edith had taken off Stefan’s scarf and unbuttoned the top of her blouse. She had pinched her lips to give them color. She reached up and touched the guard’s cheek.
“All handsome Germans are named Adolf,” she murmured. “I’m eighteen today, you have to help me celebrate.”
“Happy birthday,” the guard wished stiffly.
“That’s not enough; you must drink this.” She pushed the flask into his hands. “It’s a special day.”
The guard refused. Edith moved closer.
“Please,” she begged. “I might not have another birthday.”
The guard swallowed the schnapps and handed the flask back to Edith. Edith pretended to drink and urged him again.
“One more sip,” she whispered. “Then perhaps a kiss.”
Vera glanced around nervously. Ten minutes passed, and she tried to pretend everything was normal. She hummed a little tune to herself and fidgeted with the buttons on her dress. When she finally looked back, the guard was slumped against the wall. Her mother slipped the key out of his pocket and motioned Vera and Edith toward the door. It barely budged; Vera wondered if it was wide enough for them to jump.
Alice nudged it open further and Vera inhaled the night air. She inched closer and heard a groan.
Vera turned to see the guard clutching his leg. His face contorted as he moaned again.
“What’s happening?” Vera asked her mother.
“He has a cramp,” Alice answered.
The guard’s eyes flickered open, and then everything happened quickly. Alice moved Edith in her place and blocked the guard so he couldn’t see the two girls. The other passengers were crammed too tightly together and consumed by their own fears to notice what was going on.
“Jump now,” she ordered. “We will follow.”
Vera stared at the thin line of darkness outside the train. If she and Edith jumped, there might not be time for her mother and Lily to follow. But if they didn’t, the guard might fully wake up and notice something was wrong.
Before she could decide, her mother pushed her through the opening. Vera grabbed Edith’s hand, and together they tumbled off the train.
The ground was hard and she landed awkwardly. Pain shot through her ankle and she was afraid it was broken. She lay perfectly still until the train disappeared. Then she sat up, hoping to make out her mother’s navy coat or Lily’s favorite red dress despite the darkness.
“What happened?” Edith sat beside her. She had blacked out for a minute. Brambles were caught in her hair and there was a rip in her dress.
“My mother pushed us off the train,” Vera replied. “She and your mother must have jumped off a moment later. We’ll wait here and they’ll find us.”
They huddled together and waited for their mothers to appear. The sky was black and there weren’t any stars to light the field.
“I don’t see them, and I’m so cold,” Edith whispered, her teeth beginning to chatter.
“They’ll be here any minute.” Vera stared straight ahead like a hypnotist she had seen at a birthday party. He could bend a spoon just by concentrating on it.
“We must get back on the train!” Edith exclaimed, clutching her neck. “I left Stefan’s scarf. I promised I’d keep it always.”
There was the sound of a cow mooing, and then quiet. If her mother and Lily had escaped, they would have found them by now.
“That’s not all we left on the train,” Vera said, and her heart was a dam that was about to break.
* * *
“The train carried my mother and Lily to Auschwitz. They died in the gas chamber.” Vera looked at Captain Wight. The glasses of sherry were long gone, and the waiter had brought two more. “Do you mind if we finish the story another time? I’m sorry; I can’t go on right now.”
“Of course.” Captain Wight nodded. “But you mustn’t blame yourself; five hundred and fifty thousand Hungarian Jews were killed at concentration camps.”
Vera had heard the figure before, but she ignored it anyway. She wasn’t responsible for the death of all the other Hungarians, but she could have saved her own mother. If only they had jumped off the train together.
“You don’t understand, my mother would have done anything for me. When I was eight years old I had diphtheria and the doctor thought I was going to die. My mother sat at my bedside for two weeks, willing me to live,” Vera responded. “She should have jumped off the train with us, instead she stayed behind so we could live. She was afraid the guard would become alert and see us trying to escape. The train would have been stopped and we could have been shot. It’s my fault that she’s dead.”
Captain Wight signaled the waiter for the check.
“Your mother may have been determined, but she was no match for the Nazis,” he assured her. “Every day she woke up knowing you were safe. That’s the greatest gift of all.”
Vera sat silently, her body trembling. She pictured her mother being led to the gas chamber, her hair shorn, her arm inked with a tattoo.
“You’ll fall in love, get married, have children,” Captain Wight continued. “You’ll look at their faces and see your mother’s eyes and you’ll tell them how brave their grandmother was.”
“All I want is to see her again.” Vera wiped her eyes.
“I’m taking you home,” Captain Wight soothed her. He stood up and pulled back her chair. “Tomorrow everything will be brighter.”
“I didn’t mean to tell you so much,” Vera apologized as they approached the pensione. “I ruined your Saturday.”
“Give Edith her present.” Captain Wight handed her the box. He looked at her and there was tenderness in his eyes. “Then go out and buy yourself a spring dress. It would make your mother happy.”
Vera reached up and kissed him briefly on the cheek. His skin was smooth and smelled of shaving lotion.
“I’ll see you next Saturday.” He smiled and turned back to the piazza.
CHAPTER FOUR
Spring 1946
Vera and Edith entered the pensione’s small parlor. Yellow daisies sat in a ceramic vase atop a lace tablecloth.
“You shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble,” Vera said as she observed the basket of fresh bread, the bowl of fruit, the jars of jam and honey.
“It’s Edith’s birthday and you are my favorite guests,” Signora Rosa insisted. “I’m going to fatten you up so you find good husbands.”
“Vera won’t let me talk to men,” Edith grumbled, biting into a plum. She wore a print dress and white sandals. Her cheeks were powdered and her blond hair was tied in a knot. “She thinks I’m going to get into trouble.”
“You can talk to men,” Vera responded. “You shouldn’t drive off on their Vespas.”
There was a knock at the door and Signora Rosa peered through the window. A dark-haired young man stood outside, clutching a bouquet of lilies.
“Can I help you?” Signora Rosa opened the door.
“Marcus Sorrento.” The man bowed. “These flowers are for your lovely home. I came to wish Edith a happy birthday.”
“What beautiful lilies!” Edith jumped up and dragged Marcus inside. “They would look gorgeous on the sideboard.”
Marcus smiled and handed Edith a flat package. “A small token for your birthday.”
Edith opened the parcel. Inside was a photo in a silver frame. At first Vera didn’t recognize the two girls sharing an iced coffee. Their eyes sparkled and their cheeks glowed in the camera’s flash.
“I took it the night we met in the piazza.” Marcus beamed.
“It’s wonderful,” Edith gushed. “We’ll put it on our nightstand.”
“A friend of mine owns a restaurant on the bay,” Marcus said. “He makes the finest pizza marinara in Naples. I would be honored if you and Vera joined me for your birthday di
nner.”
Edith was about to answer but Vera interrupted. “If you’ll excuse us, we’ll be right back.” She dragged Edith upstairs to their room, shutting the door behind them.
“What are you doing?” Vera demanded.
“Having a lovely birthday,” Edith replied innocently. “Isn’t it sweet that Marcus stopped by?”
“Have you been seeing him behind my back?” Vera demanded.
Edith shrugged. “He walked me home a few times. He has four older sisters; he’s very polite.”
“Today he’ll bring flowers, tomorrow he’ll put his hands up your skirt!” Vera declared, waving her hand. “All men are after one thing.”
“You’re wrong. Some men want to gaze at the clouds and talk about life,” Edith said dreamily. “Some men want to ride bicycles and splash in swimming holes and stuff their faces with cake.”
Vera remembered when they were children and spent every summer in the countryside. Their fathers stayed in Budapest to work, but Alice and Lily and Edith and Vera shared a house in the country near Szentendre. There was a lane, and fields with cows, and a lake perfect for swimming.
At first, Edith and Stefan were just friends. Stefan’s family lived in Budapest and they went to the country every year at the same time. Vera and Edith and Stefan spent lazy days making daisy chains and eating stuffed crepes that seemed to multiply in the kitchen.
But when they became teenagers, everything changed. Vera noticed the way Stefan looked at Edith: as if she were a sculpture to be admired behind a velvet rope at the museum. He appeared at the door in a clean shirt and brought flowers or a piece of fruit picked from an orchard.
The girls giggled about it, until one afternoon Vera had a headache and left the swimming hole early. Edith came home that evening with flushed cheeks and a new womanliness: her hips swayed when she walked, and her breasts pushed against her bathing suit.
“Vera,” Edith whispered, climbing into bed beside her. It was only seven p.m., but Vera’s head throbbed. She had been sleeping fitfully for hours.
“What is it?” Vera roused herself awake. Edith felt hot, like she might be coming down with a fever.
“Stefan kissed me,” Edith revealed. Her breath was sweet, like the coffee cake they had taken on their picnic. “We were sitting under a tree and watching the ducks in the lake. He touched my hair and said it reminded him of a princess in a fairy tale.”
“What was the kiss like?” Vera sat up immediately. They were fifteen, and the only kissing they had done was practicing in front of the mirror.
“At first our noses bumped, and Stefan was so embarrassed.” Edith hugged her knees. “But I urged him to try again and it was warm and soft,” she sighed. “I can’t wait to kiss him again.”
“By next summer you’ll have kissed a dozen boys and I’ll still be practicing on a pillow,” Vera complained.
Edith’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “I’m never going to kiss another boy. Stefan and I will be together forever.”
* * *
“It was different for you and Stefan. You had known each other since you were children,” Vera said gently, pushing away the images of Edith and Stefan. “You just met Marcus; you don’t know anything about him.”
“I’ll never meet a man if I stay locked up like Rapunzel!” Edith protested. “I’m nineteen. I want to dance and laugh and flirt.”
“All right,” Vera relented. “We’ll go to dinner with him.”
Edith grinned. “It’s going to be so much fun!” She embraced Vera.
“You have to promise we won’t keep secrets from each other,” Vera warned, returning her hug.
“I promise. I must wash my hair.” Edith walked to the staircase to tell Marcus they would go to dinner. “Maybe Signora Rosa will lend me her perfume.”
* * *
Marcus picked them up promptly at seven. Edith wore a red dress with a flared skirt, her waist cinched by a thick belt.
Marcus stood at the door. His hair was damp and his camera was slung over his shoulder. He took in Edith’s dress and whistled. “They say Italian women are beautiful. But they are no match for such perfection.”
They stepped into the cool evening air. The street was full of young people laughing and smoking cigarettes. Marcus talked easily, pointing out the places he wanted to photograph.
“There were only a few men left in our village of Ravello, and my mother insisted I stay home after the war,” Marcus explained. “All I ever wanted to do was take pictures. So I ran away. I’m going to become a rich and famous photographer and buy my mother a villa big enough for her and all my sisters.”
They entered a café overlooking the Bay of Naples. Wooden tables were crammed near the window and a piano stood against the wall. The ceiling was hung with garlic, and Vera could smell tomato sauce and onions.
“Two beautiful dates?” A young man thumped Marcus on the back. “I should be a photographer instead of spending my days chopping oregano.”
“This is Paolo.” Marcus introduced them. “He is the best chef in Naples.”
“A year ago I was a busboy, now I own a restaurant.” Paolo led them to a round table. “There is much opportunity after the war.”
“Paolo sold cigarettes on the black market,” Marcus whispered. “Now he is rich and can do what he loves.”
“I want to design evening gowns,” Edith declared. “Gorgeous dresses that women wear to the opera and the symphony.”
Marcus held out his hand. Vera sat opposite them at the table, and Paolo filled their wineglasses.
“You must come to Rome with me,” Marcus suggested. “We will live in an apartment above the Spanish Steps and throw parties that last all night.”
“Vera is going to write scripts,” Edith continued, sipping a glass of red wine. “Her name is going to be in big letters on a theater marquee.”
“A toast.” Marcus raised his glass and gazed at Edith. “To new beginnings and great fortunes.”
Edith’s face lit up. She was like a flower blooming after a long winter. Her eyes were wide and blue; her skin was the finest porcelain. For once, Edith didn’t seem to be watching a sad film that only she could see. Could their dreams come true? Did Vera even want to be a playwright anymore? She thought of leaving her job at the embassy to write plays, and there was a lump in her throat. Every day she looked forward to going to work and seeing Captain Wight drinking his coffee in the morning room.
“We must eat.” Marcus opened his napkin. “Paolo will be disappointed if we don’t clean our plates.”
Vera surveyed the plates of spaghetti and clams, the loaves of garlic bread, the platters of vegetables. She suddenly thought of Captain Wight in Rome. He would be sitting at a café near the Trevi Fountain, sipping espresso and reading a newspaper.
“Every Sunday we would have lunch that lasted three hours,” Marcus interrupted Vera’s thoughts. He heaped Edith’s plate with spaghetti. “My sister’s boyfriend, Donato, would compliment my mother’s cooking while putting his hand on my sister’s thigh. My mother kept a ruler at the table. The minute Donato started praising the meal, she’d rap him across the knuckles.”
“She sounds frightening,” Edith laughed.
“She taught me to respect women and keep my hands to myself.” Marcus gazed at Edith. “Women are goddesses; men are their servants.”
Vera ate a bite of bread and listened to what Marcus was saying. Did women want men to be their servants, or did they simply want loving husbands? Wasn’t it better to find someone to share things with: someone who looked at the world in a similar way and had the same goals?
After dinner, Paolo played the piano and Marcus and Edith danced between the tables. Vera watched Edith twirl and dip, remembering dances with boys in stiff shirts and narrow ties. She wondered if any of those boys made it back, if Budapest would ever know the sound of youthful laughter. Her heart tightened and she missed Hungary with a physical ache. All those young men with hopes and dreams were now piles of bones
in the yards at Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen. And Hungarian girls like Vera and Edith who dreamed of getting married and having houses full of children had to find new meaning and reinvent their futures.
“Marcus knows a nightclub,” Edith said breathlessly. Her cheeks were flushed and tendrils of hair stuck to her forehead. “He wants to take us dancing.”
Vera shook her head. “I don’t want to go to a club.”
“You see how sweet Marcus is,” Edith tried again. “He hasn’t laid a hand on me.”
“Marcus is sweet,” Vera agreed, watching Marcus point his camera in their direction. “But you don’t need to rush. Let’s go home; you can see him again tomorrow.”
“I am tired, and it has been a lovely birthday,” Edith relented. “But you must promise on Saturday we’ll go dancing. You can’t forget your birthday; it’s in three days.”
* * *
Marcus paid for dinner and they strolled onto the docks. The wind had picked up and he put a tentative arm around Edith’s shoulder. Vera walked behind them, the cold air nipping her ankles. Edith and Marcus whispered together, and Vera suddenly felt very alone.
She remembered when she was a girl, dreaming about her future. She would have a loving husband, a lawyer or an engineer, and four beautiful children. They would own an apartment in Budapest and a house in the country. The children would ride horses and play tennis and swim in the lake. At night they would curl up in front of a fire, and she would read Tolstoy and Chekhov.
“I forgot how much I love to dance!” Edith exclaimed, after they said good night to Marcus and crept up to their room.
“I have a present for you.” Vera handed her the box wrapped in tissue paper.
“We weren’t going to buy each other presents,” Edith reminded her. She unwrapped the delicate scarf and gasped. “It’s beautiful! But it must have cost a fortune.”
“It’s a gift from Captain Wight.” Vera watched Edith wrap the scarf around her neck.
