by Anita Abriel
All afternoon they stood in the Great Hall and stared at the entrance. Edith asked one of the officers for a pack of cards and they played a desultory game of twenty-one. Vera reminded herself of the afternoons they frittered away in the last year before the war, reading Lily’s movie magazines and dreaming of a time in the future when their mothers would call them in for a delicious dinner instead of plain broth and stale bread.
But this was different; there was no Stefan to keep Edith happy and no German officers roaming the streets that made them grateful to be safe in their apartments. On the other side of the river was New York City. All the Rothschilds had to do was show up at Ellis Island for it to be theirs. Then they would take them to their town house with a view of Central Park, their maid would offer to run hot baths, and beds would be covered with duvets so soft they would sleep for days.
“I’m sorry,” an officer said as he approached them. “The immigration center is closed; you must sleep here tonight.”
“One of the great philanthropists in New York is waiting for us,” Edith assured him. “His name is Samuel Rothschild.”
The man shrugged. “He is not coming today. I will show you where you can rest.”
“You don’t understand.” Vera stepped forward. “He paid for our passage on the Queen Elizabeth, he couldn’t have forgotten us.”
“I’m sure he didn’t forget you,” the man said kindly. “But no one is coming tonight; you’ll have to wait until morning.”
Vera and Edith followed him to a dormitory with narrow iron cots. They climbed into bed fully clothed and hardly slept all night. Vera thought of the long months their mothers spent in the concentration camp and told herself this was nothing compared to what they suffered. But it was because of Edith that Vera was in New York. Samuel Rothschild had to come; there was nowhere else for them to go.
In the morning they took their positions in the Great Hall and waited. The clock on the wall moved so slowly, Vera wanted to climb on Edith’s shoulders and move the hands herself. If only she had an address or phone number where she could reach them, but she only had the article in the New York Times.
“Maybe there’s been a misunderstanding and they’re waiting at their residence,” Edith suggested in the afternoon. They had been given a meal consisting of a small piece of ham and canned baked beans, but they were both still hungry. “I’m going to ask the officer if he can let us through. We’ll find their address in the phone book and take the ferry and then a taxi to their home.”
“I don’t think he’ll let us through,” Vera said worriedly. “The officer in charge said all immigrants must stay in the Great Hall, with no exceptions.”
Edith unbuttoned the top button of her dress and fanned out her hair.
“I won’t ask the officer in charge; I’ll ask that one.” She pointed to a young officer with red hair and freckles. “I’m sure I can get him to make two tiny exceptions.”
Edith strode across the Great Hall and approached the young officer. He blushed and shook his head. Edith was about to try again but suddenly she picked up something from his desk and hurried through the hall.
“What did he say?” Vera asked.
“He didn’t have to say anything. Read this,” Edith gasped. “It’s yesterday’s copy of the New York Times.”
Vera scanned the headline.
MILLIONAIRE BANKER SAMUEL ROTHSCHILD COLLAPSES ON VACATION.
Samuel Rothschild, who at the age of thirty became the youngest bank president in America, collapsed while playing tennis at The Breakers, Palm Beach. Mr. Rothschild, sixty-two, was on vacation with his wife, Gilda. Doctors attempted to revive him, but he was pronounced dead at Palm Beach Hospital. Mr. Rothschild has donated millions to the New York City Library and the Jewish Federation. His wife of forty years, Gilda Rothschild, was sedated and is now in seclusion.
Vera put the newspaper down and her heart hammered.
“He can’t be dead.” Edith’s eyes were wide. “There must be someone we can talk to. Perhaps he has a son or a daughter.”
Vera pointed to the newspaper. “It says that his wife is in seclusion. I don’t think anyone else in his family will care about two Hungarian girls on Ellis Island when the most important person in their world just died.”
“What will we do?” Edith asked. “We have to find a way to get out of here.”
Vera thought about the things in New York they dreamed of doing together: cocktails at Tavern on the Green, the exhibits at the Met, and boating in Central Park. If they couldn’t find a sponsor, they would never get to experience any of that.
* * *
Vera paced the dormitory. It was almost dinnertime, which consisted of liver and a potato. For the last two days, she and Edith spent their time shuffling between the Great Hall and the dormitory. But even the red-haired officer said they couldn’t stay much longer.
That morning Vera had finally written a letter to Harry Wight. Edith had given the envelope to the young officer, with red lipstick on its front. She whispered that he would receive a similar kiss if he delivered it to the address in the advertisement in the magazine.
Edith dashed into the dormitory.
“You got a letter,” she announced. Her face looked pale.
Vera took the envelope and fingered the gold lettering that read “Wight Hotels.” Harry Wight had read her letter and replied! He would be arriving at Ellis Island any minute to collect them.
“Read it out loud,” Edith breathed.
“ ‘Dear Miss Frankel,
“ ‘I received your letter to Mr. Harry Wight, chairman of Wight Hotels. Unfortunately, Mr. Wight is battling pneumonia and has not been in the Manhattan office for several weeks. Upon his return, I will be sure to give him your note.
“ ‘Sincerely,
“ ‘Jane Grant
“ ‘Secretary to Harry Wight.’ ”
Vera slid the letter in the envelope and sank onto the cot. They wouldn’t be allowed to wait for weeks in the detention center. There was no choice; they would have to return to Europe.
“I can’t go back to Italy,” Edith sobbed, burying her face in the pillow.
Vera stroked Edith’s hair and tried to calm her down. Edith had adored Naples. She and Marcus loved going to the cinema and eating gelato and dancing. Would it be so bad to return? And Edith was so talented. Signora Stella would find her work and perhaps Maria would order more dresses.
But there were so many things in Naples that reminded them of war. Vera thought of the bombed-out buildings she passed on the way to the embassy, and the girls who flirted with every boy they met because there weren’t enough young men to marry. She remembered Anton’s impassioned speeches about rebuilding the city, and the old Italian men who grumbled that they could do it themselves.
Vera opened her suitcase and dug out the Cunard brochure that listed all its destinations.
“There is a ship going to Sydney, and one to Rio de Janeiro, and one to Caracas.”
They sat on the cot and studied the brochure. They read about these cities, and Vera had a sense of hope and renewal. They could get jobs and rent a small apartment. On a new continent they would be two hard-working young girls instead of tragic Hungarian refugees.
“They all look good.” Vera turned to Edith. “How will we choose?”
Edith closed her eyes and stabbed the page with her fingernail. Her eyes opened and she glanced at the brochure.
“We’re going to Caracas.”
Vera peered at the photos of busy streets and white buildings and lush foliage. There were palm trees and mountains and exotic flowers. If she couldn’t find Anton, she didn’t care where she was. She folded the brochure and turned to Edith.
“I’ll book our tickets.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
February 1947
Vera sampled a slice of mango and wiped the juice from her mouth. It was even sweeter than the chestnut purees her mother used to order at the cafés in Budapest. Her mother always
laughed that she couldn’t possibly finish a whole chestnut puree without ruining her waistline. One of Vera’s favorite memories was her mother handing her a long silver spoon and digging into the whipped cream.
They had been in Venezuela for two weeks. At first Vera had worried that they had made the wrong decision; everything was so different. Even though Italian and Spanish were similar, the locals spoke so rapidly she found it difficult to understand. Even the season was different. They had packed clothes for winter in New York. Marcus had given them thick sweaters that Paolo had bought on the black market, and they had spent the last of their savings on winter coats. But it was summer in Venezuela, and the minute they stepped off the ship, the humidity rose to greet them.
The first few days were spent exploring their new city. Churches that dated back to the seventeenth century sat amid the young and vibrant city. Central University was filled with students lounging on the grass and the Plaza Bolívar teemed with office workers enjoying the hot South American sun on their lunch breaks. In parts of the city, music vibrated so loudly Vera could feel it beating in her heart. And Edith loved the garment district, where racks of bright dresses filled the streets.
They spent an afternoon at the Panthéon Nacional, where Venezuela’s most prominent citizens were buried. Vera and Edith marveled at the magnificent chandelier that hung above the tomb of the second president, Simón Bolívar. And there were rows of tombs labeled with the names of war heroes and the dates of their battles. Vera flashed on the unmarked graves scattered across Europe and wondered if they would ever be free of death. But then they walked outside to the modern buildings of the Capital District and fashionably dressed men and women, and the clouds of war disappeared.
Everywhere they went, Vera was surprised by the number of immigrants. Hungarians and Poles shopping at the street markets, Romanians playing chess in the squares, and Italians and Germans who hid behind newspapers and avoided the others as if they were personally responsible for the fate of the European Jews.
They had already been invited to a get-together at a private home. A few days after they arrived, a Hungarian woman they met on the ship invited them to tea at her house. Vera had been eager to attend, but the platters of stuffed cabbage and veal schnitzel had looked out of place next to the bowls filled with tropical fruit. And the other guests—widowers who lost their wives, women without husbands or children—were like amputees learning to live without an arm or a leg.
Edith wanted to leave right away, but Vera whispered it wouldn’t be polite. So they accepted slices of coffee cake and listened to the others talk about Budapest before the war: the Parliament Building facing the Danube and strolling across the Chain Bridge and browsing in the elegant shops on Váci Utca. Two emaciated women had a long discussion about eating crepes stuffed with walnuts in a café on Castle Hill and shopping at a delicatessen without wondering if it would run out of butter and eggs. Vera knew what was going through Edith’s head: Why were they sitting around talking as if they could walk outside and get tickets to the Budapest Opera House when they would never see those places again?
There were also things that made them happy in Caracas: the boulevards flanked by palm trees and the mountains that surrounded the city and were covered with grass as green as emeralds. The Venezuelan women wore dresses in bright colors and the men drove flashy sports cars. Everyone acted as if life was one big party.
And they were lucky to find decent lodgings. When they disembarked, Vera gave the taxi driver the name of a boardinghouse in Ciudad Mariche. The taxi driver took one look at the address and said he wouldn’t drive through the suburb, let alone allow two young women to stay there. Instead he took them to a house on one of the most elegant streets in Los Palos Grandes.
The villa stood behind ivy-covered walls and was owned by a widow who let out rooms to help pay expenses. Lola had a soft spot for European refugees and offered them a room at the top of the house. The sloped roof meant that Vera and Edith could barely stand up at the same time, but the view from the window showed the spectacular mountains and the city.
For the first two weeks, Vera worried that Edith would slip into her old ways and spend her days flirting with men and sipping coffee at outdoor cafés. There were more plazas than in Naples, and no one seemed in a hurry to get back to work.
But each morning Edith dressed and rushed off, armed with a list of seamstresses from Lola. She didn’t return until dusk, and when Vera suggested they go out and share a passion fruit shake, Edith countered that they both needed a good night’s sleep if they wanted to find jobs.
Now, finally, Vera had a job interview and it would be nice to surprise Edith with a treat from the market. The vendor put a whole mango in Vera’s hand and she had to laugh. One had to be more careful than at the outdoor markets in Naples. The minute she showed an interest in a basket of nectarines or juicy plums, a man pressed the piece of fruit into her hand and said she was getting a bargain. Vera always shook her head and said she couldn’t afford to buy anything; she was just inhaling the sweet perfume.
Vera scooped up a handful of cherries and handed them to the vendor. She dug into her purse for a centimo before he could urge her to add a basket of plums. Then she skipped along the boulevard and opened the gate to Lola’s house.
For a moment, she longed to be racing up the steps of the embassy in Naples. Gina would be polishing the staircase and Mozart would be playing on the phonograph. Anton would look up from his desk and his smile would warm her like the sun.
Vera said nothing to Edith about her longing for Anton. How could she explain it without revealing the night in Capri and the feeling that they were joined forever?
Without help from Anton’s father, there was no way to find him. It would be pointless to write to Harry Wight from Venezuela. It was different when she and Edith were on Ellis Island. But now they were on another continent. They couldn’t afford to return to America.
She pushed thoughts of Anton from her mind; she had more urgent things to think about. The job was at an English-speaking advertising agency, and she had to press her dress and make sure she had a pair of stockings. Working as a copywriter might not be as thrilling as being a playwright, but she could make a living.
The other boarders were at work and Lola was getting a manicure. Lola was almost never home. A widow in her midfifties, she was determined to find a new husband. She spent her days at the beauty parlor and nights allowing new men to admire the candlesticks in the living room and sip her late husband’s sherry.
Vera took her shopping bag into the kitchen and heard footsteps in the entry. Edith stood in the doorway wearing a tea dress. It had padded shoulders and a sweetheart collar and was one of the loveliest dresses Vera had ever seen.
“What are you wearing?” Vera asked. “You said you weren’t interested in men; you were going to get a job.”
“What does this dress have to do with men?” Edith put her purse on the counter. “I made the dress myself, finished it this morning.”
“But how?” Vera continued. They didn’t own a sewing machine.
“I borrowed Lola’s,” Edith replied. “It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?” Edith breathed. “Raw silk made in Colombia. Two bolts of silk cost more than ten bolivares.”
“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful, but how could you afford the material?” Vera wondered.
“I pawned the pearls Patrick gave me.” Edith’s hands went to her bare neck. One good thing had come out of their voyage to America. “Don’t worry, I’ll get them back. The owner was quite generous. He said he wanted to make sure I returned.”
“But where will you wear the dress? It will be difficult to get a job as a seamstress’s assistant if you show up dressed like a princess.” Vera frowned. “They’ll think you’re some bored socialite who doesn’t really need a job.”
“I’m going to wear it to an important party.” Edith handed her an invitation.
Vera scanned it. It was for a black-tie gala at t
he Hotel Majestic in honor of Mr. and Mrs. Reginald Buchanan of Houston, Texas.
“Who are the Buchanans?” she asked.
Vera couldn’t imagine why a Hungarian Jewish refugee would be invited to a gala at the fanciest hotel in Caracas.
“Mr. Reginald Buchanan is one of the richest oilmen in America, and he and his wife just moved to Venezuela. It’s their welcome party.” Edith twirled the invitation. “A penniless refugee might not be invited to drink champagne and dance to Cole Porter. But the daughter of a well-known Hungarian fashion designer would, and she would be wearing a silk dress.”
Vera glanced at the clock. Her interview was first thing in the morning, and if she didn’t iron her dress soon, Lola would need the iron to get ready for her date.
“Why should I be a seamstress’s assistant and spend my days in a workroom that is so hot and smoky I’ll get some terrible lung disease, when I can be a fashion designer and get paid hundreds of bolivares for doing what I love?” Edith continued breezily. “My mother was Lily Ban, with her own salon on Andrássy Avenue, Budapest’s finest shopping street. I was sent to Paris before the war to study under my mother’s good friend, Elsa Schiaparelli. When Schiaparelli closed her atelier during the war, my mother begged me to go somewhere safe, but the passion for couture was under my skin. I joined the salon of that Spanish newcomer Cristóbal Balenciaga and dressed all the fashionable women remaining in Paris.” Edith’s eyes darkened. “Then came the news that the Germans confiscated my parents’ apartment and they were sent to a concentration camp. After the war, I learned they were never coming back. I couldn’t return to Budapest, and Paris was too expensive for a young girl all alone. I saved enough money to come to Venezuela, and Balenciaga allowed me to take the dresses I designed.”
Vera smiled at Edith’s story. “That’s a lovely fairy tale, but it isn’t true. You’ve never been to Paris.”
