by Anita Abriel
“And my father?” Vera said, hope and grief mingling in her chest.
“He survived, too.” Captain Bingham nodded. “They are together.”
Vera sat up straighter and the room seemed to spin. It wasn’t the Venezuelan sun that made patterns on the rug; it was the sun at their country house outside of Budapest. She saw her mother waving them in for dinner, Edith and Stefan stealing a kiss, their hair wet from swimming. It was her fault that she and her parents were on different continents. If only she had returned to Budapest, they would all be together.
“How did you find me?” Vera asked.
“I wrote to the American embassy in Naples but it was closed. Then I tried the embassy in Rome and got nothing. Last week I got a letter from a woman named Gina.”
“Gina?” Vera’s eyes widened.
“She was still employed to clean the embassy in Naples,” he said with a smile. “In her letter she said to tell you the tomatoes from the garden are particularly sweet and she’s going to send you a jar of tomato sauce.”
“I never wrote to Gina,” Vera commented. “How would she know where I was?”
“She didn’t. When she discovered my letter she went to your landlady, a Signora Rosa,” Captain Bingham finished. “Signora Rosa had your address.”
Vera felt as exhausted as if she were the letter traveling from Budapest to London to Washington to Naples and then to Caracas.
“All these people went to so much trouble to find me?” she asked in wonderment.
“You and Edith made quite an impression.” He acknowledged
“They are still in Budapest?” she asked. “I wouldn’t ask for your help, but I must bring them to Venezuela.” Vera’s mind was racing. She couldn’t go back to Budapest. It would be too painful for Edith, and she wouldn’t go without her. Their lives were here now. Vera had a good job and Edith’s career was blossoming. She had to go down to the ship offices and find out the cost of two tickets to Caracas.
“I don’t know how to thank you.” She leaned forward and kissed his cheek.
He rubbed his cheek and grinned. “My wife wanted to see South America. It seemed like the perfect excuse to come on honeymoon.”
* * *
Vera sat in the streetcar and looked for the stop of the shipping office. She had thanked Captain Bingham and made him promise he would bring his wife to Lola’s for dinner before they left Caracas.
The letter from her mother was folded in her purse, but she didn’t want to take it out in public. What if she started crying like she had at the office? She would read it in her room after work.
Her heart broke for Edith. How could Vera share her miraculous news when the same letter described how Edith’s mother had been shot and left for dead? And what about Stefan? Vera hadn’t asked if there was any news of him. Edith was sure Stefan was dead, and Vera was beginning to believe her.
She had to find the money to bring her parents to Caracas. Her wages barely covered their lodging, and Edith hadn’t been paid yet for her commissions. Ricardo would lend it to her, but it was bad enough that she accepted the silver earrings. If she asked Ricardo for anything, she’d have to acknowledge their relationship was more than a friendship.
The Cunard office was decorated with posters of huge cruise ships. There was a poster of a ship sailing under the Sydney Harbour Bridge. The sky was pale blue and the harbor was a sheet of glass. And there was another of a ship docked at some tropical port. The passengers stood on the deck in floral shirts, and waiters carried drinks in carved-out coconuts.
“Can I help you?” the woman behind the counter asked.
“How much are two tickets from Budapest?”
The woman consulted her book. “The closest port is Venice. What date did you have in mind?”
“The soonest date you have,” Vera said.
“The next ship leaves in three weeks, but it’s fully booked.”
“Fully booked?” Vera repeated.
“We still get thousands of European immigrants a month,” the woman said pleasantly. “The next available berths are in two months.”
“Two months!” Vera exclaimed, disappointment settling over her.
“The Mauretania is our latest ship; it was refitted and returned to service this year,” The woman flipped a page. “The price for two berths is a hundred bolivares.”
“I didn’t mean a first-class cabin,” Vera responded. “Third class will do.”
The woman closed her book and looked at Vera expectantly. “That is for a third-class cabin.”
* * *
Vera stepped off the streetcar and walked back to the office. One hundred bolivares was two months’ salary. She could ask Mr. Matthews for an advance, but what would she and Edith live on?
Ricardo’s green MG was parked in front of the office.
“Ricardo? What are you doing here?”
“I came to pick you up.” He was wearing a blazer and a boater hat. “Tonight is the opening of Alberto’s new nightclub. We promised we’d be there.”
“I’m sorry, I completely forgot.” Vera shook her head. “Please, tell him another time.”
“I don’t like letting friends down,” Ricardo said with a frown. “How will it look if his nightclub is empty?”
“I can’t tonight; I have a headache,” Vera said. “Besides, I didn’t bring anything to wear.”
Vera wasn’t ready to tell him that her parents were still alive. She had hardly spoken to him about her parents. She didn’t know how she could bring them to Caracas, and she didn’t want Ricardo to offer to pay their fare. If he did, she would feel like she owed him something.
“I’ll take you home so you can change.” Ricardo opened the passenger door. “The nightclub is supposed to be fantastic. It will be good for you. You can’t work day and night.”
Vera was too hot and tired to argue. It was better just to go. She could always say her headache was worse and excuse herself.
“All right.” She slipped into the passenger seat. “But if my head keeps throbbing, you’ll have to take me home.”
* * *
They drove out of the city and reached a villa set in the middle of lush tropical grounds. The private home had been turned into a nightclub, and from the terrace there was a view of the Cerro El Ávila. A bartender mixed drinks in a silver shaker and the stars seemed close enough to touch.
“Ricardo, you came!” A man wearing a white dinner jacket greeted them. “And you brought the lovely Vera.” He kissed Vera’s hand and turned to a woman wearing a silver crepe dress. “This is Elena. She is pretending to be in love with me, but I suspect she’s only dating me for the free food and cocktails.”
“Alberto think he’s funny, but he has the sense of humor of a schoolboy.” Elena pecked Vera on the cheek. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Ricardo wandered off with Alberto to see the nightclub and Vera stood on the terrace with Elena.
“I’ve only met Alberto once; have you been dating long?” Vera asked, leaning against the balcony and admiring the sparkling lights below them.
“Long enough to learn to put up with his jokes,” Elena said with a smile. “Alberto can be childish, but he has a good heart.” She shrugged and nursed her drink. “And a woman needs a man in Venezuela. Without one, she’d have to eat all her meals at home. And I’m a terrible cook.”
“What do you mean?” Vera wondered.
“You haven’t been in Caracas long. It’s not like America, where it’s becoming more accepted for a woman to ask for a table for one at a restaurant or dine out at night with a friend. Here it’s frowned on for a woman to dine in public without a man. And a married woman would never go out without her husband.”
Vera was puzzled. In Naples, she and Edith ate at restaurants by themselves. And her mother had described the smoky cafés she practically lived in when she was a dance student in Paris.
“But it’s the 1940s,” Vera protested. “And lots of women work in Caracas. I’m a copy
writer at an advertising agency.”
“The workplace has changed since girls started attending university,” Elena conceded. “But society in Venezuela is very traditional. If a woman is out at night, it seems like she’s looking for something.”
“Looking for something?” Vera repeated.
“You know, hoping to find a man.” Elena finished her drink. “But you don’t have to worry. From the expression on Ricardo’s face, I can see he’ll never let you out of his sight. You’re lucky, he’s one of the best catches in Caracas.”
Vera was about to protest that they weren’t involved, when Ricardo and Alberto appeared.
“I hope Elena has only been saying nice things about me and the nightclub,” Alberto said, taking Elena’s arm. “I need as many customers as I can get.”
Alberto and Elena drifted off to meet other diners, and Ricardo led her to a table.
The waiter handed them two menus and Ricardo smiled at Vera.
“Please allow me to order for both of us. Alberto told me all the best dishes.”
The waiter took their order and Vera sat back in her chair. Every course the waiter brought looked delicious: the arepas stuffed with beef and corn, the braised pork chops, and the silky caramel flan. But Vera barely managed a bite of each without feeling as if she was choking.
“You haven’t tried the dessert.” Ricardo pointed to her plate.
Vera took a bite. “Everything tastes wonderful. I’m sorry; I’m just distracted.”
“Was it the American officer who distracted you?”
“What are you talking about?” she wondered.
“I stopped by your office at lunch and saw you with an American officer.” Ricardo waved his hand.
“That was Captain Bingham; we met in Austria after the war.”
“An American captain who came all the way to Venezuela to see you?” Ricardo demanded.
“Captain Bingham got married last month and he’s here on his honeymoon,” she continued. She looked at him seriously. “But what would it matter if he wasn’t married? You and I agreed to be just friends.”
“You accepted my silver earrings.”
Vera looked at Ricardo sharply. She wanted to jump up, but it was five kilometers to Caracas, and she didn’t have money for a taxi.
“I’d be happy to give the earrings back.”
“I don’t want them back. I want to know why an American captain was visiting you. He seemed very familiar.”
“Please take me home.” Vera stood and snatched up her evening bag.
“There is something you’re not telling me,” Ricardo said stubbornly. “I’ll take you home when you tell me what it is.”
“All right, I’ll tell you,” she relented. “But not here. In the car.”
They found Alberto, and Ricardo offered his apologies for leaving early. Alberto thanked them for coming and made them promise to stay for the dancing next time.
“Captain Bingham brought a letter from my mother,” she said when they sat in the car in front of the nightclub. The night air was warm, and Vera fiddled with her earrings. “My mother and Edith’s mother, Lily, were in a concentration camp at Auschwitz during the war. Weeks before Auschwitz was liberated, the Germans began moving the inmates out of the camp,” she continued. “Edith’s mother collapsed and was shot. My mother was put on a train to Flossenbürg and is alive.”
Vera’s hair had been tossed by the breeze and fell across her cheek. Ricardo picked it up and tucked it behind her ear. The glass of ponche with rum she had at dinner and Ricardo’s gentle touch caused her defenses to fall away.
She laid her head on the dashboard and sobbed: She cried for Stefan, who would never stand in a synagogue and see Edith in a lace wedding dress. She cried for her mother, who witnessed her best friend shot like a dog, and for Edith and her father and every other Jew who lost parents or children. She cried for the Budapest she had loved and might not see again.
“Vera, querida, my darling. I am so sorry. You’re the bravest girl I have ever met. Let me help you. Let me make it better for you,” Ricardo said.
Vera lifted her head and there was a depth to Ricardo’s eyes she hadn’t seen. He leaned forward and she met him halfway. She tipped her face up to his and he kissed her.
“Please forgive me,” Ricardo whispered. “I acted like an oaf.”
“I should have told you right away,” Vera answered. “I wasn’t ready to talk about it.”
“So young and the witness of so much evil.” He stroked her cheek. “In Venezuela we protect our women. If any man tries to hurt you, I will cut out his heart.”
* * *
Vera stood by the window of Lola’s living room and waited for Edith to arrive. The room was arranged for when Lola returned with her beau: a bottle of brandy with two glasses, a bouquet of flowers in a vase, and a selection of pralines from Lola’s favorite chocolate shop.
Ricardo had offered to keep her company, but Vera wanted to see Edith alone.
“You’re home!” Edith entered the room. She wore a pleated skirt and carried a bundle of fabrics. “We had dinner with a fabric supplier.” She dropped the fabrics on the table. “Peruvian wool and cotton from Argentina. See this green linen! It’s for a dress for a well-known model. She’s going to wear it with emerald earrings that match the linen.”
“How did you pay for this?” Vera asked. “Don’t tell me you’ve been back to the pawnshop.”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t pawn Lola’s candlesticks.” Edith smiled. “Robert loaned me the money. It’s called ‘buying on credit.’ I’m going to pay him back when I deliver my first dress. I even insisted on paying him interest.”
“It makes me nervous.” Vera frowned. “All the money goes out, but nothing comes in.”
“That’s how you start a business.” Edith sat on the sofa. “Maria taught me in Naples. She borrowed fifty thousand lire from her ex-husband. She had to promise to take him back if she couldn’t repay him,” Edith laughed. “He was still in love with her, but she despised him. She paid him back with interest in the first six months.”
“If you’re sure,” Vera said doubtfully. She didn’t want to make Edith more unhappy now.
“I’ve never been more certain of anything,” Edith replied. “What are you doing home so early? I saw Ricardo speeding off. Don’t tell me he tried something. Robert was a boxer in college. He can pay Ricardo a visit.”
“Ricardo is fine,” Vera said. “I had the most unexpected visitor. Captain Bingham.”
It took a moment for the name to register.
“Captain Bingham?” Edith repeated. “From Austria?”
“He’s in Caracas on his honeymoon,” Vera continued. “He brought a letter.”
“If it’s official documentation that Stefan is dead, he could have saved himself the trip,” Edith retorted. “I’ve known he’s been dead for years. I don’t need a letter of condolence from an American GI who spent the war shuffling papers while Stefan dug graves for his fellow inmates.”
“We don’t know that’s what Stefan was doing. It could have been anything.”
“We’ve heard enough accounts to guess,” Edith said. “Regardless, Stefan was rebuilding bombed railroads so the Germans could transport more Jews to their deaths. Either way, he died knowing he was helping the murderers who killed him.”
“The letter wasn’t about Stefan. It was from my mother.”
“Your mother?” Edith gasped, her eyes wide as saucers. “But our mothers are dead.”
“They weren’t sent to the gas chamber. Instead they were made to do forced labor. They were part of the death march before Auschwitz were liberated.” Vera looked at Edith and the words caught in her throat. “Your mother was very weak. She collapsed on the way; she didn’t make it.”
Edith stiffened and her face turned pale. She picked up one of Lola’s pralines and put it back on the plate. When she looked back at Vera, her cheeks were hollow and she had bitten her lip until it bled.
Edith’s eyes were bright as candles, and Vera had never seen her in so much pain.
“I’m so sorry,” Vera whispered. “My mother was sent to Flossenbürg. She’s alive.”
“I’m happy that Alice is alive, but how many times in this war does someone have to die?” Edith railed. “I’ve known my mother was dead for almost two years. Do I have to learn it again? How can we begin to live if we keep hearing our loved ones have died like a broken record on the phonograph?” She picked up her fabrics and opened the door. “If you get a letter saying Stefan is dead, I don’t want to hear it.”
“Where are you going?” Vera warned. “It’s dangerous to walk around Caracas at night.”
“It’s not dangerous,” Edith said. “What’s dangerous is to lie in bed and wonder why the people we love are now dirt used to make flowers grow. Because if I think about that, I don’t want to live.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
June 1947
It had been two weeks since Vera received her mother’s letter and her relationship with Ricardo had changed. They were spending a lot more time together. It wasn’t quite love, but Ricardo was polite and she enjoyed his company. She was grateful to be able to experience Caracas with someone. And she loved strolling along the Guaire River that flowed through the city and reminded her of her beloved Danube.
Every night when Ricardo brought her home, they sat in his car and kissed. It was only then, with the top of the MG down, that she longed for Anton. She kept her eyes closed and tried to blot out the image of Anton standing in Anacapri, telling her that new artists and philosophers would rise from the dust of Hitler’s Europe.
“How do I look?” Edith entered Lola’s kitchen and interrupted her musings. It was Sunday morning and Lola and the other borders were at church.
