The truck is crawling now. Through the walls there are voices. Germans.
‘Anhalten! Stop the vehicle!’
‘Don’t stop,’ Jakob whispers aloud. ‘Please don’t stop.’ What will happen if they are discovered? They are carrying their false papers, but it’s obvious they are being transported illegally. Why else would they be hidden?
Beside Jakob, Bella is silent, unflinching. It’s as if, since losing Anna, she has become impervious to fear. Jakob has never seen her so inconsolable. He would do anything to help her. If she would just talk to him. But he can see it in her eyes; it’s still too painful, too raw. She needs time.
He wraps an arm around her, holding her close as the truck rolls to a stop, weaving a plea together in his mind. He will offer the Germans his camera, he decides, if they will let them continue on. But just as quickly as the truck had stopped, it lurches, engine roaring. They swerve hard and, for a moment, it feels as if they are balanced on two wheels. Succumbing to gravity, boxes begin to topple. Outside, German voices swell, angry, threatening. As the truck picks up speed, a volley of shots is fired and a bullet rips through the wooden walls, inches above Jakob’s head, leaving two small holes in its path. Amid the chaos, he and Bella bend their bodies between their knees. Jakob cradles the back of his head with one hand, Bella’s with the other, praying as the engine growls and pops in its exertion. Faster. Drive faster. The crack of gunfire chases them long after the shouting has dissipated.
At first, Bella had opposed the idea of returning to Radom, clinging to the hope that Anna might still be alive. ‘I have to find my sister,’ she’d snapped, surprising Jakob with the anger in her tone. When it was safe enough to come out of hiding, they’d discovered that the Germans had set up detention camps around Lvov where anyone ‘suspicious’ was imprisoned indefinitely; Bella had become fixated on visiting these camps, on the chance that her sister might be confined to one of them. Jakob didn’t like the idea of her going anywhere near a German detention camp, but he knew better than to object. And so for a week, Bella made the rounds, risking confinement herself. In the end, she found no record of Anna, nor of her husband, Daniel. It was through a neighbour that Bella finally learnt what, exactly, had happened: Anna and Daniel had been in hiding as well, along with Daniel’s brother Simon, when the Germans first invaded Lvov. On the second night of the pogrom, a group of Wehrmacht soldiers broke into their apartment with a warrant to arrest Simon, calling him an ‘activist.’ Simon wasn’t there – he’d ventured out to find some food. ‘Then we take you,’ the soldiers had said, grabbing Daniel by the arm. He had had no choice but to leave, and Anna insisted she go with him. The neighbour said that there were dozens of others taken as well, that a friend of hers lived on a farm nearby and had seen them being funnelled from a caravan of trucks to the edge of a forest, had heard the shots detonating, like fireworks, late into the night.
Reluctantly, painfully, Bella gave up her search, agreeing, finally, to accept Sol’s offer to send a truck. Since then, she’s barely spoken.
The truck decelerates slightly and Jakob lifts his head. Please, not again. He listens for shots, for shouting, but all he can hear is the rumble of the truck’s diesel engine. He closes his eyes, praying they are in the clear. Praying that life in the ghetto will be better than the one they’ve left behind in Lvov. It’s hard to imagine it could be any worse. They would be near family, at least. What’s left of it.
Beside him, Bella wonders whether they will make it back to Radom alive. If they do, she’ll have to face her parents. Henry and Gustava have been assigned to Radom’s smaller Glinice ghetto, several kilometres outside the city. She’ll have to tell them what has happened to their youngest daughter.
It’s been nearly three weeks since Anna disappeared. Bella closes her eyes, feeling the familiar pain in her chest, deep and hollow, as if a piece of her is missing. Anna. For as long as she can remember, Bella has imagined her children growing up alongside Anna’s – a fantasy that had felt almost attainable when, just before the pogrom, Anna had hinted that she and Daniel had exciting news to share. Briefly, Bella had pushed the war out of her mind and let the dream of children, of cousins being raised side by side, take over. Now, her sister will never have children, or know hers. Fresh tears run along the curve of Bella’s jaw as she swallows this cold, incomprehensible truth.
JULY 25–29, 1941: A second pogrom engulfs Lvov. Allegedly organised by Ukrainian nationalists and encouraged by the Germans, this pogrom, known as Petlura Days, targets Jews accused of collaborating with the Soviets. An estimated two thousand Jews are murdered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Addy
Ilha das Flores, Brazil ~ August 12, 1941
‘What kind of ship is it?’ Eliska asks.
Addy had spotted the small grey craft that morning on his walk around the island. As soon as Eliska woke, he’d brought her to the dock where it was moored, to see for herself.
‘Looks like a navy ship.’
‘Do you think it’s for us?’
‘Can’t imagine who else it would be for.’
Addy and Eliska spin endless scenarios of where the ship might take them. Would it deliver them to Rio, the ‘Arrival Destination’ stamped on their Alsina tickets, beside a date of early February – six months past? Or was the ship simply a means to deliver them to a larger passenger vessel, bound for Europe? If it were the latter, would they be returned to Marseille? Or dropped somewhere else? Would they be able to apply for new visas? And if they did, were there still passenger ships allowed to sail across the Atlantic from Europe?
At noon, the Alsina detainees are called to the cafeteria, and Addy and Eliska’s questions are finally answered.
‘Today is your lucky day,’ an officer in white announces, although it’s hard to know from his tone whether or not he’s joking. Haganauer translates.
‘President Vargas,’ the officer continues, ‘has granted you permission to extend your visas.’
The refugees exhale collectively. Someone whoops.
‘Pack your belongings,’ the officer orders. ‘You leave in an hour.’
Addy grins. He wraps his arms around Eliska, lifts her from her feet.
‘Of course, just to be clear,’ the officer adds, holding up a palm as if to dampen whatever kind of revelry was about to unfold, ‘the president can, at any time and for any reason, revoke the privilege.’
‘There is always a clause,’ Madame Lowbeer hisses. But the refugees don’t care. They’ve been allowed to stay. The cafeteria is filled with the emphatic slap of hands meeting backs and the sound of cheeks being kissed as men and women embrace, laughing, crying.
Two hours later, Addy and the Lowbeers stand in a serpentine line winding down the length of the island’s dock. Rumours, about who finally persuaded Vargas to allow the group of vagabond, visaless refugees into the country, pass surreptitiously from ear to ear, although no one is brave enough to come out and ask. Best not to bring it up.
Once on board, Addy and Eliska stow their valises, help Madame Lowbeer to find a seat inside, and make their way to the front of the craft. There, gripping a metal bow rail, they watch as one of the crew unloops a rope from a cleat on the dock. An engine purrs to life, and as they push off, Addy takes a last look at the tiny island that’s been his home for the past twenty-seven days. A piece of him will miss it, he realises, as the vessel moves slowly in reverse, churning the water beneath it from indigo to white. The island, with its fragrant wildflowers and endless symphony of birdsong, had brought along with it a sense of ease. On Ilha das Flores, there was nothing for Addy to do but walk, sip yerba tea, and wait. The moment he arrives a free man in Rio, his destiny will once again lie in his own hands. He’ll need to learn the language, apply for a work permit, find a place to live, a job, a way to support himself. It won’t be easy.
The boat completes its half turn and fixes its bow westward, toward the continent. Addy and Eliska breathe in the salt air and lean their tors
os over the shimmering sea, squinting at the granite domes of the Pão de Açúcar standing guard over Guanabara Bay. The ride is short – fifteen minutes at most – but the seconds pass slowly.
‘This is really happening,’ Eliska declares in awe as the vessel docks. ‘All the waiting, the anticipation … this is where the journey ends. I can’t believe it’s been seven months since we left Marseille.’
‘It’s really happening,’ Addy echoes, pulling Eliska to him and leaning in for a kiss. Her lips are warm, and when she looks up at him her eyes are a bright, crystalline blue.
As they disembark, the refugees are ushered to a white brick customs building and ordered to wait – a nearly impossible task. Three hours later, when their paperwork is finally complete, Addy, Eliska, and Madame Lowbeer step hastily from the customs building onto Via Elvada da Perimetral. Addy flags a taxi, and before they know it they are speeding south, toward Eliska’s uncle’s apartment in Ipanema.
The following morning, Addy awakens, stiff from sleeping on the floor, to a tap on his shoulder. ‘Let’s explore!’ Eliska whispers, leaping to her feet to prepare some coffee.
Addy dresses and peers through a window down at the cobblestones of Rua Redentor and then up at the morning sky, jingling a few coins in his pocket. He’s nearly broke, and refuses to live off of the Lowbeers’ dime. But the day is sunny and they are months overdue for a celebration.
‘Vamos,’ he says.
Eliska writes her mother a note, promising to return by sundown. ‘Where to?’ she asks as they leave her uncle’s building. Addy can tell from the way she bounces beside him how elated she is to learn about her new home.
‘How about Copacabana?’ he suggests, telling himself it’s okay to take part in Eliska’s excitement, to share her enthusiasm about what it means to start over. Go ahead, embrace it. For her, at least. Tomorrow, he can worry about a job, an apartment, about his family, and how he will go about trying to track them down now that he has made it, finally, to a city with a post office. A city where he hopes he will be allowed to stay, indefinitely.
‘Copacabana. Parfait!’
They walk south to the waterfront and then east along Ipanema’s scalloped coastline, arriving after a few minutes at a massive, helm-shaped rock and at the realisation that neither of them knows where Copacabana is. Eliska suggests that they buy a map, but Addy points to a woman on the beach wearing what appears to be a typical Rio outfit: bathing suit, cotton tunic, and leather sandals. ‘Let’s ask her,’ he says.
The woman smiles at their question and then holds up two fingers, pointing at her index finger.
‘Aqui estamos en Ipanema,’ she explains. ‘A próxima praia é Copacabana,’ she says, pointing toward a huge rock at the end of the beach.
‘Obrigado,’ Addy says, nodding to indicate he understands. ‘Muito bonita,’ he adds, sweeping an upturned palm along the coastline, and the woman smiles.
Addy and Eliska skirt the rock called Arpoador, and within minutes they arrive at the south end of a long, half-moon cove – a perfect confluence of golden sand and cobalt surf.
‘I think we’ve arrived,’ Addy says quietly.
‘Ces montagnes!’ Eliska whispers.
They pause for a moment, taking in a skyline dominated by peak after peak of rolling green crests.
‘Look – you can catch a lift up that one,’ Addy says, pointing to the tallest of the domes, where a cable car crawls its way toward the summit.
As they walk on, the promenade, a mosaic of stones in black and white, undulates underfoot in a pattern that resembles a giant wave. Addy stares at the mosaic for a while, amazed at the work that must have gone into laying so many stones which, up close, are surprisingly irregular in shape and orientation. It is the places where the black meets the white, the perfect edges, that evoke a sense of harmony. We are walking on art, Addy muses, glancing up at the coastline and imagining how the scene would look through the eyes of his mother, his father, his siblings. They would love it here, he thinks, and just as quickly as this occurs to him he is flooded with a rush of guilt. How is it that he is here – in paradise! – while his family is being subjected to who-knows-what unfathomable horror? A shadow of melancholy passes over his face, but before it can take over, Eliska points to the beach.
‘Apparently we need to work on our suntans,’ she says, laughing about how their complexions, bronze by their European standards, are pallid in comparison with those of the brown figures juggling soccer balls in the sand.
Addy swallows, taking in the spectacle and savouring the joy in Eliska’s voice. ‘Copacabana,’ he whispers.
‘Copacabana,’ Eliska croons, looking up at him, folding his cheeks into her palms and kissing him.
Addy softens. Her kisses have a way of stopping time. When her lips brush his, his thinking mind melts away.
‘Thirsty?’ Eliska asks.
‘Always,’ Addy nods.
‘I am, too. Let’s have a drink.’
They pause along the promenade at a little blue wagon selling refreshments from beneath a red umbrella reading Bem vindo ao Brasil! ‘Coconuts!’ Eliska cries. ‘To eat or to drink?’ She pantomimes the difference in hopes that the vendor will understand.
The young Brazilian beneath the umbrella laughs, amused by Eliska’s enthusiam. ‘Para beber,’ he says.
‘Do you take francs?’ Addy asks, holding up a coin.
The vendor shrugs.
‘Beautiful. We’ll take one,’ Addy says, and he and Eliska watch in awe as the vendor selects a coconut, lops off its top with a swift swipe of a foot-long machete, drops two straws inside, and hands it to them.
‘Agua de coco,’ he announces triumphantly.
Addy smiles.
‘Primeira vez que visita o Brasil?’ the vendor asks. To the average passer-by, it must appear as if they are on holiday.
‘Si, primeira visita,’ Addy says, mimicking the vendor’s accent.
‘Bem vindos,’ the vendor says, grinning.
‘Obrigado,’ Addy replies.
Eliska holds the coconut as Addy pays. They thank the vendor again before continuing on down the mosaic promenade. Eliska takes the first sip. ‘Different,’ she says after a moment, passing the coconut to Addy.
He holds it with two hands – it’s furry, and heavier than he’d expected. He brings it tentatively to his nose, taking in its delicate, nutty smell, looking up again at the horizon. You would love it here, he thinks, relaying the sentiment across the Atlantic. It is nothing like home, but you would love it. He takes a sip, savouring the strangely milky, subtly sweet, and entirely foreign taste of agua de coco on his tongue.
JULY 30, 1941: The Sikorski–Mayski Agreement, a treaty between the Soviet Union and Poland, is signed in London.
AUGUST 12, 1941: The Soviets grant amnesty to the surviving Polish citizens who have been detained in work camps throughout Siberia, Kazakhstan, and Soviet Asia, on the condition that they fight for the Soviets, now sided with the Allies. Thousands of Poles begin an exodus to Uzbekistan, where they are told an army is being formed under the new commander in chief of the reformed Polish Army (also known as the Polish II Corps), General Władysław Anders. Anders himself has been recently released from two years of confinement in Moscow’s Lubyanka prison.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Genek and Herta
Aktyubinsk, Kazakhstan ~ September 1941
They left their camp three weeks ago in August, almost a year exactly from when they arrived. For Genek and Herta, the journey from Altynay feels in many ways reminiscent of the one that brought them there, except this time, the top doors of their cattle cars are left open, and the ill outnumber the healthy. Two of the cars at the back have been designated sick cars, for the malaria- and typhus-ridden, and in twenty-one days, over a dozen of them have died. Genek, Herta, and Józef have managed to stave off sickness – they wear handkerchiefs over their mouths and noses and keep Józef, now six months old, tucked into his sling on Herta’s brea
st for as many hours of the day as he’ll tolerate. Starving and sleep deprived, they do their best to remain optimistic – they are no longer prisoners, after all.
‘Where are we?’ one of the exiles wonders aloud as the train slows to a stop.
‘The sign says “Ak-ty-ubinsk”,’ someone replies.
‘Where the hell is Aktyubinsk?’
‘Kazakhstan, I believe.’
‘Kazakhstan,’ Genek whispers as he stands to peer from the cattle car at his surroundings – a land as alien to him as the luxury of a toilet, a clean shirt, a decent meal, a comfortable night’s sleep. The station looks like the others – nondescript, with a long, wooden platform peppered with the occasional wrought-iron gas-burning lantern.
‘Anything to see?’ Herta asks. She’s seated on the floor, and with Józef asleep in her arms she’s reluctant to move.
‘Not much.’
Genek is about to return to his spot beside Herta when something catches his eye. Leaning his head out over the car door, he blinks, and then blinks again. I’ll be damned. Several metres down the platform, two uniformed men roll a cart overflowing with what appears to be freshly baked bread. It’s not the bread, however, that excites him. It’s the white eagle emblems embroidered on the officers’ four-cornered caps. They are Polish soldiers. Poles!
‘Herta! You have to see this!’
He helps Herta to her feet and she squeezes in next to him at the door, where half a dozen others have gathered to glimpse what Genek has seen. Sure enough, there are Polish soldiers here in Aktyubinsk. A burst of hope in Genek’s chest. Someone behind him cheers, and in an instant the atmosphere in the train car is electric. The door is unlocked and the exiles pile out, feeling more limber than they have in months.
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