We Were the Lucky Ones

by Georgia Hunter

  Mila slips her hands from under her mother’s to wipe a tear from her cheek. What does it mean, she wonders, to live a day of her life without worry? Without a plan? Every minute of every day has been orchestrated, to the best of her ability, since the start of the war. Is she even capable, Mila wonders, of letting things unfold on their own?

  Later that evening, once Felicia is asleep, the family sits at the dinner table, studying a map spread out before them. Halina has sent a telegram to Genek, letting him know that for the most part, the family is alive and well. Still no word from Addy, she wrote. When are you discharged? Where should we meet?

  The exercise of deciding where to go next is difficult. Because next most likely means a new forever. It means thinking about where to settle. Where to start over. During the war, their options were fewer, the stakes higher, their mission singular. It was simple, in a way. Keep your chin down, your guard up. Stay one step ahead. Stay alive for one more day. Don’t let the enemy win. To think about a long-term plan feels complicated, and burdensome, like flexing an atrophied muscle.

  ‘The first question,’ Halina says, looking around the table, ‘is do we stay in Poland?’

  Sol shakes his head. His eyes are stern. Despite the news from Genek in Italy, he has found very few reasons lately to smile. Two weeks ago, not long after learning of his brother-in-law Moshe’s death, he’d discovered that a sister, two brothers, four cousins, and half a dozen nieces and nephews who had been living in Kraków at the start of the war had also been killed. His extended family, once so large, has been reduced to just a few. The news had wrecked him. He presses the pad of his index finger to the table. ‘Here,’ he says, frowning, ‘we are not safe.’

  The others sit silently, considering what they do and do not know. The Germans have surrendered, yes, but for Jewish survivors, the war is far from over. Already, the Kurcs have heard stories of Jews returning to their hometowns only to be accosted, robbed, sometimes killed. In one instance, a pogrom erupted when a group of locals accused a returning Jewish man of kidnapping a Polish child – he was hung from a tree – and for days after, dozens more Jews were shot dead in the street. There is truth, it seems, to Sol’s declaration.

  Eyes turn to Nechuma. She nods in agreement, glancing at her husband and then down at the map. ‘I agree. We should go.’ The words are heavy in her lungs, leaving her breathless. It is a declaration she never thought she’d make. Six years ago, Hitler’s proclamation to remove the Jews from the continent seemed absurd. No one believed such cold-blooded plans could come to fruition. But now they know. They’ve seen the newspapers, the photographs, they’ve begun to process the numbers. Now there is no denying what the enemy is capable of. ‘I think it’s best,’ she adds, swallowing. The idea of leaving behind all that was once theirs – their home, their street, the shop, their friends – is nearly impossible to conceive. But, Nechuma reminds herself, those things are things of the past. Of a life that no longer exists. There are strangers now living in her home. Could she and Sol take it back, even if they wanted to? And who is left of their friends? The ghetto has been empty now for years. As far as they knew, there were no Jews left in Radom. Sol is right. It isn’t smart to stay in Poland. History repeats itself. This is one truth of which she is certain.

  ‘I think so, too,’ Mila says. ‘I want Felicia to grow up someplace she can feel safe, where she can feel – normal.’ Mila frowns, wondering what the concept of ‘normal’ even means to her young daughter. The only life Felicia knows is one of being hunted. Forced into hiding. Sneaked through ghetto gates. Left in the hands of strangers. She is seven, and all but the first year of her life has been spent in war, with the sickening awareness that there are people who wish her dead just by virtue of her birth. At least Mila and her siblings have the experience to understand that it hasn’t always been this way. But the war, the persecution, the daily fight to survive – this is Felicia’s normal. Mila’s eyes begin to water. ‘Think of everything we’ve been through,’ she says. ‘Everything Felicia has been through. There isn’t a way to erase what has happened here.’ She shakes her head. ‘There are too many ghosts, too many memories.’

  Beside Mila, Bella nods, and Jakob’s heart aches for her. Hers is an opinion that doesn’t need to be spoken; they all know that for Bella, a return to Radom would be impossible. With her parents and her sister gone, there is nothing left for her there. Jakob finds Bella’s hand, and as he folds his fingers around hers, he can’t help but recall how, in her deepest months of despair, he’d all but lost her. How she had pushed him out of her life. It had torn him apart, to see her like that, to watch her disappear. He’d never felt so helpless. Nor had he felt such relief when she finally made the effort, little by little, to pick herself up and to carry on. He’d seen glimmers of the old Bella in Warsaw, but it is this pregnancy, this new life inside her, that seems to have helped her restore the strength she needs, at last, to heal.

  Jakob glances up at his parents. He can tell from the way his mother seems to be bracing herself that she knows what he’s about to say. It’s old news – he’s told her already that he and Bella are considering a move to the United States – but the words don’t come easily. ‘Bella’s uncle in Illinois,’ he begins quietly, ‘has agreed to sponsor us. It doesn’t guarantee a visa, of course, but it’s a start. And it makes sense, I think, to take him up on it.’ Surely the others understand that at least in the States, Bella could be surrounded by what remains of her family.

  ‘Once we get to Chicago,’ Bella says, looking from Nechuma to Sol, ‘we can enquire about visas for the rest of the family. If that’s something you might be interested in.’

  ‘We’ll stay in Poland for the time being,’ Jakob adds, ‘at least until the baby arrives.’

  A sponsorship to America. The idea settles in Nechuma’s heart like a lead weight. If it were up to her, she would spend every last hour she had on this earth with her children at arm’s reach. But she can’t argue with Jakob. It would be foolish of him not to accept help from Bella’s uncle. Without a sponsorship, an American visa is nearly impossible to come by.

  Jakob goes on to explain that no ships are allowed to sail from Europe to the States at the moment, but that restrictions are due to be lifted soon. ‘Apparently there are passenger ships leaving from Bremerhaven,’ he says, leaning over the map and pointing to a city in north-west Germany. ‘Our thought, once the baby is born,’ he says, ‘is to make our temporary home a Displaced Persons camp here, in Stuttgart. From there we should have a better chance of securing visas.’

  Halina stares at Jakob from across the table, her mouth puckered in disgust. She is appalled by the idea of her brother moving to Germany. ‘Aren’t there DP camps in Poland?’ she snaps. ‘Wouldn’t you be better off here?’ She shakes her head vehemently, her green eyes challenging his. ‘I’d rather slit my throat than set foot into the belly of evil.’

  Halina’s tone is sharp, but though it might have bothered Jakob before, it doesn’t now. It’s become her job, he realises, to protect the family – she’s just watching out for him. He meets her stare with a look of understanding, agreeing that the idea of a move to Germany is unnerving. ‘Trust me, Halina, it won’t be easy. But if it means we are one step closer to a new life in the States, then we’re ready to do what it takes. At this point, I think it’s safe to say we’ll have been through worse.’

  The room is quiet for a moment before Halina speaks up again. ‘All right, then,’ she declares. ‘Jakob, you and Bella have reason to stay. But we don’t. I think we’ve all agreed on that. My vote is we go to Italy. To Genek and Selim. From there, we can decide together, as a family, where to go next.’ She looks to her parents.

  Nechuma and Sol exchange a glance. ‘I only wish we had some idea of whether Addy …’ Nechuma says, stopping to correct her choice of words, ‘of where Addy is.’ The others grow silent, lost in their own fears. But Nechuma nods. ‘Italy.’

  ‘We mustn’t forget that Mussolini was
Hitler’s ally during the war,’ Sol says. ‘I suggest we find a route with as few civilian checkpoints as possible.’

  And so the decision is made: for Jakob and Bella to make their way in a few months from Łódź to Stuttgart and eventually, hopefully, to America, and for the others to travel to Italy.

  As the family leans over the map, Adam traces his finger from Łódź south-west to Italy, listing the cities in between where he’s confident there would be Red Cross offices: Katowice, Vienna, Salzburg, Innsbruck. He omits Kraków, for he’s certain his wife would be better off never returning to anywhere within a fifty-kilometre radius of the Montelupich Prison. The route would require crossing through Czechoslovakia and Austria. They agree that it’s their only good option.

  ‘I will write to Terza, Franka, and Salek to let them know of our plans,’ Halina says, thinking aloud. ‘I will ask the Joint if they can help pay for their travel, so that they can meet us in Italy. And I’ll talk to the girls at the Red Cross – perhaps they can help us plan a route, or tell us of other Red Cross locations we might not know about along the way. We’ll need vodka and cigarettes. For the checkpoints.’

  Nechuma looks at Sol, envisioning the journey. To get to Italy won’t be easy. But if they can make it, she’ll be reunited with her firstborn. And Felicia will have a father! Her mood lightens at the thought. At the start of the war, she had no idea if she and Sol would live to see the end of it, if her children would live to see the end of it, if they would ever come together again, as a cohesive whole. The day the Germans marched into Radom, her world was torn to shreds. She’d watched from then on as every basic truth of the life she once knew – her home, her family, her safety – was thrown to the wind. Now, those fragments of her past have begun to drift back down to earth, and for the first time in over half a decade she has allowed herself to believe that, with time and patience, she might just be able to stitch together a semblance of what was. It will never be the same – she’s wise enough to understand that. But they are here, and for the most part, together, which has begun to feel like something of a miracle.

  Of course, she can’t help but fixate on the missing pieces, on Moshe and the family that Sol has lost and on Adam’s relatives, who are still unaccounted for – and especially on the gaping hole that belongs to her middle son. What has become of her Addy? Nechuma’s spirit plummets as she grapples with the mystery, the likelihood that she may never know – and the reality that her world, her tapestry, will never be complete without him.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Halina

  Austrian Alps ~ July 1945

  Through a clearing in the trees, Halina can see nothing but steel blue sky. It’s past eight in the evening, yet still light enough to read a book, if she had one. Her parents, Mila, and Felicia are asleep, their sweat-caked bodies strewn across the campsite, heads propped on purses and the small leather satchels holding what’s left of their belongings. Listening to the drone of a woodpecker on the trunk of a nearby aspen, Halina sighs. It’ll be another hour before it’s dark – another two hours, she knows, before she will surrender to sleep. She might as well take advantage of the last bit of light, she decides, retrieving a handkerchief from the inside zipper pocket of her purse. She unfolds it and arranges her remaining cigarettes into a row on the ground in front of her, counting them. There are twelve. Enough, she hopes, to bribe the guards at the next checkpoint.

  Meet in Bari, Genek wrote in their last correspondence. Despite the heavy restrictions on civilian travel, Halina, Nechuma, Sol, Mila, and Felicia didn’t waste much time in leaving Łódź. Adam had stayed behind. ‘You go,’ he told Halina. ‘I’ll stay, earn us some savings.’ He’d found a steady job at a local cinema. ‘I’ll meet you in Italy when you’re settled,’ he said. Halina didn’t argue with him. A few weeks before, Adam had found, through the International Tracing Service, the names of his parents, siblings, and nephew on a list of those confirmed dead. There was no other information, just their nine names, inked onto a page amid hundreds of others. Adam was devastated – and the fact that he’d been given no explanation of how or when they’d died was driving him mad. Halina knew it wasn’t the job he was staying for. He needed answers.

  And so Halina and the others had left, armed with as many cigarettes and bottles of vodka as they could carry. Halina had hired a driver to take the family to Katowice, a city 200 kilometres due south of Łódź. In Katowice, Halina, still fluent in Russian, finagled a ride in the back of a truck delivering supplies to the Red Army in Vienna. The journey took days. The Kurcs stayed hidden, tucked between crates of uniforms and tinned meat, afraid that if they were caught crossing borders in Czechoslovakia or Austria without the proper documents, they’d be turned back, or worse, incarcerated.

  From Vienna, they hitchhiked to Graz, where they were dropped at the base of the Southern Limestone Alps, a towering snow-capped range that snaked south-west through Austria and into Italy. Halina wondered if her parents and Felicia, still stick-thin, would be able to make the trek – the Alps were imposing, taller than any mountains she’d seen before. But unless they wanted to face a dozen train station and border checkpoints, crossing them on foot was their best option. After a week of rest in Graz, the Kurcs shed some of their belongings, filled the remaining space in their bags with bread and water, and, using what was left of their savings (Adam had insisted they bring what little he had), they hired a guide – a young Austrian boy named Wilhelm – to show them the way over the range. ‘You’re lucky summer came a bit early,’ Wilhelm said, the day they left. ‘The Southern Alps are covered in snow ten months out of the year, and this time of year they’re usually impassable.’

  They walked every day from seven in the morning to seven at night. Wilhelm proved extremely helpful as a guide, until they woke up one morning to find that he’d vanished. Luckily, he’d left the remainder of the food, along with his map. Cursing the young Austrian’s cowardice, Halina quickly appointed herself leader.

  She wraps her handkerchief around her cigarettes and slides them back into her purse, then reaches to her breast pocket for the map and peels it open gently by the corners; with all of the use it’s gotten, its edges are now velvet soft, its creases unnervingly thin. She brushes a few pebbles from the ground and lays the map down, tracing a dirt-caked fingernail between their approximate location and the nearest town at the foot of the Southern Alps, Villach – a village just north of the Italian border. She estimates another forty hours of walking, due south, which means they could be in Italy in four days. It will be a challenge. Their lungs have acclimated to the 3,000-metre altitude, but the soles of their shoes, not intended for such frequent, rugged use, have begun to disintegrate. They’ll need to be exceptionally cautious, especially in their descent. Halina considers breaking up the trip to give their legs a rest. The day before, Sol had stumbled on a root along the path and nearly rolled his ankle. They are all exhausted to the bone. Twelve hours of hiking each day is a lot to ask. But they are also low on provisions, with only four to five days worth of bread and water left in their supply at most. So they’ll press on, Halina decides. Best just to get to Italian soil. The others would surely agree.

  A white-tailed eagle circles overhead and Halina marvels at its massive wingspan, then eyes the provisions pack she’d hung from a nearby branch, checking to be sure she’d cinched it tightly shut. Close your eyes, she tells herself. Slipping the map back into her shirt pocket, she laces her fingers together and leans back to rest her head in her palms. Her body is whipped from the day’s exertion, but she is too wound up to sleep. Her thoughts, like the incessant drum of the resident woodpecker, come and go in triple time. What if she picks the wrong route down the mountain? They could get lost, run out of food, and never make it to Italy. What if they make it to Italy and are turned back by the authorities? It was only a month ago that the country was occupied by Nazis. What if something happens to Adam in Łódź? It will be weeks – more, possibly – before she can write to him
with a return address.

  Halina stares up at the darkening sky. It’s not just the what-if scenarios that are keeping her awake. There is also a part of her that’s too excited to sleep. She’s just days from reuniting with her oldest brother! She imagines what it’ll feel like to see Genek for the first time in so many years. To hear his laugh. To kiss his dimpled cheeks. To sit down together, as a family, and figure out a plan, where to go next. The idea of setting their minds to a future beyond the war is thrilling, intoxicating – it makes Halina’s heart race, just thinking about it. Maybe Bella is right – maybe her relatives could sponsor the whole Kurc family, and they could move to the States. Or maybe they’ll head north, to the United Kingdom, or south, to Palestine, or across the planet, to Australia. Their decision, of course, will depend on which country will be willing to open its doors.

  Quit thinking and sleep, Halina tells herself. As she rolls to her side, she folds an arm into a pillow, resting her head on her elbow, and brings a hand to her low belly. She’s two weeks late now. She tries to do the math, to count the days since she and Adam saw one another, but it’s nearly impossible. She’s spent so many years thinking ahead that her brain has forgotten how to look back in time. The days before they left Łódź are fuzzy. Could she be? Perhaps. It’s possible. But also possible that she’s just late. It’s happened before. She didn’t bleed once during the four months she was imprisoned in Kraków. Too much stress. Too little food. You never know, Halina allows herself, smiling. Anything is possible. For now, just get the family safely to Italy. Focus on the task at hand. On the next four days. At the moment, she decides, willing her mind to rest, that’s all that matters.