She knew her Persian hostess had watched her, graciously pretending not to. “C’est plus doux comme ça,” Josefina said, “It’s sweeter that way.” She and Suzanna had been practicing their French ever since arriving in Tehran.
“Oui, on fait pareil ici,” Heshmat Khanoum said. In Iran, this was also how one sweetened one’s tea. Josefina smiled, pleased to find herself in the company of a woman who made her feel so welcome. For the first time since the war began, she felt her shoulders loosen.
The door opened.
Haji Aziz introduced the gentleman he had brought with him. “Madame Kohn, je vous présente Monsieur Cohen,” he said. His accent, from years of working with the Alliance Israelite Universelle, was excellent.
The coincidence of their names, two different ways of saying kohen escaped no one’s notice. That their names were the same was merely one of those small coincidences, the kind one ought to heed.
“Mesdames, bonjour,” Soleiman said. He took each woman’s hand, Heshmat Khanoum’s first, and kissed it. As if we were all royalty, Josefina thought, smiling.
The moment felt charged with significance. But Josefina couldn’t tell if she had become good at recognizing the pivotal moments in a life during wartime or if their recent liberation from the camps cast a glow of respectability and charm onto everything that was happening. She could see plainly that she was in the room with people of high caliber. For an instant she might have cried, but of course her decorum rose to the occasion.
“Messieurs,” she replied. After Soleiman released her hand, she sat down. “Enchantée,” she told him. And she was delighted. Josefina sensed this man was going to play an important role in her and Suzanna’s immediate future. For the first time in a very long time, she didn’t need to make the most educated guess as to what was coming next. She had learned from these years of trying to calculate the consequences of each small decision that before the war, it was the little mysteries which made life interesting. She sat back and let things unfold.
The two men took seats, speaking French so as to be polite to Josefina. Heshmat Khanoum poured tea. She called for the servant and spoke Farsi to her, just above a whisper. The girl left, and when she returned, she brought a platter of fruits, pastries, chocolates, and nuts.
“Please, Madame,” Haji Aziz said, gesturing to the tray of sweets, garnished tastefully with flower petals along its edges. “Help yourself.”
Josefina selected one of the small pastries and an orange. Le monde est rond, comme une orange, she thought. The world is round, like an orange, a silly rhyme she and her friends used to say when they practiced their French. This agreeable memory of girlhood pleased Josefina, and its absurd entrance into her present life made her smile inwardly. She looked at the orange on her plate, its rind dimpled, its flesh sure to be juicy and fragrant. It wasn’t the first such fruit she’d had of late, but somehow, she knew it would be the best.
She and Suzanna had been in Persia for all of two weeks. At each stop Josefina had been grateful for something. Like most of the Polish refugees, she and her daughter learned and used the word mersi to thank the Iranians they encountered. From the camp at Bandar-e Pahlavi to the first camp in Tehran, and now in this place, they hadn’t stopped expressing their gratitude in a variety of languages—English to British intermediaries, Polish to the women of the Ladies Auxiliary, French and sometimes English to the representatives of Jewish relief agencies. But it was their Persian hosts who were the most generous, giving because they wanted to or could, not because they were tasked with helping as part of an army, diplomatic corps, or organization. The Iranian women—Jewish and Muslim—came out of their houses of their own accord. They extended baskets of fruits and other foods. The men offered help with all tasks, from putting up tents to moving lorries stuck in ruts and transporting people.
There were many ways to say thank you in Farsi, Josefina mused as she held the orange in her hand and smelled its clean scent. Moteshakeram meant “I am grateful.” Bisiyār moteshakeram was “I am very grateful.” Khaylī mamnūn meant “I am much obliged.” And tashakkur was “thank you,” plain and simple.
“Moteshakeram,” she said, pronouncing the word as best she could.
SOLEIMAN COHEN WATCHED HAJI AZIZ sip his tea and set the cup in its saucer. “Madame,” he said, “Mr. Cohen has offered to provide accommodations to a displaced family.” No one was sure as to when anyone might be able to emigrate to other destinations, he explained, but because so many additional refugees would be coming to Tehran, they were trying to place as many as possible in private homes, for however long was needed. “I was hoping you and your daughter might be that family,” he said.
“You would be my guests, Madame,” said Soleiman. “I will assist you in whatever ways necessary.” He looked at the Polish woman. Like almost all the other refugees he had seen at the Elghanian estate, Josefina Kohn’s head was recently shorn. She wore no head covering, and her hair had started growing back as a dark, fine fuzz. Her face, he saw, was once stately and refined, but whatever had happened to her since the war began two and a half years ago had transformed it. Now she looked exhausted, as if no amount of rest would soften the lines inscribed around her eyes and mouth, each one made by a sadness and exhaustion he’d never know. In contrast, her posture was absolutely perfect, a sign that she refused to be broken by tragic circumstance. Soleiman was moved by her perseverance.
“I would be honored, Mr. Cohen, to accept your kind invitation,” Josefina Kohn said. She managed a genuine smile.
Haji Aziz stood, smoothed the side of his jacket. “I will go and get Mademoiselle Suzanna, that we may introduce her, too,” he said. He looked at his watch. “I believe she may be finished reading to the children.”
After Haji Aziz left the room, the foreign lady spoke. “Coincidentally, it is my daughter’s birthday today,” she said. “I can think of nothing she would appreciate more than your generous gift of hospitality.”
Soleiman smiled. “How old is she?” he asked.
“Sixteen.”
Haji Aziz returned with Madame Kohn’s daughter. Her hair was very short, but it was lustrous and dark. Like her mother, Suzanna Kohn maintained perfect posture. She moved with fluid grace and self-possession.
“Mademoiselle Suzanna has stolen all our hearts,” said Haji Aziz.
It wasn’t hard to understand why. The girl was tall and very pretty. When she sat down next to her mother, Soleiman recognized traces of the younger woman Josefina Kohn had once been. What horrors had they witnessed; what conditions had they suffered? He felt contempt for whomever had done either of them any harm. They must have been quite intelligent to have made it this far. And very resourceful.
“I’ve been a stranger in a strange land,” Soleiman said. “Though certainly, Madame, I never had to be as brave and clever as you or your daughter.”
The five of them drank tea, ate fruit and sweets, and chatted—Suzanna’s French was rusty, but Soleiman saw how quickly she comprehended the gist of their discussion. Even so, her mother explained to the girl, in a mixture of Polish and German, that they were leaving the refugee camp. At this, Suzanna’s face brightened, and as the Kohn woman said Soleiman’s name and gestured toward him, her daughter looked at him briefly.
“The little children will miss Mademoiselle Suzanna,” Haji Aziz said.
“I’m sure she will miss them as well,” said Josefina Kohn.
A brief silence ensued, the kind filled with those thoughts one entertains but does not voice. Soleiman was seized abruptly with a questioning feeling, one he rarely experienced. He had not consulted his mother, Gohar, before spontaneously agreeing to take into his home these two European women. Was he doing the right thing? What would people think or say? Haji Aziz seemed to think there was nothing out of the ordinary, and obviously he embraced this idea. The older man understood how much his friend loved opening his home to guests, that it was second nature for a son of Rahim Cohen to bring refugees into the house at Ave
nue Pahlavi.
The more Soleiman imagined speaking with his mother, the more he heard her urging him to act charitably and graciously. In his mind, Gohar’s soft but definitive voice told him this was not only the right thing to do, it was the most important action he could take to assist in repairing a world fractured by war and hatred. He thought then of a story Gohar had made up for her children and grandchildren. She called it the “Tale of All the Beautiful Pieces,” and each time she recounted it, she added new details, so that by the time her grandchildren were listening to the epic narrative, it had become very long and complex.
“There once was a boy who lived in the mahalleh, who collected shards of broken pottery and glassware from all the places he went,” it started. Gohar regaled her listeners with accounts of the fantastic voyages made by the boy—or girl, depending on her audience—from the smells of saffron and rosewater, carpets and cloth at the Grand Bazaar in Tehran and the canals and pools of the Eram Garden in Shiraz, to the slices of melon and strong tea offered in the market tents on the grand Naqsh-e Jahan Square in Isfahan and the dramatically stark ruins at Persepolis. At each place, the child hero of the story gathered fragments—of stoneware long broken, loosened pieces of tile, windows and mirrors—each of them saturated with the story of a life whose memory has become his responsibility to safeguard. As he aged, he found he had collected so many pieces that he must make something with them. And so he constructed a masterful mosaic. People came from beyond the mountains and sea to behold the magnificent memorial he built to honor the narratives of people whose names were lost.
“To keep a name alive,” Gohar always said at the end of the story, “is to enact a small repair of the world.”
ONCE THEY FINISHED TEA, mother and daughter went to retrieve their belongings. Josefina first said good-bye to Nick Lekarz. She knew Suzanna wanted to give Alec the piece of chocolate she had asked to take from the generous plate of sweets offered by their hosts. She considered Mr. Cohen’s proposition: a room of one’s own in a home equipped with plumbing and electricity, now that had to be luck. She was surprised to be looking forward to something. And just as quickly, Josefina felt her mind and heart seesaw, first with the idea of being the recipient of charity, then with the weight of bidding farewell, yet again. No matter how many times she practiced such departures, she found them unsettling. Especially because each adieu had been under the worst of circumstances and was most likely forever, edged with peril and potentially fatal. She ached to settle, to forge a belonging to a place. She didn’t need a lot: Give her one comfortable chair, a bed, a bathtub, a kitchen, and she’d make do. A dog. Enough clothing for the seasons. A place to make a fire. Some books to read and a wireless. Suddenly, she wanted to laugh, not only because it would feel sublime to do so, but because in assessing her needs, she discovered she had become so much less demanding. Did this mean her character had been eroded? Did she have to accept charity passively, or could she, like the modern women she admired, earn her own way? And what about her daughter? Shouldn’t Suzanna also learn about being self-sufficient?
For now, Josefina tucked away these thoughts. It had been too long since anyone in her family had been greeted with something like good news. She continued toward one of the outbuildings that served as the medical ward, where Nick Lekarz was likely to be found. Suzanna went to retrieve their rucksacks from the tent. It was strange to consider they had first packed those two canvas bags in Lwów, when Julius was still alive. Now they were loosely filled only with recently donated clothes. No books. No brushes or combs. No letters. No diaries. No photographs. No valuables.
Nick was outside when he saw Josefina approaching.
“It’s our lucky day,” Josefina said. “A generous fellow is taking us in as houseguests.”
“Mazel tov,” Nick said. “I hope you’ll remember us.”
Josefina smiled. She would miss him. They had taken to having breakfast and tea together, chatting, getting to know each other. To practice conviviality, Josefina thought of their brief but stabilizing encounters. Now she realized they’d been making a friendship, something neither had been able to do in any lasting way in the labor camps.
“Don’t look so glum, Finka,” Nick said.
It was reassuring to hear her nickname. She knew he was teasing her, or maybe only half teasing. But his comment made Josefina realize she wasn’t so good at concealing her emotions anymore.
“Send me your new address,” he said cheerfully, “and we’ll keep in touch. It’s not that hard.”
“Where’s Alec?” Josefina asked. “I think Suzanna has something for him.”
“She’ll find him in his classroom. Such as it is.”
“See you later, Nick,” Josefina said. She spoke with a tenderness she hadn’t felt in a long time.
THE SHORT TRIP FROM THE JEWISH REFUGEE CAMP at the Elghanian estate to Soleiman Cohen’s house at Avenue Pahlavi provided the two refugees from Poland with a glimpse of one of Tehran’s more prominent residential neighborhoods. Behind the high walls, explained Mr. Cohen, were private homes with pools and lavish gardens. They passed carts pulled by donkeys. Most were carrying barrels filled with water, for delivery to the residents along these streets. Milkmen rode bicycles, and the ladles attached to the large metal containers straddling both sides of the back wheel made a chinking noise.
For Suzanna, to ride again in a private automobile, and such a beautiful vehicle, too, was a little like going backward in time. She recalled the ride from Warsaw to the Kosinski house, in her father’s car. How afraid she had been then, even though Papa was at the wheel. How silly it seemed now to be afraid of that ride, which had been among the last moments she spent with her immediate family intact. She missed her father terribly, but she knew he would have wanted her to be in this car, headed now toward somewhere better. The last car ride had taken her far from home; this one was taking Suzanna to a home.
She thought of Alec just then. Like Kasia, he was younger than Suzanna by five years. Like all children who survived imprisonment by the Soviets, he was already much older, with a hardness in his eyes only unconditional love can undo. Before leaving the refugee camp, Suzanna went to the classroom tent and asked the teacher if she might have a brief word with Alec. His face sagged when she said they were leaving, especially when she told him the departure was to be right away.
“Look what I’ve brought you, silly,” she said in a gentle voice. Out of her pocket she produced the chocolate. Alec smiled.
“I’ll have to eat this slowly,” the boy said. “Because no one else gives me sweets.”
Suzanna hugged him. Neither of them could guess the future. On this day, they couldn’t foresee their widowed parents marrying again, nor could they imagine ever being settled, let alone in a cozy house in a country other than Poland, where they had both been children. There would be many detours to such a future. Suzanna hadn’t given much thought to where she might land, but as she rode in her host’s beautiful car through the streets of Tehran, she was certain that one way of life was ending as another was beginning.
She considered what that meant. Mr. Cohen was, she guessed, affluent enough to take in a refugee family. Her mother told her they were going to stay in the gentleman’s home, though no one knew how long such accommodations might last. For Suzanna this was one birthday she’d never forget. She was going to wash in a real bathroom. Sleep in a real bed. Eat food at a real table. Wake up the next day and do it all again. She couldn’t imagine just how nice it would be, or what would be next, and she let herself enjoy the present without having to think about the future.
WHEN THEY ARRIVED AT SOLEIMAN COHEN’S Avenue Pahlavi house, a dog bounded down the stairs, delighting Mama, who just as quickly burst into tears. Suzanna had never seen her mother make public displays of emotion. But all the forgetting Mama had done since the last days of August 1939, including the deliberate unremembering of her own beloved dog, Helmut.
“Bijou,” Soleiman Cohen said. The dog understo
od, however, that Suzanna’s mother needed to see a wagging tail and feel a wet nose against her skin.
“What a sweet little dog,” Mama said, petting its soft head. And though tears had wet her face, she was smiling without the slightest effort.
Mr. Cohen seemed pleased to see one of his guests already at ease. He summoned the housekeeper and gave her instructions in Farsi. She led Suzanna and Josefina to their adjoining rooms and rushed off. She returned with two maids’ uniforms, the only lady’s attire available in a bachelor’s home. The housekeeper didn’t speak French, and the two women did not speak Farsi. Thus, Suzanna and her mother didn’t understand the woman’s explanation about these garments being temporary.
Suzanna was confused. Mama hadn’t said anything about working as a domestic for the gentleman. But maybe she had misunderstood. This wouldn’t be the first time she was just about to grasp the expectations, rules, or geography of her surroundings, only to find herself mistaken in some way. All throughout their travels east, farther east, west, and south, the meaning of things had been blurred. For example, during their wartime exile, dogs, one of the much-loved, left-behind luxuries of home, became stray animals one competed with for food. In the camps they were vicious, with long teeth. And now in Tehran, dogs were transformed into companions once again.
Regardless, what did it matter if she didn’t fully comprehend their situation? Her room was lovely and clean and she didn’t have to share it with anyone. In this house, she didn’t need to fret about her belongings being stolen, not that she had much. Suzanna wouldn’t have to worry about the scared and lonely refugee children who scratched or bit or ran away. There were no soldiers to avoid. No orders to obey. No impossibilities to surmount. Best of all, here she could say she was Jewish and Polish, which meant she could be herself, a sixteen-year-old Jewish girl who had been displaced from her home in western Poland.
Six Thousand Miles to Home Page 23