by Anita Abriel
“You think I should save myself for him.” Edith’s brown eyes flashed. “You think I should sit in our room and wait for Stefan to appear at the door.”
“He could be alive.” Vera avoided Edith’s eyes. “You have no proof he’s dead.”
Edith’s voice rose. “I don’t need them to identify a body. I know here.” She touched her chest.
“The war has only been over eleven months,” Vera pleaded. “They’re finding survivors every day.”
“Even if Stefan were lying wounded in a hospital, he would find a way to get word to me. Stefan and I loved each other. He wouldn’t let a few gunshot wounds keep us apart. Nothing you say can convince me that he’s not dead.” Edith’s cheeks flamed and she pushed her chair back. “We’re in a new country with men who are alive. Men who can buy us flowers and chocolates and recite poetry.”
Edith flung open the door and ran down the street. Vera thanked Marco and hurried outside. She ran after Edith and wrapped her arms around her. Edith sobbed onto Vera’s shoulder, her breath coming in short gasps and a low, guttural sound emerging from her throat.
Vera pictured Edith and Stefan strolling along the Danube. They used to swim in the baths, splashing and playing like young seals. She remembered Stefan’s large brown eyes, his hands holding Edith’s face to say good-bye. Stefan vowed he would return, and Edith promised to wait for him. But Vera and Edith hadn’t returned to Budapest after the war. She was certain her parents and Stefan hadn’t made it back. The war had been over for almost a year. Someone would have alerted them by now. Without the people they loved, there was nothing for them in Hungary.
“You’re right.” Vera stroked Edith’s hair. “We’re in a new country, and everything is before us.”
CHAPTER TWO
Spring 1946
Vera walked briskly to the American embassy. She had left Edith in bed with a pillow over her face to block out the morning light. She hated leaving Edith alone, but Edith promised she wouldn’t talk to strange men and that she would ask the neighborhood seamstress for work.
Vera opened the front door of the embassy and checked her reflection in the hall mirror. Her black hair was brushed and curled under her chin. She had rubbed blackberry juice on her lips to give them color.
“I’m in here,” Captain Wight called from the morning room.
Vera took a deep breath and followed the sound of his voice. The curtains were open and the room was flooded with sunlight. A record player played classical music and a silver tray held porcelain cups and a plate of dry toast.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt your breakfast.” Vera blushed, hovering at the door.
“Do you like Mozart?” Captain Wight set aside his paper. “He is my favorite composer.”
“The Nazis wouldn’t let anyone wearing a gold star attend the opera,” Vera replied. “They took away our gramophone and all our records.”
“I’m sorry.” Captain Wight noticed her anguished expression and turned off the record player immediately. “Music helps me remember the world wasn’t always full of barbarians.”
“I can wait in the library.” Vera turned toward the door.
“No, it’s time to get to work.” He led the way down the hall. He stopped in front of the library and waited while Vera entered. Vera took her seat on one side of the oak desk and Captain Wight sat in his chair.
“This is a hard job for anyone,” Captain Wight counseled, flipping through the stack of papers in front of him. “Mostly we write letters of condolence, we extinguish hope, and we bring home reality. Perhaps you should think twice about this job.”
“I don’t want another job.” Vera picked up the steno pad and unscrewed the fountain pen. “Because of this job, yesterday I ate the best chocolate cake I ever tasted. You have given me hope. I am ready whenever you would like to begin.”
Captain Wight fired off letters, pacing the room and tapping an unlit cigarette against his palm. He stopped only when Vera’s pad was full and she had to retrieve another from his desk. By lunchtime, Vera’s fingers were stiff and there were ink stains on her dress.
“The greatest crime in Naples is to work during lunch.” Captain Wight placed his pack of cigarettes on the desk. “When the clock chimes noon, everything stops.”
“I brought my lunch,” Vera announced, holding up a paper bag. “If you don’t mind, I’ll eat in the garden.”
“I told Gina to prepare lunch for two for your first day of work,” Captain Wight said kindly, slipping his hands in his pockets. “She was so excited, she cleaned the kitchen all morning.”
“I couldn’t intrude.” Vera shook her head.
“You’re doing me a favor.” Captain Wight smiled. “If you don’t join me, I’ll have to eat Gina’s pasta all by myself.”
Vera followed Captain Wight to the kitchen. It looked completely different from the day before. The floor was scrubbed, the counters sparkled, and the table was set with white china and sterling silverware.
“Oh,” Vera murmured, noticing a bowl of lettuce, red peppers, and cucumber. There were plates of linguine and platters of sliced melon and oranges. A vase of sunflowers was arranged on the sideboard and the French doors were open to the garden.
Gina was a small woman with coarse dark hair. She wore an apron tied around her waist and heavy black shoes.
She turned Vera around as if she were inspecting a beautiful doll. “It is wonderful to have another woman in the house. Captain Wight thinks a sandwich eaten at his desk is lunch, but in Italy the noon riposo is meant to feed the soul as well as the stomach.” She waved at the table. “Sit down; I will bring soup and bread.”
“I thought people in Naples were starving.” Vera tasted her soup. “But everywhere there is fruit and pasta and cake.”
“For years they were starving; sixteen-year-old boys looked like they were twelve.” Captain Wight agreed, pouring a glass of orange juice. “But since the war ended, supplies have improved. The Neapolitans treat every day like a celebration.”
“I’ve never seen such a vibrant city,” Vera agreed. “In Budapest the buildings are dark brick, and a thick fog lies over the streets. Naples is like a girl in a bathing suit, half-naked and craving sunshine.”
“I’m glad you like it.” Captain Wight lit a cigarette. He blew out the match and looked at Vera curiously. “Tell me, how do you speak so many languages?”
“My father loved languages. He studied them at university.” Vera felt momentarily shy under his gaze. “He thought Latin was the most romantic language in the world. He taught me in the evenings when he came home from his law practice. My mother would serve us slices of almond torte and we’d sit at the kitchen table together.”
Captain Wight exhaled a puff of smoke. “I studied Latin at school, but I never became proficient. My Latin professor at Yale mangled every line of the Aeneid.”
“My mother studied dance in Paris when she was young,” Vera continued, her words faltering. “She taught me French.”
Vera’s eyes clouded over as if she had seen a ghost.
“I couldn’t eat another bite,” she declared and pushed back her chair. “We must get back to work.”
* * *
They worked until the sun moved behind the hills. Captain Wight dictated letters to local authorities. He wrote short, pained letters to families in America, informing them that their sons were no longer missing in action, they were dead. Vera copied his words down, silently admiring the way he phrased the sentences to show that he really cared. She found herself blinking back tears that she didn’t want Captain Wight to see. Every now and then, when she thought she couldn’t transcribe another paragraph about a son lost on the battlefield, he would fire off a letter to General Ashe in Rome about trees he wanted to plant in a park or a school he was going to rebuild. The passion in his voice when he dictated those notes was infectious, and she found herself scribbling even faster.
“I told you it was a difficult job,” Captain Wight said when the s
tack of papers on his desk had been cleared. “I understand if you don’t want to come back tomorrow.”
“I’ll be here at eight a.m.,” Vera said with confidence. She was about to leave when there was a knock at the door. Gina poked her head in and waved an envelope.
“Telegram, Signor Wight.”
He ripped open the envelope and Vera gulped. She had seen enough movies before the war to know that a telegram was almost always bad news. Captain Wight’s expression changed, and she waited anxiously for him to speak.
“Is everything all right?” Vera inquired.
“My mother used to send me letters telling me my father needs me at home.” Captain Wight grimaced, stuffing the paper in his pocket. “That didn’t work, so now she sends telegrams. I wouldn’t be surprised if one day she shows up with a ticket for my passage to New York.”
“If the army wants you in Rome and your mother wants you in New York, why are you still in Naples?” Vera asked. The thought of Captain Wight leaving the embassy upset her.
“I can only answer by showing you.” Captain Wight grabbed his cap from the side table. “Follow me.”
They walked down the steps, passing villas with small gardens enclosed by iron gates. They turned onto a street where there were no houses, only rubble. Gaping holes formed where shops once stood, and there were abandoned cars with crushed hoods. Vera’s stomach dropped and she wondered what could be buried under the piles of stones. Perhaps a beloved dog that didn’t have time to escape or a favorite doll left behind by a little girl. Captain Wight walked beside her and she could see her own revulsion reflected in his eyes. His shoulders were hunched, and he stuck his hands in his pockets.
“Did you know that Naples was bombed two hundred times, with over twenty thousand civilian casualties?” Captain Wight asked, looking at her apologetically. “The Allies freed Naples from Axis rule, but this is what we left behind.”
“It’s not the Allies’ fault. In a war there are casualties,” Vera murmured.
“We gutted the city!” Captain Wight’s eyes flashed. “When I arrived, the people were like cats in the Colosseum. If you turned your back for a minute, your pockets would be empty and there’d be a knife in your chest.”
“The Americans set Naples free,” Vera insisted.
“My father owns hotels in New York and Boston,” Captain Wight continued. “It inspired me to study art and architecture in college. I can’t leave the city like this. We have to give Neapolitans back their buildings and their pride.”
“Everyone’s war has to end sometime.” Vera hugged her chest. It was almost evening, and a cool wind blew in from the bay.
“I didn’t mean to drag you out here for so long.” Captain Wight touched her hand. “I’ll walk you home.”
Vera shook her head. “I’m meeting a friend in the piazza.”
“It’s almost evening. It’s not safe for a girl to walk by herself at dusk.” Captain Wight drew a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.
“I won’t walk, I’ll skip.” Vera smiled. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
She set off before he could stop her. She turned at the end of the street and saw him standing on the sidewalk, puffing his cigarette as if it were a contest.
* * *
Vera searched the piazza for Edith, but no one had seen her. A young man zoomed by on a motorcycle, a blond girl’s arms wrapped around his waist.
Vera hurried to the pensione, feeling suddenly uneasy because she couldn’t find Edith and everything seemed so foreign. The piazza was almost empty, and it reminded her of the time when her mother sent her to the bakery to buy rugelach for dessert. The street was so quiet when she walked home, she could hear her footsteps echoing on the pavement. When she turned the corner she saw her mother, Edith, and all their neighbors standing in a circle. Vera thought they were holding some kind of meeting, and then she saw the Hungarian officers in their dark coats.
* * *
It was spring of 1944 when Vera learned of the ghettos: small houses in the countryside where Jews from all over Hungary were being sent. They were told it was for their own good. They would be closer to synagogues and away from civilians who were angry with the Jews. But as neighbors left their apartments wearing layers of clothing and carrying all their belongings in suitcases, Vera sensed this wasn’t true. As soon as they were gone, the Nazis raided their apartments. They even took up residence in some of the more elegant ones: sipping cognac that was left on a silver tray and listening to the records that sat on the phonograph.
“Are we leaving?” Vera asked her mother, following her back into the warmth of the apartment. It was the end of April and the night air was frigid.
“Of course we’re not leaving.” Her mother busied herself in the kitchen, as if she had merely stepped outside to borrow a cup of sugar.
“But I passed the Weinbergs and they were leaving Budapest.” Vera handed her mother a coffee cup. “The officer said it isn’t safe here any longer, someone could shoot us in the street or break our windows.”
“Of course the Hungarian soldiers will say that,” her mother spat. “Then they’ll let themselves into our flats and sleep in our beds. I saw a Hungarian soldier walking down the street carrying Golda Feinstein’s sheets! They were a wedding present from her in-laws and now they’re going to be slept on by filthy Nazi lovers.”
Vera flinched. Her mother never talked like that. She believed in turning the other cheek. When other girls at school mocked Vera for wearing a gold star, her mother told her to be proud. Hadn’t they longed for gold stars on their schoolwork as children?
“I had a better idea,” her mother continued. “I told the captain in charge that I will cook just for him. Every day at five thirty he can come and there will be stuffed cabbage and potato nokedli and a whole rugelach. His mouth watered so much, he needed to wipe it with his handkerchief,” she laughed. “No one is sending us to the ghetto yet.”
They didn’t have to move, and as long as Edith was across the hall, everything was all right. Then Vera heard a commotion outside; there was the sound of orders being barked in Hungarian and people screaming and sobbing. She avoided looking out the window and wondered how long their reprieve would last. When would she have to pack all her books into a suitcase? What if one day Edith and her mother were gone?
* * *
Vera opened the door of the pensione and tried to get the memories out of her mind. People didn’t disappear anymore. The war was over and Edith was perfectly safe.
Signora Rosa was in the kitchen peeling potatoes. She was a tall woman with pendulous breasts. Today she wore a flowered dress and her brown hair was tucked in its usual bun.
“Have you seen Edith?” Vera asked. “I’m late from work.”
“She went to the piazza an hour ago,” Signora Rosa said with a frown. “You girls are too pretty to wander around Naples alone.”
Vera was sure Edith would be home any moment, repeating this to herself to make her heart slow. She went up to their room and stood at the window. She leaned outside, listening for Edith’s voice. Two cats fought in the alley below her. Vera set down her purse and thought she’d go down to the garden and pick some plums for Gina. Gina had been so kind, serving her soup and bread. It would be nice to bring her something in return.
The door opened and Edith entered, wearing a white dress of the thinnest cotton. Her long blond hair was tied with a ribbon. Her shoulders were shaking and her cheeks were wet with tears. There was a small cut on her cheek and dried blood on her mouth.
“Who did this?” Vera gasped, grabbing a handkerchief and dabbing Edith’s mouth.
“Signora Stella gave me work,” Edith sobbed. “She gave me this dress as payment. I felt so pretty, I wanted to go out.”
“It’s a beautiful dress.” Vera ran her hands over the fabric.
“I met Franco in the piazza,” Edith began. “He said I looked like an angel. He wanted to take me up to the hills and show me the view of the Bay of Nap
les.”
“Oh,” Vera whispered.
“He packed a delicious picnic,” Edith continued. “We ate bread and prosciutto and figs. There was red wine and strawberries for dessert. He kissed me softly.” Edith flinched as Vera dabbed her cheek. “Then he put his hand up my skirt. I tried to get away, but he laughed and said I wanted it.”
“What did you do?” Vera asked.
“I grabbed the knife and said I’d rip a hole in his chest,” Edith replied, touching her mouth. “We fought like tigers. Then he called me a whore and drove me home.”
Vera held her in her arms. “It’s all right. You are safe now.”
They sat at the edge of Edith’s bed.
“I want our apartment in Budapest and our house in the country,” Edith cried. “I want our mothers. I want to eat stuffed cabbage and kugel.”
Vera waited till Edith’s sobs subsided. She stroked her hair and ran her finger down her cheek. “I can’t bring them back, but I promise we can get coffee and whipped cream.” Vera stuffed some lire in her pocket. “Come, we will show Naples not to mess with two Hungarian girls.” She took Edith’s hand, just as she had been doing since they were little girls playing on the playground while their mothers watched from a bench. Vera didn’t let go until they were outside and the sun setting over the Bay of Naples glittered before them, warming the cold place in Edith’s heart.
* * *
They sat in the piazza, watching the tables fill with people. Men smoked cigarettes and moved figures around a chessboard. Children played near the fountain, squealing with joy when the water sprayed their faces.
“Italian men are so beautiful.” Edith sipped her coffee. She was already over the incident with Franco. “They look like Michelangelo’s David.”
“We’re going to be in Naples for a while.” Vera gazed at the men walking by. They wore leather jackets and nodded in their direction. “You could try making friends with them first.”