by Anita Abriel
“There’s nothing wrong with being in love,” Vera soothed him. “I’m in love with you and I’m terribly happy.” As she said the words out loud she realized she was lying to herself. What was love without trust? But it didn’t matter now; she and Ricardo were married and she was pregnant with his child.
Ricardo took Vera’s hand and kissed it. “Mi amada Vera, if you could only understand jealousy. It’s like the demon at the Christmas festival that darts around stealing children’s presents. I see another man near you and I’m possessed. But it’s only because I love you and can’t imagine life without you.”
“You don’t have to,” she whispered. “I’ll always be by your side.”
Ricardo put his head in his hands and sobbed. Then he looked up at Vera and his eyes were bright as the moon. “It’s too late. I’ve made you afraid, and it will never be the same again.”
“I could never be afraid of you; you’re the father of my child,” Vera assured him. “Why don’t I fix you a brandy? My parents will come and we’ll eat.”
Ricardo’s jaw relaxed and she turned to search for a glass. There was a rustling sound and then everything happened at once. Her parents arrived at the front door and Ricardo slipped something silver out of his pocket. There was a loud pop before she felt the bullet pierce her neck. She heard two more gunshots and then nothing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
April 1948
Vera gazed at the mirror in her dressing room and couldn’t believe it had been two months since the terrible night when Ricardo shot her. The scar that the bullet had left was a dark kiss on her skin. She felt ill every time she saw her reflection. When she first woke up after that night and saw her mother at her bedside, she believed she was eight years old and had diphtheria. But she wasn’t lying in her childhood bed in Budapest; she was in a hospital in Caracas.
The doctors said it was a miracle. The bullet grazed her neck, and she would make a full recovery. The baby survived as well. The two shots she heard weren’t Ricardo shooting her parents, as she had feared; they were Ricardo turning the gun on himself.
Her hospital room was always full of visitors. For the first three weeks her mother slept in a cot beside her. Her father came every evening, and Edith often stayed late into the night. Julius hung a watercolor to brighten the room, Lola delivered food, and Marcus sent flowers. There were letters from Captain Bingham and Gina and Rosa, and cards and chocolates from everyone at the office. Sometimes she wondered if there would be a letter from Anton, but there never was.
Vera dreaded seeing Alessandra, who stayed away. But when she finally arrived, gaunt and haggard in a long black dress, they hugged each other and cried.
So many thoughts whirled through Vera’s head. How could Ricardo have been desperate enough to try to kill her and take his own life? She pictured Ricardo with his hands around the pistol and longed to sleep forever. But then she remembered the baby and knew she had so much to be grateful for.
After six weeks she was allowed to return home, and that was almost worse than being in the hospital. How could she sleep in their bed and pass Ricardo’s closet, which still held his dinner jackets and polished leather shoes? She didn’t have anywhere else to go, and the Albees assured her that the house was hers. Her parents’ bungalow was too small and she couldn’t move back to Lola’s five months pregnant.
Vera descended the staircase to the living room just before her lunch date with Edith. Last week her mother brought over her lecsó to fatten Vera up, and announced that her brother Tibby and his family had immigrated to Australia. Tibby invited Alice and Lawrence and Vera to join them. They could share their house on Bronte Beach. Tibby would get Lawrence a job at his accounting firm while he finished his law degree. Alice would help with the baby after it was born, and Vera could go back to work as a copywriter.
Vera listened to the offer and a weight lifted from her shoulders. It would be wonderful to go somewhere no one knew about Ricardo. But she couldn’t desert Edith. She spent the last week fretting on how to broach the subject.
There was a knock at the door and Edith swept inside, wearing a belted dress and carrying a stack of magazines.
“Kitty sent some magazines.” Edith placed them on the coffee table. “You can catch up on Hollywood gossip. Rita Hayworth met an Arabian prince named Aly Khan at the Cannes Film Festival and she’s going to leave her husband.”
Vera kissed Edith on the cheek. “Tell Kitty thank you. But I can’t sit here all day, eating bonbons and reading magazines.”
“You are doing something,” Edith reminded her. “You’re going to have a baby.”
“Something else.” Vera arranged a bouquet of flowers. “There’s something I want to talk about. My mother’s brother, Tibby, invited us to come live with them in Sydney.”
“Sydney!” Edith repeated “In Australia?”
“I know it’s very far, and I don’t want to leave you”—Vera twisted her hands—“it’s just I…”
Edith took her hand to calm her.
“You must go; Sydney looks beautiful,” Edith interrupted. “I’ve had an offer too. I didn’t want to mention it until you felt better. One of Kitty’s friends loves my designs and wants to be my silent partner in a boutique.”
“That’s wonderful,” Vera beamed.
“But the boutique wouldn’t be in Caracas, it would be in Beverly Hills. The partner would sponsor me. I won’t have any trouble getting into America.”
“Beverly Hills? But we always dreamed of New York.”
“New York is too cold, and Marcus says he can never relax because there’s always someone younger and more talented eager to take his place. California sounds much nicer. Kitty’s friend Betty Rosen is married to a big movie producer. Cary Grant and Gary Cooper come to their parties at Ciro’s.” Edith’s eyes sparkled. “Can you imagine if I dressed Lauren Bacall?”
Vera pictured Edith sitting next to a kidney-shaped swimming pool sipping pink cocktails with Vivien Leigh and Katharine Hepburn, and for the first time since the bullet entered her neck she felt hopeful.
“They would be lucky to wear an Edith Ban design. One day I’ll see your name on the credits at the movies and I’ll pinch myself that you’re my best friend.” Vera’s voice faltered. “You see, there is a reason for everything after all.”
“A reason?” Edith asked curiously.
“It’s nothing. I was thinking out loud.” Vera waved her hand. “Do you remember the month in the ghetto when we were afraid something terrible would happen? And then on the train to Auschwitz we were sure we were being transported to our deaths. Then we spent a year on the Dunkels’ farm, worrying that we’d get shot by Germans or freeze to death. Even when we arrived in Naples and there was music and laughter and all the pasta we could eat, you were certain that Stefan was dead and we thought our parents hadn’t survived.
“And do you remember on the Queen Elizabeth when we sat at the captain’s table and learned how to use a grapefruit spoon? We were certain our future would include college boys and country clubs. Then Sam Rothschild died and we had to go somewhere new.” She looked at Edith. “I thought in Caracas we were finally safe and life would begin.”
“We have had a good time,” Edith said gently. “We made friends and I started a business and you’re going to have a baby.”
“It’s hard to remember that when Ricardo is lying cold in the ground.” Vera’s eyes prickled. “The killing was supposed to stop with the war, but it goes on forever.”
“Death is everywhere, but so is life,” Edith said. “How many mornings did you make me get out of bed when I wanted to lie there missing Stefan? You taught me we have to give it our best try. We’re young; we’re going to lead happy lives.”
Vera hugged Edith tightly.
“I can see it now. You’re going to own a string of boutiques and an office in Paramount Studios,” Vera laughed. “You’ll marry some handsome movie producer and have a mansion in Beverly Hills and two children.
But you have to promise me something.”
“What is it?” Edith asked.
“Even when Elizabeth Taylor is in the dressing room insisting that the waist on her gown be tighter, you’ll take the pins out of your mouth and ask your assistant to mail a letter,” Vera said. “Because I won’t last a week without hearing from you.”
“I promise.” Edith hugged her back. “I have to go. I’m going to tell Betty I accept her offer. What does Alessandra say about you moving to Australia with the baby?”
“I haven’t told her,” Vera admitted. “She’s coming over this afternoon.”
* * *
“Pedro and I have been talking,” Alessandra said, sipping a cup of tea.
They were sitting in Vera’s dining room and Vera had brought out tea and a plate of biscuits.
“We’ll put this house in your name and create a trust fund for the baby,” Alessandra continued. “You shouldn’t live alone. Perhaps your parents could live with you or you can hire a nurse? We’d pay for it, of course.”
“That’s very kind,” Vera replied. “But I had another idea. My mother’s brother, Tibby, and his wife have immigrated to Australia. They want us to join them. My father speaks good English and it would be easy for him to get a job. I’d live with my parents, and if I went back to work, my mother could care for the baby,” she spoke quickly, afraid that Alessandra was going to stop her. “My aunt and uncle lost their son in the war and my aunt is pregnant. The baby would have a cousin to play with.”
“Australia!” Alessandra gasped.
“Sydney is supposed to be beautiful,” Vera continued. “There’s a large Jewish community and friendly people. And I…” Her voice trailed off.
Alessandra looked at Vera. “You want a fresh start so you can forget everything that happened.”
“It’s terrible to take away your grandchild, but I don’t know what else to do,” Vera said worriedly. “Every day I think of Ricardo and wonder if I could have stopped him. Sometimes I can hardly breathe.”
“You did nothing wrong,” Alessandra assured her. “Do you remember when we met and talked about the university? I said the most important thing young people need to learn isn’t piety or honesty, it’s empathy. If we don’t have empathy, we are finished. Losing a child for the second time is the most painful thing I could have imagined. But I have Pedro and two daughters and grandchildren.” She paused. “If I were you, I’d leap at the chance to move to a new country without any memories.”
“What are you saying?” Vera asked.
“Ricardo was my son and I loved him very much. But you have your whole life ahead of you and you deserve to be happy,” Alessandra said. “If I stopped you from leaving, I would be acting against my own beliefs. I understand your misery. If you want to go to Australia, you have my blessing.”
“I’ll write and send photos every week after the baby is born,” Vera said fervently.
“He’s going to be a beautiful boy.” Alessandra nodded.
“How do you know it will be a boy?” Vera wondered.
Alessandra picked up her teacup and smiled. “Even in times like this, one has to have faith in something.”
* * *
After Alessandra left, Vera spent a long time going through items in Ricardo’s study. She wanted to take to Australia some of Ricardo’s things so their child would know him. There was a brochure of the New York Motor Show and a photo of Ricardo in front of his dealership in Caracas. Ricardo looked so handsome and proud, his dark hair gleaming in the South American sun. She had just started going through his books when there was a knock at the door. Vera answered it and Rabbi Gorem stood outside. His forehead was shiny from the heat and his coat hung on his thin frame.
“Rabbi Gorem,” Vera said. “Please come in.”
“I just played chess with your father,” Rabbi Gorem said when they were seated in the living room. “He’s not a very good actor; I always know when he lets me win.”
“Why would he let you win?” Vera wondered.
“Lawrence is a smart man. If he won all the time, he’d lose his chess partner.”
“My mother said you’ve played chess with him almost every day,” Vera said. “I’m very grateful.”
“Even tragedy comes with blessings. Let me tell you something,” Rabbi Gorem said gravely. “I have a neighbor, Esther Blum, who survived Dachau and immigrated to Caracas with her daughter and grandson. Esther lay in a dark room every day and wouldn’t talk to anyone. One morning, her daughter went to the market and left her son, Daniel, with his grandmother. Usually Daniel drove Esther crazy playing with his toys while she was resting. But that day the house was too quiet and Esther sensed something was wrong. She jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom. Daniel’s head was submerged in the bath and she thought he had drowned.
“Esther breathed into the boy’s mouth until he started breathing. When her daughter came home, Esther and Daniel were sitting in the kitchen eating jelly cakes. Esther thought the Nazis had taken away her strength, but she found it again when she needed it.” He paused. “For the first week, your mother was afraid you were going to die. Lawrence comforted her and promised everything would be all right,” he finished. “Lawrence found his own strength, and he’s not arguing with God so much as to why he lived through and survived the concentration camps.”
Vera shivered. “I’m glad. I can’t imagine what it’s been like for them.”
“And how are you?” Rabbi Gorem inquired.
“The doctors say I’m healed”—she touched her neck—“and the baby is fine.”
“How are you here?” He tapped his heart.
Vera twisted her hands. The nurses had taken off her wedding ring, and she hadn’t put it back on.
“I can’t stop thinking about Ricardo,” she admitted. “I don’t understand how he could care so little about dying. My mother trudged for miles in the snow when they were taken from Flossenbürg, when it would have been easier to lie down and sleep forever. Even Stefan, when he was dying of scarlet fever, was planning how to get the diamond ring to Edith,” She looked at Rabbi Gorem plaintively. “How could Ricardo try to kill me and take his own life when millions of Jews would have given anything to live another day?”
Rabbi Gorem was quiet for a minute. “In Judaism we take the study of the soul very seriously. God could not create the soul in everyone equally. Some people are born with souls that reach for the light like buds in the spring. For others it’s more difficult to seek true meaning; their thoughts get in the way. Ricardo was a good man, but his soul carried a darkness he couldn’t shake.” He touched Vera’s hand. “But God makes sure no one’s life is for nothing. Every Jew who died in the camps left behind something: a piece of music or a poem or a new idea. Your son or daughter will continue what Ricardo started.” He smiled gently. “Who knows what future generations of Albees will accomplish?”
Rabbi Gorem left, and Vera carried the tray into the kitchen. She felt a movement and turned around. There was no one there, and so she put her hand to her stomach. She felt the baby stir and she leaned against the counter and smiled.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
September 1950
Vera and her parents had been in Sydney for two years. Vera had sold Ricardo’s house in Caracas and bought a redbrick cottage near Bondi Beach. She and her parents lived there with a small garden filled with fruit trees that Louis in Naples would have loved. Sydney had an excellent trolleybus system and Vera explored the entire city—from Vaucluse, with its leafy streets and grand houses, to Watsons Bay, with its beach and an amazing ice cream shop.
But she and her mother had felt most at home when they discovered Double Bay. Europeans who had owned jewelry stores and fashion boutiques in Hungary and Austria opened the same shops on the tree-lined streets. Every afternoon the cafés were filled with men and women speaking Hungarian and German and eating the kuglof and Dobos tortes displayed in glass cases.
The Australians were the friendliest
people Vera had ever met. They loved to sit in a pub with a cold beer and listen to horseraces on the radio. The schoolchildren had sandy-blond hair and freckles and wore straw hats to protect their faces from the sun.
Andrew Lawrence Albee was born at Sydney Royal Hospital on August 8, 1948. He had dark hair and Ricardo’s brown eyes, and from the moment the nurse placed him in Vera’s arms, she was in love.
Lawrence got an accounting job at Tibby’s firm and was finishing his law degree at Sydney University. Alice took up sewing and spent most of her time pushing Andrew in his stroller around Centennial Park.
For months Vera debated going back to work. She loved every minute with Andrew, and the more he grew, with his sturdy arms and legs and bright smile, the more she hated the thought of being apart.
But Mr. Matthews had written her a glowing recommendation and she couldn’t refuse the copywriter position at the Sydney branch of J. Walter Thompson. Her offices were downtown, and she could walk to the ferry at Circular Quay. She bought a wardrobe of suits to wear to work and had her own office and secretary.
Ten months into her position at J. Walter Thompson, Vera received a letter in the middle of the morning. She took out Edith’s letter and unfolded it.
Dearest Vera,
So much has happened since I last wrote. The boutique is so successful that Betty hired two assistants. And you’ll never believe it—Judy Holliday saw one of my dresses and asked me to design her gown for the Academy Awards. The moment she won the best actress award for Born Yesterday wearing my gown was the most thrilling of my career.
Marcus spends half his time taking pictures of movie stars. He bought a convertible, but I refuse to drive with him. He’s as reckless as the teenagers driving Vespas in Naples and I don’t want to die in a car accident on Pacific Coast Highway.