We Were the Lucky Ones Page 16

  Halina realises her mistake. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ she says. ‘Let’s go.’ They hurry together down the hallway.

  Thus far, living in Lvov has been relatively painless. They use their real names because as Jews, they’re treated much like the city’s Poles. They have jobs, Franka as a maid, Adam as a railroad engineer, and Halina as a technician’s assistant at the city’s military hospital. They live in apartments in the centre of town; unlike Radom, Lvov has no ghetto yet. Their days are simple. They go to work, they return home, they earn enough to get by. Halina saves what little extra she can for when she returns to Radom. And of course Adam works in his spare time on IDs. For the most part, life in Lvov has been uneventful. They’ve been left alone. Until now.

  At the door, Halina gathers up her confidence. Standing as tall as her diminutive frame will allow, she unlocks the deadbolt. Outside, two NKVD officers greet her with quick, stern nods.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ Halina asks in Russian, one hand still gripping the doorknob.

  ‘Pani Eichenwald,’ one of the officers begins, ‘we need you to come with us right away to the hospital.’

  ‘What is this about?’ she asks.

  ‘We need your blood. Dr Levenhed is awaiting us at the lab.’

  Levenhed is Halina’s supervisor. He spends his days examining blood – finding matches for transfusions and testing samples for infectious disease. Halina’s job is to help prepare the tests, and to write down the findings as Levenhed stares at a plate through a microscope.

  ‘What do you mean – my blood?’ Halina asks, incredulous.

  ‘We have a general in. He has lost a lot of blood. Levenhed says you are a match.’ It was a requirement for all the hospital staff to have their blood tested when they began work there. Halina hadn’t been told what type she was when her labs were run, but apparently the information was on file.

  ‘And no one at the hospital can give blood?’

  ‘No. Let’s go.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but this isn’t a good time for me. I’m not feeling well,’ Halina lies. She’s sceptical. What if all of this is just a ruse, a clever excuse to get her out the door, so the NKVD can arrest her and send her away?

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not of our concern. You’re needed right away. Dress quickly.’

  Halina contemplates putting up a fight but knows better. ‘Fine,’ she whispers. As she makes her way back to the bedroom, Adam follows close behind. It’s not a ploy, she tells herself. Why would the NKVD concoct such an elaborate story when, from everything she’s heard, they needed no pretence to arrest her? And why would they come for just her, and not Adam, if they were to be deported?

  ‘I’m going with you,’ Adam declares, once they’ve reached the bedroom.

  ‘I’m sure they won’t allow it,’ Halina says. ‘Levenhed will be at the hospital. I trust him, Adam. And if they only need my blood, I’ll be back by morning.’

  Adam shakes his head and Halina can see the fear in his eyes. ‘If you’re not back in a few hours, I’m coming for you.’

  ‘All right.’ Halina wonders about the Russian general, about what he’s been responsible for. Would giving him her blood and allowing the man to live make her complicit in his actions? She shakes the thought from her mind, reminding herself that this isn’t her choice. She’s been able to avoid trouble so far because she’s done what’s been asked of her. If they need her blood, so be it.

  At the hospital, everything happens quickly. She’s escorted to the lab, and along the way she learns that the general was brought in earlier that night for an emergency surgery. Once she’s seated, a doctor in a white coat instructs her to roll up her sleeves.

  ‘Both of them?’ Halina asks.

  ‘Da.’

  Halina rolls the sleeves of her blouse to just above her elbow and watches as the man in the coat, who she presumes to be a doctor, sets a pair of needles, a rubber tourniquet, a cotton swab, two bandages, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and a small army of collection tubes – she counts twelve – on a metal tray beside her. A minute later he brings a needle to her arm, bevel up, and pushes the tip into a vein. It hurts, more than it should, she feels, but she locks her jaw, refusing to wince. She is a puppet to these men, but this at least – the strength conveyed in her expression – she can control. Within a few seconds, the first test tube has turned a deep purple-red. The doctor removes the tourniquet from her upper arm with one hand and replaces the full tube with an empty one, the needle still stuck in her arm. A nurse waits behind him, and every time a tube is full, she whisks it away in a hurry. By the sixth tube, Halina’s blood moves at a slow drip, and the doctor asks her to flex and unflex her fist until the tube is filled. Finally, he removes the needle and wraps a bandage around her elbow crease, then turns his attention silently to her other arm.

  It’s three in the morning when Halina is allowed to return home. She has given nearly a litre of her blood. She is light-headed and has no idea if the general survived the night, if the transfusion was successful. But she doesn’t care. She just wants to get back to Adam. The doctor scribbles a note and hands it to her as she leaves. ‘In case anyone asks why you are out,’ he says. The NKVD who had retrieved her had brought her by car to the hospital. She gathers from the note that there will not be a ride home. Just as well, Halina thinks. She’s glad to be free of them. She takes the slip and leaves without a word.

  Her flat is seven blocks from the hospital. She walks the route daily, knows it well. But in the dead of night, the city feels foreign. The streets are dark, empty. With every tap of her heels on the cobblestones she becomes more convinced that someone is following her, or waiting up ahead, in the shadows. You are just tired, she tells herself. Stop being paranoid. But she can’t help it. In her depleted state, she isn’t herself. She’s cold, to start – it’s May, but the nights are still chilly. She can’t stop shivering. On top of that, her head is spinning, and her limbs feel heavy, as if she’s drunk. Halfway home, spooked by the sensation of being spied upon, she slips her shoes off and summons what’s left of her strength to jog the last three blocks.

  Before she can extract a key from her pocket, the door swings open and Adam appears, still clothed.

  ‘Thank God,’ he says. ‘I was on my way out. Come in, quickly.’ He takes her by the arm and she grimaces when his thumb presses up against the bruise in the crease of her elbow. ‘Halina, are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she says. She smiles, a feeble attempt to mask the pain, and her delirium. If he knew how much blood they’d taken out of her he’d be livid, and more livid still at his inability to stop it from happening. ‘Just tired,’ she adds.

  Adam locks the door behind her and pulls her to him, and she can feel his heartbeat through his shirt. ‘I was so worried,’ he whispers.

  The reserve of energy Halina had tapped to jog home has disappeared, and she suddenly feels as though she might faint. ‘I’ll be fine in the morning,’ she says, ‘but I need to lie down.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Adam helps her onto the bed. He adjusts her pillow and pulls a blanket up over her shoulders before fetching a glass of water and a few slices of apple, which he leaves on her bedside table.

  ‘You take good care of me,’ Halina whispers. Her eyes are already closed, her breath heavy. ‘Of us.’

  Adam brushes her hair aside, kisses her forehead. ‘I’m just glad you’re back,’ he says. He undresses, turns out the light, and climbs into bed. ‘You had me petrified.’

  Halina can feel sleep pulling her into its abyss. ‘Adam?’ she asks. She is seconds from drifting off.

  ‘Yes, love.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  MAY 1941: Brazil’s dictator, Getúlio Vargas, begins issuing restrictions on the number of Jews allowed into the country, calling them ‘undesirable and non-assimilable.’ Infuriated by the number of visas Souza Dantas has granted without permission in France, Vargas begins turning away refugees seeking freedom in Brazil, and issues L
aw 3175, forcing Ambassador Souza Dantas to retire.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Addy

  Casablanca, French-Occupied Morocco ~ June 20, 1941

  Addy surveys Casablanca’s port, the column of buses parked just off the pier, the dark-skinned soldiers who have formed a human tunnel at the foot of the gangplank. The Alsina’s captain had told his passengers that the ship was sent north from Dakar to Casablanca ‘for repairs.’ But the heavily armed men ordering the refugees off the boat don’t remotely resemble a repair team.

  So this is Morocco, Addy thinks to himself.

  In the end, the Alsina had spent nearly five sweltering months docked in Dakar. By the time she finally pulled up anchor in June, most of the passengers’ ninety-day visas to South America had long since expired. What are we to do? What if Vargas won’t renew our papers? Where will we go? Retracing their route north toward Europe didn’t help the mood on board, which grew increasingly frantic by the day. No one believed that they were going to Casablanca for mechanical reasons. To quell the refugees’ hysteria, the Alsina’s captain promised to contact the appropriate authorities in order to guarantee passage to Rio – he would wire the Brazilian embassy in Vichy, he said, with the request for passenger visas to be extended to make up for the weeks they’d spent helplessly idle. But whether or not that telegram was ever sent or received, no one knew, for the captain, along with the crew and the refugees on board, were ordered off the boat soon after docking in Casablanca. The few passengers who could pay for a hotel were offered the option to stay in the city centre, but most were to be escorted to a detention camp outside of town to await a decision by Morocco’s Axis-friendly government on whether the Alsina would be allowed to sail again.

  As Addy descends the ship’s gangplank, the soldiers wave their rifles toward the buses, shouting at the mob of foreigners spilling out onto the pier: ‘Allez! Allez!’ Addy boards a bus and finds a seat by a window facing the pier, searching for the Lowbeers, who are no doubt among the cluster of first-class passengers gathered in the shadow of the Alsina’s bow awaiting transport to the city. He scans the crowd, but it’s impossible to see much of anything through the dirt-smudged pane. Kneeling on his seat, he ratchets the window down a few inches, peers through the opening. As the bus pulls away, he spots Eliska – or at least he thinks he sees her, the top of her blonde head; she appears to be standing on her toes, looking in his direction. Pushing his hand through the crack in the window, he waves, wondering if she’ll know it’s him. A moment later, the bus lurches away, kicking up a cloud of dust and fumes in its wake.

  They drive for forty-five minutes before the caravan slows to a stop at a patch of desert hemmed in with barbed wire. As Addy makes his way inside, he glances at the wooden sign over the entrance: KASHA TADLA. The camp is fly infested and cloaked in the inescapable scent of excrement, thanks to several holes dug in the dirt that serve as toilets. Addy lasts two uncomfortable nights sleeping head to toe with a pair of Spaniards in a tent built for one before deciding he’s had enough of Kasha Tadla. On the morning of his third day, he sidles up to a guard at the camp’s entrance and, in perfect French, offers to go to the city for a few desperately needed supplies for the group. ‘We are out of toilet paper, and soap. We are dangerously low on water. Without these things, people will be sick. They will die.’ He flips to the page in his pocket notebook where he’s scribbled papier hygiénique, savon, eau embouteillée. ‘I speak your language, and I know what we need. Take me to town; I’ll purchase a few provisions.’ Addy rattles the change in his pocket, and adds, ‘I have some francs; I’ll buy what my satchel here can hold, and pay for everything myself.’ He smiles, and then shrugs, as if he’s just offered up a generous favour – take it or leave it. After a moment’s pause, the guard acquiesces.

  Addy is dropped at the top of Ziraoui Boulevard and told to meet back in the same place in an hour, with supplies. ‘One hour!’ Addy calls as he sets off, dodging donkey carts and taking in the sharp, unfamiliar aromas of a colourful spice market as he weaves his way through Casablanca’s centre. Of course, he won’t be returning in an hour. His only intention is to track down the Lowbeers, which fortunately isn’t nearly as difficult as he worried it might be. He finds them at an outdoor cafe, sipping French 75s from tall glass flutes; perched among a gaggle of long-faced men in robes cradling mugs of tea, they stand out like a couple of parakeets in a flock of doves. Eliska leaps from her chair when she sees him. After a quick celebratory reunion, Addy suggests they go back to their hotel, where he can keep a low profile. It feels presumptuous to ask for their protection, but surely the guard who is expecting him on Ziraoui Boulevard will soon come looking for him, realising he’s been duped. Madame Lowbeer reluctantly agrees, on the condition that Addy sleep on the floor while they await news on the Alsina’s fate.

  Five days later, Moroccan authorities declare the Alsina an enemy ship, claiming they’d discovered contraband on board. Addy and the Lowbeers find this charge hard to believe, but whether or not the ship is, in fact, carrying illegal goods, the authorities have made up their minds. The Alsina will not be leaving Casablanca. The detainees at Kasha Tadla are released and, along with those who had been spared the tent camp, are refunded seventy-five per cent of the cost of their tickets. The passengers are left to fend for themselves. Addy and the Lowbeers consider staying in Casablanca, on the chance that the authorities might issue them Moroccan visas, but then think better of it. Casablanca has already seen its fair share of warfare, and Morocco, now under Vichy governance, is likely no safer an option than France.

  They have to move quickly. There are six hundred refugees, most of whom are desperate for a way out. They need a plan, and they need one fast. After several days of gathering information from every possible source – expats, government officials, dockhands, journalists – they learn that there are ships sailing for Brazil from Spain. Spain and Portugal, according to the newspapers, are still neutral. Addy and the Lowbeers decide right away to travel north to the Iberian Peninsula, where the only boats headed for South America, they discover after further research, depart from Cádiz, a port in western Spain. To get there, however, will first require finding a way to Tangier, a city on the North African coast, 340 kilometres from Casablanca, and then crossing the Strait of Gibraltar, a narrow stretch of water funnelling virtually all traffic into and out of the Mediterranean from the Atlantic – a stretch of water that had been bombed heavily the year before by the Vichy French Air Force, and which is now under strict surveillance and fortification by the British Navy. If they are able to cross the Strait to Tarifa, they’ll have to make their way north another hundred kilometres to Cádiz. It won’t be easy. But from what they can tell, it’s their only option. They pack quickly and Addy goes about arranging transportation to Tangier.

  The port in Tangier is crowded with ships steaming across the Strait, to and from Tarifa. Addy counts three British aircraft carriers, a handful of cargo ships, and dozens of fishing boats. He and the Lowbeers walk the piers, debating which vessel they should approach. There is a ticketing office at the far end of the port, but visas will surely be required to make a purchase. They decide they’ll be better off hiring a captain on their own.

  ‘How about him?’ Addy points to a fisherman with sun-cracked skin and a shaggy beard sitting at the square stern of his boat, eating his lunch. His skiff is small with a flat bottom and peeling blue paint – just inconspicuous enough, Addy hopes, to cross the Strait unnoticed, and just functional enough to bring them safely to Tarifa. A faded Spanish flag flaps gently from the craft’s narrow bow. The fisherman shakes his head, however, at Madame Lowbeer’s first offer.

  ‘Peligroso,’ he says.

  Madame Lowbeer removes her watch. ‘Esto también,’ she says, surprising Addy with her Spanish.

  The fisherman squints down the pier as if trying to decipher whether anyone of authority might be watching, and then looks back up at the threesome again for a moment, considering his options.
Addy is grateful for their appearance – they may be refugees, but they are certainly put together well enough to look trustworthy. ‘El reloj,’ the fisherman finally huffs.

  Madame Lowbeer slips the watch into her purse. ‘Primero, Tarifa,’ she says coolly. The fisherman grunts and waves them aboard.

  Addy lowers himself into the skiff first to help load their belongings. The Lowbeers, thankfully, had decided in Casablanca to ship their three massive portmanteaux to Madame Lowbeer’s brother in Brazil. They travel now with leather valises similar in size to Addy’s. When their things are stowed, Addy offers his hand as the women step gingerly into the boat, eyeing a small pool of oily water gathered on the floor of its stern.

  The ride is bumpy. Madame Lowbeer vomits twice over the side. Eliska’s cheeks turn a ghostly shade of white. No one speaks. Addy holds his breath on multiple occasions when he’s sure their small skiff is about to be engulfed in the wake of a passing freighter. He keeps his gaze fixed on Tarifa’s rocky coastline, praying they can make their way unnoticed – and afloat – to Spanish soil.

  JUNE 22–30, 1941: In a surprise twist of events, Hitler turns his back on Stalin, breaking the German–Soviet Nonaggression Pact and attacking the entire eastern front, including Russian-occupied Poland. Huge in scope, the invasion is code-named Operation Barbarossa. In Lvov, after a week of bitter fighting, the Soviets are defeated; before retreating, however, the NKVD massacres thousands of Polish, Jewish, and Ukrainian intellectuals, political activists, and criminals held in the city’s prisons. The Germans publicly blame the Jews for these massacres, declaring that the victims were mainly Ukrainian. This of course enrages the pro-German Ukrainian militia, who, along with the Einsatzgruppen (SS death squads), take vigilante action against the Jews inhabiting the city. Jewish men and women who haven’t found their way into hiding are stripped, beaten, and murdered in the streets by the thousands.