“Why don’t you ever wear it?” Mila asks, holding it up to her own neckline, feeling the weight of the stone, the gold chain resting on her collarbone.
“I don’t know. Seems a bit ostentatious. I always felt self-conscious wearing it.” Nechuma recalls how, on the day she first saw the necklace, the idea of owning such an extravagance had made her knees weak. It was 1935; she’d been in Vienna on a buying trip and had spotted it in a jeweler’s window on her walk back to the train station. She tried it on and decided on an uncharacteristic impulse that she should have it, wondering the instant she left the store whether she would regret her decision. It was an investment, she told herself. And besides, she’d earned it. The shop had been doing well for a number of years by then, and her children were for the most part independent, finishing their final years in university, making a living for themselves. It was exorbitant, yes, but she remembers thinking that it was also the first time in her life that she could easily justify a splurge.
Nechuma starts at the sound of banging on the door. She’s lost track of the time. The Wehrmacht soldiers must be back to escort them out. Mila drops the necklace quickly back into its pouch and Nechuma tucks it into her shirt, between her breasts.
“Can you see it?” she asks.
Mila shakes her head no.
“Stay here,” Nechuma whispers. “Don’t take your eyes off of these,” she adds, setting her purse atop the box of valuables at their feet. Mila nods.
Nechuma turns and straightens her back, inhaling deeply, gathering her composure. At the door, she lifts her chin, almost imperceptibly, as she tells the Wehrmacht soldiers in rudimentary German that her husband and daughter will be home soon to help them carry the last of their things. “We need another fifteen minutes,” she says coolly.
One of the soldiers glances at his watch.
“Fünf minuten,” he snaps. “Schnell.”
Nechuma says nothing. She turns from the door, resisting the urge to spit on the officer’s polished leather jackboots. With her fingers curled around the key to the apartment—she isn’t yet ready to hand it over—she pads through her home one last time, stepping quickly into each room, scanning for something she might have forgotten to pack, forcing her eyes to jump over the things she’d decided earlier she couldn’t bring; if she looks too long she’ll have second thoughts, and leaving them behind will be torture. In her bedroom she adjusts the base of a lamp so it aligns with the front of her dresser and smooths a wrinkle from the bedsheet. She folds and refolds a linen towel in the powder room. She pulls at a curtain in Jakob’s room so it’s even with the other. She tidies as if she is expecting company.
In the living room, which she’s left for last, Nechuma lingers for an extra moment, staring at the space where her children had practiced for hours upon hours at the piano, where for so many years they’d gathered after meals with someone at the keys. Making her way to the instrument, she runs her hand along its polished lid. Slowly, soundlessly, she closes the fall over the keys. Turning, she takes in the room’s oak-paneled walls, the desk by the window overlooking the courtyard where she loved, more than anything, to sit and write, the blue velvet couch with its matching club chairs, the marble mantle over the fireplace, the floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with music—Chopin, Mozart, Bach, Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, Mahler, Brahms, Schumann, Schubert—and with the works of their favorite Polish authors: Sienkiewicz, ?eromski, Rabinovitsh, Peretz. Walking quietly to her writing table, Nechuma brushes a bit of dust from the satinwood surface, grateful that she’d remembered to pack her stationery and favorite fountain pen. Tomorrow she will write to Addy in Toulouse, telling him of their circumstances, of their new address.
Addy. The fact that he will be leaving Toulouse soon to join the army troubles Nechuma deeply. Already, she’s coped with the stress of two sons in the military. Genek and Jakob’s duty, at least, was short; Poland had fallen quickly. France, on the other hand, has yet to join the war. If the French get involved, and it seems only a matter of time before they do, there is no telling how long the fighting will last. Addy could be in uniform for months. Years. Nechuma shudders, praying that she’s able to reach him before he leaves for Parthenay. She will need to write to Genek and Jakob in Lvov, too. Her sons will be furious to learn that the family has been evicted from their home.
Nechuma looks up at the ceiling as her eyes fill with tears. It’s just temporary, she tells herself. Exhaling, she glances at the portrait of her father-in-law; he stares down at her, his gaze austere, penetrating. She swallows, then nods respectfully. “Watch over our home for us, will you?” she whispers. She touches her fingers to her lips and then to the wall, and makes her way, slowly, toward the door.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Addy
Outside Poitiers, France ~ April 15, 1940
Beneath the deep green spires of an endless row of cypress trees, a dozen pairs of leather soles crunch the dirt. The men have been walking since dawn; soon, it will be dusk.
Addy has spent the past several hours listening to the synchronized rhythm of footfall behind him, ignoring the blisters on his feet, and thinking of Radom. Six months have passed since he’s heard from his mother—it was the end of October, just before he left Toulouse, when he received her last letter. She’d written to tell him that the family was safe—all but Selim, who had gone missing; that his brothers were still in Lvov; that Jakob and Bella were soon to be married. The shop has been closed. We’ve been put to work, Nechuma wrote, detailing their new assignments. There were curfews and rations and the Germans were despicable, but all that mattered, Nechuma had insisted, was that they were in good health and, for the most part, accounted for. Before signing off, she said that two Jewish families in their building had been evicted and forced into tiny flats in the Old Quarter. I fear, she wrote, that we will be next.
In his reply, Addy had begged his mother to let him know right away if she was forced to move, and to send addresses for Jakob and Genek, but he hadn’t received a response before he left Toulouse. Now he’s on the move, impossible to reach. A knot has formed in his chest, and as the days and weeks slip by, it tightens. He loathes the unease of feeling so far away, so helplessly removed from his family in Poland.