It was the soft thud of the infant’s body meeting the earth that broke Herta, causing the numbness to give way to a hate that burned so deeply within, she wondered if her organs might catch fire.
A third blue cap walks by with a bucket of water and a basket of bread—loaves the size of cigarette cartons, hard as bark. Genek takes one, breaks off a piece, hands the loaf to Herta. She shakes her head, too nauseated to eat.
—
The door slides closed and it’s dark again inside the train car. Genek scratches at his scalp, and Herta reaches for his hand. “It’ll only make it worse,” she whispers. Genek slumps, unsure of what he’s sickened by more—the fact that he’s trapped in a world of inescapable decay, or the army of lice that has proliferated on his filthy scalp. He adjusts his suitcase beneath his bent knees and breathes through his mouth to avoid the appalling, fetid smell of death and rot. After a moment there is a tap on his shoulder. The communal water tin has reached him. He sighs, dips his bread in the putrid water and passes the tin to Herta. She takes a small sip and hands it to the body to her right.
“It’s disgusting,” Herta whispers, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“It’s all we’ve got. We’ll die without it.”
“Not the water. The rest of it. All of it.”
Genek reaches for Herta’s hand. “I know. We just need to get off this train, and then we’ll manage. We’ll be okay.” In the darkness, he can feel Herta’s eyes on him.
“Will we?”
A rush of guilt, now familiar, surges through him when Genek considers the fact that it is he who is responsible for their being here. Had he thought for a moment about the potential consequences of denying Soviet citizenship—had he willingly checked the box on the questionnaire that fateful day—things would be different. They would in all likelihood still be in Lvov. He rests his head against the wall of the train car behind him. It seemed so obvious at the time. It would have felt like a betrayal to give up his Polish citizenship. Herta swears that she wouldn’t have declared allegiance to the Soviets either, that she’d have done the same had she been in his shoes, but oh, if he could only turn back time.
“We will,” Genek nods, swallowing his remorse. Wherever they are headed, it has to be better than the train. “We will,” he repeats, wishing for some fresh air. Some clarity. He closes his eyes, tormented by the sense of powerlessness that has settled inside him like a fistful of rocks since they boarded the train. He hates it. But what is there to do? His wit, his charm, his looks—the things he’s relied upon all of his life to talk his way out of trouble—what good will they do him now? The one time he’d smiled at a guard, thinking he might win him over with niceties, the louse had threatened to punch in his pretty-boy face.
There has to be a way out. Genek’s stomach turns and he is struck suddenly by an impulse to pray. He’s not a pious person, certainly hasn’t spent much time in prayer, hasn’t seen the point of it, really. But he’s also not used to feeling so vulnerable. If there were ever a time to ask for help, he decides, it’s now. It can’t hurt.
And so, Genek prays. He prays for their monthlong exodus to reach its end; for a livable situation once they are allowed off the train; for his health and for Herta’s; for his parents’ safety, for his siblings’ safety, especially his brother Addy’s, whom he hasn’t seen in well over a year. He prays for the day when he can be together again with his family. If the war is over soon, he fantasizes, perhaps he’ll see them in October, for Rosh Hashanah. How sweet it would be to start the Jewish New Year together.
Genek silently repeats his pleas, over and over again, until someone in the car begins to sing. An anthem: “Bo?e co? Polsk?.” God save Poland. Others join, and the singing grows louder. As the words reverberate through the dark, dank car, Genek sings along quietly. Please, God, protect Poland. Protect us. Protect our families. Please.
NOVEMBER 1939–JUNE 1941: Over one million Polish men, women, and children are deported by the Red Army to Siberia, Kazakhstan, and Soviet Asia, where they face hard physical labor, squalid living conditions, harsh climate extremes, disease, and starvation. They die by the thousands.
SEPTEMBER 7, 1940: The London Blitz. For fifty-seven consecutive nights, German planes drop bombs on the British capital. The Luftwaffe’s aerial attacks extend to fifteen other British cities over thirty-seven weeks. Refusing to capitulate, Churchill orders the Royal Air Force to maintain a relentless counterattack.
SEPTEMBER 27, 1940: Germany, Italy, and Japan sign the Tripartite Pact, forming an Axis alliance.
OCTOBER 3, 1940: The Vichy government of France issues a law, the Statut des Juifs, abolishing the civil rights of Jews living in France.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Addy
Vichy, France ~ December 1940
Addy paces along the sidewalk before the stepped entranceway of the H?tel du Parc. It’s not yet eight in the morning but he is charged, every fiber of his body alive with nervous energy. He should have eaten something, he realizes, shaking off the cold as he walks. It has already begun to feel like one of the coldest winters ever in France.
A suited man with close-cropped blond hair emerges from the hotel and Addy pauses for a moment, recalling the most recent photo of Souza Dantas he’d seen in the paper. Not him. Luis Martins de Souza Dantas, Brazil’s ambassador to France, is dark haired with broad features. He’s heavier set. Addy has spent the past month learning everything he can about him. From what he’s gleaned, the ambassador is a popular man. He is especially adored in Paris, where his name carries somewhat of a celebrity status in the city’s elite social and political circles. Souza Dantas was relocated from Paris to Vichy when France fell to Germany in June—he and a handful of other ambassadors from Axis-friendly powers: the Soviet Union, Italy, Japan, Hungary, Romania, Slovakia. His new office is on the Boulevard des états-Unis, but Addy has heard rumors that he sleeps at the H?tel du Parc—and that he’s been quietly, and illegally, issuing Jews visas to Brazil.
Addy checks his watch; it’s almost eight. The embassy will open soon. He exhales through the corners of his mouth as he contemplates the consequence of his plan not working. What then? As much as it pains him to admit it, returning to Poland is out of the question. With France in the hands of the Nazis, not only is a transit visa impossible to acquire, the idea of staying put seems impossible, too. There is no safe future for him in Axis-controlled Europe.
Addy had thought twice about applying for a Brazilian visa, as Brazil’s quasi-fascist dictator, Getúlio Vargas, was said to be sympathetic to the Nazi regime. But he had already been denied visas to Venezuela, to Argentina, and, after waiting for two days in a line that stretched around the American embassy’s block, to the United States. He is running out of options.