“Come with us,” the soldier orders. “You peel potatoes, stay night at our camp. In morning we discuss if you free to go.” He hands Halina the basket. She accepts it casually, loops it over her elbow and then finds Franka’s hand as they begin to make their way north, flanked on either side by men in uniform. No one speaks. The air is filled with the cadence of their footsteps only—the thump of heavy boots and the squelch of wet soles on grass. After a few minutes, Halina looks over at Franka, but her cousin stares ahead as she walks, expressionless. It is only because Halina knows her so well that she can detect the slight twitch in her jaw. Franka is terrified. Halina squeezes her hand in a gesture to convey that all will be all right. She hopes it will, at least.
They walk for nearly an hour. As her adrenaline wanes, Halina can think of nothing but the cold—of the pain in her joints, in her hands and feet, and in the tip of her nose, which is no longer numb but searing. Is it possible, she worries, for her blood to freeze while she’s moving? Will she have to amputate her nose, if she arrives at camp to find it frostbitten? Enough, she tells herself, forcing her mind to turn a corner.
Adam. Think of Adam. She pictures herself at the door of his flat in Lvov, her arms wrapped around his neck as she tells him of Franka’s fall, of her own icy paddle down the Bug. It sounds rather demented when she replays it in her mind. What was she thinking, jumping like that into the water? Would Adam understand? Her parents wouldn’t, she’s sure of that—but he would. He might even admire her for it.
She glances at the soldier to her right. He, too, is young. In his early twenties. And he, too, is cold. He shivers beneath his army-issued coat, looking miserable, as if he would rather be anywhere else but here. Perhaps, Halina thinks, beneath the big guns and important-looking uniforms, these young men are harmless. Perhaps they are just as eager for the war to be over as she. She could have sworn she’d caught one of them, the tallest of the lot, stealing a glance at Franka. She knows the look—part curiosity, part longing; usually it’s directed at her. She’ll turn up the charm, she decides. She’ll compliment the soldiers’ patriotism; convince them with a smile that it’s in their best interest to let them continue on their way. Maybe Franka can flirt a little with the tall one, promise to write, leave him with a kiss. A kiss! How long it’s been since she’s felt Adam’s lips against hers. Halina’s blood warms a degree as she convinces herself that her plan will work. They’ll have to keep their guard up, of course, but she will get what she wants—she always has; it’s what she’s best at.
—
It is their third night at the makeshift camp. Beneath a wool blanket, Halina listens from her tent as Franka and Yulian whisper by the fire. Halina had left the pair a few minutes before, sitting beside a diminishing flame, Yulian’s winter coat draped over Franka’s shoulders. Franka has surprised Halina again with her flirtatiousness. Halina has seen her before with boys. Around a crush, or someone she’s trying to impress, Franka often flails. Apparently, Halina marvels, she hasn’t any trouble leading on a boy when she’s faking it. Halina wonders if Yulian will catch on eventually, to the fact that he’s nothing more than a tall bump in the road that will, she prays, eventually lead them to Lvov.
She had hoped they’d be well on their way by now. These last few days have been trying. The soldiers have treated them with a brusque courtesy, but Halina is all too aware of the fact that she and Franka are two pretty girls far away from home, surrounded by lonely men; she worries about what could happen should the soldiers decide not to be polite. So far, Yulian, it seems, is content just to talk.
She blows into her fingers, flexes her toes for warmth. The blanket helps, but she’s still bitterly cold. Her clothes are finally dry and she doesn’t dare take any of them off to sleep; every layer helps. Closing her eyes, she drifts, shivering, into a half sleep, only to be awoken a few minutes later by the sound of someone crawling inside the tent. She sits up quickly, her hands balled reflexively into fists, half expecting to find the silhouette of one of the Soviets coming at her. But it is only Franka. She sighs, lies back down.
“You scared me,” Halina whispers, her heart racing.
“Sorry.” Franka slips beneath the blanket and pulls it up over their heads so they can talk without being heard. “Yulian told me he’s going to get us out of here,” she whispers. “Tomorrow. Says he’s already talked to his captain about letting us go.” Halina can hear the relief in Franka’s voice. “He said he would give us a ride in the morning to the nearest train station.”
“Well done,” Halina whispers.
“I promised I would stay in touch,” Franka says.
Halina smiles. “Of course you did.”
“You know, he’s not so bad,” Franka says, and Halina wonders for a moment if she’s joking or if Franka really has softened to him. “Can you imagine it,” Franka adds, “me and Yulian? Our children would be giants,” she says, and the thought sends the pair into a fit of muffled laughter.
“I’d rather not imagine it,” Halina finally says, pulling the blanket back down to their chins. She rolls over and presses her body close to Franka’s.
“I’m only joking,” Franka whispers.
“I know.”
Halina closes her eyes, letting her mind drift, as it tends to in the darkness, to Adam. What would their children look like, she wonders? It’s premature to think that far ahead, but she can’t help it. Hopefully, she and Franka will be on their way tomorrow. Finally. One more night, Adam. I’m coming to you.
Part II
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Addy
The Mediterranean ~ January 15, 1941
The pier is a swarm of bodies. Some shout, gripped with panic as they elbow their way toward the gangplank; others speak only in whispers, as if raising their voices might strip them of the privilege of boarding the ship—one of the last passenger vessels, they’ve been told, permitted to leave Marseille with refugees on board. Addy moves steadily with the throng, clutching a brown leather satchel in one hand and a one-way, second-class ticket in the other. The January cold is biting, but he’s barely noticed it. Every few minutes he cranes his neck, scanning the crowd, praying he might see a familiar face. An impossible wish, but he can’t help but hold on to the minute chance that his mother had received his last letter, had made her way with the family to France. Whatever it takes, he’d written, please, just get to Vichy. There is a man there by the name of Souza Dantas. He’s the one you need to speak with about visas. He’d included the details of Souza Dantas’s address, both at the hotel and at the embassy. Addy sighs, realizing how preposterous the proposition now felt. It’s been fifteen months since he last heard from his mother. Even if she had received the letter, what were the odds of an entire family making it out of Poland? On the lucky chance that his mother could find a way out, she would never leave the others behind, that much he knows.