We Were the Lucky Ones

His true home, of course, will always be Radom. That he knows. He crosses his ankles and closes his eyes, and in an instant his mind has left the medical tent and arrived at a scene he knows well—a family gathering on Warszawska Street, in the apartment where he grew up. He’s in the living room, seated on a blue velvet couch beneath the portrait of his great-grandfather Gerszon, for whom he was named. Herta nurses Józef beside him. Addy is at the Steinway playing an improvised version of Cole Porter’s “Anything Goes.” Halina and Adam dance. Mila and Nechuma chat by the walnut mantle over the fireplace, watching, laughing, as Sol twirls Felicia in the air. In the corner, Jakob stands on a chair, taking in the spectacle through the lens of his Rolleiflex.

Genek would do anything to relive an evening of dinner and music at home in prewar Radom. But as quickly as the scene in his parents’ living room entered his mind, a new thought arises, another memory. His gut tightens, sending a shock of pain through his abdomen, as he recalls the conversation he’d overheard as he passed by the captain’s quarters earlier that week: “It has to be an exaggeration,” one of the captains had said. “Over a million?” “Someone said two,” another voice replied. “They’ve liquidated hundreds of camps and ghettos.” “What sick fucking bastards,” the first voice replied. It was quiet for a moment, and Genek had to fight the instinct to claw his way inside, to demand more information. But he knew better. The panic in his eyes might give him away—he was supposed to be Catholic, after all. But millions? Surely they were talking about Jews. His mother, his father, his sisters and little niece—last he knew, they were all in the ghetto. Aunts and uncles and cousins, too. He’s written home a dozen times but hasn’t received a reply. Please, he prays, let the numbers be an exaggeration. Let the family be safe. Please.

With a lump in his throat, Genek reminds himself that he should be grateful, he is with Herta and Józef. They are together and, for the most part, in good health. Who knows how long they’ll stay, but for now he is lucky to make Tel Aviv his home. The city, perched on the white sand and palm-fringed banks of the blue-green Mediterranean, is more beautiful than any he’s ever seen. Even the air is pleasant, somehow smelling always of sweet oranges and oleander. Herta had summed it up in one word on the day they arrived: “Paradise.”

The din of the medical tent filters back into Genek’s consciousness—the murmur of voices, the groan of canvas stretching as his neighbor rolls to his side, the clang of a chamber pot being replaced beneath a cot—and as he comes to, something draws his attention. A voice. One he recognizes. One from a previous life. A voice that reminds him of home. His real home. He opens his eyes.

Most of the patients in the tent are asleep or reading. A few talk quietly with doctors beside them. Genek scans the room, listening intently. The voice is gone. He’s imagined it—part of him is still stuck in his memory of Radom. But then he hears it again, and this time he sits up. There, he realizes, looking over his shoulder—it’s coming from a doctor standing with his back to him, three beds down. Genek swings his legs over his cot, intrigued. The doctor is a head shorter than Genek, with stick-straight posture and dark hair shorn close to his scalp. Genek stares until finally he turns, peering through perfectly round eyeglasses as he scribbles something on his clipboard. Genek recognizes him immediately. His heart vaults into his throat as he stands.

“Hey!” Genek yells. The two dozen men, half a dozen doctors, and handful of nurses in the tent stop what they’re doing for a moment to look in Genek’s direction. He yells again, “Hey, Selim!”

The doctor looks up from his clipboard, surveying the room until finally his gaze lands on Genek. He blinks, shakes his head.

“Genek?”

Genek leaps from his cot, oblivious to his half-exposed backside, and rushes toward his brother-in-law. “Selim!”

“What . . .” Selim stammers, “what are you doing here?”

Genek, too overcome to speak, wraps his arms around Selim’s torso, nearly lifting him from the floor in his embrace. The others in the medical tent watch for a moment, smiling. A few of the nurses to Genek’s exposed rear exchange glances and suppress giggles before going back to their business.

“You have no idea how happy I am to see you, brother,” Genek says, shaking his head.

Selim smiles. “It’s really good to see you, too.”

“You disappeared in Lvov. We thought we’d lost you. What happened? Wait, Selim—” Genek holds him at arm’s length, studying his face. “Tell me, have you heard from the family?” Seeing his brother-in-law has ignited something in Genek—a mix of hope and longing. Perhaps this is a good sign. Perhaps if Selim is alive, the others are, too.

Selim’s shoulders drop and Genek lets his hands fall to his sides. “I was going to ask you the same,” Selim says. “They shipped me off to Kazakhstan, wouldn’t let me write from the camp. What letters I’ve sent since have gone unanswered.”

Genek lowers his voice so the others in the tent won’t overhear. “Mine, too,” he says softly, deflating. “The last I heard from anyone was just before Herta and I were arrested in Lvov. That was almost two years ago. Back then, Mila was in Radom, living in the ghetto with my parents.”

“The ghetto,” Selim whispers. His face has gone white.

“It’s hard to imagine, I know.”

“They’ve—they’ve been liquidating the ghettos, have you heard?”

“I’ve heard,” Genek says. The men are quiet for a moment.

“I keep telling myself over and over they’re fine,” Genek adds, looking up to the tent’s rafters, as if searching for answers. “But I wish I knew for sure.” He lowers his eyes to meet Selim’s. “It’s terrible, not knowing.”

Selim nods.

“I think about Felicia often,” Genek says, realizing he hasn’t told his brother-in-law yet about Józef. “She must be—three now?”

“Four.” Selim’s voice is distant.

“Selim,” Genek starts. He pauses, licks his lips, embarrassed at his riches when, for all either of them knows, Selim might have lost everyone. “Herta and I have a son. He was born in Siberia. He’ll be one year old in March.”

Selim looks pleased. He smiles. “Mazel tov, brother,” he says. “What’s his name?”

“Józef. We call him Ze for short.”

The two men stare at their feet for a while, unsure of what to say next. “What was the name of your camp in Kazakhstan?” Genek finally asks.

“Dolinka. I was a medic there, and for the nearby town.”

Genek nods, struck by the notion that it took an internment camp, an amnesty, and an army to enable Selim to practice the profession he’d been denied in Radom. “Wish we’d had a couple medics like you at our camp,” he says, shaking his head.

“Where were you?”

“I have no idea, to be honest. The nearest town to us was called Altynay. A total shitscape. Only good thing that came of it was Ze.”

Selim scans Genek’s lithe frame, quizzical. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Oh. Yes, fine—just my stomach, is all. Altynay ruined me. Goddamned Soviets. Doc thinks it’s an ulcer.”

“I’ve been treating quite a few of those. If you’re not better soon let me know. I’ll see what I can do to help.”

“Thanks.”

A patient calls from across the room, and Selim motions with his clipboard. “I’d better get going.”

Genek nods. “Of course.” But as Selim turns, something occurs to Genek and he reaches for his brother-in-law’s shoulder again. “Wait, Selim, before you go,” he says, “I’ve been thinking I should start writing to the Red Cross, now that I’m traceable through the army.” Genek’s friend Otto had just been able to connect with his brother this way, and Genek couldn’t help but wonder whether he might have similar luck. “Perhaps we could go together, fill out some forms, send some telegrams.”

Selim nods. “It’s worth a try,” he offers.

They make a plan to meet in a few days at the Red Cross office in Tel Aviv. Selim tucks his clipboard under his arm and turns once again to go.

“Selim,” Genek says, allowing a smile to stretch across his cheeks. “It’s really great to see you.”

Selim returns the smile. “You, too, Genek. I’ll see you on Sunday. I’m looking forward to meeting your son.”

Georgia Hunter's books