We Were the Lucky Ones



Every day, Halina walks the familiar route from the apartment in ?ód?, first to the temporary Red Cross headquarters in the center of town, then to the newly erected offices of the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society, and finally to the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee, or the Joint, as everyone calls it—in hopes of discovering news of missing family. When she isn’t making her rounds, she scours the local daily, which has begun publishing lists of names and classified ads from survivors looking for relatives. The radio, too, has a station devoted to helping survivors reconnect; she’s called in twice. Last week, Halina’s hopes soared when she discovered Franka’s name on a list published by the Central Committee of Jews in Poland—an organization funded by the Joint Distribution Committee. Franka had been sent, along with her brother and her parents, to a camp outside of Lublin called Majdanek; by some unexplained twist of fate, she, Salek, and Terza had survived. Her father, Moshe, however, had not been so fortunate. Halina has begun trying to make arrangements for her cousins and aunt to come to ?ód?, but she’s been told it could take months; they are among thousands of refugees awaiting assistance at the DP camp where they’ve been stationed. Halina’s parents, at least, are here now in ?ód?; she’d managed to retrieve them at last from the country.

They must be getting bored with me, Halina reckons as she approaches the offices of the Red Cross, where the volunteers know her well. They typically greet her with a half smile, a head shake, and a doleful “Sorry, no news.” Today, though, the aluminum door has barely swung closed behind her when one of the volunteers rushes at her. “It’s for you!” the woman shrieks, waving a small white paper overhead. A dozen or so people turn. In a space usually filled with sadness, the excitement in the woman’s voice is jarring.

Halina stops, looks over her shoulder and then back at the volunteer. “For me? What—what’s for me?”

“This!” The volunteer holds a telegram between thumbs and forefingers at arm’s length, then reads it aloud: “‘With Selim in Italy. Find us through Polish II Corps. Genek Kurc.’”

At the sound of her brother’s name, the room begins to spin and Halina splays her arms reflexively to keep from falling. “What? Where is he?” Her voice is shaky. “Let me see that.” She reaches for the telegram, dizzy. The Polish Second Corps? Isn’t that Anders’s Army? With Selim, who they all thought was dead? Halina can barely breathe. General Anders is all anyone in ?ód? can talk about—he and his men are heroes. They took Monte Cassino. Fought on the River Senio, in the Battle of Bologna. Halina shakes her head, trying to picture Genek and her brother-in-law Selim in uniform, in battle, making history. But she can’t.

“See for yourself.”

Halina grips the telegram so tightly the beds of her thumbnails go white. She prays there isn’t some kind of mistake.

WITH SELIM IN ITALY

FIND US THR POLISH II CORPS

GENEK KURC

Sure enough, her brother’s name is spelled across the bottom. She looks up. The others watch, awaiting a reaction. Halina opens her mouth and then closes it, swallowing what might be a sob or a laugh, she can’t tell which. “Thank you!” she finally croaks, clutching the telegram to her chest. “Thank you!”

The office swells with cheers as Halina brings the telegram to her lips, kisses it over and over again. Tears begin to spill down her cheeks, but she ignores them. A single thought fills her mind. There is no mistake. They are alive. She tucks the telegram into her blouse pocket, spins out of the office, and takes off running. Twelve blocks later, she scales the stairs leading to her apartment in twos and finds her parents in the kitchen, preparing dinner.

Her mother looks up as Halina peers at them through the doorway, panting, her cheeks flushed. “Are you okay?” Nechuma asks, alarmed, her knife suspended over a carrot. “Have you been crying?”

Halina doesn’t know where to begin. “Is Mila home?” she asks, breathless.

“She went to the market with Felicia; she’ll be back in a minute. Halina, what is it?” Nechuma sets the knife down and wipes her hands on a dish towel tucked into the waistband of her skirt.

Beside her, Sol goes still. “Halina, tell us—what’s happened?” He looks at Halina closely, his brow pinched with worry.

“I—I have news,” Halina exclaims. “How long ago did Mila—” She stops short at the sound of a door opening. “Mila!” Racing to the foyer, she greets her sister at the door, grabbing a canvas tote from her arms. “Thank goodness you’re here! Come, hurry.”

“Why are you so out of breath?” Mila asks. “You’re soaked in sweat!”

“News! I have news!”

Mila’s eyes pop, the hazel of her irises surrounded suddenly by a sea of white. “What? What kind of news?” News could mean anything. She and Felicia follow Halina down the hallway.

At the door to the kitchen, Halina motions for her parents to join her in the living room. “Come,” she calls. When the family is gathered, Halina takes a deep breath. She can barely contain herself. “I’ve just come from the Red Cross,” she says, reaching into her blouse pocket and extracting the telegram. She wills her hands to remain steady as she holds the priceless piece of paper up for her family to see. “It came in today, from Italy.” She reads the telegram aloud, enunciating every word carefully: “‘With Selim. In Italy. Find us through Polish II Corps.’” She looks up at her mother, her father, her sister, Felicia, her eyes dancing between them, filling up again with tears. “Signed, ‘Genek Kurc,’” she adds, her voice cracking.

“What?” Mila pulls Felicia to her, cradling her head against her low ribs.

Nechuma reaches for Sol’s arm to steady herself.

“Read that again,” Sol whispers.

Halina reads the telegram again, and once again. By the third read, Nechuma is in tears, and the small apartment is filled with the deep clap of Sol’s laughter. “That is the best news I’ve heard since . . . I can remember,” he says, his shoulders shaking.

They hug in pairs, Sol and Nechuma, Mila and Felicia, Mila and Halina, Halina and Nechuma, and then huddle together as one, like a giant wheel, hands wrapped around waists and foreheads pressed up against one another’s, Felicia tucked somewhere in the middle. Time disappears as they hold each other, laughing and crying, Sol reciting the telegram’s twelve perfect words over and over and over again.

Halina is the first to pull free from the circle. “Jakob!” she shrieks. “I must go tell Jakob!”

“Yes, go,” Nechuma says, drying her eyes. “Tell him to meet us here for supper this evening.”

“I will,” Halina calls, flying down the hallway.

The door opens and then closes and soon after a hush falls over the apartment. “Mamusiu?” Felicia whispers, peering up at her mother as if awaiting an explanation. But Mila has gone silent. Her gaze volleys left to right, as if searching the room for something she can’t see. A ghost, perhaps.

Noticing, Nechuma rests a hand on Sol’s shoulder. “Could you prepare some tea with Felicia?” she whispers. Sol glances at Mila and nods, beckoning Felicia to the kitchen.

When they are alone, Nechuma turns to Mila, reaches for her arm. “Mila, what is it, darling?”

Mila blinks, shakes her head. “It’s nothing, Mother—I just—”

“Come,” Nechuma offers, guiding Mila to the small table in the living room where they take their meals.

Mila moves slowly, her mind elsewhere as she sits. Resting her elbows on the table, she wraps her hands together into a giant fist and leans her chin into her thumbs. For a while, neither woman speaks.

“It’s not what you were expecting—to find him,” Nechuma finally says, choosing her words carefully. “You didn’t think he was still alive.”

“No.” A tear slips from the corner of Mila’s eye, rolls down her cheek. Nechuma brushes it gently away.

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