And so Halina and the others had left, armed with as many cigarettes and bottles of vodka as they could carry. Halina had hired a driver to take the family to Katowice, a city 200 kilometers due south of ?ód?. In Katowice, Halina, still fluent in Russian, finagled a ride in the back of a truck delivering supplies to the Red Army in Vienna. The journey took days. The Kurcs stayed hidden, tucked between crates of uniforms and tinned meat, afraid that if they were caught crossing borders in Czechoslovakia or Austria without the proper documents, they’d be turned back, or worse, incarcerated.
From Vienna, they hitchhiked to Graz, where they were dropped at the base of the Southern Limestone Alps, a towering snow-capped range that snaked southwest through Austria and into Italy. Halina wondered if her parents and Felicia, still stick-thin, would be able to make the trek—the Alps were imposing, taller than any mountains she’d seen before. But unless they wanted to face a dozen train station and border checkpoints, crossing them on foot was their best option. After a week of rest in Graz, the Kurcs shed some of their belongings, filled the remaining space in their bags with bread and water, and, using what was left of their savings (Adam had insisted they bring what little he had), they hired a guide—a young Austrian boy named Wilhelm—to show them the way over the range. “You’re lucky summer came a bit early,” Wilhelm said, the day they left. “The Southern Alps are covered in snow ten months out of the year, and this time of year they’re usually impassable.”
They walked every day from seven in the morning to seven at night. Wilhelm proved extremely helpful as a guide, until they woke up one morning to find that he’d vanished. Luckily, he’d left the remainder of the food, along with his map. Cursing the young Austrian’s cowardice, Halina quickly appointed herself leader.
She wraps her handkerchief around her cigarettes and slides them back into her purse, then reaches to her breast pocket for the map and peels it open gently by the corners; with all of the use it’s gotten, its edges are now velvet soft, its creases unnervingly thin. She brushes a few pebbles from the ground and lays the map down, tracing a dirt-caked fingernail between their approximate location and the nearest town at the foot of the Southern Alps, Villach—a village just north of the Italian border. She estimates another forty hours of walking, due south, which means they could be in Italy in four days. It will be a challenge. Their lungs have acclimated to the 3,000-meter altitude, but the soles of their shoes, not intended for such frequent, rugged use, have begun to disintegrate. They’ll need to be exceptionally cautious, especially in their descent. Halina considers breaking up the trip to give their legs a rest. The day before, Sol had stumbled on a root along the path and nearly rolled his ankle. They are all exhausted to the bone. Twelve hours of hiking each day is a lot to ask. But they are also low on provisions, with only four to five days worth of bread and water left in their supply at most. So they’ll press on, Halina decides. Best just to get to Italian soil. The others would surely agree.
A white-tailed eagle circles overhead and Halina marvels at its massive wingspan, then eyes the provisions pack she’d hung from a nearby branch, checking to be sure she’d cinched it tightly shut. Close your eyes, she tells herself. Slipping the map back into her shirt pocket, she laces her fingers together and leans back to rest her head in her palms. Her body is whipped from the day’s exertion, but she is too wound up to sleep. Her thoughts, like the incessant drum of the resident woodpecker, come and go in triple time. What if she picks the wrong route down the mountain? They could get lost, run out of food, and never make it to Italy. What if they make it to Italy and are turned back by the authorities? It was only a month ago that the country was occupied by Nazis. What if something happens to Adam in ?ód?? It will be weeks—more, possibly—before she can write to him with a return address.
Halina stares up at the darkening sky. It’s not just the what-if scenarios that are keeping her awake. There is also a part of her that’s too excited to sleep. She’s just days from reuniting with her oldest brother! She imagines what it’ll feel like to see Genek for the first time in so many years. To hear his laugh. To kiss his dimpled cheeks. To sit down together, as a family, and figure out a plan, where to go next. The idea of setting their minds to a future beyond the war is thrilling, intoxicating—it makes Halina’s heart race, just thinking about it. Maybe Bella is right—maybe her relatives could sponsor the whole Kurc family, and they could move to the States. Or maybe they’ll head north, to the United Kingdom, or south, to Palestine, or across the planet, to Australia. Their decision, of course, will depend on which country will be willing to open its doors.
Quit thinking and sleep, Halina tells herself. As she rolls to her side, she folds an arm into a pillow, resting her head on her elbow, and brings a hand to her low belly. She’s two weeks late now. She tries to do the math, to count the days since she and Adam saw one another, but it’s nearly impossible. She’s spent so many years thinking ahead that her brain has forgotten how to look back in time. The days before they left ?ód? are fuzzy. Could she be? Perhaps. It’s possible. But also possible that she’s just late. It’s happened before. She didn’t bleed once during the four months she was imprisoned in Kraków. Too much stress. Too little food. You never know, Halina allows herself, smiling. Anything is possible. For now, just get the family safely to Italy. Focus on the task at hand. On the next four days. At the moment, she decides, willing her mind to rest, that’s all that matters.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
The Kurc Family
Adriatic Coast of Italy ~ July 1945
Felicia sleeps curled into the fetal position on the seat next to Mila’s, her cheek propped on her mother’s thigh. Mila, too nervous to close her eyes, rests a hand on Felicia’s shoulder and presses her forehead to the window, taking in the azure of the Adriatic as the train speeds south along the heel of Italy’s boot toward Bari. She rehearses for the thousandth time what she will say to her husband when she sees him. It should be obvious—I’ve missed you. I love you. So much has happened . . . where do I begin? But even in her mind, the words feel forced.
Nechuma had told her to be patient. To try not to worry so much. But Mila can’t help herself. She wonders if Selim will be the same man she knew before the war, tries to imagine falling back into the rhythm of husband and wife—Selim playing the role once again of patriarch, money earner, keeper of their fate. Could she do that? Could she learn to take a backseat, to depend on him again? It’s been just her and Felicia for so long, she’s not sure she’s ready yet to let someone else take the reins. Even if that someone is Felicia’s father.