We Were the Lucky Ones

Addy grins sheepishly. “That’s the plan.” Addy had decided over the summer that he couldn’t wait any longer to ask Caroline to be his wife. They were married in July, with Sebastian and Caroline’s friend Ginna by their sides. Addy’s smile fades as he imagines what it will feel like for Caroline to return to the States without her parents to welcome her. Her father, she’d told him, had passed before the war. Her mother had died not long after Caroline moved to Brazil. Which is worse? Addy wonders—losing your parents without saying good-bye, or losing touch with your parents without any indication if—when—you’ll see them next? He digests the quandary as he walks. Caroline, at least, has answers. He doesn’t. What if he never does? What if he’s left, for the rest of his life, wondering what happened to his family? Or worse—what could have happened, had he stayed in France and found a way to return to Poland.

Addy’s memory jogs to the day he last saw his mother, at the Radom train station. It was in 1938. Nearly a decade ago. He was twenty-five. He’d been home for Rosh Hashanah, and she’d accompanied him to the station on the morning he left. Reaching a hand into his pocket, he runs his fingers over the handkerchief she’d given him on that visit, remembering how she had held him close as they awaited his train, her elbow tucked into his; how she’d told him to be safe, and kissed his cheeks, hugged him tight as she’d said good-bye, then waved her own handkerchief overhead as the train departed—waved and waved until she was just a speck on the platform, a tiny silhouette, unwilling to leave until the train was out of sight.

“Let’s sit at Porc?o,” Sebastian suggests, and Addy blinks as he’s brought back to the present. He nods.

It isn’t yet five and the plastic tables scattered outside Porc?o are already full of Brazilians chatting and having a smoke over plates of flash-fried cod croquettes and bottles of Brahma Chopp. Addy glances at a table of three attractive couples. The women, gathered at one end, appear engrossed in riveting conversation; they talk quickly, their eyebrows bouncing and dipping to the rhythm of their banter, while opposite them, their dark-haired counterparts lean back in their chairs, taking in the scenery, their jaws slack, cigarettes dangling from between their first two fingers. One of the men appears so relaxed Addy wonders if he might fall asleep and topple over.

Addy and Sebastian motion to a server, who indicates with fingers spread wide that it would be another five minutes for a table outside. As they wait, they talk about their plans for the weekend. Sebastian is leaving that evening to visit a friend in S?o Paulo. Addy’s only plan is to spend time with Caroline. He checks his watch—it’s nearly five. She’ll be home from the embassy soon. Addy is about to ask Sebastian of his impression of S?o Paulo—he’s never been—when he feels a tap on his shoulder and turns. The young man beside him looks to be in his midtwenties, clean-cut with pale green eyes that remind him immediately of his sister Halina’s.

“Excuse me, sir?” the stranger offers.

Addy glances at Sebastian and smiles. “A Pole! How about that!”

The young man looks embarrassed. “I’m sorry to bother you. I couldn’t help but overhear the two of you speaking Polish, and I have to ask . . .” He looks first to Addy and then to Sebastian. “Do either of you by chance know of a gentleman called Addy Kurc?”

Addy tilts his head back and emits a Ha! that sounds more like a yell than a laugh, startling the people sitting at the tables closest to them. The young man glances at his feet.

“I know, unlikely,” he says, shaking his head. “But there aren’t so many Poles in Rio, and I’ve been having trouble tracking down this Mister Kurc, is all. Seems the address we have on file is an old one.”

Addy had moved into a new apartment on Carvalho Mendonca three weeks earlier. He holds out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

The young man blinks. “You—you are Addy?”

“What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into?” Sebastian asks with mock concern.

“I’m not sure,” Addy quips, his hazel eyes sparkling. He glances at Sebastian, winks, and then turns his attention back to the young Pole before them. “You tell me.”

“Oh, there’s no trouble at all, sir,” the young man says, still pumping Addy’s hand. “I work for the Polish consulate. We’ve received a telegram for you.”

Addy buckles at the word “telegram.” The young man grips his hand tightly to keep him from falling. “A telegram from whom?” Addy is suddenly serious. His eyes scour the stranger’s face, as if straining to solve a puzzle.

The young Pole explains that he can’t divulge any information until Addy comes to the embassy, which is a half hour walk from Leme. “The office will close in ten minutes,” he adds. “Best to come on . . .” But before he can say “Monday,” Addy is gone.

“Thank you!” Addy cries over his shoulder as he runs. “Sebastian, I owe you a beer!” he yells.

“Go!” Sebastian calls, although Addy is already too far gone to hear him, the top of his head dipping and weaving as he darts between the tanned bodies on the promenade moving at a much more leisurely pace than his.

When Addy arrives at the embassy he is sweat soaked, down to his white cotton undershirt. It’s ten minutes past five. The door to the building is locked. He raps his knuckles against the wood until someone finally answers. “Please!” he begs, panting, when he’s told the embassy is closed. “I’ve received a telegram. It’s very important.”

The embassy worker looks at his watch. “I’m sorry, sir, but—” he begins, but Addy interrupts.

“Please,” he stammers. “I’ll do anything.”

It’s obvious to both men that “the embassy is closed” isn’t an answer Addy will settle for. The gentleman at the door finally nods, loosening his tie. “Fine.” He sighs, indicating for Addy to follow him.

They stop at a small office with a plaque beside it reading M. SANTOS.

“You are Santos?” Addy asks.

The gentleman shakes his head as Addy follows him into the office. “I’m Roberto. Santos is in charge of incoming telegrams. He keeps the ones he hasn’t filed here.” Roberto walks around the desk. “Have a seat,” he says, gesturing to a chair as he retrieves his glasses from a shirt pocket, slides them on, and peers down at a six-inch stack of what appears to be freshly inked paper.

Addy is too nervous to sit. “I’m Addy,” he says. “Addy Kurc.”

“Spell your name for me,” Roberto says. “Surname first.” He licks his thumb, pushes his glasses up his nose.

Addy spells his name and then paces, biting his tongue. It’s all he can do to keep quiet. Finally, Roberto pauses, pulls a paper from the stack.

“‘Addy Kurc,’” he reads, and then looks up. “This is you?”

“Yes! Yes!” Addy reaches for his wallet.

“No ID,” Roberto says, waving his hand. “I believe you are who you say you are.” He glances at the telegram and then passes it over the desk to Addy. “Looks like it came in two weeks ago, from the Red Cross.”

Addy takes the paper and braces himself. Bad news would come from the newspaper, from the lists of the dead, but a telegram . . . He tells himself that a telegram can’t be bad news. Gripping the thin paper with both hands, he holds it just under his nose, and reads.

DEAR BROTHER—OVERJOYED TO FIND YOU ON RED CROSS LIST

I AM WITH SISTERS AND PARENTS IN ITALY—JAKOB WAITING FOR VISA TO U.S. SEND NEWS—LOVE GENEK

Addy devours the words on the page. The letters Caroline had written to the Red Cross offices around the world—nearly two years ago—one of them somehow must have found his brother. He shakes his head, blinks, and suddenly it’s as if he is floating in a realm that doesn’t belong to his body. From somewhere just shy of the embassy ceiling, he stares down at the room, at Roberto, at himself, still holding the telegram, at the tiny black letters strewn across the paper. It is only by the sound of his own laughter that he is brought back to earth.

“Do me a favor, sir,” Addy says, handing the telegram back over the desk to Roberto. “Would you read this to me? I want to be sure I’m not dreaming.”

As Roberto reads the message aloud, Addy’s laughter fades and his head grows light. He props himself on the desk with one hand, cups the other over his mouth.

“Are you okay?” Roberto suddenly looks worried.

“They’re alive,” Addy whispers into his fingers. The words lodge in his heart and he snaps upright, bringing his palms to his temples. “They are alive. May I—may I see that again?”

“It’s yours,” Roberto says, returning the telegram to Addy’s hands. Addy holds the paper to his chest for a moment and closes his eyes. When he looks up, tears spill from the corners of his eyes, gathering up beads of sweat as they tumble down his cheeks. “Thank you!” he says. “Thank you!”



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