In his former life he might have stayed. But Genek no longer has any interest in flirting. He smiles at the girl, feeling a little sorry for her. “Matter of fact, I think I’m out,” he says, setting his cards down on the table. He stubs out his Murad, leaving the butt to stick up like a crooked tooth in the crowded ashtray, and stands. “Gentlemen, ladies—it’s always a pleasure. I’ll see you. Ivona,” he adds, addressing Rafal’s wife and nodding toward his friend, “it’s on you to keep that one out of trouble.” Ivona laughs. Rafal winks again. Genek throws up a two-fingered salute and heads for the door.
The March night is unusually cold. He buries his hands in his coat pockets and sets off at a hurried clip toward Zielona Street, relishing the prospect of returning home to the woman he loves. Somehow, he’d known Herta was his girl the instant he laid eyes on her, two years ago. The weekend is still sharp in his memory. They were skiing in Zakopane, a resort town tucked amid the peaks of Poland’s Tatra Mountains. He was twenty-nine, Herta twenty-five. They’d happened to share a chairlift, and on the ten-minute ride to the summit, Genek had fallen for her. For her lips, to start, because they were full and heart-shaped, and about all he could see of her behind the cream-white wool of her hat and scarf. But there was also her German accent, which forced him to listen to her in a way that he wasn’t used to, and her smile, so uninhibited, and the way, halfway up the mountain, she’d tipped her head back, closed her eyes, and said, “Don’t you just love the smell of pine in the wintertime?” He’d laughed, thinking for a moment that she was joking before realizing she wasn’t; her sincerity was a trait he would grow to admire, along with her unabashed love of the outdoors and her propensity for finding beauty in the simplest of things. He’d followed her down the slope, trying not to think too much of the fact that she was twice the skier he would ever be, then slid up next to her in the lift line and asked her to dinner. When she hesitated, he smiled and told her that he’d already booked a horse-drawn sleigh. She laughed and, to Genek’s delight, agreed to the date. Six months later, he proposed.
Inside his apartment, Genek is glad to see a glow emanating from beneath the bedroom door. He finds Herta in bed with a favorite collection of Rilke poems propped on her knees. Herta is originally from Bielsko, a largely German-speaking town in western Poland. In conversation, she rarely uses the language she grew up with anymore, but she enjoys reading in her native tongue, poetry especially. She doesn’t appear to notice as Genek enters the room.
“That must be one engaging verse,” Genek teases.
“Oh!” Herta says, looking up. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I was worried you’d be asleep,” Genek grins. He slips out of his coat, and tosses it over the back of a chair, blowing into his hands to warm them.
Herta smiles and sets her book down on her chest, using a finger to keep her place. “You’re home far earlier than I thought you’d be. Have you lost all of our money at the table? Did they kick you out?”
Genek removes his shoes and his blazer, unbuttons his shirt cuffs. “I’m ahead, actually. It was a good night. Just a bore without you.” Against the white sheets, in her pale yellow gown with her deep-set eyes and perfect lips and chestnut hair spilling in waves over her shoulders, Herta looks like something out of a dream, and once again Genek is reminded how immensely lucky he is to have found her. He undresses down to his underwear and crawls into bed beside her. “I missed you,” he says, propping himself on an elbow and kissing her.
Herta licks her lips. “Your last drink, let me guess—Bichat.”
Genek nods, laughs. He kisses her again, his tongue finding hers.
“Love, we should be careful,” Herta whispers, pulling away.
“Aren’t we always careful?”
“It’s just—about that time.”
“Oh,” Genek says, savoring her warmth, the sweet floral residue of shampoo in her hair.
“It would be foolish to let it happen now,” Herta adds, “don’t you think?”
Hours before, over dinner, they’d talked with their friends about the threat of war, about how easily Austria and Czechoslovakia had fallen into the hands of the Reich, and of how things had begun to change in Radom. Genek had ranted about his demotion to assistant at the law firm and had threatened to move to France. “At least there,” he’d fumed, “I could use my degree.”
“I’m not so sure you’d be better off in France,” Ivona had said. “The führer isn’t just targeting German-speaking territories anymore. What if this is just the beginning? What if Poland is next?”
The table had quieted for a moment before Rafal broke the silence. “Impossible,” he claimed, with a dismissive shake of his head. “He might try, but he’ll be stopped.”
Genek had agreed. “The Polish Army would never let it happen,” he said. Genek recalls now that it was during this conversation that Herta had stood to excuse herself.
She’s right, of course. They should be careful. To bring a child into a world that has begun to feel disturbingly close to the brink of collapse would be imprudent and irresponsible. But lying so close, Genek can think of nothing but her skin, the curve of her thigh against his. Her words, like the tiny bubbles in his last flute of champagne, float from her mouth, dissolving somewhere in the back of his throat.
Genek kisses her a third time, and as he does Herta closes her eyes. She only half means it, he thinks. He reaches over her for the light, feeling her soften beneath him. The room goes dark, and he slips a hand under her gown.
“Cold!” Herta shrieks.
“Sorry,” he whispers.
“No, you’re not. Genek . . .”
“The war, the war, the war.” He kisses her cheekbone, her earlobe. “I’m tired of it already and it hasn’t even begun,” he says, marching his fingers from her ribs down to her waistline.
Herta sighs, then giggles.
“Here’s a thought,” Genek adds, his eyes widening as if he’s just had a revelation. “What if there is no war?” He shakes his head, incredulous. “We’ll have deprived ourselves for nothing. And Hitler, the little prick, will have won.” He flashes a smile.
Herta runs a finger along the hollow of his cheek. “These dimples are the death of me,” she says, shaking her head. Genek grins harder, and Herta nods. “You’re right,” she acquiesces. “It would be tragic.” Her book meets the floor with a thud as she rolls to her side to face him. “Bumsen der krieg.”
Genek can’t help but laugh. “I agree. Fuck the war,” he says, pulling the blanket up over their heads.
CHAPTER THREE
Nechuma
Radom, Poland ~ April 4, 1939—Passover
Nechuma has arranged the table with her finest china and flatware, setting each place just so, atop a white lace tablecloth. Sol sits at the head, his worn, leatherbound Haggadah in one hand, a polished silver kiddush cup in the other. He clears his throat. “Today . . .” he begins, lifting his gaze to the familiar faces around the table, “we honor what matters most—our family, and our tradition.” His eyes, normally flanked with laugh lines, are serious, his voice a sober baritone. “Today,” he continues, “we celebrate the Festival of Matzahs, the time of our liberation.” He glances down at his text. “Amen.”
“Amen,” the others echo, sipping their wine. A bottle is passed and glasses are refilled.
The room is quiet as Nechuma stands to light the candles. Making her way to the middle of the table, she strikes a match and cups a palm around it, bringing it quickly to each wick, hoping the others won’t notice the flame shivering between her fingers. When the candles are lit, she circles a hand over them three times and then shields her eyes as she recites the opening blessing. Taking her place at the end of the table opposite her husband, she folds her hands over her lap and her eyes meet Sol’s. She nods, an indication for him to begin.