“Maybe,” Lizzie said, with a half laugh. “I don’t know that at all.”
“But you do,” Rose said, looking at her with steadiness, and she was thinking of Thomas as she said it, trying to channel his generosity. He could calm like no one else she knew. “I know you do.”
Lizzie rubbed her eyes with her fists, almost childlike, and then she exhaled sharply. “Okay, then,” she said. “If you say so.”
“I do,” Rose said, remembering: coffee. She went into the kitchen, reached for the delicate green teacups Thomas had loved, and poured. Back in the living room, she handed Lizzie a cup and asked: “Do you know if you’re having a boy or girl?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s too early.”
“No, it’s not. I’ve decided not to find out,” Lizzie said shyly. “I would have thought I’d want to know, but I decided—so much of this was planned, and you can’t know everything.”
Rose’s hand felt shaky, and she worked to steady her cup on the table. “That’s right,” she said. She nearly whispered it. “You cannot.” Just like that, she was sitting by the Embankment with Thomas when they first met, the meager lunches they had on those overcast spring days when the oyster-colored sky and the water of the Thames seemed to be one and the same. She wasn’t dead and she mattered to someone and these plain facts fueled a giddy promise. The possibility alone had been enough.
Rose wished she could tell Thomas what happened on that train. I wanted to jump too, she would say. I wanted my parents to pull me out of the train.
But you didn’t. And they didn’t, Thomas would tell her. And I for one am so very glad.
“You know,” Lizzie said. “I live here now, in Los Angeles. I moved back.”
“No, I did not know that.” It came out sharply but that wasn’t how Rose meant it. “How nice,” she added, more softly.
“Maybe I can come over every once in a while,” Lizzie said. “Bring the baby when the time comes.”
“I would like that. But you should know that I know nothing about babies.”
“That makes two of us.” Lizzie offered her a small cracked smile.
And perhaps it was just the haze of the afternoon light filtering through the window, but the contour of Lizzie’s stomach suddenly seemed more pronounced. Rose tried not to stare. She remembered that feeling. She thought of Mutti, the impossible choice she and Papi had to make, and she wished more than anything that she could have told her she understood.
“These teacups are beautiful,” Lizzie observed. “Didn’t you tell me they were from Thomas’s family?”
“No, he bought them here,” Rose said, sipping the coffee that was good and hot. “Not long after we moved. It’s a funny little story, actually.”
“I want to hear it,” Lizzie said.
And Rose began.
Author’s Note
The Lithuanian-born Chaim Soutine moved to Paris in 1913, where he indeed became friends with Modigliani, and struggled to eke out a living as a painter. In 1923, Dr. Albert C. Barnes arrived in Europe on an art-buying spree. He saw a painting of Soutine’s in a Montparnasse gallery—a portrait of a young pastry chef—and fell in love. He snapped up dozens of works by Soutine, giving the artist much-needed funds and igniting his career.
In the 1920s, Soutine painted numerous portraits of people who often went unnoticed—waiters, cooks, and hotel employees—including several bellhops. The portrait described in The Fortunate Ones is an amalgam of Soutine’s bellhops, but the owners depicted in the novel are purely fictional.
I first came upon Soutine’s work years ago in a wonderful exhibit at the Jewish Museum, and I’m grateful to its curators, Norman Kleeblatt and Kenneth Silver, as well as to Maurice Tuchman and Esti Dunow for their extensive Soutine scholarship.
While this is a work of fiction, a number of books served as key resources and inspiration, including: Austerity Britain, by David Kynaston; London 1945, by Maureen Waller; London War Notes, by Mollie Panter-Downes; War Factory, by Inez Holden; The Tiger in the Attic, by Edith Milton; The Rape of Europa, by Lynn Nicholas. Lore Segal’s clear-eyed Other People’s Houses is both a terrific novel and an invaluable testament. I spent fruitful hours at the Center for Jewish History, and the memoirs and oral histories contained in its archives were indispensable.
Mark Jonathan Harris and Deborah Oppenheimer’s vivid documentary, Into the Arms of Strangers, and its accompanying volume, opened my eyes to the kindertransport experience and was a crucial reference. I’d like to offer a special thank you to Lory Cahn; her memory of being pulled through the window and off the train has haunted me for years, and I’m grateful to her for sharing it, as I am to all those who told their stories.
Acknowledgments
This book was many years in the making, and many people were instrumental along the way. Thank you to Al Filreis, Deborah Treisman, and Sarah Burnes for early encouragement. I’m especially grateful to Helen Schulman, who cheered me on from the start.
Thank you to Merrill Feitell, Halle Eaton, Jennifer Cody Epstein, Lizzie Simon, and Sarah Saffian, all of whom read early versions and were full of good advice and unstinting support. I owe an incalculable debt of gratitude to the talented and ever-inspiring Joanna Hershon, who read countless drafts and offered astute suggestions at every turn. Her faith, friendship, and wisdom kept me going; this book would simply not exist without her.
For ideas, advice, and support of all kinds, I’m grateful to David Boyer, Sam Zalutsky, Ed Boland, Sara Pekow, Karen Schwartz, Emily Nussbaum, Hana Schank, Lewis Kruger, Dorian Karchmar, Rebecca Gradinger, Yona McDonough, Cathy Halley, Cassie Mayer, and Ruth and Enrique Gutman. To the Millay Colony of the Arts, where I took the first steps in writing the novel, thank you. I’m lucky to have a coterie of literary-minded cousins, and I’m grateful to Sara Mark, Kate Axelrod, and Sam Axelrod for their suggestions and encouragement, and to Marian Thurm for leading the way. An enormous thank you to Jen Albano, who suggested the title.
I’m deeply indebted to my stellar agent, Lisa Grubka, for her enthusiasm, wise counsel, and unwavering commitment. Kate Nintzel shaped this book and had faith in its potential; I am hugely appreciative of her vision and sharp editorial eye.
To my family, I owe more than I can ever say: my excellent brothers, Eric Umansky and David Umansky; my wonderful parents, Michael Umansky and Sherry Weinman, and Gloria and Allan Spivak, all of whom believed in me from the beginning and unfailingly supported me throughout. I wish more than anything that my mother was here to read these words.
Lastly, especially, to my husband, David Gutman, who encouraged me throughout the long writing of this book, and whose intelligence, humor, and keen sense of character were a boon to this narrative, but more important, to my life. I am forever grateful for his love and partnership. He and our daughters, Lena and Talia, are my greatest pieces of luck and true fortune.