flour, sugar, canned meats, used clothing, new wool, tin appliances, metal pans, medical bandages, syringes, pills, and serums. From Bremen a first wave of refugees had already sailed for Australia.
Australia! Pavel had said. These people, no patience! We, my friend—he squeezed Fela’s arm—we will wait for America.
She did not answer. The Americans did not give visas. But Pavel was convinced. Americans have know-how, he would say. They respect it in others.
But she saw differently. In the Bremen zone the young American soldiers walked with German women, the widows or their daughters, desperate for a bite to eat from a man with power. On a corner near the piers she saw a redhead in a green uniform laughing and loud, poking at a plump German girl who gave a forced laugh herself. The Americans looked cold and large to her. They called and they joked, the young boys lumbering and wide, with open faces that in a moment might turn on the small fearful people who crossed their path.
She looked carefully as she stepped into the street. A man and a woman were bicycling along the curb, coming toward them, wobbling on the cobblestones. A flash of black hair waved out from beneath the woman’s gray scarf. The man rode a little ahead of her, turning his head to the right and the left, vigilant. Fela stared at the man’s face as it came closer, the pointed chin and broad cheekbones, and felt her breath pull down into her abdomen and her heart knock inside her as she stared, blinked, squinted, to make sure she saw what she saw. It was Moshe, it was her love, on a bicycle alongside another woman, and his face stared back at her with a look of shock and something else—joy? an emotion she could not name in that moment—he leapt off his bicycle, letting it clatter to the street, his mouth opened, and she felt her arms move to her sides, her body small and terrified as he cried:
Pavel!
Already Pavel had stopped, his hand covering his mouth, the other outstretched as his friend came to grab it and embrace him. Atlast Pavel murmured, Fishl, Fishl. I thought—I had heard such things from there—I thought never—
Fela stood still, her hands cold, blood rushing back to her face. She breathed in and out, looking at the two men. And now she saw—the sloped eyes of Pavel’s friend were brown, not green, his compact body was broader, his hips less narrow. How could she have thought? The men were embracing and pulling away, looking at each other’s faces, embracing again.
So—are you not to speak to your wives anymore? It was the woman speaking. She had leaned her own bicycle against a brick wall, then picked up Fishl’s and nestled it against hers.
My wife—said Fishl—Dincja—Pavel—
Pavel stepped back, gave a grave smile. And this is Fela.
She stretched out her hand to the woman’s.
Fela was in Russia, Pavel continued. Siberia, then—
Fela interrupted. Siberia.
The other three began speaking at once. Towns, camps, post-liberation hospitals. Pavel stopped for a moment at the name of one camp. My sister, he said to Dincja. I heard she had gone there after we lost contact—Hinda—Hinda Mandl.
I knew a Hinda, said Dincja. Small, with brown eyes, not so large as yours, yes? Broad forehead. We were in the same barracks there.
Fela watched Pavel’s hand cover his mouth again.
They went east, most of the women there. Sent east after—I saw a friend from there a month ago—my friend was liberated in Landsberg by the Americans. You should write to her.
God in heaven, whispered Pavel. God in heaven.
They stood silent for a moment. Then Fishl said, How happy I am to see you, my friend. We thought of going to Australia. But now we are on the list for America—
You got on the list?
I got on the list. Fishl threw a look at his wife. Dincja has an uncle in New York—it is the only way, my friend, everything else is closed.
New York, repeated Pavel. There was an uncle.
She has an uncle, nodded Fishl. And I had stones
Australia! Pavel had said. These people, no patience! We, my friend—he squeezed Fela’s arm—we will wait for America.
She did not answer. The Americans did not give visas. But Pavel was convinced. Americans have know-how, he would say. They respect it in others.
But she saw differently. In the Bremen zone the young American soldiers walked with German women, the widows or their daughters, desperate for a bite to eat from a man with power. On a corner near the piers she saw a redhead in a green uniform laughing and loud, poking at a plump German girl who gave a forced laugh herself. The Americans looked cold and large to her. They called and they joked, the young boys lumbering and wide, with open faces that in a moment might turn on the small fearful people who crossed their path.
She looked carefully as she stepped into the street. A man and a woman were bicycling along the curb, coming toward them, wobbling on the cobblestones. A flash of black hair waved out from beneath the woman’s gray scarf. The man rode a little ahead of her, turning his head to the right and the left, vigilant. Fela stared at the man’s face as it came closer, the pointed chin and broad cheekbones, and felt her breath pull down into her abdomen and her heart knock inside her as she stared, blinked, squinted, to make sure she saw what she saw. It was Moshe, it was her love, on a bicycle alongside another woman, and his face stared back at her with a look of shock and something else—joy? an emotion she could not name in that moment—he leapt off his bicycle, letting it clatter to the street, his mouth opened, and she felt her arms move to her sides, her body small and terrified as he cried:
Pavel!
Already Pavel had stopped, his hand covering his mouth, the other outstretched as his friend came to grab it and embrace him. Atlast Pavel murmured, Fishl, Fishl. I thought—I had heard such things from there—I thought never—
Fela stood still, her hands cold, blood rushing back to her face. She breathed in and out, looking at the two men. And now she saw—the sloped eyes of Pavel’s friend were brown, not green, his compact body was broader, his hips less narrow. How could she have thought? The men were embracing and pulling away, looking at each other’s faces, embracing again.
So—are you not to speak to your wives anymore? It was the woman speaking. She had leaned her own bicycle against a brick wall, then picked up Fishl’s and nestled it against hers.
My wife—said Fishl—Dincja—Pavel—
Pavel stepped back, gave a grave smile. And this is Fela.
She stretched out her hand to the woman’s.
Fela was in Russia, Pavel continued. Siberia, then—
Fela interrupted. Siberia.
The other three began speaking at once. Towns, camps, post-liberation hospitals. Pavel stopped for a moment at the name of one camp. My sister, he said to Dincja. I heard she had gone there after we lost contact—Hinda—Hinda Mandl.
I knew a Hinda, said Dincja. Small, with brown eyes, not so large as yours, yes? Broad forehead. We were in the same barracks there.
Fela watched Pavel’s hand cover his mouth again.
They went east, most of the women there. Sent east after—I saw a friend from there a month ago—my friend was liberated in Landsberg by the Americans. You should write to her.
God in heaven, whispered Pavel. God in heaven.
They stood silent for a moment. Then Fishl said, How happy I am to see you, my friend. We thought of going to Australia. But now we are on the list for America—
You got on the list?
I got on the list. Fishl threw a look at his wife. Dincja has an uncle in New York—it is the only way, my friend, everything else is closed.
New York, repeated Pavel. There was an uncle.
She has an uncle, nodded Fishl. And I had stones
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