Those Who Are Saved Read online

  “Vera,” he had said, sipping a glass of sherry, “you can’t worry so much. Otherwise, you’ll go mad.”

  Those words circled in her head as she entered the pier: Otherwise you’ll go mad. She knew he was right, as he was right not to seek out a sign in everything; that also drove people mad. Their new neighbors Conrad and Pauline Leland had come to the door with a bouquet of yellow chrysanthemums as a welcome gift. He was a physicist at Caltech. She had grown up in India and played the sitar, carrying a Bohemian air about her.

  The minute they left, Vera violently threw the flowers into the bin, much to Max’s amusement. Of course, he understood. In France, chrysanthemums were reserved for funerals, and in Russia, one only gave yellow flowers to the sick.

  Vera paused before the glassed-in merry-go-round, the aquamarine and violet horses flaunting manes of flaming pink and silvery white. A boy on a black pony banged his harmonica against the brass pole. When she glanced down to retrieve a lighter from her purse, she spotted a little white sock on the parquet floor, and wondered where the other one was. In the wrong moment, a child’s lost sock would cause a sinking heaviness in her stomach. But today, she felt a cool indifference. Perhaps the careless mother who had lost the sock was now scolding her child, pointing to his raw pink foot, warning that the child would fall ill. Or perhaps the child had purposefully abandoned it, knowing this would annoy his mother. These unsentimental thoughts comforted her, and she inhaled the cigarette smoke, holding it in her throat for a moment, relishing the burning sensation.

  She strolled past news vendors, ice cream stalls, and stands for renting bait and fishing rods. Young runaways hawked their wares on a tartan blanket: chewing gum, metallic-gray abalone shells, coral beads, bits of misshapen sea glass. She felt them watching her, with their hooded eyes and sunburnt faces, as she made her way up the length of the pier. What must they think of me? she thought. A lonely woman with leather gloves the color of butter. A woman who comes here for the garish attractions, for the Ferris wheel and cotton candy, sickeningly pink.

  An idle woman who has no work, no necessity in life, seemingly childless.

  She envied Max.

  Today, he had left the house in a hurry, rushing off to the appointments that Michel had arranged for him at the studios. One at Paramount, the other at MGM, which Max favored, because MGM made big splashy musicals, and they had an enormous music department teeming with renowned musicians, many of whom were from Europe. She vaguely wondered about the interviews, and if he would return home dejected, fretting that he was a failure like Petrovitch, or roaring with optimism, the promise of a contract within reach. Either way, she already saw herself sitting by the fire while he recounted each and every detail, from the interviewer’s ridiculous bow tie to how many films he would be expected to score over the course of a year. During these monologues, she followed along just enough to inject a comment at the right moment while her mind swung, like a pendulum, from deep worries to minute domestic concerns: Should they buy a new icebox or repair the old one? They could buy a new one, but only if Max secured a contract at a studio, as everyone said he would. If not, they certainly couldn’t afford a new icebox. They could go to the Jewish Free Loan Association, or the Jewish Social Service Bureau, which gave émigrés money to start businesses, such as a shoe store or a grocery, but such an endeavor felt unimaginable to Vera.

  And how long, Vera wondered, glancing up at the slowly rotating Ferris wheel at the edge of the pier, would she have to wait for Agnes’s next letter?

  Chapter 11

  LUCIE

  December 1940, Oradour-sur-Glane, France

  When she woke up, her breath stood in the air, as white as smoke, the tip of her nose chilled, her cheeks wet with tears.

  Lucie drew the covers close, the recent nightmare still rolling through her mind: she ran in the Tuileries Garden, laughing and yelling to her mother, who chased her under a bright yellow sun. Balloons escaped into the sky, blue, red, and orange orbs floating toward wispy white clouds. She hid behind a fat hedge, tricking her mother, waiting for her to uncover this good hiding place, but then, while she was hiding, within the span of seconds, the sky darkened, and it was time to go home. She called out for her mother. She called and called and then started running back the way she’d come, the garden dark, the green benches deserted, the balloon seller gone. She knew that she was lost, and tears streamed down her face, but she kept running into the shapeless night until she woke up, her chest pounding, muffling the urge to cry out, because in this house, displays of emotion were unwelcome.

  So many times, Agnes had to shush her and then guide Lucie into another room, close the door, and explain that crying or yelling or raising one’s voice, especially over a trifle, even if Thomas had stolen her favorite ribbon or teased her about her hair, would not be tolerated. When she said this, her voice turned hard and stern, but her eyes were soft, recalling, Lucie thought, how it used to be. Before they came to this farm, and before her parents left, if she cried after getting hurt or after a bad dream and her mother was not there, then Agnes would pull her onto her lap and run her warm palm over her back, whispering, “When I was little, just like you, my sisters teased me relentlessly, but it hurt even more when people told me it was nothing, that I was making a fuss on purpose.”

  She sat up, her heart still crashing around in her chest from the dream, but also it was Christmas. Her parents might come for her, surprise her on Christmas, and Lucie willed that today was the day she would see them again. She kept still for some minutes, listening for them, and heard the sisters preparing breakfast in the kitchen, the clatter of knives and forks, the sweet earthy smell of baking bread wafting up the staircase. The other children must already be sitting around the tree, decorated with apples and candles, their shoes, left before the fireplace, filled with little presents from Père Noël.

  Lucie put on her slippers and slowly came down the stairs, clutching the banister, still hoping that maybe her parents might be standing there with outstretched arms, ready to whisk her away, and yet she knew they wouldn’t be.

  * * *

  • • •

  The living room, decorated with streamers, with the pretty fir tree in the corner, and filled with warmth and chatter, with sighs and gasps of surprise, allowed Lucie to forget the terrible dream. She felt happy when she touched the new red ribbon tucked into a discreet roll inside her boot, and when she cupped the orange in her other boot. There was even something else: she unwrapped a soft square of gold foil and out tumbled a new dress for her doll, sky blue with black shiny buttons, and she knew Agnes had made it, having spied her knitting the blue dress over the last few weeks.

  Beneath the tree, next to a few unopened presents, Lucie stared at the nativity scene. It had captivated her from the moment the sisters had brought it out weeks ago, in preparation for the holiday. She now lay on her stomach, chewing on a piece of candied fruit, and inched closer to the beautiful little figurines: Mary, draped in heavenly blue, her head bowed, bent over baby Jesus, who was arranged on a little heap of hay. Joseph, kneeling on one knee, prayed next to the shepherds, along with a few peaceful sheep. There was also an angel in the corner, golden wings outstretched, blessing the birth. Lucie reached out to touch baby Jesus, but then caught the disapproving eye of Agnes’s sister and withdrew her hand, pretending that she had never intended to touch it.

  * * *

  • • •

  Later that day, the fading light cast a purplish tint over the frosted fields. Nearly magic, the way colors changed, Lucie thought. Against the window, her warm breath left a small circle of condensation before slowly vanishing, and then she left another breath, and another, watching each disappear in the same way.

  The bedroom door opened, and from the smooth swish of her dress, Lucie knew it was Agnes.

  “Lucie,” Agnes whispered, holding an envelope in her hand. “Come.”

  Together, t
hey sat down on Lucie’s bed, the coverlet left untucked, but Agnes didn’t notice. Carefully, she slid a letter out of the envelope and immediately, Lucie knew it was from her parents.

  With one arm wrapped around Lucie’s shoulders, her other hand holding the letter out before them, Agnes read aloud: “‘We miss you terribly and think of you every day. Cold wind sweeps through the city, which is full of canary yellow taxicabs and garbage trucks and loads of glamorous lonely people, and barely any trees . . .’”

  After she finished reading, Lucie had so many questions, none of which Agnes could answer to her satisfaction. She couldn’t tell Lucie where her parents were, or when they were coming back, or why they hadn’t taken her with them. This last question caused Agnes’s face to redden, her eyes watering slightly when she explained in a shaky voice, “They knew it was safer for you here, with me. They wanted to protect you . . . You are the most precious thing to them.”

  “Is it still safe here?”

  Agnes clenched Lucie’s hand and forced a smile. “Yes. Yes, it is.” She paused. “But don’t say anything about this letter. Think of it as a secret gift, not to be shared with anyone else. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Lucie managed, her voice barely audible, “I understand.”

  * * *

  • • •

  That night, yellow taxicabs and enormous garbage trucks filled her dreams, along with glamorous women in fur coats who smoked long thin cigarettes and wore black silk gloves, until she realized that every one of these women was identical to the one before, and they all looked exactly like her mother.

  Chapter 12

  SASHA

  December 7, 1941, Los Angeles, California

  On that blindingly bright Sunday morning, the year closing in on him, Sasha was driving down Pico, his tongue burnt from drinking too-hot coffee over a late breakfast, mulling over what he’d read in the trades and listening to the football game between the Brooklyn Dodgers and the New York Giants. Sasha rooted for the Giants, who were ahead. How much longer can I do this? he wondered, aware that he’d been in town for almost three years and he was still writing one-offs for Columbia and other studios around town, churning out schlock, working on his own ideas at night, directing his own pictures still an elusive dream. Nothing had ever happened with Cyclone, which Warner Bros. had briefly expressed interest in, and then Wyler had optioned it to direct, but the six-month period had ended, and he hadn’t renewed it. Charlie kept saying that at least Sasha had a foothold, but he wanted more than a foothold, and had begun doubting his decision to even come out here, although the thought of moving back home felt worse than failure. But he’d recently written a little Western, tight and lean, about two brothers in love with the same woman. It wasn’t the kind of lighthearted commercial picture Charlie said the studios wanted, but so what? He was thinking of calling it Clementine, already envisioning how to direct it, and make it with just a little money. And if the movie was a success, he thought, then it could be a stepping-stone . . .

  He shifted gears, and a car suddenly swerved in front of him.

  The car sped ahead, and Sasha stayed on its tail, wanting to race, when he heard John Daly’s wooden voice announce, “We interrupt this program to bring you a special news bulletin. And now we take you to Honolulu: 1234. Hello, NBC. Hello, NBC. This is KGU in Honolulu, Hawaii.

  “We have witnessed this morning the distant view of a battle off of Pearl Harbor and the severe bombing of Pearl Harbor by enemy planes, undoubtedly Japanese. The city of Honolulu has also been attacked and considerable damage done. This battle has been going on for nearly three hours. It is no joke. It is a real war.”

  Sasha pulled to the side of the road, cresting over the curb and nearly hitting a palm tree. Hunched close to the radio, he gripped the steering wheel, his whole body coiled and tense. He thought of his mother in New Rochelle listening to the broadcast in her stocking feet. He thought of all the neighborhood kids in the Lower East Side obliviously playing in the snow while their parents froze in hallways and bathrooms and living rooms, staring at the peeling wallpaper, the kettle screeching to a boil, wondering how much longer this world would last.

  This past June, his mother had received a letter from her second cousin that the Germans were advancing into Riga, and that they were killing all the Jews and gypsies as they went, taking hundreds into the Rumbula forest to be lined up and shot. The lucky ones were rounded up and put into ghettos on the city outskirts, which was where her cousin was now. Leah told Sasha about this over the phone, her voice thin and soft. Sasha pictured the Rumbula forest, recalled running through its narrow grassy paths, among the silvery birches that cast long skinny shadows before him, interspersed with lambent sun. Other forgotten childhood details jolted him, as if they carried an electric charge: In winter, snapping off icicles from the overhanging eves for swordfights with the other boys in an imaginary war. Finding his mother’s engraved wooden box pushed under the armoire. He’d opened it and, knowing he shouldn’t, had lifted up his grandfather’s tallit folded over the silver kaddish wine-cup. Then, he saw the corner of the photograph stashed into the folds of the tallit: a soldier sitting under the apple trees, with one knee up and the other leg outstretched, and even though he had a gun slung across his chest, his face was soft, his eyes laughing at something that had just happened. Sasha had quickly turned over the photograph and read: September 1915. His mother’s handwriting had sent a chill up his spine, and quickly, he’d put the photograph away, not wanting to touch it, as if it might burn his fingers.

  * * *

  • • •

  All that followed after those moments alone in the car appeared oddly abstract, as if some unthinking force drove him forward, maybe the force of escape and the force of ambition: two seemingly opposite impulses he held within himself. The desire to run from something and the desire to run toward another thing—he couldn’t tell which motivated him more when he stood in line at the US Army draft office that afternoon.

  He wanted to go to Europe, to defend the place he’d been born. The Germans had already taken Latvia and the other Baltic states, and from what he gathered, the Germans under Hitler were much worse than in past history, though during the First World War, they were, according to his mother and her family, brutal and unbending, killing livestock and burning fields to the point of starving the local population. Leah said they would have gone hungry if it were not for a few kind soldiers who periodically snuck them an extra chicken, medicine for typhoid, a bushel of potatoes. She added, her eyes flashing with irony, that these helpful soldiers were Jews, German Jews but Jews nonetheless—some of them even had family from Russia, who then found themselves as both strangers and brothers to the shtetl Jews.

  During the required interview, the recruiting officer wondered aloud, “Why not the communications department? That’s what you’re already doing. And we need men who know how to operate a camera, to record what’s happening over there. How about it?”

  “Listen, I don’t wanna be taking pictures of the action from some rooftop or making little films about how great army life is.” Sasha leaned forward. “I wanna be in the thick of it, without any lens or typewriter getting in my way. You know what I mean?” This war could be the worst crime of the twentieth century, and he yearned to be on the ground, shoulder to shoulder with the other soldiers, witnessing the enemy up close, close enough to see their mouths quiver and the snow dusting their eyebrows, and to see if these Germans were fueled by manic violence or if they were just as afraid as he was. Sasha wanted to understand what kind of men they were, and what kind of man he was.

  The recruitment officer tilted back into his chair. “Okay, kid. Here’s your chance.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Back in his car and driving toward the ocean, the direction he always went when he needed to think, he glanced up at the crystalline blue, emptied of clouds. He parked on Ocean Avenue and
walked the short distance to the pier. It was another world out here in California, without winters, with nothing to brace himself against, the city not really a city but just little populated pockets sprinkled up and down the coast, and the wide boulevards that cut inland, leading to the mountains. Wherever he ended up, he would miss this place.

  He took in the sea, as though a million tiny mirrors reflected off its surface. Ocean Park Pier, with its wide vistas, the long wooden walkway barely tethered to the city, the tides ebbing and flowing beneath its planks, lured him. It seemed the only place still immune to the news of war, as army vehicles already patrolled Little Tokyo, machine guns aimed at the deserted storefronts. Soon, LA Harbor would be closely guarded by sentries, and perhaps even Ocean Park Pier, with all of its amusements and diversions, would shut down too.

  * * *

  • • •

  His forearms pressed against the railing, he stood next to a few lone fishermen who surveyed the sea. Faint tinny music floated over from the carousel, music for children, and the scent of fried dough emanated from the churro stand, setting his mouth watering.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Sasha noticed a woman at the tip of the pier, staring into the horizon, seemingly unaware of all else: the pelican skimming the water’s surface, the light laughter trailing from a couple wrapped up in a tartan blanket, the strong cigar an old fisherman smoked while angling for his line to tighten with a potential catch. The red sun began sinking into the sea.