We Were the Lucky Ones: A Novel by Georgia Hunter

Author:Georgia Hunter
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Jewish, General, Cultural Heritage, Historical, Fiction
Publisher: Penguin
Published: 2017-02-14T03:44:42+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTY

Mila and Felicia

Outside Radom, German-Occupied Poland ~ March 1942

The pile of earth beside what Mila knows will be her grave has grown to half a meter high. “Deeper,” a Ukrainian shouts as he struts by, making his rounds.

Mila’s palms are caked now with blood, her entire torso drenched with sweat, despite the March cold. She takes off her sweater, drapes it over Felicia’s shoulders, and wraps her scarf tightly around her right hand, the more painful of the two. Pressing the sole of her shoe to the head of her shovel, she ignores the sting and glances again toward the train tracks to survey the scene.

The captain stands with his arms folded over his chest at the front of the train. A few cars down, a dozen Ukrainians appear bored as they fiddle with their caps, twirling them around their fingers, their rifles slung to their backs. Some kick the dirt. Others converse, their shoulders rocking at a remark one of the others has made. Barbarians. Two more Jews have joined Dr. Frydman—apparently they too have doled out special favors and have been spared. Clamping her jaw shut, Mila lifts another mound of dirt from the hole at her feet, pours it atop her pile.

“Look,” someone behind her whispers. A young blonde woman has dropped her shovel. She struts quickly toward the tracks, toward the German, her shoulders pinned back, her black overcoat cinched tightly to her waist, its tails billowing behind her. Mila’s heart skips as she is reminded of her sister Halina, the only other woman she knows with that kind of bravado. As others begin to whisper and point, one of the Ukrainians beside the train raises his rifle, aims it; the others follow suit. The young fugitive raises her palms. “Don’t shoot!” she cries in Russian, picking up her pace to a trot as she approaches the men. The Ukrainians cock their weapons and Mila holds her breath. Felicia looks, too. The gunmen glance to the German, awaiting approval, but the captain tilts his chin and fixes his gaze on the petite, fearless Jew approaching. He shakes his head and says something Mila can’t decipher, and the Ukrainians slowly lower their arms.

Mila catches a glimpse of the young woman’s profile when she reaches the tracks. She’s pretty, with fine features and skin the color of porcelain. Even from afar, it’s easy to see that her hair is the kind of strawberry blonde that can only be real. Peroxided hair, which was common now in the ghetto—anything to look less Jewish—was easy to spot. Mila watches as the woman gestures casually with one hand, the other resting on her hip, and says something that makes the German laugh. Mila blinks. She’s won him over. Just like that. What did she offer? Sex? Money? Mila roils with a mix of disgust with the captain and jealousy of the beautiful, unflinching blonde.

A perimeter guard shouts, and the Jews go silently back to their digging. Mila tries to imagine herself putting on a bold, provocative face and strutting across the meadow.

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