The improvisers, p.17
The Star on the Grave, page 17
‘But what about the latkes?’
Judit grins. ‘We deep-fry them in oil. Latkes, doughnuts, fried food – it’s symbolic of that vat of oil all those years ago.’
The latkes come out golden-brown, crisp, perfect. They offer one to Rachel, who is impressed.
‘Like hash browns,’ she says, going in for more.
Even the head chef, who has returned to politely hurry them along, decides he will sample one and is very satisfied. He even asks if he can use some for his dinner menu that evening.
KAUNAS 1940
Days after the order not to issue any more visas, Chiune and Yukiko watch on as Lithuania is annexed into the Soviet Union. On the rare occasions he takes a break from writing visas to accompany Yukiko to the market, the streets are full with Russian soldiers. Embassies begin to close. It is only a matter of time before the Japanese embassy does the same.
In August, Russian soldiers knock on the Sugiharas’ door.
‘You are to close the consulate immediately,’ they tell him in no-nonsense Russian. The Japanese authorities issue him a directive to go straight to Berlin to await further orders.
‘But I like it here,’ one of his sons says. Chiune doesn’t know how to say to him that he won’t like it much longer.
‘We can come back when you’re older,’ Yukiko says soothingly.
And so the Sugiharas move into a cramped Kaunas hotel room. There is no room for Chiune to talk privately with Yukiko; they communicate exclusively in glances during the day, and hushed whispers when the boys sleep at night. Chiune does not discuss with Yukiko what may become of them, but it threatens to suffocate him. The stark reality is that Japan is an ally of Germany. Germany is exterminating Jews. Chiune is allowing Jewish refugees to escape to safety and enter Japan. He can’t entertain the consequences and ramifications of this act. It is done. He has no regrets. But the fate of his family is in his hands, and he cannot think about it for long.
The refugees follow the Sugiharas to their new abode. A long line that never seems to shorten runs around the block. He glances out the window at them every now and then. Some stand, shuffling forward painfully slowly to advance ever closer to freedom; others sit in the dirty gutter awaiting their turn. Mothers try to contain restless toddlers while the elderly are comforted and supported. Each of them enters his tiny makeshift office and leaves one step closer to escape.
It’s been eerily quiet outside ever since the annexation. Russian guards patrol constantly, even though the majority of locals remain indoors.
‘So long as they do not interfere,’ one of the Mir Yeshiva members says. Chiune doesn’t know what he would do without these volunteers, the members of the Jewish learning centre who assist him with the visa processing. They help him carve stamps with the Japanese characters required for the visas, so that others can take over when his fingers become too cramped and his back too sore.
Even with others to help, he refuses to succumb to fatigue for long. Every day that passes is a day closer to him being officially recalled to Berlin. Every break he takes to close his eyes and rest his heavy head on the desk, or ease the cramping in his now crippled hand, is one less soul to be saved from the hell that is unfolding. On the one day he takes a walk outside to feel the sun on his face, he sees the brutal butchering of a group of Jews in plain sight of onlookers.
Manchuria, all over again.
He cannot stop. He’s barely paused in days, writing visas almost in a trance, night and day. At several points, he glances at his watch and calculates he has not stopped writing for almost twenty hours. Between him and his helpers, they are producing a month’s worth of visas in a day.
At one point, he becomes feverish. Droplets of sweat run from his brow and occasionally fall onto the freshly formed letters, splattering the words and smudging the ink. Yukiko enters from time to time to mop his brow with a cool, damp cloth.
‘You need to sleep, recover,’ she begs.
‘I can’t,’ he says simply. She looks at him, through him. He thinks of the day he met her, not even five years ago, at his friend’s picnic. She was so beautiful. She paid such solemn attention to his thoughts of Japan’s role in Manchuria. She never said a single dismissive thing about it. They married two weeks later. He has never regretted it.
Has she? Look at the risk he is putting them under. Yet she never mentions it.
‘I understand,’ she says eventually, and he closes his dry eyes as she places her cool, gentle hand on the crown of his head.
The day draws closer, ever closer. Chiune does not stop. He issues visas, while the refugees begin the daunting task of trying to secure the outlandish price that has been applied to tickets for Jews travelling on the Trans-Siberian Railway. One hundred and fifty dollars in US gold coins that they need to wrangle on the black market. Many cannot afford this exorbitant amount, and Jewish agencies from around the world begin to step in with funds.
Chiune does not think his hand will ever recover, and still, he does not stop. Even as he stands on the station platform, waiting for the train to take him to Berlin, he writes visas to the refugees still hoping for freedom.
And when he sees, through the fog and steam, those he helped, calling out in thanks as his train departs, and the other desperate faces of those he could not, he wonders.
Was it enough?
Chapter 14
They travel to meet Sugihara at a warm bar in the middle of Kobe. The lively Jewish group stands out among the crowds of Japanese businessmen, who sip their sake quietly in corners, fascinated by the unusual new arrivals. There are so many businessmen everywhere. What do they do all day? Rachel wonders. Do they ever work? Today, however, the suits are outnumbered.
Japanese music floats through the air, winding between shelves and shelves of alcoholic beverages. The group orders a variety of drinks from a confused bartender, who’s not entirely adept at English. They point to the bottles lined up, choose, change their minds, order something else. This continues until Felka orders in Japanese for them all, allowing the poor bartender to get on with it.
‘I’m glad you, at least, kept your Japanese, Felka,’ Judit says.
The beginning of the affair is sombre. But it’s a reunion that stands testament to the failure of Nazism, to Sugihara’s bravery.
‘How lucky we are to be here,’ Felka toasts. Rachel watches as she singlehandedly lifts the mood of the room, making bawdy jokes and telling darkly funny stories of escape. When a familiar jazz number from the late 50s comes on, Felka claps, sings, pulls up reluctant friends to dance. Rachel doesn’t wait for her grandmother’s invitation this time; she knows this is an opportunity she may not have many more of.
When Felka, tired and sweaty, goes to the bathroom, Rachel picks the others’ brains.
‘Tell me about Poland,’ she says. ‘Before the war.’
Ette raises her brows. ‘Your grandmother hasn’t spoken of it? What is to tell – a cosmopolitan society. Culture. Ballet. Opera. Intellectuals discussing politics in cafes, expensive restaurants.’
Anna, sitting near Rachel, interjects. ‘And elegance. Beautiful boutiques with the finest clothing and shoes from all over Europe. And hairstylists.’ She takes Rachel’s locks and gathers them up into a ponytail and twists it into a bun. The ladies laugh and Rachel smiles.
Ette continues, ‘And cakes: rugelach, babkas, pastries, piroshki!’
Felka comes back to find them weaving tales of Poland’s beauty and grace. Before she can add her own, Joshua Nishri arrives; attention turns to him as he takes a seat.
‘It’s lovely to see you again,’ says Felka. ‘Such a great thing you have done.’
Yitzhak is all business, ‘So Sugihara is in Kobe? We will see him here tonight, yes?’
Joshua shakes his head. ‘Friends, I’m so sorry.’
‘He isn’t coming?’ Ida says, crestfallen.
‘We came all this way.’ Adinah sighs. Rachel takes Felka’s hand.
‘I so appreciate the time you have taken away from your lives to make this momentous journey,’ Joshua says. ‘But Sugihara is a busy man, and divides his time between Japan and the USSR. His work is unpredictable. He has just been called back to Moscow on unavoidable, urgent business.’
Anna’s emotions spill over. ‘You mean we came all this way, and we won’t see him?’
One of the other group members, Benjamin, says, ‘That’s crazy. We will wait. He will be back soon, no?’
Joshua’s expression says otherwise. ‘He will not be back for a year or so. He sends his deepest regrets and said he tried his hardest to delay his return. He didn’t elaborate, but I get the impression you do not argue with the Russians.’
Felka matter-of-factly says, ‘So, Mohammed can’t come to the mountain? Then the mountain will go to Mohammed.’
Roman, one of Benjamin’s friends, pipes up. ‘Felutkah! Are you suggesting we go to the USSR?’
Felka has a glint in her eye. ‘I am indeed. What is wrong with a little adventure?’
Roman doesn’t buy into her blind enthusiasm. ‘We can’t go to Moscow! I have a business to run. A visa can take weeks to be approved by the Communists. Especially for Americans. Maybe for Australians, they are more lax. I’m as grateful as the next person, that is why I came, but I need to get back to the US.’
Yitzhak sighs. ‘We must return home soon as well. We’ll have to come back to Japan another time, when we know it is a certainty. We were all so looking forward to this. Please make another time soon, Joshua.’
Ette shakes her head. ‘Can we at least see the family? Yukiko, his wife?’
‘I will speak with her,’ Nishri promises.
‘Well, I’m going to go behind that Iron Curtain,’ Felka says defiantly.
Rachel isn’t surprised. There won’t be a next time for her dying grandmother; it’s now or never. They can’t know that.
Nishri cautions her. ‘Getting to the USSR is a bit of a process. And it is not easy to be a tourist there.’
‘I’ve been to Moscow,’ counters Felka. ‘We spent a week there on the way on the train to Vladivostok. I speak the language like a local. They better not mess with us!’
‘If you’re sure,’ Nishri says uncertainly. ‘I can direct you to the appropriate authorities and a good travel agent tomorrow. But you must be prepared for the red tape.’
Ette asks, ‘Felutkah, are you not a little frightened? It’s the Soviets, for God’s sake!’
‘What are they going to do with an old Polish woman?’ Felka retorts. ‘Lock me away? Let them try!’
~
The group do their best to make the most of the evening. They’re deflated but resigned. They’ve been through worse. There will be other opportunities now they know he is alive. More survivors arrive across the evening, people who came only that day from various locations in Japan and beyond. Their faces all fall when Nishri greets them with the same information. The group try to bolster each other, to salvage what should have been the highlight of the trip. Slowly, the mood lifts as more and more alcohol is poured, and the group swells in numbers, taking up the room.
Reuben wanders over to Rachel and she can see he’s loosened up again, a few sakes in. ‘Can you believe it? We came all this way and Sugihara isn’t even here! What a letdown.’
Rachel smiles. ‘Maybe you should come to Moscow with us. You said you wanted to see more of the world – and you know what a fan of yours my grandmother is.’
Reuben’s face briefly lights up, then falls. ‘That’s tempting. But no. I have to fly home in the morning, get back to work. You know – real life.’
‘Yes, of course. Real life,’ Rachel says, her chest tightening. Her own real life is in tatters. With no Sugihara to meet, this trip is essentially over, and she still doesn’t really have any answers for what she’ll do next. She looks around the room, her mind racing, when someone catches her eye: a woman in a long-sleeved orange paisley dress, dark hair piled onto her head, is standing in a shadowy corner of the bar. She’s strangely familiar, but at first Rachel can’t quite place her.
Then it’s unmistakable. Shirley – the woman looks just like Rachel’s mother. Rachel tries to convince herself that she must be wrong. The low lighting, the packed room, the sake she’s had. But the woman has seen her too; she’s staring, the look of someone seeing an old, unexpected friend.
The woman begins crossing the room, and Rachel feels a moment of sudden, intense panic. Felka is out the back, getting some fresh air with Judit. Rachel’s heart is beating out of her chest.
The woman comes to a stop in front of her. Up close, she doesn’t look quite the same as Shirley – a slightly different nose, thinner lips, thicker brows. But the similarity is undeniable.
Rachel can’t speak, but the woman does.
‘Hello,’ she says hesitantly, her Polish accent light but discernible. ‘Can I ask your name?’
Rachel swallows. ‘Rachel. Margolin.’
The woman’s lips part, and she shakes her head, then pauses. Reuben is still there, staring blankly at her. ‘I’m so sorry, could you please excuse us?’ she says to him.
‘Oh, yeah, of course, definitely.’ He makes a graceless exit as Rachel stares, stunned.
‘Let’s sit down somewhere quiet,’ the woman says to Rachel, who follows her outside onto the street, where they sit on a nearby bench. The warmth and noise spilling out from the bar feel a million miles away.
‘My name is Loretta Shineberg,’ the woman says.
Loretta. Rachel begins trembling. She clasps her hands tightly.
‘I had a feeling you would be here,’ Loretta says. ‘Or at least, some members of your family. You don’t know who I am, do you?’
She smiles sadly when Rachel shakes her head.
‘I see. Then this won’t be easy for you to hear, to understand.’
‘What is it?’ Rachel manages.
‘My maiden name was Schagrin. I am your late mother’s sister. Your aunt.’
Of course. This makes sense, as Rachel explores every inch of this woman’s face. Every crease, every blemish. The outline of her mouth, her fine, slim nose. Her dark eyes, her thick, black hair. Her mother. Slightly aged, slightly different, but nonetheless – her mother. But how? Why? Her trembling has turned to shaking. Is it anger or is it fear?
Loretta waits patiently as Rachel tries to find words, any words. The arguments, the secrets, her mother’s perpetual, inexplicable melancholy. Only one word comes to mind. Only one word comes out of Rachel’s mouth.
‘Why?’
Loretta opens her mouth.
‘Ah, pupelle!’ Felka calls cheerfully, stumbling down the street. Rachel and Loretta turn. ‘There you are. It is so cold, what are you doing out here?’
As she comes closer, she sees Loretta, and stops. The colour drains from her face.
Surrounded by deceit, yet again, Rachel can’t breathe.
‘Felka,’ Loretta says. ‘How are you? It’s been a long time.’
Felka’s eyes are wild. Rachel has never seen anything like it, and wonders if the sheer shock will be what kills her, right then and there, not the cancer.
‘Loretta!’ Felka says after a moment. ‘Darling! How … how is everything? How is life? You look wonderful!’
Rachel stares at her grandmother, who carries on as if Rachel isn’t even there. Flirting is her default. Her cloak.
‘I’m fine, thank you. Life is good.’ Loretta doesn’t buy in.
‘And your parents?’
Loretta picks up for her. ‘My mother passed away some years ago. My father is doing well, though. Thank God.’
Felka nods mechanically. ‘And your husband?’
‘He is well. As are my kids.’
‘Kids! Well, ah. Kids! Wonderful! Our reason for living!’
‘Grandma,’ Rachel says slowly. ‘You told me my mother’s parents were no longer alive. And you never told me about having an aunt.’
‘Well, we just assumed … I mean, there was never any contact, ever again … after Shirley—’ Felka stumbles, as if trying to walk over large pebbles in heels, starts coughing. Rachel doesn’t move to help her.
‘Shirley’s death was too much for my mother to bear,’ Loretta says quietly to Rachel. ‘She fell into a depression and passed soon after. But your grandfather is still alive. He lives near me, in Tokyo.’
Rachel stares at her grandmother. Felka closes her eyes, is silent.
‘This all must be so hard for you,’ Loretta says gently yet purposefully with Felka in earshot. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She shares her late mother’s passion: gentility.
Rachel almost succumbs to a wave of all-consuming nostalgia before regaining her composure. She shakes her head at it. At the lies. She thought – she trusted – no. She can’t be hearing this. It’s not true. No. Felka wouldn’t conceal this from her. Surely.
But, damningly, Felka says nothing. Felka, who once went to small claims court because of a parking ticket incorrectly filed against her, has nothing to say in her defence.
‘Didn’t you tell her, Felka?’ Loretta asks.
Felka ignores her, looking only at Rachel. ‘Your mother’s parents were devastated when Shirley left them to move to Australia. And when Michael and Shirley announced their decision to turn their backs on their faith, because they said religion only brings heartache, her family vowed never to contact them again. Loretta, you agreed with them! You cannot pretend—’
‘I promised no such thing,’ Loretta says quietly. ‘I rang her every week. Michael was furious about it. He wanted me to stop, said I was trying to get her to turn back to her faith. But she was my sister, and she was alone with a baby and a man who hated himself. I would not.’
‘And you went along with this?’ Rachel says to Felka, who is shocked by Loretta’s words. She didn’t know, clearly. But it doesn’t lessen the fury.
