Last Train to Paris (17 page)

“Yes, I'll try. Of course. I promise. Let's have another round. And please, from now on, call me Rosie.” I beckoned the bartender.

 

Sitting there, hunched over my glass, it had finally dawned on me that the world I desired didn't exist any longer. I realized that my innate sense of freedom was balancing on a pile of political debris. The German gate had slammed shut, imprisoning everyone. Not just the non-Aryans—everyone believing in the concept of free choice. It was clear. Yet here I was, sitting across from a dear friend who was in abject anguish. Not only was Richard desperate to get his family out of Germany—he was suffering such inconceivable sorrow and rage that he could barely sit still in his chair.

“Tell me what you've already done,” I whispered, suspicious of the people in the bar.

“We've been working with the embassy,” Richard said. “Although they're sympathetic, nothing's happening—and every day there's another reminder of my kids' misery, my wife's anger and confusion, and my guilt. I keep thinking that if we had gotten out before, none of this would have happened.”

“C'mon, Richard, how would you have known? Even covering the German situation, I didn't see this coming.” But I was lying. I should have known better, too—and now I was also beginning to acknowledge it. I accused myself of being dispassionate, too self-involved. And in my gut I understood that these accusations were true.

Richard was still crying. He didn't try to hide his tears. “I was muleheaded. I wasn't thinking of anybody except myself. Thought I was so fuckin' smart. Thought I was beating Jim Crow. Thought I knew everything. I didn't know shit, Rosie,” he yelled. “I stranded and destroyed the only people I love—thinking I was so clever.”

Richard stood and screamed at the customers. The heads in the dark café all turned toward him. ‘Why didn't you just cut off my prick? Why did you make my children suffer for my being a goddamned
nigger
?”

“Sit down, Richard,” I said, tugging at his jacket sleeve. “You can't be carrying on like this in public. Sit down!”

It was quiet as a church. Everyone was watching. I hoped no one understood English. And Richard sat.

I didn't know what to say. The depth of Richard's heartache was something I had never experienced.

 

The next morning, there was a loud knock at my door. I had been deeply asleep and was disoriented for a moment. It felt like the middle of the night, but the morning was dark. It was pouring rain.

“Oh, sorry if I woke you,” Richard said, “but you said to be here early so we could get to the embassy before the lines start. Daria has taken the day off.”

“It's okay, it's okay,” I mumbled, trying to get my bearings. “Too much drinking. Give me a minute, I'll splash water on my face.”

We arrived to find the press corps office at the embassy alive with nervous activity. The embassy officers and reporters, including Pete, were huddled around the ticker tape. ‘What's going on?'

“We're not sure,” Pete said. “It looks as if the Krauts are planning some kind of putsch. Our source is talking to the embassy in Paris. We're waiting for information.”

I didn't care. I wasn't interested in a putsch. I wasn't interested in grabbing the story—I wasn't even tempted.

“Could you cover the story, Pete? There's something I have to do.” And without waiting for an answer, “Let's go, Richard,” I said.

We went from one American official to another. Nobody seemed to know how to help, what to do. I began to sense that nothing could be done. By three o'clock, we had been in and out of six offices and had spent intolerable amounts of time waiting on hard wooden benches.

I was afraid to acknowledge what I was seeing.

“C'mon, Rosie, can't you see what's going on here?” Richard said. “Can't you? When we walk into an office and they first see you, they have an inviting smile. Then they see me and their smile becomes a grimace—or a look of fear rolls down their face like a friggin' window shade. And here I am among my countrymen. What a riot! You can see why I wanted to get the hell out of my own country. But now I'm stuck in another where everyone's either afraid of me or repulsed by me. If we can't get out of here,” Richard asked, “then how will Leon? He's in a similar boat.”

I spun around. “What do you mean?”

“C'mon, don't you know? You're in love with him. You're supposed to know this stuff.”

“Goddammit, what
stuff
?”

“Leon's a Jew, for Christ's sake, Rosie. Where've you been?”

“Yes, I know he's Jewish,” I said. “And so am I.”

 

Perhaps Stefan Kluge could help. I had heard Stefan make a serious confession during a dinner after much drinking. His situation was treacherous—and no doubt if the Gestapo got word of his transgression, he'd be sent to a concentration camp and so would everyone else in his family. I had sworn absolute silence, and I meant it. But now, months later, I needed to bend my promise slightly.

After leaving Richard, having agreed to meet him the next day with news, I found Stefan at the bar on Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse. I thought him crazy to use this joint as his hangout. Nevertheless, when I entered, there he was, sitting near a window, drinking a beer. After I ordered a whiskey, we engaged in shop talk.

I was waiting for a good moment to ask Stefan my burning question. We chatted about our colleagues, caught up on the political gossip. I began to drone on about how awful the world had become, how my newspaper didn't understand me. Then I caught an ever-so-slight frown on his face.

“Why in hell do you think your life's so interesting that anyone cares?” Stefan said. “Really, R.B., the world's disintegrating and your life means nothing more than a bag of potatoes.”

Stefan signaled for the check and then turned back to me.

“You Americans, you're so sure of yourselves. You think everyone lives in your free, big, open spaces. Well, you're wrong. We're suffocating, R.B.—look past your own nose, and—”

“How's your wife?” I interrupted.

Stefan looked at me askance. “You know she divorced me,” he said, “and went to the States. Everyone knows that. And good riddance to her. Now I have Estelle and wonder what I saw in the other one.”

“Come on, Stefan, I know the truth. You told me the story yourself. I need help.”

“You mean you're going to blackmail me? Never thought I'd see you stoop so low, R.B.”

“No, of course I'm not going to blackmail you, Stefan, don't be such an idiot.”

 

When he was living in Paris, Stefan, a Christian German citizen, met, and eventually married, a Jewish German woman, Esther Stein. She had lived in France for many years, first as a student, then as a writer for a German-French magazine. In 1935, the Nuremberg laws were passed, prohibiting the intermarriage of Jews and Aryans. When it became obvious that the Nazis were going to be in power for a long time, the couple came up with a plan. While still in Paris, they filed for, and received, a divorce. A few months later, Stefan's assignment in Paris ended and he was sent back to Berlin. A new passport was made for Esther. She left a month later and they reunited. Now they were living in Berlin as lovers, feigning distaste for marriage and children. Esther became Estelle. Stein became Schröder. Dark, curly, ‘Jewish' hair became blonde hair, ironed each morning to make it straighter. The Kluges had become normal, everyday anti-Semites.

“Wait, Stefan, please. Please hear me out. Sorry about my grousing.” And I proceeded to tell Stefan about Richard and his family, including the sterilization program.

By the time I had finished, Stefan looked drained.

“Oh, God,” Stefan said. “This is horrible, just horrible. We're all in trouble. We've got to get out of here. Listen, R.B., this means you too. Even the Gestapo thugs at the headquarters across the street must have their eye on you. None of us is safe.”

“I know,” I said. “I'm trying to get used to being Jewish—but I don't have a built-in alarm system yet.”

“But what are you going to do about Leon?” Stefan asked. “In my case, Estelle won't leave because her family's still in Hamburg—still convincing themselves that all will be better. And Leon's parents feel the same way—meaning he's stuck, too.”

“I need a first-rate forger,” I blurted. “Can you help me?”

“Yes, I know someone,” Stefan said. “Leon.”

“Won't work. I won't put him in jeopardy. Do you know anyone else?”

“Yes.”

 

Late that evening, as arranged, I met Richard at the same bar.

“Anything happening?” Richard said.

“Do you have dollars?” I asked.

“Yeah, I've dollars that my brother sent me. Why?”

“Do you all have American passports?”

“No, only me.”

“Okay, we need to get American passports for everyone. We'll need money. I'll let you know how much, as soon as I know. I need photos of Daria and the children and everyone's date and place of birth. You know, all the pertinent details.”

“Rosie, how can I th—”

“No, not yet, Richard. I have no idea if I can pull this off.”

 

When I returned to my room, I found a note slipped under the door.
I'll be away. Back soon. L.

I had to assume that Leon was doing another job for Gerard, and tried not to worry. A few days later, when I arrived at the pressroom, I was handed a letter from Mr. Hin.

 

Dear Rosie: We miss you at the Espoir. I wanted to let you know that an American was here looking for you. She said she was hoping that you were back in Paris, but Madame Pleven told her that you were still in Berlin.

Sincerely, Hin.

 

My heart sank. Someone I had known in New York? I didn't want to be bothered with renewing old friendships. But I cabled the
Paris Courier
to see if my colleagues had any information about the mysterious woman. Maybe she had gone to the office looking for me? There was no answer. Just my luck—the Nazis were jamming the system. I should have known better. Reporting back to Paris had become almost impossible. If I was lucky, I could convince an international operator to keep a line open for me while I dictated to the paper. Otherwise, it could take twenty-four hours to get an article onto a printed page.

I felt as if I were being lassoed and hog-tied, just like in a roundup in Nevada.

 

* * *

 

A few evenings later, Nevada came to my door. There was a knock. “It's open,” I said, and turned around to say hello. “Oh, shit, Ma, what are you doing here?”

I was stunned.

My mother looked stunned too. She stood at the door holding a red-leather suitcase that matched her red wool coat, and wearing a red pillbox hat with a pink rose attached to the brim.

“May I come in?” she asked.

And then I realized that the woman looking for me in Paris had been my mother.

“Ma, what happened? Has something happened to Father?”

She nodded and sat on the sofa. She didn't bother to hug me.

It was the winter of 1939, and I had not seen my mother for almost five years. She was now in her mid-sixties, and her thick, black, shoulder-length hair was sprinkled with very little silver. Although she had gained weight, she was still eye-catching. Even now, she smelled of the outdoors—the Western sage-smelling air was woven into her clothing.

“Yes, he's dead,” she said, and leaned back against the cushions, taking a handkerchief out of her pocket. She simply held it. There were no tears.

I was flabbergasted. I had always assumed that my mother would die first. My eyes welled up with tears. Then I wept. Not for a moment did my mother reach out to me. She sat as if waiting for a bus. It took a while for me to calm down. Finally, I went to the bathroom and threw cold water on my face. I knew I had to collect myself. Knew that my mourning would have to wait until she was out of my sight. Knew that I had to get through this next bit of time.

Taking a deep breath, I said, “Tell me what happened, Ma.”

 

“Your father retired from teaching,” she began in a flat, storytelling fashion. “He retired from drinking too. Father Maloney had died, leaving him without a drinking partner, but also without an equal intellect. Your father didn't know what to do with himself. He read a lot and reread even more, especially your mentor, Mark Twain.”

“Ma,” I said, “I was five years old when Twain died—aren't you stretching the story a bit?”

“Well,” she said with disdain, “you used to boast that he was buried on the hill behind our house!”

I was surprised to hear this. I couldn't believe that she had any memories of me.

“But I was just a kid, Ma—awed by living near where he used to live. Don't you understand that kids live in fantasy worlds, and—”

She ignored me. “I think,” she continued, “that his monthly letters from you were the highlight of his retirement. He always gave them to me to read. Two months ago, I noticed that he was becoming breathless during our walks. I said to him, ‘Paul, you must see the doctor.' He did. And the doctor made an appointment for him to go down to Reno for tests. Since I was finishing up a magazine job, I didn't go with him. I never saw him again—well, I never saw him again alive. A drunken woman, who was in Reno waiting for a divorce, was driving up the mountain, taking the curves at breakneck speed. She forced him off the road. He went through the railing, and rolled more than a thousand feet into a ravine. The driver broke her index finger.”

Mother paused. “I wonder how she felt with divorce papers in one hand and a murder in the other.”

“Oh, how awful,” I said. “How did you—”

“Paul was buried in the Golden Terrace Cemetery,” she said. “You remember, Rose, the one on North Lode and Comstock Street. I had no idea if this was all right with Paul or not. When I walked toward the cemetery, I read the sign,
Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord,
and I thought how your agnostic father would have found it amusing to see his final resting place. The grave next to him was Elmer O'Brian's, the famous gunslinger from Silver City, and the next one over was my friend Annie O'Riley, the prostitute from D Street. Do you remember her?”