Last Train to Paris (20 page)

“I'll try to get your things later. You must sit quietly and wait for me to return. Please, Ma.”

“I'm not stupid, Rose,” she said, and I looked at her skeptically.

“Yeah, but remember, you're in foreign territory. I'm not.”

“All right. All right,” she said. “I'll be quiet. But what do we do if we're challenged on the train?”

“We may not be. But, just in case—under no circumstances are you to speak German.”

“I don't speak German, you know that.”

“Well, you speak Yiddish, and that's very close.”

“Whoever told you that? It's too ugly a language for me to bother with.”

“Clara told me—why should she lie? Don't you understand,” I said, trying to ignore her nastiness, “that we have to believe that we're invisible? Under no circumstances are you to say anything, in any language, about my press credentials or about our being Jewish. It's really important that you pay attention to what I'm telling you, and—”

“Okay, Rose, okay. Stop being such a dictator. I understand. But—what about your Jewish friend? What are you going to do about him? Does he have a family he'll be dragging behind him? If so, they'll be feeding off you for the rest of their lives.”

God, I thought, will I ever be free from this monster?

 

What was wrong between us? Why couldn't we find common ground? At that point, I couldn't see my way past my anger at my mother. I was having a hard enough time clumsily finding my way toward a life of love.

 

The Moses family had been included in the order to leave. I went by foot to Charlottenburg. There was no other way. The trams weren't running, there were no taxis—the only moving cars belonged to the SS. The streets looked like the sepia photographs I had seen of the Great War. Broken glass was everywhere—indeed, the streets, perversely, sparkled. I had to sidestep smoldering timbers—hold a handkerchief over my nose and mouth—take the long way around to get through streets blocked with debris. People were moving in every direction, many with suitcases and rolls of bedding. It was eerily quiet. One street's sidewalk was lined with dead bodies. I had never seen carnage like this before. People were averting their eyes, but moving forward. I wanted to scream for help—at least to cover their bodies—to bestow dignity upon this awful place. But I knew no one would listen. So this is what war is like, I thought, and tried to pull armor over myself. I was going to have to learn.

 

I did learn. Over the years of my career, in wars between political parties, between tribes, between countries—any sort of callous killing—I was often there, covering the story.

And today? All these years later? I wonder where my heart had been—I wonder why I had not tended my emotional garden.

 

The previous night's stars were gone. There didn't appear to be a sky. What was above my head was a solidly painted ceiling of a dreary grayish-brown. I wondered if this was what Dante's purgatory looked like.

It usually took twenty minutes to get to Richard's house; now it took more than two hours. When I arrived, I wasn't surprised to see the vandalism. The elevator wasn't working; I climbed five flights. Some of the doors on the landing were splintered, some had gaping holes, some were standing open, as if the person knocking had been invited in. And I could see that the apartments had been ransacked. Jewish families, I guessed. When I knocked on Richard's door, I heard silence. But I sensed they were inside. “Richard, it's me,” I yelled. “Open up! Richard, please let me in.”

I heard one latch, then another, and the door was opened a crack.

The family was petrified. Their bags were packed, as if for a quick escape. Good, I thought, they're ready to go.

“We've been afraid to go outside. The kids are ready for an insane asylum. Our tenants fled. What's going on, Rosie?”

“I'll tell you later. We don't have time to spare. Do you have your new American passports?”

“Yeah, we got them from Stefan, but he wouldn't take any money.”

“Don't worry about that,” I said. “Your dollars will come in handy once we get to France. Now, let's go.”

As if they had rehearsed, each member of the family put on a coat, picked up a bag, and walked, single file, through the door.

“Oh, God, what has happened to our neighbors?” Daria asked.

“They're all Jews. God only knows,” Richard said.

I led them out into the murky daylight, joining the exodus of people walking back the way I had come.

“Where's everyone going?” Richard asked.

“I've no idea,” I said, “but we're going to the embassy.”

I took turns with Richard carrying Annelie. Daria appeared to be moving in slow motion, dazed, stumbling. She would be leaving behind her parents, her past, the safety of familiarity.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“No, Rose, I'm not okay, but I can manage,” she said, even though tears were streaming down her distraught face.

I was desperate for a cigarette, but I was holding Annelie on my hip.

I tried singing a cowboy song that I remembered from childhood:
Come sit by my side if you love me. / Do not hasten to bid me adieu. / Just remember the Red River Valley, / And the one who has loved you so true.

“Such a sad song,” Annelie said. “Do you know a happier one?”

“Sorry,” I said, “can't think of one right now. Do you want me to sing it again?”

Annelie shook her head.

 

It was much worse than I had written in these pages of notes. Perhaps I was too close to take in the details—or couldn't tolerate seeing what I was seeing. But now I remember more about our struggle to reach the embassy. We stepped over dead bodies while trying to shelter the children's eyes. At certain places we had to cover our noses because the stench of burning flesh was overwhelming. I don't think we spoke. Maybe I didn't sing to Annelie. Maybe I made it up, trying to be dramatic. I don't remember. The only sound I do remember hearing was the keening of a woman who was standing in the middle of the street, with her gray dress torn at the shoulder, shoeless.

 

Exhausted, downhearted, we arrived at the embassy. It smelled like a library on fire. In the many fireplaces, the staff was burning files. Everyone was moving efficiently, as if they had rehearsed this many times before. There was an amazing calm in the place. I found my mother feeding one of the fireplaces with papers.

“Ma, this is my friend Richard, his wife Daria, and their children, Annelie and Coleman.”

My mother didn't rise. She had an incredulous look on her face.

“How do you do?” Richard and Daria said, and held out their hands to shake. Mother shook only Daria's hand, but barely.

She's impossible, I thought, deeply embarrassed.

“Come,” I said to the family, “let's get you settled. We have a long night ahead of us.”

I took them to an anteroom outside the pressroom. There were two long brown leather sofas. “Make yourselves comfortable here and try to sleep, or at least rest. I'll let the kitchen know you're here. I don't know what to say about my mother,” I apologized. “She has a way of perpetually embarrassing me.”

“Don't worry, Rosie,” Richard said, “we're used to it.”

“Well, I am too, but I still hate it.”

Now there was no time for reflection, but I knew the blow-up with her would happen sooner or later, and a part of me was already writing the script in my head.

 

When I finished in the embassy's pressroom, the Moses family was fast asleep. My mother was nowhere to be seen.

“Christ, she's going to cause me more problems,” I said to Pete, who was also being evacuated to Paris.

“She's in the newsroom burning papers,” he said. “She's happy as a lark. Perhaps you should just leave her here.”

“Oh, how I wish I could!”

An hour before it was time to leave, I found her. “Let's go, Ma. It's time.”

Eva Kantor had everyone gather in the main meeting room. She stood on a chair. “Please listen carefully, all of you. We were able to get all your travel documents ready.” And there was a relieved murmur in the room. “We'll pass them out after I finish speaking. Now. You'll all get on the midnight train—that has been assured by the German government. But you'll be lucky to get a seat. Please take turns. I know, considering the situation, that this sounds silly, but you still have to set a good example while representing the American government. Check that you have all your important papers and take as much money and jewelry as you can easily carry. You're allowed only one small valise—and I'm very serious about that. If we see you with more, it will be confiscated. We can't promise that this is going to be an easy ride. Anywhere along the way, German officials can board the train and cause problems. Try to be diplomatic. Don't anyone reveal your religion. Pretend you can't speak German. When you disembark in Paris, you'll have to go through customs. This may be tricky. There will be passport officials sitting at tables near all the exits. Take your time. R.B. Manon will try to find this particular official—a placid-looking man. He has very little hair. What he does have, though, is gray and he combs it over his head. Also, his ears have tufts of gray hair popping out of them like wires, and he has a small moustache.” Everyone laughed at her description. “We were able to get a message to him to look out for you. If for some unforeseen reason, he isn't there and you have to go through normal channels, don't try to explain anything—simply give the officer your papers. Stick together. Mr. Greenleaf and Miss Manon,” she said, pointing to us, “will lead you through. Good luck.”

“But what if we can't get past the passport control in Paris?” one of the men asked.

“Stand aside,” she said, “and Mr. Greenleaf will contact the embassy.”

As soon as I could catch Eva's attention, I asked about the documents for Leon and his parents. “Got them,” she said, and handed them over.

It was after ten in the evening. Time to go. We were traveling in diplomatic automobiles, with all the authority the embassy could muster. No sneaking. In all, there were fifteen cars, carrying ninety-six adults and five children. Each car had an American flag tied with twine to its antenna. A small staff would be staying behind.

In single file, we walked out to the cars. American soldiers created a barrier between a smaller but still angry crowd and the wall of the embassy. An undistinguished-looking woman, whom I had never seen before, was counting the appropriate number of people into each car. My mother was in front of the Moses family and was placed in one car, while the Moses family and I were placed in the next one. She turned around looking for me. I pretended not see her.

I still couldn't believe the chaos I saw on the streets. Even at this late hour, elderly Jewish men and women were being forced to sweep up the glass. Under the dictatorial eye of the SS, they had no choice. I was nauseated with grief. The German Jews were sweeping the streets so the American Jews could get out safely. It was heartbreaking—they had no similar road to freedom.

The convoy departed under a ceiling of thick clouds that was still hanging just above the streets. We drove past mounds of sodden books, some still smoldering. We drove past groups of people huddled together trying to stay warm and dry. The whole world was gray. There wasn't a spot of color to be seen anywhere. We drove past complete devastation. People looked like their own shadows. It appeared to me that they had already abandoned their real selves to destiny.

Anhalter Bahnhof was mobbed with desperate people. There were people yelling, babies crying, packages being handed up to passengers through the windows. Most frightening of all were the Alsatian shepherd dogs straining at their leather leashes, frenzied by the crowds, teeth bared—waiting for instructions. Huge spotlights roamed over the platform.

As soon as I stepped out of the car, I looked for Leon but couldn't see him anywhere. “Keep moving,” I kept repeating to the embassy people, while my eyes fanned the crowds. “Keep moving, please.”

A path was made for the Americans. Greenleaf, wearing a pearl-gray homburg, headed the line. I was on the edge, urging people forward. Suddenly, I saw someone grab Greenleaf's arm. “Papers? Now!” A young official, puffed up like a peacock, in a brand-new gray wool uniform with shiny buttons and a serious gun holstered on his thick black leather belt, led Greenleaf to a table.

“Your travel documents,” he commanded. Greenleaf fumbled with his briefcase. The soldier watched, bored. Finally, Greenleaf pulled out an impressive-looking document. The official took his time reading it, looked at Greenleaf with a disdainful expression, and stamped it:
Anerkannt
, Approved. Without checking our papers, the soldier pointed, and then herded us down the platform to the last cars of the train.

I was trying to honor my responsibilities to the embassy people while at the same time looking for Leon.

The noise was unbearable. The crush of people was suffocating.

Then I heard my mother shouting, “There's your
Jewish
friend,” and she pointed directly at Leon, obviously with his parents.

His parents!

An SS officer looked toward where she was pointing. Richard moved surreptitiously to block his view while I waved the tickets and papers for Leon to see. His parents, I thought with joy. They're all coming!

Then I heard my mother screech, “They're trying to kill me! Help! Rose!” I turned. She was being dragged from the train steps.

I ran toward her.

“What are you doing?” I screamed in German to the two new soldiers, one with a roaring dog. “She has her papers!”

“Out of the way,” one of them ordered, and pushed me aside. “No one spits at me without being punished!”