Last Train to Paris (23 page)

Soldiers of the
garde mobile
were standing sentry around the building to keep the crowds calm. Outside the courtroom, thirty telephone booths had been installed. Inside, the spectators faced the judge, two white-bibbed lawyers for the accused, the prosecutor, and a jury of twelve men. Of the jury, six men had mustaches, two wore glasses, six were almost bald, and one man had unruly curly hair, while all the others were brilliantined, with their hair flat to their heads.

The courtroom held more than a hundred people. The stalls at the rear were reserved for members of the general public. I felt sorry for them. There were no seats and everyone would have to stand all day. But they appeared happy to do this, some with their arms resting on the wooden barrier that separated them from the journalists' seats, with their backsides jutting out like shelves. A small gallery to the right of the bar of justice, which had an ornately carved rail, was reserved for people with influence, including Colette, Janet Flanner, Maurice Chevalier, Aurora Sand–and even Lord Tennyson's great-niece. I found it amusing that someone in the court had stretched many yards of bluish-green cloth across both the gallery and the stalls to hide the legs of the women–shorter skirts were in style.

I knew what was going to happen next; I could feel the rumbling behind my back. I saw a flash of magnesium. Then mayhem broke loose. The photographers were clamoring for space. They were standing on top of chairs, balancing on rails, shouting for the jurors to look up, accidentally dropping their cameras, swearing, knocking over furniture. As this was going on, one of Vosberg's two attorneys, Renée Jardin, with her hennaed hair in curls, was idly chatting with her legal colleagues.

Vosberg's other attorney, the star defense orator Moro-Giafferi, was a chubby little man with the face of an owl and an operatic, beautiful speaking voice. His vanity, I could see, was hilarious. Like a peacock he strutted about, dramatically waving his lighted cigarette in an amber holder.
DÉFENSE DE FUMER
, no smoking, was posted on all the walls. But most everyone was smoking. Every window in the court was closed. I was dying of the heat. Damn the French and their anxiety about fresh air, I thought–they were convinced that an open window would make them sick. Moro-Giafferi, although from Corsica, also had an aversion to fresh air. He would sneer at anyone who complained–making a point of wrapping his brown wool scarf around his neck yet again. The only relief was that some of the people in the gallery were eating oranges, and the smell reminded me of sunshine and health and fresh air.

It began to quiet down. For the photographers' benefit, Vosberg was led in. The photographers were allowed five minutes, and the room was ablaze with lights. Vosberg kept his head down. Then the prisoner was led out into the hallway between the courtroom and the prison. The presiding judge, Maurice Levi, ornately outfitted in his scarlet velvet robe, white bib, and red velvet cap, made a pronouncement: ten cameramen would be allowed to stay in the court. There was a loud collective groan and the photographers were marched in single file to the corridor. I could see through the doorway that they were tossing coins to see who were the lucky ones.

When the prisoner was brought back, his chains had been removed. Pete and I were only five or six feet from him. I watched Vosberg intently, and at one point the prisoner looked directly at me and smiled wanly. The audience swung around toward me. Jeez, I thought, this attention's all I need. But I did, strangely, feel special, and then detested myself for having that feeling. I could sense that Pete was struggling not to smile.

Vosberg was wearing a well-tailored blue serge double-breasted suit with a glaring white shirt, a blue-and-white striped tie, and highly polished burgundy shoes. I noted that although he was cleanly shaven, his face was a deathly white, and he had dark circles beneath his sunken eyes. Vosberg was a man of two faces. In profile, he appeared gentle; with his turned-up nose he had the look of one easily tormented. Then, in full view, he showed himself as the tormentor. I could see why I had had such a hard time recreating his face for the police artist.

 

It's startling, but I've just realized that the pages about my mother's appearance in the courtroom are missing from the trial notes. Did I do this on purpose? Why? After all, when I saw her, it was a dramatic moment. I held the notes, while pacing my garden—roughly brushing up against a large pot of lemon-balm-scented geraniums. That strong aroma brings me to my senses. I walk back into my office and look through a pile of newspaper clippings. Here are my notes about my mother, separate from my trial notes, and kept together with a rusty safety pin. I wonder what I was thinking? Was I so distressed by her presence that I didn't want to be reminded later on? And why did I change my mind and keep the pages? I have no idea.

 

While the judge was whispering to some officials behind his hand, I looked around the courtroom. I couldn't believe it. There was my mother in a far corner, sketching, along with five other pencil artists.

I was outraged. How dare she intrude upon my territory? I did know that she had a good reputation as a court illustrator in Nevada. But I never, never once, considered that she would bring this profession to Europe.

She must have felt me staring at her, looked up, and caught my irate glance. Giving me a minuscule smile, she went back to work.

I watched her through the thick haze of cigarette smoke. The putrid-green painted walls. The lack of fresh air. The high windows obscured by soot. I had to admit to myself that she sure had guts.

 

But I also remember feeling that I was seeing myself in a mirror—my mother was my reflection. Like her, I also had guts. Like her, I had a strong talent. But at that time, there was a big difference. I was in mourning—and she was thrilled with her new life.

I suspect that my obituary will claim that I was an accomplished, fearless war correspondent. It's only partly true. I saw myself as pathetic—longing for Leon—longing for love. To do my job, I had to force myself to be tough, never allowing my colleagues to see weakness. Most of the time I succeeded. But seeing my mother in that courtroom confused me. Part of me understood that she had every right to be there—she was certainly talented enough. But I was being pummeled by yet another unspoken, childish tantrum.

I was spinning. How could this have happened to me? No other reporters had their mothers in their public lives. Even the French reporters I knew seemed to have sprouted out of nowhere. As far as I knew, my writer-colleagues—except for Andy—never let on that they even had mothers. And here I was, an only child, being followed halfway around the world by mine.

 

Colette had always fascinated me. She was a part of the French literary world that I so admired. Sartre, de Beauvoir, Gide—I fantasized about being their close friend. But all I was to them was the French-speaking American correspondent at the
Courier
. The Paris literary scene was a most complicated private club. I could smell their success, taste their triumph—and I wanted some for myself. But I was frightened silly by the possibility of not being taken seriously, of being rejected.

 

End of the day in court. Where is she? I asked myself, and looked around the room. My mother was in a circle of people. I tried to get closer. Wouldn't you know it? There she was, speaking with Colette. They appeared to be besotted with each other. I heard Colette say, “Come, dear, I'll drive you home.”

 

Pete and I filed our story by eleven. “Why don't you come home with me,” Pete said, “and have a nightcap? You can see the baby, since she never sleeps anyway.”

“No thanks, Pete, I need to take a walk. But it's nice of you to ask. Can I take a rain check?”

“Sure,” he said playfully. “But if you wait too long, by the time you see the sweet thing, she'll be a rotten teenager.”

 

The hot spell had broken and it was quite a cool evening. Along the banks of the river, vagrants were making their fires and unfurling their bedrolls for sleep. Flocks of sheep and goats were settling in for the night too. I could hear the thudding of their bells. Two elderly men, both wearing farmers' galoshes, one in a blue beret, the other in a matching blue jacket, were finishing hoeing a row of cabbages under the yellow light of a streetlamp. Except for the occasional sound of a horn, I thought, I could be in the country. Leaning on the rail, I lit a cigarette and contemplated my mother.

She had obviously applied, and someone had hired her, to illustrate the trial. Who? I supposed it really didn't matter, but it made me uncomfortable. Knowing my mother, I wouldn't have been surprised to learn that she had contracted for the job while in New York. She had to have known that I would be upset, but in her usual fashion had ignored the emotional consequences.

 

The next morning I waylaid her in front of the court building. “Ma, wait, I need to talk to you.”

“Rose, leave me alone,” she said.

“But why are you following me everywhere?” I asked. “It's embarrassing!”

“Excuse me,” she said, “what makes you think I'm following you? After all,
Collier's
offered me this job. Did you expect me to turn it down?”

“Listen, Ma, we have to figure this out. You're in my way. I'm the only grown woman—who happens to be a journalist for one of the most important newspapers in the Western world—whose mother's following her around covering the same story. Can't you see how uncomfortable this is? Hell, some magazine like your
Collier's
will see us as good material for a friggin' human-interest story.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, Rose, it's not that bad. And anyway, there's nothing to be done. I'm committed to covering the trial—and I'm determined to fulfill my obligation. So why don't you just ignore me? Stop glaring at me across the courtroom. Then no one will sense that we know each other. I'll make you a promise,” she continued angrily. “I won't acknowledge you at all.”

Not wanting to get into a screaming match outside the court, I turned and walked off. I knew when I was beaten.

But I watched while Colette's car pulled to the curb. She jumped out before her driver did, yelling, “Miriam, Miriam, allo!” The women kissed on both cheeks and Colette took her arm. I overheard her say to my mother, “Dear Miriam, let's have dinner tonight.”

 

I met Mr. Hin for dinner. “So, Rosie, how is the trial going? And how is your mother?”

“My mother sits there and draws and has the attention of the people in the balcony directly above her. It's amusing to listen to them commenting on her drawings—some even going so far as to point out possible corrections. I can see that it makes her testy—but have to admit that it pleases me!”

I changed the subject. “Vosberg's truly mad. One moment he seems to understand what he's accused of and almost shows remorse—and the next moment he's feeling sorry for himself and acting as if he's a tragic character in a Shakespearean drama. There's obviously something seriously wrong with him, but he's hard to read. He doesn't fit any psychiatric definitions that I've ever read about.”

“He appears to be engaged in a Noh play,” Mr. Hin said. “He's acting out different complicated characters and wearing an assortment of masks.”

“Oh, you're so right,” I said. “Not only does he physically keep changing, but he displays different emotional characteristics that appear to do battle with each other.”

“Meaning?” Mr. Hin asked.

“Well, he can be suave and make you feel that he's trying to seduce the jury and the judge. And in the flick of a moment, he's scowling at them as if they smell of garbage! I'm glad today's over.”

“By the way,” Mr. Hin said, “have you heard from Richard or Daria?”

 

The Moses family had made friends with Mr. Hin. As the children became less fearful, he had taken them to the park to play. I loved seeing the three of them on a bench, the children sitting on either side of Mr. Hin while he read them stories. The only problem was that he couldn't read English and they didn't speak French. So he had made a game out of their teaching each other. Mr. Hin would try to sound out an English word. They would help him and explain what it meant. Then he would teach them the word in French. Sometimes Mr. Hin would, on purpose, mispronounce a word and they would dissolve into delicious laughter.

“I haven't heard from them,” I said, “but I'm sure they'll write as soon as they get settled.”

“Well, I hope we hear soon,” he said. “I think we're in for a long siege of isolation. Ships carrying mail are not important any longer. Storage space is being taken up with war-related goods.”

We were quiet for a while. I thought about what he had just said. I was learning more and more facts about how a war is managed—having never considered, for example, the delivery of foreign mail during a crisis.

“How long do you think the trial will last?” Mr. Hin said.

“I hope not long. I asked to be reassigned as a roving correspondent, but Ramsey said no. Not now. Besides, I suppose I owe it to Stella to see this ordeal through to the end. But I'm not relishing being in the same room with my mother. And I don't like writing about a hopeless psychopath who apparently killed my cousin.”

“But Hitler's a psychopath, too,” Mr. Hin argued. “What's the difference? You write about him all the time.”

“He's easy,” I said. “I have distance from him. She's in my bones!”

 

“Oh, Rose, Rose,” I heard my mother calling out after the next day's session. I ignored her.

“R.B.,” my colleague Bill said, “there's a woman calling your name. Are you getting deaf or something?”

“Thanks, Bill, but I need to ignore her. She's been a big bother.”