Last Train to Paris (27 page)

“I know,” Mr. Hin said, “that Madame Pleven will keep one for you—and will care for your beloved red geraniums! I'll help you move.”

“I'm storing only the things that my trunk will hold. Is there anything of mine that you would like?”

“No, only that you be safe, my dear Rosie. I'll get a couple of men to help move the trunk.”

Over the years I had collected clothes, books, pieces of fabric that I had used to make my room look prettier, posters. But I would only keep beloved things. My typewriter would travel with me, along with one suitcase of clothes, including my fur coat. My favorite books, my personal notes and reporter's notebooks, newspaper clippings, my Aunt Clara's letters, my father's letters, photographs, a book of poems written by Mr. Hin–all would be packed into the trunk. I gave my radio to Madame Pleven.

“Oh, Mademoiselle Manon,” she almost squealed. “You have given me the moon!”

The next morning, Mr. Hin arrived with two men, whom I recognized as the Serbs who had once lived in the hotel. “
Dobra dan
,”
they said in unison
.

“Good morning to you, too,” I said, and they laughed.

They lifted the trunk into the boot of an old taxi and we drove to the
Courier,
leaving Mr. Hin behind. When we arrived, I directed them downstairs to the Linotype room where we stashed the trunk out of the way in a far corner. I had to force them to take some money.

After they left, I went upstairs to say good-bye to everyone. But there was no one there. Because all the newspapers had either closed or become German, the French workers had been fired and the Americans had fled to safer assignments. Only Ramsey was there. He was sitting amidst the mess of the dismantled newspaper office. The newsroom was silent. No presses running, no typewriters chattering away. Nothing. He looked lost.

“Hey, Mr. Ramsey,” I said. “Are you okay?”

“No, I'm not okay,” Ramsey almost growled. “What a stupid question. Look,” he said, and he held out his hands. Fat, with dirty fingernails and nicotine stains, they were trembling.

“Have you been drinking?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said. “What do you think? R.B., you've got to help me get out of here.”

“But where's Pete?” I asked.

“He's off in the countryside,” Ramsey almost snarled, “having a carefree weekend with his family. He told me that he needed one more taste of French beauty before he sent his wife and baby to London and returned to dreary Berlin. Who in the hell does he think he is? And he never even considered me. After all I've done for him! Now I've waited too long. I don't know what to do. And the main office has become suspiciously silent.”

“Sounds as if there may be a mix-up in communications. Want me to try sending a cable?”

“No, forget it, I've sent a dozen!”

“Sorry, Mr. Ramsey, I don't know what to say.”

Ramsey lit a cigarette. “I guess it's tough luck for both of us,” he said. “I'm warning you, Rosie, if you don't figure something out, I'll—”

“This is ridiculous, Mr. Ramsey.”

“Get off it, R-o-s-i-e,” he snidely drawled. “You'd better go to your well-placed friends at the embassy—or your famous writers. You had better do something to get me out of here. I'm telling you, Rosie, I mean this.”

I was stunned. There was no way I was going to bow to such a threat. Ramsey had many more avenues of escape than I did. After all, Ramsey was a white Christian boy from Chicago. Let him figure it out.

“The hell with you,” I said. “You've finally gone loco—I'm not surprised!”

And I turned and quickly walked past everything I had once loved—my battered desk and chair, the yellowed, crumbling maps taped to the walls, the pneumatic tubes that rocketed my copy down to the presses. Even the rancid overflowing ashtrays and abandoned spittoons.

“I'm warning you!” Ramsey screamed. “I'm warning you, you lousy kike, I'll get you in the end!”

 

I was scared. I had no experience as a refugee and no knowledge about living in a city that had been captured by an enemy. Although the final invasion had not yet occurred (and there was no doubt that it would) the city echoed with silence. The sidewalks were eerily empty. Shutters were pulled down over all the shop windows. Most of the cafés were closed.

Paris was no longer a city of dreams. It had become a city in despair. No longer was there the easy, gliding movement of people on the streets–no longer were people sitting in cafés and dreaming–no longer were people resting on park benches, reading newspapers, chatting with their neighbors, feeding the pigeons. Nothing in Paris was lazy any longer.

My education and my curiosity were rooted in the rough-and-tumble frontier of the American West. Having arrived in Europe after the Great War, I hadn't developed the protective sense that native Europeans had. My only experience of war was my battle with my mother. But for a moment I imagined that if I had to leave Paris on foot, I would have unique instincts for survival. Heading south, I would walk across the country, using the stars as my guide, staying off the roads, finding plants to eat, intuiting from the landscape where there was water, all things that I had learned from living in the mountains. Fancy dreaming, I thought. I've probably lost my natural instincts for survival—and I never had a sixth sense about war. A fatal combination.

 

* * *

 

While reading these pages has ignited my memory, yes, creating an adventure for my mind, I'm exhausted with sorrow. Friends dead. No family left to carry on the tradition. My cousin David, Stella's brother, died many years ago—having never married. I feel bereft of familial history. Sure, I'm a famous newspaperwoman—but so what? That “so what?” has been my constant struggle.

Come on, Rosie, I tell myself—your life has been remarkable. But I have to admit that I get confused with the truth of the heart versus my everyday life. As a foreign correspondent, I met so many people in so many countries. This choice was my own; I had asked for this job, and had been granted that privilege. But that privilege meant that I would never make deep and lasting friendships. It wasn't until I returned to New York that this could change. But by then I was set in my ways—and the possibilities of intimate relationships frightened me.

 

My prewar life was so rich, and yes, so complicated. How I wish I could have done things differently. Beginning with Mr. Hin. I knew he was involved with the Resistance, but he was so enigmatic—so protective of me. I sensed that I was the only person in his life that he was close to. He appeared to have no family, no close friends. Parts of us were very much alike.

Why didn't I push him to talk to me?

I know why. He was the perfect foil for my self-centeredness. He would listen and listen and smile and pat my hand. I would go away bloated with contentment. And what did I mean to him? I have no idea.

In the small pond at the side of my house I planted deep yellow, almost orange, water lilies in his honor. I was creating a place for Mr. Hin to float and look up at the sky. Every few years the lilies have spread so much that they threaten to choke the pond. I used to wade in and do the thinning myself. Now Coleman does it for me, while I direct him from the shore. I am religious about this ritual. It is my penance. I know that by leaving him behind in Paris–by not insisting upon a mutual plan–I again failed someone I loved. After the war I tried to locate him, but it was hopeless. He disappeared into the anonymous mass grave of hatred.

 

And Ramsey? He landed back on his fat little feet in Peoria. Oh, how I disliked him. Still do—although he died many years ago. But I have to give him credit—he not only escaped, he wrote a book about it. In 1954, he sent me a copy, along with a note.

 

Dear Rosie: Enclosed please find a copy of my book. I think you'll be interested in how I escaped . . . especially since you refused to help me. Start at page 193 . . . you'll understand why. Remember Gladys, my milk-drinking girlfriend, who thought she could save the world . . .

 

I turned to page 193 . . .

 

. . . Feeling cornered and abandoned, I was at my wits' end. Living in my office at the old
Paris Courier
, I was drinking too much, occasionally remembering to eat. One afternoon, Gladys, an old girlfriend, walked in.

“I was wondering if you were still here,” she said.

Gladys was an American who had married a Frenchman. Her husband worked at the German legation as a translator. She also had a cranky mother-in-law, who lived with them. “I'm always looking for excuses to get away from Madame,” she told me. “So, I thought I'd drop in and have a look at my old office.”

She looked at me with concern. “Ramsey! Are you ill? You look terrible!”

“No,” I said. “But I will be if I can't get out of this damn city.”

“I'll help you,” she declared. “Don't move. I'll be back in the morning.”

I was relieved. Knowing Gladys, I knew that my escape was to be her newest mission.

Sure enough, the next morning she returned with a bundle of clothes and a rattletrap bicycle.

“Shit, Gladys, I can't ride that thing. Haven't been on one since I was a kid!”

“Well, guess what,” she said. “Either you learn to ride this or you'll be stuck here.

“Now, Ramsey, pay attention. Here's a beret, a workman's jacket and pants, and a pair of sabots. You're to put them on and leave your other clothes here. Believe me, you don't want to be caught looking like an American. Oh, and start practicing riding the bike here in the office—it's certainly big enough with all those desks piled in the corner.

“Listen carefully,” she said. “Since there are no trains leaving Paris, you're going to have to cycle south to Bordeaux. It should take about four days.”

“I'll never make it, Gladys—not in good physical condition, and—”

“For heaven's sake, stop complaining. I thought you were such a tough guy!

“From there,” she continued, “you can take a train to Biarritz. Find your way to the American Consulate and collect your travel documents. They'll take you safely through Spain and into Portugal. If all goes according to plan, you'll ship out from Lisbon on the liner
Manhattan
, back to New York. Now, here's some money. You can pay me back after the war.”

 

There was more in this chapter about his learning to ride the bicycle, finding his way out of Paris, getting lost. Then came the part I liked the best. Terrible for me to admit, but I hope he suffered more than he claimed.

 

. . . All of a sudden, I heard a low-flying airplane. Within seconds, it was diving straight for me. I dove off my bike into a ditch.

I had never been shot at before. Bullets were hitting rocks and setting off sparks of fire. The noise was terrifying. Thirty seconds passed, although it seemed much longer. Then the plane revved its engine and made a sweeping turn to the right and away toward the horizon. The bastard, I thought, he must find it amusing to scare the bejesus out of me. Hope he crashes while heading back to Germany.

 

* * *

 

Berlin, 1940. The sun was out, the sky so deeply blue. I was filled with hope. No one had reported seeing Leon, but this didn't surprise me. Indeed, the lack of news made me hopeful. I would first check into the Hotel Aldon and then go directly to his apartment.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Manon,' the hotel clerk said. ‘Welcome back to Berlin. You have some messages.' And he handed me a few pieces of paper. Mainly, they were from fellow reporters welcoming me back. One was from Pete Grogan:
Need to see you. Meet me at the Press Club.

 

The chief barman, Joseph, didn't even ask me what I wanted; he just nodded his head toward the back. Pete looked up and I could see that there was trouble.

“Hey, R.B., what's up?” Pete said, as if today were an ordinary day.

“Cut the crap, Pete. I can tell that something bad has happened.”

“Yes, to Leon,” he said softly, and I sat down. “Listen, R.B., I'm sorry, really I am. But I kept hoping that someone else would give you the news.”

“Just tell me what happened. I don't care what you hoped.”

“Okay, this is what I heard—”

“Is he dead?”

“I think so. But I'm not positive.”

And all I could do was to sit there, stiff and silent.

“Listen, I'll give you all the information. Just give me a chance to gather my thoughts.”

It was obvious that Pete was nervous. He raised his hand as if he were in school and asked Joseph for another whiskey. “Do you want something?” he asked.

“No.”

“It was last week. Werner Schmitt told me to get to Leon's apartment as quickly as I could. You remember, he's that reporter from Hamburg who is with the Reuters bureau? The one who always wore a clean shirt and a bow tie, even if his trousers smelled of urine?”

“Yeah, I know. Keep talking.”

“In the afternoon, Werner had walked by Leon's building and noticed a number of plainclothes police hanging around the entrance, trying to look inconspicuous. Do you want the entire story or just an abbreviated edition?”

“All of it.”

 

“Leon, as you know, was a master engraver and could copy the most intricate designs. This led to his forging career. He was excellent, could make any document look real. I assume you know that he made the papers for your friend, the saxophone player Richard Moses, and his family? It was because of that job that he began working full-out for the Resistance.”

“Oh, God, no,” I moaned. “Stefan promised me that he would take it to another friend to have it done, not to Leon. It never occurred to me that he would do the job.”