Last Train to Paris (31 page)

“Why didn't he contact me!”

There was a long pause.

“Because he married me instead, Miss Manon.”

Another long pause.

“Tell me the rest,” I said. “It doesn't matter anymore.”

“Unfortunately,” she continued, “the apartment was on the wrong side of Berlin. Yet again, we were fenced in—this time here, in the eastern section of the city. We simply did not have the emotional energy to get out in time. Nor did either of us really care who was running the country—as long as we could be living in clean quarters and able to eat nourishing food and drink fresh water. Simple, isn't it, in the end?” she said. “Basic amenities. But our problem became one of health. Between Leon's working with metals and his incessant smoking, he became ill, with what we thought was severe bronchitis. But in fact, it was lung cancer. He refused treatment. I understood and accepted his decision. He died in 1979.”

 

She's so straightforward, I thought. Died. Done. Leon gone.

 

“I'm sorry to bring you this news, Miss Manon.”

“Why?” I asked. “Our relationship was over such a long time ago.”

Ruth was not comfortable with my question. She was wringing her hands. ‘Many of us who survived the war,' she said quietly, forcing me to lean forward, ‘have a deep sense of needing to complete our unfinished business. We know our families are dead. We know we've lost everything–but many threads had been left dangling. I don't suffer this need–I have no unfinished business. But Leon did. With you and Gerard.'

“Gerard! I shouted. “For Christ's sake. He let Leon be arrested. When I met him, I begged him to free Leon.”

“Please, Miss Manon, please, don't yell,” she said. “You make me very nervous.”

“Ha! Didn't Leon warn you that I was opinionated and noisy?”

I was irritated by Ruth's regal calmness. I was fidgeting like a crazy old hen.

“Is there no justice?” I said.

Ruth sighed, “There is very little. But please know that Leon also loved you. To him you represented an unforgettable vigor and exhilaration for life. All I could offer was the comfort of devotion, of simply being with him.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “But I don't understand why he didn't contact me.”

“Miss Manon,” she said, “you know it is possible to love more than once in a lifetime. For the last part of Leon's life he loved me.”

And then she stood, smoothed her skirt, and picked up her purse.

“Oh, no, you're not going,” I said. “Please stay and have dinner with me. I promise not to scream and yell.”

“No, Miss Manon, thank you, but I must go. This meeting has been hard for me and I need to leave.”

We shook hands. There was no embrace. She turned and left.

 

Finally, in Berlin, in 1989, the dream ended.

 

For most of my life, my anger has flared like a wild brush fire on the steppes of the Nevada mountains. Some people say that getting old softens your view of the world. Not me. I see the behavior of the world more clearly, allowing my anger to be more precise. Yet, although I still like to argue and engage in intellectual combat, the anger is cooler and I'm not as critical as I used to be.

 

It is twilight. I have walked around to the west side of my house. I keep a chair there so I can watch the sun go down. Tonight the air is being softly pushed about by a flock of noisy sparrows. I hold down the pages on my lap, tempted to let them be lifted by the wind. What am I waiting for?

 

THE END

New York Herald Tribune
, European Edition, Paris, 1937–
1939.

P. Berthelot,
Graphologie
, in
La Grande encyclopédie
, 2nd ed. (Paris: 1886–1902), vol. 19, p. 220.

 

 

 

Before turning to writing, Michele Zackheim was a visual artist whose work was shown in numerous museums and galleries. She is also the author of the nonfiction book
Einstein's Daughter: The Search for Lieserl
and the novels
Violette's Embrace
and
Broken Colors
(Europa). She lives in New York City.