Last Train to Paris (8 page)

“Forget it, Mr. Ramsey. Neither Andy nor I are that kind of sob-sister-story writer, and—”

“And—by the way,” he interrupted, ignoring me, “this isn't a political story. Andy, you need to put more energy into the writing. Write to the masses, not the highbrows.”

I swallowed hard, thinking: What in the hell's wrong with our writing, you imbecile? Before, you told us it was too flowery; now it's not dimwitted enough.

 

I was so angry, so upset, that I fumbled my way onto the Métro, then got off at the wrong stop and had to walk back to the rue du Vieux-Colombier. I found Clara sitting up in bed, staring out the window.

“Aunt Clara, I have something to—”

“Yes, I know, dear, the inspector was here—he'll be back in a little while. I think she's dead. I can just feel it.”

“No, wait, Clara. Wait. Perhaps she's been kidnapped? Perhaps this is a publicity stunt? Perhaps—”

“Oh, Rosie, what's happening? I don't understand. Why this violence against our family? We left Russia to escape this—and now look what has happened.”

I could see that Clara was too horrified even to cry. I held her hand. There was nothing to say. We had to wait to hear from Inspector Pascal.

A while later, his arrival was announced by the concierge. We went downstairs to the lobby and the three of us sat in the back near the garden.

“By any chance, Inspector,” I asked, “do you think Stella could be alive?”

The inspector sighed. ‘There's nothing to substantiate the belief that the girl's dead. Then again, there's no proof that she's still alive. Last night we rounded up questionable characters and checked their papers. About a hundred men were arrested, most for being émigrés without identity cards, some for unsolved petty crimes. It's sad. But not a clue was found.'

“What will happen to the men you arrested?” Clara asked, looking relieved to be worrying about something else.

“They'll be deported, probably to Switzerland. Within a few days, they'll be back.” And the inspector turned and looked pointedly at me.

“What's the matter?” I said.

“Look, Miss Manon, I'm worried about all of you. I know you're Jewish. Take caution. Especially working in Berlin—you're playing with fire. And here in Paris, anti-Semitic pamphlets are being distributed all over the city. If you're ever arrested here, tell them to contact me. But be vigilant. These are dangerous times.”

“I'm not worried, Inspector, but thanks for the warning. Maybe being half Jewish will let me off the hook.”

“That's ridic—” he started to say, and then realized that Clara had a horrified look on her face.

“Sorry,” he said, looking at me. “I'll check back with you as soon as I have more information.”

 

Later, Andy called from the hotel's front desk. He had attended a news conference led by the inspector and written a good article. Watching his trembling hands, I knew what Andy's staying sober was costing him.

“Thanks, Andy, for writing this,” I said, and I placed a hand on his.

“Another front-page, banner story,” Andy said with sarcasm. “Ramsey will be thrilled.”

 

After Andy returned to the office, I went back upstairs to Clara's room and insisted that we go for dinner. We strolled along the boulevard St. Germain. The street lamps gave off a pale yellow glow, blurring the evening like a painting by Utrillo. Even the voices of the pedestrians were soft, and we found ourselves almost whispering. We turned left onto the rue de l'Ancienne Comédie, meandering past a row of small galleries and antique shops. Displayed in one of the windows were three small charcoal drawings by Giacometti.

“That's what I feel like,” Clara said, “a line that's disappearing into the horizon. Lost.” I took her hand and we walked.

‘Let's go to Deux Magots,' I said. ‘It's late, and not so crowded, and I love to listen to that.' And I pointed to an old tramp wearing drooping and patched trousers held up by a thick leather belt, a peasant's shirt, originally blue, but now black with grime, and a beret. He was clasping a battered violin to his chest. ‘He's remarkable. When you hear him play, you'll see what I mean.' I walked over and handed him money. For just a short time, we could forget our distress. The evening was transformed as the old man played Massenet's ‘Meditation.'

 

I wish that I could rewrite this story. Go back to the beginning. Have Stella come bouncing through the door in her usual maddening fashion. But I would not be able to rewrite my anger at her—nor could I find a way to be sympathetic. I was too angry—too concerned for my aunt. And I was displeased with myself for not feeling more worried about Stella's well-being. Perhaps my mother had been right. I didn't care for anyone but myself.

 

The next morning I decided to retrace Bobby Hunter's trail. Maybe the police had overlooked something—and it turned out that they had. I went to Lancel's, a leather and jewelry shop on the boulevard des Italiens, where Hunter had bought a wallet with one of Stella's American Express checks. I found the saleswoman who had waited on him.

“Yes, I remember,” she said. “A handsome man came into the shop. He spoke beautiful English.”

“Was it British English?” I asked.

“No,” she said, “an impeccable American English.”

Ah—at that moment I remembered that I had heard a small snatch of conversation between Stella and Bobby Hunter at the hotel. For all this time, I had forgotten how surprised I was to hear him speaking English with an American accent.

As soon as I was on the street, I went into a bar and called Inspector Pascal. ‘Thanks, Miss Manon,' he said. ‘This is important.'

 

Three weeks of waiting. Nothing new. Clara was withering. “I'm going back to New York,” she informed me. “I've booked passage for next Wednesday. It's useless. There's nothing more I can do. Even Inspector Pascal told me that it's over. They've put the case in the icebox.” And I had to control myself not to laugh. It was a fleeting moment's reprieve.

 

I accompanied Clara on the boat train from the Gare du Nord to the liner
Statendam
at Le Havre. We had a quiet journey. Everything had been said. It was a dark night. No moon to show the way, no stars to guide the wanderers.

Once we arrived at the quay, there were indeed large numbers of wanderers. Frightened-looking people were everywhere. I could see the anxiety in their eyes. I assumed they were Jewish—and we soon learned that I was correct. Clara and I watched them warily. One by one, each of the travelers went past the customs house, handing an official their precious papers:
Cartes d
'
identité d'étranger
and passports. I knew that most had been bought on the black market–forged, new-old photos carefully pasted in place, aged with fine dirt. Some of the émigrés
looked as if they were holding their breath. I heard one woman say to her husband, “Eli, they're not going to let us on. I can feel it in my bones.”

“Hush, Sarah, hush, it'll be all right.” And her husband took her hand to lead her to the official. She turned her face away, not able to look while he stamped her papers. I watched to see if I could see a change on Sarah's face, but there was nothing. Her fear was too intense. Even the grandeur of the boat, decked out with its glittering strings of lights that made the moment feel like a celebration, wasn't enough for her. She had to pass one line of passengers, who were dancing up the right side of the gangplank. The line on the left, which included Sarah and Eli, was slowly trudging, the passengers knowing they might be leaving behind their villages, their countries, their families forever.

Clara looked stunned. “They'll never get the Jewish population of France to safety this way,” she said. “It would take years!”

And I knew she was right, but didn't want to say anything to add to her anxiety.

I was ashamed to watch the American passengers. They were exuding cheer—carrying bottles of champagne, baskets of expensive foods, calling out to each other apparently without a care in the world.

“What are you going to do, Rosie?” Clara asked, interrupting my anger. “You know you can't stay. There'll be a war.”

There was no answer. I agreed with her.

“Rosie,” she persisted, “no matter how hard you try, you'll always have the Western twang in your voice and the ancient tribes of Israel on your face. Why can't you just accept that?”

“I'm trying, Clara. I am.”

“Good-bye, my dear,” she said. “I don't know what I would have done without you.” And she climbed the gangplank with the refugees, not the Americans.

I waited until the ship sailed. It felt odd seeing Clara off. Should I be going with her? I honestly didn't know who I was anymore. Was I an American? Or had I so completely transformed myself that I had lost my identity? Ever since landing on the shores of Europe I had been trying to recast myself as a Frenchwoman. Because of my looks, I fit neatly into the Parisian community. And because of my ease with the language, I had almost begun to think that I was a different person. Now, having spent time with Clara, I knew I had to drop the French pretense.

 

* * *

 

Beginning in 1936, I had worked on the
Courier
's foreign desk in Berlin. Every couple of months I would have to return to Paris to check in with my paper. It was nice to take a break from the unrelenting apprehension of living in the Third Reich—but it was also difficult. Leaving Leon made me nervous. His being a member of the Communist Party put him in jeopardy. I thought that if I were in Berlin, and he were arrested, I could use my contacts to get him released and out of the country.

But being in Paris, even though it was under the same threatening sky as the rest of Europe, was like traveling to the private planet of the sun goddess. No matter what the season, I was always struck by the subtle beauty of the gardens—by the wavering lines of ancient trees—by the variations in colors of the sky. Traveling though the countryside to Paris reminded me of Proust and his imaginary Balbec. The scenery was so delicate, so graceful—it was as if it had been lovingly embroidered into the fabric of the land.

 

It was this vast piece of embroidery that I have tried to replicate here on my land in the little mountains of New York State. My garden is planted in a landscape of lines and colors and shapes and shadings. I've always imagined that if I went up in a balloon, my garden would remind me of a quiet Vuillard painting. And I feel that then, high up in the sky, my heart would finally, peacefully burst, and I could die in bliss.

 

But bliss was in Berlin. I would take the dark-blue Nord Express back to Germany. The first time I boarded the train and we chugged out of Paris, it was as if I were entering a dream. We moved through such glorious country, passing by small villages whose lanes were lined with chestnut and lime trees reflecting each other in a dizzy pattern. The French architecture was delicate, romantic. Soft pink and yellow stone pillars balanced narrative cornices; houses were colored with subtle fading pastels; the scale of the buildings was pleasant, almost dreamlike. But once I was in Belgium, I began to notice gloom. And by the time I crossed the German frontier at Aachen and passed over the Rhine River, I had entered a different world. The cottages became squat, without a touch of elegance.

That first journey took almost twenty-one hours. Finally, riding through the dismal suburbs of Berlin, I arrived at the Anhalter railway terminus and stepped down onto the platform under its grand glass roof. But I couldn't see the sky. It was seven at night and already dark, with no moon, and dim streetlights. There was a light drizzle. I set out on foot, following written directions to the bureau's office. Soon I heard a vague sound and thought it sounded like a gathering of people. Then the noise rose in volume and quickly became thunderous. What I saw and heard marching down a broad boulevard were legions of soldiers of the Wehrmacht, Nazi youth groups, and members of the National Socialist German Workers' Party. The soldiers, with their steel-gray helmets matching their steel-gray uniforms, were carrying carbines on their left shoulders. Their right arms swung like metronomes in perfect cadence, while they slammed their boots against the cobblestones. The youth groups were carrying Nazi flags, hundreds of them, all drooping in the rain. The Workers' Party was carrying the banners. The rolling cacophony of voices became clearer and clearer:
Germans, awake from your nightmare! Jews have no place in our Empire!
 

I was stunned. I simply stood there and shivered. Welcome to your new life, I thought. Is this what you wanted?

 

It was tragic, crushing, to observe what was happening in Germany. I needed to find a way to relieve the tension. After a few months, I wired my boss in New York to ask if I could write a column about what I was seeing outside the arena of my political reporting. With his blessing, I began writing a weekly column called “Berlin Journal.” An elaborately painted sign that I saw in front of a clothing store prompted my first column. I used it as my lead sentence.
GERMANS, DEFEND YOURSELVES—DO NOT BUY FROM JEWS
read a sign in a shop window
.
There's no beauty in this city
.
I look at people's faces, trying to sense their moods, but I can't read an emotion. Their eyes are blank.

 

Looking back, I wonder how I maintained my equilibrium. The signals heralding doom were everywhere. I saw them, tried to ignore them. But it was clear that Berlin was turning gray with fear. The apathy was palpable. Women shopping for food couldn't bear to look up at a clear blue sky. Instead, they looked at the sidewalk, or to the next line they had to stand in—but they were always looking down. I kept reminding myself that I didn't live in Germany, that I was a citizen of a faraway country. For the first time, I was homesick.