Last Train to Paris (9 page)

 

It was a long walk from my room on Mohrenstrasse to the press office on Wilhelmstrasse. I had to walk past both Ribbentrop's yellow palace and Hitler's stone residence. Once, I almost literally ran into the Führer as he was entering his car. I was daydreaming when suddenly a black leather-clad arm reached out and shoved me out of the way. ‘Hey,' I said in English, ‘what in the hell do–' and before I knew what was happening I was roughly pushed against the building.

“Stay there,” one of his guards demanded, and I had a quick impulse to run. It was a stupid idea, and I knew it at once.

“Papers,” a guard commanded. He was short and muscled and had blond hair greased straight back from his impassive face. His eyes were like two black buttons and held me transfixed for a moment with their coldness. He wore a mustache. Just like Hitler's, of course.

I showed him my papers.

“Jew?” he asked.

“None of your business,” I replied. “I have immunity through the American Embassy. Let me go or I'll report you!”

The impassive man, not surprisingly, sneered. Then, in one fell swoop, he turned, grabbed me by the back of my shoulders, and slammed me against his car—his shiny black symbol of power. My breasts received the brunt of the force and I cried out in pain. He got into the passenger seat, snapped his fingers, and the car drove off, causing me to fall to my knees.

No one helped me. The pedestrians kept walking, eyes staring into nowhere, as if I were invisible.

I kept my confrontations with the Reich from Leon. He had made it clear that the less he knew about my movements in Germany, the better it was for him. This suited me.

 

We correspondents in Berlin found ourselves in a rough spot. Censorship sliced out the real news. Press conferences were a joke. We were being fed propaganda and we all knew it. When the floor was open for questions, only certain reporters were chosen to address Goebbels, or whoever was giving us the news. If another reporter challenged the spokesman, he was ignored. And if a reporter was too nosy, too persistent, he was on the train back to wherever he came from.

Pete Grogan and I had been in yet another press briefing. Pete, having just been chastised by Goebbels for an article he had cabled the day before, was angry. I felt for him. It wasn't fair. I looked around the pressroom and all I could see were blank faces.

Pete sat back in his chair, flipped his notebook shut, and looked out a window. “Let's get out of here,” he whispered. “Our job's a farce.”

“Wait,” I whispered back, “wait until it's over. We don't need to make more enemies than we already have.” The truth was that I didn't want to be sent back to Paris. What I wanted was in Berlin—involvement in history—a chance to make a name for myself. And Leon.

 

* * *

 

I was assigned to cover the public meeting between Hitler and Mussolini. When the meeting was over, as we had planned, I went to Leon's place. I was exhausted and in a cranky mood.

To get to his third-floor apartment, I had to walk up a dirt-stained circular marble staircase with ornate wrought-iron railings. The building had once been a mansion for a wealthy Jewish family, and they had sold it just in time. They had moved to London after the 1933 elections in Germany. Now the building was a rabbit warren of poorly constructed rooms where more than fifty people lived. Leon's apartment consisted of a living room and a bedroom. There was a small niche for the simple kitchen that included a two-burner gas stove, a wooden icebox, and the only sink in the apartment. A cramped toilet was down the hall. The one original wall of the century-old house was in the living room, splendidly paneled in oak, made dark with layers of shellac. The bedroom was incongruously wallpapered with a joyful motif of light red and orange poppies and green leaves. It looked like a watercolor, although it had turned dingy with the dust from Leon's metalwork.

I found him sitting at his worktable under an ugly, cold blue light, bent over a magnifying glass. He was working on a silver plate. I knew not to move, but to stand still until he lifted his head. I liked to watch him engrave. His hands were enormous for such work. His fingers were long and thick, but he was meticulous with every line. I once knew a woman in Nevada who had hands like that. I loved watching her embroider with astonishing delicacy.

“It's good to see you, Rosie,” he said as he polished the plate. Then he opened a cabinet door, placed the plate inside, and locked it.

“Why do you always lock your work away, Leon, don't you trust me?”

“Of course I do,” he said, “but silver's valuable and I have to be careful.”

“What about those other doors?” I asked, pointing to a row of them. “They're locked too.”

He shrugged. “For the same reason. Silver's valuable and I have to be careful.”

I didn't believe him, but sensed that I should drop the subject.

 

‘They claimed that six hundred and fifty thousand people came out to hear Hitler and Mussolini speak,' I said. ‘Everyone was jammed into the Olympic Stadium. I've never in my life seen so many human beings in one place. Like lemmings, they stood in the pouring rain. I was in the press box and could see it all. It gave me the chills.'

“Would you like a drink?” Leon interrupted, and I shook my head no.

“Leon, it was so well organized! Perhaps, instead of lemmings, I should say that they were more like marionettes. Every time they were supposed to roar, they roared; every time they were supposed to salute, they saluted. When they sang that Nazi marching song, ‘Horst Wessel'—I could feel a country going insane. There's something about Hitler's voice that mesmerizes. ‘Today we own Germany. Tomorrow the world.'”

 

It was still dark when I woke the next morning. I reached for Leon, but he was gone. Seeing light coming from under the door, and without meaning to be so quiet, I entered the living room. Sitting at his worktable, he was wearing an old brown soldier's overcoat from the Great War. He had a jeweler's loupe over one eye, and was working on the same silver platter. The radio was softly playing classical music. Not wanting to frighten him, I watched quietly.

What's he engraving? I wondered. And I looked more carefully. Jeez, I realized, he was engraving a swastika. It was embedded in an elaborate background of oak leaves and acorns that decorated the platter. I gasped.

He dropped the tool, making a miserable “oh” sound. Then I could feel him gathering all his anger, and he cried out, “Rosie, why are you spying on me?”

“Ssh,” I said, “you'll wake the neighbors,” and he glared at me.

Leon threw a cloth over the plate, which he put in a cabinet and locked. “Get out of here, Rosie. Go away.” He stomped into the bedroom and slammed the door. Then a moment later, the door opened and he tossed my clothes and shoes at me. I heard him lock the door.

I was horrified. He must be supporting the Reich. I had known he was a communist, and thought that he had voted against Hitler. At least that's what he had told me. Had he changed his thinking? Why did he always appear to be under pressure when doing certain engravings? I had taken Leon for granted, assuming that our conversations were in tune with each other—that our intimacy was something more than just a release of sexual energy.

A few minutes later, Leon entered the room. “What are you doing here?” he said. “I told you to leave.”

“Leon—”

“What, Rosie?”

I couldn't help blurting, “What in the hell are you doing engraving that crap? You lied. You didn't tell me you were a Nazi.”

Leon went to the front door and opened it.

“Go. Right this minute, go! This relationship is over.”

What am I saying? I thought. How could I even consider such an allegation?

“No, not until you tell me the truth!”

“Oh, for Christ's sake, you're such an idiot, Rosie. You're an honest-to-goodness fool. For someone so smart, you're really dumb. Of course I'm not a Nazi, I'm a
Jew
! Now get out—I can't bear to look at you!”

And my fury and distress flew out the door.

“Please, close the door, Leon,” I said softly.

He closed the door, but continued to lean against it.

“Leon, my family lives in New York.”

“You told me they lived in Nevada.”

“My parents do, but the larger family's in New York.”

“They're lucky,” he said. “I would love to be living in New York.”

“You know,” I said, “there are lots of Jews in New York—”

Leon looked at me, puzzled. “Why mention Jews in New York? Are you trying to tell me you're Jewish?”

“Well, half-Jewish,” I finally admitted, “on my mother's side.”

‘Really!' he said sarcastically. ‘I thought you were all Jewish. You look it!'

“What do you mean by that tone of voice, Leon? I don't understand.”

“I've always known that you're Jewish, Rosie. We Jews have built-in antennas about who is one of us—and who is the enemy. Aren't you uncomfortable being in Germany?”

“Of course not,” I said. “Since I've never considered myself Jewish.”

“Are you telling me that you're detached from what's happening here?”

“No, no. I don't mean that I'm not sensitive to people's suffering. It's just that it all seems to be happening to someone else.”

“Well, my dear,” he said, “I'm one hundred percent Jewish, and I have to deal with more serious issues than your worrying about how I make my living. So I think it's a good idea that you leave and we not see each other again.”

I didn't move. Leon didn't move.

“Then, if you're not a Nazi, why are you engraving this stuff?”

“I have no choice, Rosie. And I can't talk about it.”

I looked at my watch. “I've got to go. Can I see you tonight? Nine o'clock at the Aldon?”

“No,” he said, “I'm sorry. It has to be over. I need you to leave me alone.”

“Please, Leon,” I said, standing, “I—”

“Don't say it, Rosie, please don't say it. I honestly can't handle an emotional crisis. I must keep to myself. There's too much at stake.”

“Please, just tonight, just a drink.”

 

I walked through an opulent lobby, surrounded by square pillars of amber-clouded marble, up three steps and through the leather-covered and padded doors with two round windows, outlined with brass brads. I was relieved to see Leon sitting at the bar. The room was so dimly lit that the faintly moving shadows of the waiters formed a gray moiré. He was drinking a whiskey. I was nervous. I knew I was an intuitive woman; that was why I was such a good correspondent. But it could make me a bit paranoid too. My mind was racing. I wanted to turn and go out the door. I was terrified of his rejecting me again.

“I'll have one of those,” I said to the bartender, pointing to his whiskey. “But make mine a double.”

I was thinking. I could finally admit to myself that I had fallen in love—and had absolutely no idea what to do about it. I looked at Leon staring at the opposite wall. He had turned into the most handsome man in the world. I was afraid for him.

“Listen, Leon,” I said. “I know you see me as cantankerous and moody. But it's just a cover-up.”

“Then who are you, Rosie? I get the sense that you've no idea.”

I laughed. “You're right!”

“Go ahead,” he challenged, “try to tell me.”

“Sometimes heartless. Often distant,” I said. “But unintentionally.”

“Well,” he said, “I think you play at being a self-confident, tough newspaperwoman.”

“It's a lie,” I said.

“Is it?” he said. “Perhaps. But I suspect you think that you really are a romantic. Well, you're not. You're practical and determined to a fault. And sometimes I don't like you at all—and other times I think you're wonderful, but this can't go on, Rosie. It really can't.” He was gripping his drink with soot-stained hands, his shoulders hunched, while looking down at the bar. “I said I'd meet you, but it was a mistake. Everything I believe in is being made illegal by this regime. It isn't fair to drag you into it. Please, you'll be doing me a serious favor by not seeing me again.”

“But I don't understand,” I said. “Why does this have to end?”

“I don't have a choice, Rosie. There're actually more important things in my life than being in love with you.”

“You love me?” I said, incredulous, and Leon looked at me softly.

“Yes, but it doesn't mean anything, Rosie. Not now. There's no room for romantic love in my world.”

The waiter brought my double whiskey and I swallowed it as if it were a glass of water.

“I have to go,” he said. “Please don't try to see me again. I insist that you stay far away.” And he placed his hand on my arm and leaned to kiss me.

“No,” I snarled, brushing away his hand and hitting the bar with my fist. “The hell with you.” And I staggered out of the bar, feeling like a fool.

 

Although I was due back in Paris in a few days, I headed to the darkest, dreariest bar I could find. My old Simon's Creek self-loathing returned. I'm no good. Not pretty enough. Not tall enough. I found a gray hair. My breasts sag. I didn't satisfy him. But while I was wallowing in self-pity and depression, I knew I was being dishonest with myself. I knew I wasn't a beauty—but I wasn't unattractive either. I knew that in France I looked French—just as I knew in Germany, I looked like a real Jew. And I knew that although I was considered eccentric, some people thought me interesting.

At the end of my dive into that muddy pool of despair, I understood. I wanted to be heroic in my helplessness. But I didn't have the guts, so I demeaned myself instead. In my imagination, I saw my father looking on with distress. “No, Rosie,” he would have said. “You must stop your drinking.”