The House of Dreams (25 page)

“Where are you taking us? We are Americans!” Varian shouted, taking Mary Jayne's arm and protecting her from the crush of bodies.

“Fry, Bénédite, Breton, Gold…” One by one their names were called, and they followed in line through the back of the police station to where the trucks were waiting.
Is this how it goes?
Varian thought, his breath pluming in the cold night air as he stepped into the gaping darkness of the truck. He heard others breathing there, nervous, short gasps in the darkness.
Perhaps at the end people do as they are told, meekly like animals? Not all of us fight, resist.
He felt Mary Jayne's hand on his arm as the doors slammed shut.

“Where are they taking us, Varian?” Her voice shook. “I don't know what they have done with Raymond.…”

“Killer can look after himself.” He put his arm around her, steadied her as the truck lurched away. In the darkness, he tried to follow the path the truck was taking.
We're heading toward the port,
he thought.
That makes no sense. If they were going to ship us off to one of the camps, we'd head to the station.
The truck bounced along the cobbles, and Varian caught the tang of the Quai des Belges. “We're stopping.”

The truck doors flung open, and a policeman signaled to them: “Out.”

One by one they jumped down, and Varian blinked in the blue streetlights. Hundreds of people were being herded out of trucks just like theirs. “What's going on?” he said.

“They are forcing everyone onto the ship,” André said, pointing behind them. Varian turned to see the huge hull towering over them.

“My God, it's the
Sinaia,
” Varian said. The masts soared above the deck, and two vast chimneys with white bands running around them rose into the night. He felt vertigo sweep over him as he gazed upward. “I traveled around Greece on this a few years ago.”

“Now that is a marvelous coincidence, my friend.”

“Make sure we stay together,” Danny cried out as the crowd jostled them. Varian grabbed Mary Jayne's arm and kept her close as they were forced up the gangplanks. He felt the rock and sway of the boat beneath them, the creak of the boards. Far below, the black sea sloshed against the pier.

“If I'd known they were taking us on a cruise, I would have packed my bathing costume.” Mary Jayne's smile faltered.

“Don't worry,” Varian said. “They can't do a damn thing to us.…” His voice trailed off as they stepped into the hold of the boat. His eyes adjusted to the darkness. “Christ, how many people have they got on board?” The hot, animal smell reminded him of cattle pens, the tang of sweat and fear. Above the stinking pallets of straw, a perfect square of stars hung, the only air from a hatch in the deck. Deep in the bowels of the boat, someone played a Spanish flamenco tune, melancholy and plaintive.

“Over there,” a policeman said, pointing to the far corner of the deck.

“What about bathrooms? Where will we sleep?”

The policeman indicated the floor. Squalid straw pallets had been hastily thrown down.
“Pipi?”
He pointed up to the top deck.

“And food? Water?” Varian demanded.

He shrugged and pointed at a tin bowl on the floor nearby. “Tonight it is too late. Perhaps tomorrow you will be lucky.” He swung his gun over one shoulder. “Choose one person from the group to collect food for you all. There will be a loaf of black bread and a pail of coffee to share in the morning.”

“Why, it's a regular five-star resort,” Mary Jayne said. She shivered in spite of the press of bodies. Varian shrugged off his jacket and draped it around her shoulders. “Thank you.” She looked up at Varian. “I'm afraid. Where do you think they are taking us?”

“I don't know.” Varian looked at Danny.

“You two will be fine,” he said. “We have to try and get word to the American consulate, somehow. As for us…” His voice trailed off as he gazed around the ship.

“They can't hold us here, can they?” Mary Jayne's voice shook. “What—what will they do to us? I'm worried about Killer.”

“I imagine Monsieur Couraud can take care of himself,” André said. He took off his coat and spread it out on the nearest straw pallet, gesturing for Mary Jayne to sit down. “Courage, my friends. This is going to be a long night.”

 

THIRTY-ONE

F
LYING
P
OINT
, L
ONG
I
SLAND

2000

G
ABRIEL

It's something that kids like Sophie will never understand, or at least I hope they won't. This was a so-called civilized European country, and they were just rounding up people from their homes, from the streets, and slinging them in holes barely fit for animals. They held them in three boats, four forts, and some of the local cinemas without explanation. In all, about twenty thousand people were rounded up, just to tidy the streets for Pétain's visit.

“So where were you when all this was going on?” she says.

I sway on my feet as I stand, the breath rasping in my throat. The sun seems to flare and arc above the horizon, luminous as phosphorus. I can hardly see her, the light's a halo around her, and I cover my eyes.

“Gabriel, I said, where were you?” She walks at my side as I stagger along the beach.

“With Annie, of course. When you are young, and in love, you steal time together whenever and however you can.”

*   *   *

I had arranged a rendezvous with Annie at the public library in the Palais des Arts on place Auguste-Carli. Her parents could hardly object to her studying, and it was somewhere warm and quiet to meet. It thrills me, even now, thinking of the anticipation of seeing her. The silence, the peace of the library, the quiet breathing of the people bent over the old desks, studying. One day I saw Breton there, his head in his hands as he studied a pile of leather-bound books. I didn't dare disturb him, of course.

It was one of our favorite places to meet—we changed the stacks each time, just in case Annie's mother followed her. This time I was waiting in ornithology. Varian was a big bird-watcher, and he had taken me out in the grounds of Air-Bel, let me try his binoculars. He was a member of some fancy American club—the Audubon Society—and he knew all the Latin names of the birds, their calls, everything. I went early to the library, spent hours flicking through heavy leather books with marble endpapers. The illustrations were dazzling—the clarity and colors. I remember a “meet the artist” lecture in the city thirty years back, when some chinless art historian was pontificating about why one of my most celebrated works was called “Bird.” “Oh, it must be because of this and that,” he said, “freedom, peace, it's a homage to Brâncuşi or Picasso's doves, clearly.…” I was bored by then, so I just let him prattle on. I wasn't about to tell him it was named for an afternoon of erotic anticipation spent flicking through bird books while my friends were being rounded up like cattle. The shame of that makes my cheeks burn even now. The streets were strangely quiet by the time I walked back to my hotel. Then, when I went out to Air-Bel on Sunday, I found out what had happened.

“Bit late by then,” Sophie says, her voice floating on the breeze.

“I did everything I could.” I ball my fist up on my chest. I can feel my heart jumping around beneath my ribs. “It took me three days to find out where they were holding everyone.”

“Wasn't that a risk for you, to go down to the docks?”

“I didn't give a damn. I owed Varian, all of them, everything.” The guilt is bitter as lemon juice, still. “Of course, when I was on my way to the
Sinaia,
who did I bump into but Quimby?” He appeared out of nowhere from a narrow side road like the sudden smell of gas.

“Well, what a fortunate surprise,” he said. “I was just on my way to your hotel.”

“No,” I said. “We agreed you wouldn't come there.”

“Would you rather I came out to the château?” He stepped so close, I could smell his sweat and cologne. He repulsed me, but I wouldn't back away. I pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, the flame dancing in his spectacles. He moved back a pace, leaned against the damp stone wall. “I'm out of cash.”

“I'm not giving you any more money, I can't.”

“Oh, I know you haven't got any on you,” he said, inspecting his nails. “Or in your room.”

“You
have
been to my hotel!” I said. Thank God I had entrusted Annie with the money. If I couldn't get to her, there's no way Quimby could get past Monsieur and Madame Bouchard.

“You really are peculiar,” he said, still admiring his buffed fingernails. “For one left with so little, you are remarkably picky about your things.” He looked up at me then. “I don't care where you've hidden the cash, but go and get it. I want another five hundred francs by tomorrow.”

“Or what?”

“Or I'll march right into the ARC and tell them everything.” He dusted off the shoulder of his overcoat. “Oh, and in case you are thinking of bumping me off or anything silly like that, I've taken … precautions. And I've left a letter with my concierge to be passed to Monsieur Fry should anything happen to me.”

“I'll get it,” I lied. I just wanted to get to the docks. I pushed past him and kept running, doubling back on myself again and again through the winding streets to make sure he wasn't following me.

At last I reached the
Sinaia
. Maybe you've seen that photograph of Marcel Duchamp standing on the prow of the boat that eventually liberated him from Marseille in 1942? He was heading out to Casablanca, and he stood up there like a ship's figurehead, waving, full of joy. People think of boats as great symbols of liberty, but the
Sinaia
did not seem like that to me. I joined the crowds of women and children on the docks, shouting up to their imprisoned men. The huge anchors tethered the boat, chains plunging into the choppy ocean. All I could see were cranes and rigging, ropes straining, birds shrieking in silhouette. It terrified me. I shielded my eyes, looked along the row of faces. It took me a moment to make them out, but then I spotted Fry, head and shoulders above everyone else.

“Hey!” I yelled, waving my arms above my head. “Hey! Varian!” They were too high, too far away, for me to hear what he was shouting to me. I saw him talking to someone at his side—I couldn't work out who, but then I saw him swing his arm back and throw something.

I pushed through and shoved some kid aside who was reaching for whatever Varian had thrown. It was a note, wrapped around a ten-franc piece. I gave the coin to the boy and waved the note in the air to show Fry I had it.

*   *   *

I went straight to the U.S. consulate, just as Varian asked. I knew better than to trust the receptionist by now. I just asked to see Harry Bingham and waited quietly for him. It can only have been a few hours, but it seemed to take forever. Bingham finally appeared at the door of his office, his kind, gentle face breaking into a smile.

“Ah, Monsieur Lambert. We met before?”

“Briefly.”

“I'm sorry to keep you waiting. It's been a hell of a day with the aftermath of all these raids.” He ushered me into his office. “How can I help you?” I explained what was going on as quickly as possible and watched his face set hard with anger. We stood by the window, looking down on the queue of people snaking along the pavement two abreast to the consulate. The café tables and chairs were piled up for the day, stacked between the plane trees.

“From up here, everyone looks the same,” he said quietly. “Look—hat after hat, faceless, anonymous.” He paused. “The trick is to make people care, you know, to name them to the world. Men like Fry are making a real difference.” He laughed dryly. “You know what the U.S. officials call all the paperwork, all the hundreds of letters Varian keeps them tied in knots with? ‘Fryana.'” He paused. “I've seen too many people's grief and anger turn to disillusionment. Not with Fry. He and his little tribe of amateurs are outwitting the Vichy stooges with sheer intellect, and the drive that comes from knowing they are serving justice.” Bingham sighed. “I envy them. My hands are tied here. The consul general, Hurley, wants nothing to do with the ARC, and Consul Fullerton isn't a bad man, but he's cautious. Often the best I can do is to give an affidavit in place of a passport.” Of course, that wasn't true. I found out after the war that Bingham was immensely brave. He helped many, many people and rescued Lion Feuchtwanger, the prominent German Jewish literary figure, from a Vichy detention center. Feuchtwanger had been one of the first to denounce the brutality of the Nazis, so of course they came after him. Harry sheltered him and his wife, Marta, in his own house and helped them escape to the United States. Bingham was a good man, a righteous man, just like Varian.

Ever the diplomat, he kept his thoughts to himself as we stood at the window, and he simply picked up his coat and hat and told the girl on the reception desk that we were going out on official business. I had to laugh at the look on her hard, painted face as outraged people swarmed around her desk, gesticulating and shouting.

The first thing we did when we reached the center of town was stop at a bakery, and Bingham bought a tray of sandwiches. The car drove onto the dock and pulled up beside the armed guards at the foot of the gangplank.

Bingham stepped out of the car and took the plate of food. He was a tall man, like Fry, and imposing, and I saw the crowd part before him like Moses.

“Good day,” he said to the guards. “My name is Hiram Bingham and I am the American vice-consul. You are holding American citizens on that boat, and I will be seeking their immediate release.” He handed the plate to one of the guards and pulled out his business card. He wrote on the back,
To Fry, with compliments, HB,
and tucked it beneath the waxed paper. “Now, perhaps one of your colleagues would be good enough to deliver that to Mr. Varian Fry and his colleagues.” The guard opened his mouth to protest, but Harry's look stopped him in his tracks. “Meantime, I'd like to have a word with your boss, if you'd be kind enough to point the way.”