The Muralist: A Novel

by B. A. Shapiro

  Every day they are taking more Jews away. Sometimes they shoot people. Whenever they want. For no reason. You remember Monsieur and Madame Milhaud from the pharmacy? Jean Plante? Old Mrs. Lunel? All gone just in this past week. We think to Drancy. So many others, too. The rabbi and his family have disappeared. There are terrible stories about trains going from Drancy to labor camps in Poland. I am sick with despair and worry, but try to stay brave for Alain.

  I am sorry to burden you with all this, but it is vital you know what is happening so you can tell people in America. All of the rumors you hear are true. Even the ones you cannot believe. And there is worse to come, of this I am sure.

  I cannot tell you how relieved I am that you are safe in New York. If only we had understood the danger and left earlier. But please do not despair and please continue to pursue the visas. Even though it is more difficult now, I believe once we have all the papers in hand, we will be able to come to you.

  I have always loved you, my Alizée, deeply, completely, as a mother, and I always will. You must remember that our family is within you, that you will be able to carry all of us into the future. No matter what happens.

  Now we no longer need just visas from America, now we need the United States to come to our aid. There will be horrors beyond anything anyone can imagine if your President Roosevelt does not declare war on Germany. There may be these same horrors even if he does.

  I find myself unable to pray, for a god who would allow this to happen is no god of mine. I cry for my babies. I cry for the world.

  Je t’embrasse fort,

  Chantal

  Alizée reached for her mother’s ring, grasped nothing. The room flattened, drained of color, became almost two-dimensional. She gasped for breath. Tante didn’t believe in God anymore.

  28

  ELEANOR

  It wasn’t often that Eleanor had the opportunity to be alone with Franklin. He was consumed with the war in Europe and the looming election, neither of which was going well. At first, seeing exhaustion written all over his face, she tried to keep the conversation light, talking about their daughter and an upcoming state dinner. But things were too dire for idle chitchat, and she was bursting with fury at Breckinridge Long.

  “Almost every visa request is being turned down,” she said, trying to keep the stridency out of her voice. “Even for people with spotless credentials. I’ve seen the rejected applications myself. Something does seem wrong.”

  “What does seem wrong?” Franklin asked. “Your SS Quanza passengers got their visas.”

  “They weren’t my passengers. They were Jewish refugees from occupied France. And they were only eighty-some odd souls out of the tens of thousands who need our help.”

  “They were allowed into the country,” he said stiffly.

  “Only because we went around Long.”

  “He’s just doing his job. What he thinks is best for the country.”

  Eleanor knew Franklin could be loyal beyond reason, but this was far, far beyond reason. “I don’t believe that and neither do you,” she declared. “He’s anti-Semitic and mean-spirited to boot.”

  “Eleanor! That’s—”

  “People are dying, Franklin, and we can do something to stop it. You can do something to stop it.”

  “It’s not that simple, and you know it.” His voice was cold.

  She tamped down her anger, knowing it would only hurt her argument. “I’m not saying it’ll be easy or we won’t face opposition. I’m saying this is something we need to do as human beings. That if we don’t, it might be the greatest regret of our lives.”

  Franklin stared over her shoulder, clearly trying to see into a future that couldn’t be seen.

  “I know you find the situation just as appalling as I do.”

  “And you also know my hands are tied. Willkie and the Republicans are out for blood, and one false step is all they need. Look what Kennedy and Lindbergh did when you bought a simple painting.”

  “Which was absurd, and all the more reason that you need to get out there and explain your positions before the election.”

  Franklin ignored her rebuke to his contention that the American people needed a working president more than they needed a working campaigner. “You’ll be happy to know that Harold and I were discussing ways to encourage our supporters to become more active and vocal.”

  Eleanor believed he had to do much more than this, but at least it was a start. “And?”

  “Everything’s on the table. Direct solicitation by me—and you—to all Democratic senators and congressmen. Events hosted by the campaign to bring these people together to strategize. Smaller gatherings at exclusive venues for the press and our biggest contributors.”

  “What kind of venues?”

  “We were thinking hotels in various cities for the larger events and maybe Hyde Park for the more intimate.” He eyed her warily. “Perhaps even Val-Kill . . . You know how the reporters are always begging for a chance to see it.”

  Eleanor hesitated. Val-Kill was her private retreat, not a place for political maneuverings, but if Franklin was going to win the election, they all had to make sacrifices. Plus, his reference to Lindbergh and Kennedy reminded her that Alizée’s Turned was hanging on the wall of her dining room. No one had seen it beyond a small group of her friends, and an event like this would be the perfect opportunity to put it in front of a large number of influential people, not to mention the press. It had been almost two weeks since the Herald op-ed, and so much had happened in the world since then that perhaps no one would make the connection.

  “Let me think about it,” she said to Franklin’s obvious surprise.

  29

  ALIZÉE

  Through the train window, she watched the voluptuous hills of upstate New York rise and fall. Although it was broiling hot in the car, on the other side of the dusty glass it looked cool and green and welcoming. The landscape was reminiscent of the north of France, of carefree summer vacations before her parents died: Maman, Papa, and Henri, along with Oncle, Tante, Babette, and baby Alain, hiking through the hills, picnicking by the river. She wondered what that countryside looked like now. Not cool and green and welcoming, she was sure. Nor was her family without care.

  She focused on the colorful names of the places passing by: Spuyten Duyvil, Dobbs Ferry, Ardsley-on-Hudson, Croton-Harmon, Peekskill, Manitou, Breakneck Ridge. So many different languages, so many different peoples, lending names to towns that stood side by side. America at its best, with open arms. She only hoped the country would somehow recapture that spirit.

  Lee was asleep beside her, snoring softly, sweat gathering into dots on her forehead. Alizée had been up until three in the morning painting and wished she could sleep, too. But sleep wasn’t coming easily these days. She was constantly fighting off visions of hulking German tanks rolling across the soft French countryside, devouring everything in their path. Of Oncle in his grimy cell. Of Tante and Alain huddled together, alone and scared. Of Henri making his way over the inhospitable Pyrenees. And what of Babette in Belgium, which had also surrendered to Hitler?

  Tante’s last letter was always with her, the words seared into her brain. All of the rumors you hear are true. Even the ones you cannot believe. Alizée forced her eyes closed, but within seconds they popped open again. A god who would allow this to happen is no god of mine. She needed Mrs. Roosevelt to have encouraging news about the congressman bringing refugees into Texas. About the accelerated visa program. She needed hope.

  When they arrived at Wolfe’s Cove Station in Hyde Park, she ran her fingers through her hair, hoping to calm her damp curls, and looked out the window. Mrs. Roosevelt said they would be met at the train, so she was expecting a cab or, if they were really lucky, maybe a chauffeured limousine. What she didn’t expect was the First Lady to be waiting on the platform.

  Mrs. Roosevelt raised her arm and waved when Alizée appeared at the open car door. Alizée stopped in disbelief, momentarily blocking the traff
ic behind her. She stared at Lee in wide-eyed wonder.

  “Whoa, Nelly,” Lee said, then looped her arm through Alizée’s. “You done good. Damn good.”

  When they stepped onto the platform, the cool breeze was literally a breath of fresh air after the stifling train and even more stifling city. Alizée greedily pulled it into her lungs.

  Mrs. Roosevelt came toward them, a porter on her heels. Surprisingly, no one in the station appeared either excited or nonplussed by the First Lady’s presence. Perhaps this wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. Although it sure was for her.

  “Girls, girls,” Mrs. Roosevelt said. “I’m so happy you could make it.” She was wearing, of all things, a riding habit and looked so much more relaxed and happy than she had in the city. “You must be hot and dusty, let’s go right back and have us a swim before dinner.”

  Alizée looked at Lee, who appeared as stunned as she was. “We’d love to,” she finally said. “But we didn’t bring bathing suits.”

  “That won’t be problem.” The First Lady waved them into the backseat of a large car, which wasn’t a limousine but did have a uniformed chauffeur at the wheel. “If there’s one thing we don’t lack for at Val-Kill, it’s swimming costumes.” She turned to the driver. “We’re going to go home please, Lester.”

  As they drove, Mrs. Roosevelt pointed out the places she loved best: where they hiked, where they rode, where they picnicked. The car turned down a long drive, and she gestured toward an imposing mansion. “That’s Springwood. We just call it the big house. It’s been in the Roosevelt family for generations.”

  Alizée stared at the huge brick residence with its columned porticos and what seemed like hundreds of mullioned windows. “Why would you want another house if you could live there?”

  Mrs. Roosevelt laughed. “I stay there when Franklin and the children are up, but it’s my mother-in-law’s house, and she rules the roost. I prefer my own little cottage.”

  Of course, it was no little cottage, but neither was it anywhere as grand as Springwood. They parked in front of a sprawling but casual two-story house set within a grove of trees. It had screened-in porches on two sides, multiple chimneys, and was completely and delightfully unassuming.

  As the chauffeur brought the suitcases inside, Mrs. Roosevelt showed them the brook that ran along the side of the yard. “It’s called Val-Kill. Dutch for valley stream or waterfall or water stream. The house is its namesake. Lovely, isn’t it?” She raised her arms and wiggled her fingers in a girlish gesture of delight. “Isn’t the peace just divine?” she cried while waving them to the front door.

  The inside was as modest as the outside, with wood-paneled rooms full of comfortable furniture scattered willy-nilly in an inviting, unpretentious way. The girls’ second-floor room was small but spotless, a painted wooden dresser and two iron-post beds covered with mismatched but colorful spreads. The windows were thrown wide, and the aroma of woods and rushing water wafted in on the breeze.

  Within minutes, the housekeeper brought up a half-dozen bathing suits for Lee and Alizée to try on. After donning their swimming costumes, the girls headed out. The housekeeper pointed them toward the pool and said that Mrs. Roosevelt was in her study but would join them soon.

  Alizée felt ridiculous wearing a shirt that was too short to cover her bathing suit, which was at least two sizes too big. Babette would be horrified. In contrast to their usual fashion choices, Lee had found a red suit that was a perfect fit for her curvy figure and was wearing it under a silk bathrobe Igor had given her as a consolation prize before he left for Florida. Alizée’s only comfort was that given Mrs. Roosevelt’s obvious lack of interest in her own wardrobe, she’d probably never notice, and if she did, she wouldn’t care.

  They were sitting on the edge of the pool, legs dangling into the water when Mrs. Roosevelt arrived. The First Lady dove in and swam a few lengths in a strong crawl, then hoisted herself up next to them. She squeezed the water from her hair. “Marvelous. Just marvelous.”

  “We can’t begin to thank you for inviting us,” Alizée said.

  “It’s you girls who are doing me the favor. Adding a little youth and beauty to the company. Not to mention talent.”

  “I’ve got to tell you that we’re a little intimidated by your important guests,” Alizée said.

  Lee nodded. “And we don’t intimidate easily.”

  “Almost every famous person was once just an ordinary person, kings and queens excluded,” Mrs. Roosevelt told them. “And I’ll tell you a little secret: just about every one of them is afraid someone’s going to figure out that they’re still just as ordinary as they’ve always been.”

  “I know more than a few artists who fit that description,” Alizée said.

  Both Lee and the First Lady laughed.

  “And the whole op-ed thing?” Alizée asked. “You don’t think it’ll be a problem?”

  “Let’s hope not, but if someone brings it up, so what? Most of the guests are much more concerned with themselves than with you. I’ll let it be known you’re the artist responsible for Turned, and people will want to talk with you about that. But feel free to tell your family’s story, too. People forget that Americans suffer when we turn our backs on other countries.” Mrs. Roosevelt sighed. “But if you’re not comfortable talking about your personal situation or politics, don’t.”

  “I’m comfortable talking about anything that might help.”

  “Good.” Mrs. Roosevelt patted her hand, then stood. “But we must go and get ready.”

  As they walked toward the house, Mrs. Roosevelt fell back to allow Lee to get ahead of them. “I’m sorry, but the young congressman I told you about isn’t able to expand his efforts into France. At least not for the foreseeable future. He doesn’t have the resources. Nor, I presume, the visas.” She touched Alizée’s shoulder. “And that expedited visa project is being put off indefinitely.”

  At least sixty people, laughing and talking, drinking and nibbling, flowed through the rooms onto the porches and lawn and then back again. Although this was the First Lady’s house on the Roosevelt’s estate, there was none of the stiff decorum Alizée had expected. It felt more like a large family gathering than a political event. But she supposed that was the point.

  Mrs. Roosevelt introduced them to many of the guests: senators; congressmen; admirals; generals, one of them a Negro; cabinet secretaries, one of them a woman. There were also activists, labor leaders, speechwriters, journalists, friends, neighbors, and even the Roosevelts’ daughter, Anna. To Alizée’s great disappointment, the president was in Washington.

  Alizée and Lee kept exchanging amazed glances as they passed each other in the crowd. Alizée had suggested they go it alone so both of them could meet more people, which was working just fine as far as successful mingling was concerned. The problem was that hardly anyone seemed to notice Turned, which hung by itself over a credenza far wider than its six feet. Lee had said no one would remember anything about the op-ed in six months, but it had only been a couple weeks. Although Alizée supposed this was a good thing, and had no illusions the painting would actually influence opinion, she’d hoped for a little more attention than this.

  She plucked her second martini from a passing tray, took a long draw, and approached a thin man standing by himself near the painting. “What do you think of it?” she asked.

  He assessed it. “How can I think anything about it when I don’t know what I’m looking at?”

  Two women wearing jackets cut like those of a businessman walked over. They examined Turned with a detached, almost professional, interest. Clearly not artists. Journalists?

  “I don’t understand the colors,” the taller woman said. “Why is this ship red? And this child blue?” She leaned closer. “Or maybe it isn’t a child?”

  “It’s modern art, Natalie,” the smaller woman told her. “Like Picasso.”

  “He’s just lazy,” the man said. “Anyone can draw a face with the eyes in the wrong place. You
don’t need to be an artist to do that.”

  Alizée took another, bigger draw on her martini and looked around for someone who might appreciate what Picasso, and she, were trying to do. She caught Mrs. Roosevelt’s eye.

  Natalie gave the painting a careful study, walking its length, taking in the details. “I guess it just isn’t my kind of art,” she finally said. “But even I can see the artist’s skillful, maybe even very talented.”

  “And that she is.” Mrs. Roosevelt came up and stood next to Alizée, guests following in her wake. Alizée recognized a general and a cabinet member. The First Lady put her hand on Alizée’s shoulder and said to the smaller woman, “You’re right, Katherine. It’s in the modernist style, or as I understand it, in a number of different modernist styles. Styles at which Miss Benoit here obviously excels.”

  Everyone looked at Alizée. She swallowed hard and tried to smile as if it was the most natural thing for the First Lady of the United States to praise her work.

  Natalie narrowed her eyes and stared at Alizée as if looking at a specimen under a microscope. “Where have I heard . . . ?” She paused. “I know. You’re the one Joe and Charlie wrote about. In the Herald.” She turned back to the painting. “And this must be your famous—or infamous—painting.”

  Alizée drew herself up to her full height, cleared her throat. “Yes,” she said, “it’s my infamous painting. If you believe this is what infamy looks like.”

  Mrs. Roosevelt chuckled softly and whispered in Alizée’s ear, “She’s with the Daily Worker.” The Daily Worker was a right-leaning newspaper.

  “It’s like a mural,” Alizée said. “But smaller. It tells a story.”

  The cabinet secretary squinted at the painting. “I don’t understand the story.”