“Well, I wouldn’t say I was seeking one, exactly. But Hirschman disagrees.”
“Il joue l’entremetteur, as we say.”
“He’s a good matchmaker, if the price is right.”
“We have already paid to the end of the lease. Nothing more is necessary to pay. Afterward, you will arrange with the owner. You will find him to be a reasonable man.”
Mary Jayne Gold squinted at Moreau. “Are you saying you’ll just give him the place for four months, free?”
Moreau shrugged. “If he pays me, how can I carry so many thousand francs out of France? I have paid already, it is done. And Monsieur Hirschman has explained your work. In such work, funds are short. Take what I offer, Monsieur Fry. It is not much.”
Miriam sent Varian a look, clearly meant to ask whether Moreau was to be trusted. Was it worth wondering whose agent he might be, or why, apart from sheer generosity, he was offering his fully paid bureau to the Emergency Rescue Committee? The inhabitants of Marseille were famously pragmatic, its businesspeople shrewd. But there sat Moreau with his hands folded over his knee, his expression one of tranquil satisfaction: the look of a man who’s given a gift he knows to be both necessary and apt.
“Let me show you something,” Moreau said. “You might find it of interest. It is, I think, a piece of art.” He went to the filing cabinet and removed a cardboard dossier, then sat down again and unwound the red string from its circular clasp. He extracted a set of crisp documents: a Vichy identity card, stamped with the official Commissariat de Police stamp and French exit visa; and transit papers stamped with Spanish, Portuguese, and Argentine entry visas. “Now you tell me, Monsieur Fry,” he said, grinning with pleasure as he pushed the papers toward Varian. “Which is real, and which is false?”
Varian glanced from Miriam to Mary Jayne, then at the documents, their sharply creased corners, their neat stamps. “You’d be wise not to wave these around, Monsieur Moreau, in front of people you’ve just met.”
“Monsieur Fry! I trust you absolutely. Monsieur Hirschman explained all.”
Varian hoped Hirschman hadn’t explained quite all; he wondered how many drinks he’d had with Moreau at the Dorade. Now Miriam and Mary Jayne were looking at the documents too, and then at Varian, for a verdict.
“Alors?” said Moreau. “Vrai ou faux?”
Trying to keep his expression impassive, Varian squinted at the documents, scrutinizing the forms and their seals. The papers were thick, official-feeling, rich with cotton; the lettering on the stamps was perfect, nothing to suggest the irregular movement of a pen or brush in a human hand. There was none of the blurring of forgery; nothing he recognized from the refugees’ growing catalogue of clumsy fake papers. Finally he pushed the documents back toward Moreau. “None of them are false,” he said. “Or all of them. If you’ve got a forger, he’s an awfully good one.”
Moreau collected the papers again. “All false,” he said, with obvious delight. “Even the Commissariat stamp.”
“Bravo!” said Miriam. “Brilliant. Where did you get them?”
“There is a man called Freier, an artist of cartoons, from Vienna. He is elusif, as you might imagine. He moves about. But if you can find him, he will charge a fair price. What one needs, he can produce.”
“I know Freier’s work,” Miriam said. “He lived in Paris for a while, published his cartoons in the leftist papers there. I heard he was arrested and sent to Vernet. Are you saying he’s here in town, Monsieur Moreau? Did he do this work recently?”
“Yes, mademoiselle, just this week.”
Miriam glanced at Varian.
“Our work is all aboveboard, Miss Davenport,” Varian said, “as I ought to have made clear. We can’t go breaking the law while we’re guests of France.”
“Of course not,” Miriam said. “Unless you actually want to get your clients out.”
Moreau laughed. “Miss Davenport is your associate, Monsieur Fry?”
Varian glanced at Miriam. “I’ve only just hired her. Let’s say she’s still on probation.”
“You must take her advice,” Moreau said. “She is wise already in these matters.”
Miriam laughed with pleasure. Mary Jayne sent her friend a look of unguarded appreciation, then leaned forward across the desk, tapping Moreau’s leather blotter with her manicured finger. On her wrist was a narrow bracelet of diamond baguettes punctuated by sapphires, a piece that meant to communicate, without vulgarity or equivocation, the superfluity of the wearer’s wealth.
“I know some people who can help you between here and Lisbon, Monsieur Moreau,” she said. “Consider it my thanks for your being so generous about the bureau.”
“Ah, Miss Gold, I would be most grateful.”
“There’s a certain Madame Simplon, a friend of mine who used to run a salon in Paris. She has a house at Montpellier. I’ll send her a note. And once you reach Madrid, you must see my old friend Guillermo Rosecrans at this address.” She pulled a small green leather address book from her bag, copied out an address onto a blank page, and handed the page to Moreau.
He bowed again in gratitude. “And you are certain the bureau will suit?”
“Perfectly,” Varian said.
“Ah, bon!” said Moreau. He reached for the coffeepot and poured off another round of Cameroonian brew, and as they drank, they talked about the details: when Varian and his associates might move in, whom to see about the utilities, how to manage the recalcitrant concierge. They agreed upon a date, Wednesday of the following week, when the ERC might commence business on the rue Grignan, and then they stood, bowed, expressed their mutual delight with the agreement, and wished each other luck. Varian followed Miriam and Mary Jayne down the stairs, where, in the foyer of the building, they found the bare-legged daughter of the concierge playing jacks in a rhombus of sun. As they passed, she looked up and caught her red ball between the V of two fingers, as if she might smoke it or scissor it in half.
“Mesdames et monsieur,” she said, “good day and God protect you.” And then she bounced the ball and made a handful of jacks vanish into thin air.
“God protect you, mademoiselle,” Miriam said, with a bow so low she might have been making reverence to an empress. The girl gave Miriam a nod of acknowledgment—you may rise—and gestured toward the courtyard door.
Miriam walked out laughing into the midday light. “The situation will do fine, Varian, if your refugees can get past that little gatekeeper.”
“She’s formidable, but perhaps she’s just what we need.”
“Well, then,” Mary Jayne said, threading her arm through Miriam’s. “Now that’s done, let’s have ourselves a drink.”
“Oh, no,” Miriam said. “I have to get back to the Splendide. Mehring will be expecting me. He’s still in a state of shock from the move. And then there’s work to be done. I’ve got a job now, Emjay.”
“Oh, bother,” Mary Jayne said. “Jobs!”
“But I’ve made us a dinner date at nine,” Miriam went on, as if Varian weren’t there. “A couple of Legionnaires. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Legionnaires! You didn’t mention that earlier.”
“I’ve only just thought to tell you.”
“Splendid,” said Mary Jayne. “I’ll conduct myself to a bar in the meantime.” To Varian she said, “I hope we’ll meet again soon. It’s been a pleasure.”
“I still think, Miss Gold, that it must have been a terrific bore.”
“Not at all!” She shook hands again with Varian, kissed Miriam twice, and went off toward the Canebière, her green snakeskin heels clicking against the cobbles.
“Well,” Varian said. “Mary Jayne Gold!”
“Isn’t she something? I adore her.”
“She’s something, all right. But you’ll kindly let me know in future when you’re planning to bring a friend along
on official business.”
“Mary Jayne is official business,” Miriam said, stopping to fix Varian in her hard gaze. “I didn’t bring her along just for fun.”
“She strikes me as something of a dilettante.”
“She’s not,” Miriam said, bluntly. “She’s quite passionate about your cause, and means to help. I’ve told her all about it.”
“And that’s another thing,” Varian said. “When it comes to our cause, you might exercise a little more discretion. Assume we’re being watched at all times. The less you discuss our work around town, the better.”
Miriam walked onward, carrying the coronet of her braids with a proud uptilt, refusing to meet Varian’s eye. When they stopped on the curb of the Canebière to let the traffic pass, she inclined her head as if in thought. Finally she spoke, with measured deliberation.
“If you employ me, Mr. Fry,” she said, “you’ll have to trust me. As a woman abroad—in charge of my own fate for years now, let me add—I know something about exercising discretion. Also a little something about calculated risk.”
* * *
________
At the Splendide, refugees waited in an unbroken line from the bottom of the stairs all the way to Varian’s room. But Hirschman and Lena were alone in 307, Hirschman perched on the dressing table and fiddling with the inner workings of the Contin, Lena standing before him, twisting her hands in anxiety. Apparently one of Lena’s turquoise drop earrings had fallen into the depths of the machine; while Hirschman fished around for it, all activity of the Emergency Rescue Committee had ceased. Lena gave Varian a single anxious glance, and he had a moment’s curiosity about what she and Hirschman might have been doing to cause her earring to fall into the typewriter. When Hirschman surfaced with the blue droplet, Lena clapped her hands with unfiltered joy.
“Mon héros!” she cried. “Ich bin so dankbar!” And then to Varian and Miriam: “Hélas, we have wasted so much time!”
“You and Miriam call the next clients,” Varian said. “I’d like to confer with Mr. Hirschman.”
Lena nodded, and Varian beckoned Hirschman into the bathroom and turned on all the taps.
“What is it?” Hirschman said, squinting to read Varian’s expression.
“I’ve just seen the work of the most astonishing forger,” Varian said. “He makes a Préfecture stamp that’s indistinguishable from the real thing.”
“Where?”
“Moreau’s. The man made him a full set of documents. He pulled them all out, right there in front of Miss Davenport and another friend, unfortunately. But it was perfect work. We’ve got to have him. Can you track him down? Moreau says he’s elusive. I couldn’t grill him for details under the circumstances, but perhaps you could pay him a visit this evening. I want his work for a new client of ours.”
“What client?”
“A special one. Friend of a friend. A Columbia University professor, German-born, who came back to Europe last summer and got stranded.”
“Why would anyone be so foolish?”
Varian shook his head. “He refuses to say. But now he’s got to get out, or he’ll be deported for certain. And I’m not sure I’ll be able to get real papers and visas for him before the axe falls.”
“I see. And do we know anything more about the talented forger?”
“Bill Freier. Viennese, lived in Paris for a time. Imprisoned in Vernet, and somehow got out. Miriam knows his work. Maybe he needs to get out of France, too.”
Hirschman made a series of notes. “If he can be found, I’ll find him.”
“Moreau’s office will do nicely, by the way. And for the moment, he’s giving it to us gratis. You’re a smooth operator, Albert.”
Hirschman blushed with pleasure. “I’m delighted, really.”
“Not half as much as I am.”
“I’ve got news too,” Hirschman said. “About the money.” He smoothed his hair with one hand, a gesture of quiet pride, then began to explain: Last night, after his drink with Betty, they’d run into a friend of hers, a Corsican black marketeer called Malandri. One of the good guys, this Malandri—hated the Nazis, had been using his underworld connections to get refugees out. When Hirschman mentioned their money problem, Malandri told Hirschman he must go directly to Vinciléoni, proprietor of the Dorade. He’d done so at once, and Vinciléoni had told him he needed Kourillo.
Varian frowned. “What’s Kourillo?”
“Not what, who. A certain White Russian émigré, formerly an aristocrat, who made his living in Paris for a time at the American Express office. Learned a few tricks there, it would seem. Vinciléoni finds him quite useful.”
“For what purpose?”
“He helps people get scads of money out of France.”
“Oh? Say more.”
“Kourillo’s clients are émigrés too. Rich ones. So rich, some of them, they can’t get all their money out legally. So he’s always looking to set up a foreign exchange. Particularly with parties in the States.”
“Forgive me, Albert, I’m not entirely following.”
“Vinciléoni proposed a mutually beneficial system. Kourillo tells us how much his client wants to export. We direct the ERC to wire that amount into a U.S. bank account in his client’s name. Then, once we have proof of the transfer, Kourillo turns his client’s francs over to us.”
Varian laughed aloud. “The ERC wires the money first? What’s to keep Kourillo’s client from disappearing with his francs, once the money’s safe in the American account?”
“Vinciléoni has dangerous friends. And he gets a cut of the deal. If one of Kourillo’s clients misbehaves, it’s the end of him.”
“Kourillo takes a piece of the profits too, of course.”
“Yes. And I’ll take the third.”
“You, Albert?”
Hirschman smiled again. “I had to say I would. Kourillo and Vinciléoni would never have trusted me otherwise. But my cut goes back to the ERC, of course.”
Varian shook his head. “Sounds like a racket, all of it.”
“Maybe. But at the moment, it’s what we’ve got. And we need to turn our dollars into francs. They’re useless otherwise.”
Varian wanted to believe it could work; they were badly in need of a solution. But he didn’t have any way to judge the risk, no way to know whether he might be setting them all up for a long stint in French prison. “How about a test run?” he said. “Start small. See if we can trust this Kourillo. If it works, we’ll try again with more.”
Hirschman nodded. “When shall I put it in motion?”
“At once,” Varian said.
________
Hôtel Splendide
Marseille, France
9 September 1940
Dear Eileen, dear Eileen.
The poor desk clerk must be so tired of my pestering. Is there a letter, a cable, anything at all for Varian Fry from New York City? Some indication that my messages have been reaching Manhattan? Are you there still, Eileen Fry, thousands of miles away on Irving Place, in our little apartment with a poet’s view of half a tree and six garbage cans?
I must ask, dear E, how you would feel about my staying here a while longer. It would mean we couldn’t start a lease on a new house before the first of the year (though the properties you mentioned in your last letter all sound fine, particularly that old stone house with garden in Woodcliff Lake). I’ve got a few new projects I can’t abandon. And though I long to tell the ERC to find someone to replace me, I’d have to spend time training whoever came. At the moment I can’t foresee returning to New York before late October or early November. I feel I must stay, at least until I can be sure that what I’ve created will go forward.
Though the American Consulate would rather I be gone, I assure you I’m not making too great a nuisance of myself here in
France. Soon I’ll cease even to try the patience of the Hôtel Splendide, as next week our operation moves to a proper office on the rue Grignan. We’ll be known as the Centre Américain de Secours, and we’ll all have room to stretch without fear of braining one another. (Though I’ll retain my room here at the Splendide to sleep in, insofar as I ever sleep—so please use this address for correspondence.)
And now I must tell you a funny thing: Do you remember my old friend Grant from the Hound and Horn, that long-legged fellow we used to call Skiff? The one—you must remember—who declined to come with us that night when we went sailing in Ardmore’s boat, up in Maine on Blue Hill Bay? You called him a wet blanket and I daresay you were right—though I was awfully glad when he turned up a few days ago here in Marseille. Now Skiff’s become a professor of English at Columbia and is on sabbatical at a colleague’s home, though I believe he and the colleague will soon be departing for points west.
And finally, speaking of the Hound and Horn, one of my refugee clients showed up this afternoon clutching a copy. And what did I find inside (apart from traces of my own sanguinem, sudorem, et lacrimas)? That lovely bit from Cummings, the one I stole for a Valentine’s card for you:—Let’s then / despise what is not courage my / darling (for only Nobody knows / where truth grows why / birds fly and / especially who the moon is
V.
6
Montredon
Posting a letter to Eileen always felt a little like heaving a bottled message into the sea. No idea if or when it would reach her. And it if did, how would he want her to reply? Did he want, as he claimed, for her to grant him license to stay in Marseille until he’d discharged his duties? Or did he want her to call him back to New York, to tell him that they must take the stone house with garden at once? In the course of her daily life—the classes she taught at Brearley, the literary salons she attended, her work for the New York office of the Emergency Rescue Committee, her various rendezvous with friends—how often did she even think of him? For years before they’d met, she’d conducted a fully formed life in Boston. She was eight years older than he was, a deputy editor at The Atlantic Monthly; his initial role in her life had been that of an intellectual apprentice, a literary acolyte. My protégé, she’d called him, and not always in jest. Of course, things had quickly become more complicated between them; Eileen could be fiercely self-critical, vulnerable to any slight to her intelligence, jealous of Varian’s friends. But they’d been together now for more than a decade. When Varian had embarked on this mission to Marseille, intending to be gone a month, it had hardly occurred to him to consider the state of their marriage. They both saw the opportunity as a grand adventure, possible only because the Foreign Policy Association had been willing to grant Varian a leave. Had Eileen’s fall semester not been about to start, she might have joined him. She would likely, he realized, have been running the show here, and doing a better job of it. But now that his stay had stretched into its sixth week, he could only wonder what she thought and how she felt. Her letters came seemingly at random, and had thus far contained only light-toned news of her work back home and expressions of concern for his safety. He would cable her tonight, he told himself. Not for any reason in particular, certainly not for any reason concerning Grant. Only to be a little wasteful for the sake of romance.
The Flight Portfolio Page 6
