“Someone’s got to go through on the train, with all that luggage,” Varian said.
“You’ll do that,” Ball said. “I’ll take them over the hill.”
“What about Werfel’s heart? And Mann—he doesn’t complain, but he’s nearly seventy, and not in the best of health.”
“I know. But the commissaire says there’s no telling what’ll happen if you stick around. I don’t know if he means some kind of roundup’s about to happen, or if this is a case of better-safe-than-sorry. But there it is.”
“There’s nothing safe about it, that’s for sure.”
“I’m game for whatever you decide, Varian.”
“Give me a minute. I’m going to sit out here and think.”
“Sure. You know where to find me.”
Ball went back inside, and Varian sat down on a curbside bench where some pigeons were examining the curled tip of a croissant. There were people in the world, he knew—his own wife, for example—whose decisions that day were no more dire than those pigeons’ choice to peck or not to peck. No, that wasn’t fair: his wife was teaching English literature to young girls. That mattered. Of course it did. But the girls would not live or die, not today, anyhow, because Eileen took one perspective or another on Henry IV. It seemed profoundly unfair. But then he was the one who’d chosen to go to France, he was the one who’d insisted. And now he had as his audience none other than Elliott Grant, the last person in the world in front of whom he wanted to look like a fool. What was he supposed to do? How to fake it convincingly?
The way he’d done it in the past: take a cue from others. Ball thought they should go. Varian could walk in and pretend the decision was his own, that he believed it to be the right one. That was all he could do, in fact. No bolt from the sky was going to save him, no godly hand was going to lift him out of this. He got to his feet and went in.
At the restaurant table the group sat at attention, having finished their coffee. They all looked anxious, though Grant’s expression was of a slightly different cast: having intuited the weight of the decision Varian faced, his anxiety contained a shade of concern for Varian himself. It was enough to give Varian courage to do what he had to do.
He sat down at the table and told the refugees that he thought it best for them to try to go over the mountain that afternoon. He couldn’t promise that their situation would improve if they waited another day; all the information he had, incomplete though it was, suggested that waiting might make matters worse. Ball would lead them, and Varian, with his U.S. passport and all its genuine visas, would ride the train through the Pyrenees tunnel, taking all the luggage with him. They would meet on the other side, at the Portbou railway station.
A stunned silence followed. Werfel, consulting his pocketwatch, observed that today was Friday the thirteenth. Wasn’t it courting disaster to leave at such an inauspicious moment? And Katznelson leaned toward Grant and began to make a quiet case in German against Varian’s motives, suggesting that he and Ball were in collusion with the gendarmerie and were plotting to turn them all in at the border for a reward.
“I beg your pardon, Professor,” Varian said, also in German. “Please trust that I have your best interests in mind.”
Katznelson lowered his eyes and tucked his chin into his collar, wordless.
“We have absolute faith in Mr. Fry,” Heinrich Mann said, a reproof, a prayer.
And so it was decided: they would go. There was nothing to do but gather their things and start. Half an hour later they walked together to the edge of town, where the buildings gave out and the hill commenced; behind a cemetery wall they found the path the commissaire had pointed out. The Werfels were traveling under their own names, on fake passports, and the Manns under false names with real American papers. Varian collected all evidence of the Manns’ real names—an embossed address book, a sheaf of postcards, a library card—and promised to return it on the other side. Finally he took Heinrich Mann’s hat, opened his penknife, and effaced the initials on the hatband. Then he transferred to Grant’s care a few cartons of cigarettes for bribes. Grant, taking the knapsack that contained them, let his hand rest for a moment against Varian’s.
A hot rush of blood ascended through Varian’s head. “Take care,” he said.
“See you on the other side,” Grant said, and then the travelers began to climb.
10
The Open Gate
Hotel Métropole
Lisbon
25 September 1940
Dearest Eileen,
Lisbon! Finally I can write to you without fear of the censors. But where on earth to begin? Perhaps by thanking you for your patience. I’m sorry I’ve made you wait so long for news. It’s no easier to wait for yours here, when the mail is so capricious. How often do you write? What fraction of your letters makes it to Marseille? The last word was your letter of Sept. 15, which I treasure. Maybe another awaits me back at the Splendide.
You may well ask what I’m doing in Lisbon. In part I came simply to be able to write to you (and to Washington, of course, and the ERC) censor-free. But also I’ve just accompanied a group of clients on an escape: Heinrich Mann, his wife, their nephew Golo, Franz and Alma Werfel, my old friend Grant and his colleague Katznelson. We left Marseille by train, and when the commissaire stopped us at Cerbère I had to send them all over the hill on foot. I was sure Werfel or Mann would collapse en route. It was about eighty-five degrees and not a cloud. Imagine it: wishing them godspeed on a hillside, not knowing whether or where I would see them again. I had to wait till afternoon to take the train to Portbou. Brought all the luggage with me, twenty-one pieces And half of it full of women’s clothing. The customs officer didn’t look twice at my mountain of bags, but what might he have thought if he’d opened them?
The train ride took forty-five minutes. Fortunately, I hadn’t much time to sit and worry. Mann and his wife were traveling under false names with American papers; I had their Czech ones with the real names, and thought I’d better burn them in the train bathroom in case I was searched. What a mess I made. Absolutely blackened the sink. If we hadn’t been in the tunnel at the time, Frenchmen and Spaniards would have seen the smoke for miles.
At Portbou I asked the station police if they’d seen anyone who fit our clients’ description. They hadn’t. I nearly drove myself crazy with worry until I remembered a young porter I’d met on my way to France in August. The boy had confessed that he was a Republican. I knew he’d help me if he could. I found him at the baggage drop and gave him a load of cigarettes. He embraced me like a brother, then told me to go up to the border post on the road into town and ask there. So up the hill I went, to a bombed-out shell of a guardhouse where the patrol was sitting outside playing gin. The guard-in-chief made me sit and wait while he telephoned someone, and for a while I thought I was going to be hauled off to jail. But then the guy came back grinning: my friends were down the hill at the railroad station. They’d just passed through customs.
How I ran down that hill! And what a relief to see them all, looking none the worse for the trip. They told me everything: how they’d trudged up for hours, half-carrying Heinrich Mann between them; how, when they’d met a French border patrol just as they reached the crest of the hill, they thought it was the concentration camp for all of them. But the guard just told them they’d better take a detour around the French exit post and go straight to the Spanish entry point a little farther on. That was where they met our gin-playing friends. One guard recognized Golo Mann right away: “Are you not the son of Thomas Mann, the famous writer?” Golo was surprised into telling the truth, and again they thought the jig was up. But the Spanish guard bowed and said he was honored to meet the son of so great a man, and sent his fondest regards to Golo’s father. Then he picked up the phone and called down to the station for a car. Not to haul them to the police station, but to spare them the trouble of walki
ng.
Imagine how we all felt that night. The Manns and Werfels and Katznelson had made it out of France. That was more than half the battle. And for my own part, I’d seen firsthand how the border crossings worked: how much depended on caprices of fate, and what factors were under our control. We drank ourselves blind, then went down to Barcelona the next day to see if we could get our clients on a plane to Lisbon. There were only two seats, and we decided Mann and his wife must take them. The rest of us went on to Madrid, where there was another plane with two open seats. So the Werfels were up and away.
I stopped in at the British Embassy, hoping to get the military attaché to promise me an escape boat. Nothing doing. But he gave me some vital information which I shall not repeat here. Then I got a few seats on the next plane to Lisbon, and thus Grant and Katznelson and I made our way here. I’d planned to stay out the week, but at the hotel I received an emergency telegram from Marseille: a few clients are in danger. I am obliged to return as soon as I can. Tomorrow at nine I fly for Barcelona and will take the train from there.
After this experience, I must reiterate what I said in my letter of Sept. 9: I can’t see leaving anytime soon. The more I consider, in fact, the more it seems to me that I must stay. No one knows the political landscape like I do, at least no one who could safely come. And much of the work I’ve already done is the building of trust; that can’t just be passed along to someone new. For my own part, Eileen, I could scarcely go about life back home knowing what’s going on here. No one who saw it could stand for it, and now I’ve seen it.
But you mustn’t worry for my safety or my health. I’m fine, better than fine. The day before yesterday I was swimming in the Mediterranean off Portbou with Golo Mann, entirely in the nude, while the others had their siesta. Fine young man, Golo. Under different circumstances you might have been jealous.
And you, too, I trust, are also well; your students love you, and your friends keep you busy. Your bed must be full of boyfriends by now, and I can’t blame you, as long as you kick them out before I get back.
Have you perhaps by now settled upon one of the houses you described in your earlier letter? Whichever it is, I promise I’ll love it. I’ll get home to you, and to it, as soon as I can. For now, dear E, imagine how grateful I am to have a wife who understands the necessity and urgency of my work here, as I sincerely hope you still do.
With love, as ever—
your V
He blotted the letter and capped the pen. Grant, reading over his shoulder, made a noise of quiet bemusement.
“I hardly merit a mention,” he said.
Varian turned in his chair. “I wrote your name twice, didn’t I?”
“Perhaps I’m not as fine a man as young Golo.”
Grant sat before him on the bed; they had agreed to meet for a drink on Varian’s balcony while Katznelson visited a colleague at the university. Grant in Lisbon: from some secret linguistic reserve, he’d produced a knowledge of Portuguese that had allowed him to shop for a sky-blue cravat in the manner of the local dandies; in his pocket, a silver cigarette case filled with a set of Cuban cigarillos and a diminutive silver cutter. What could Varian have written to Eileen about Elliott Grant, the apparition who refused to disappear? Varian had nothing to hide, as regarded his own behavior; not that he and Eileen were in the habit of hiding anything. Eileen detested ignorance above all else, and most of all her own ignorance in personal affairs. When they’d agreed, early on, that a cosmopolitan marriage allowed for an occasional adventure on the side, they’d also agreed to be perfectly honest. It was no secret to Eileen that he’d had liaisons with men; she tolerated them as a peculiarity of his character. But how was he to be honest with her about Grant, when Grant’s presence was still a matter of consternation and confusion? To be honest simply about the confusion seemed weak. To do otherwise would be to lie. But was a sin of omission better than one of commission? Both could be lethal.
“Don’t look that way, Varian,” Grant said.
“What way?”
“Like you’ve just taken a bite of glass.”
“For God’s sake, can’t we just have a drink or something?”
Grant’s eyebrows rose. “Of course. Let’s have a drink.”
Varian followed Grant out onto the balcony and poured them each a glass. Without thinking, he drained half his wine at the first sip.
“Thirsty?” Grant said.
“Don’t you think I deserve it?”
“Try to savor the lovely wine. There’s no rush.”
“All right. I’ll try to savor the lovely wine. But let’s talk about something else, shall we? What do you think Admiral Torr told me at the British Embassy?”
“What?”
“There are fifteen Nazi armored divisions at the border. Apparently the Führer is trying to decide whether to move into Spain or to go east into the unoccupied zone.”
“Ah.” Grant tapped ash from his cigarillo into a lozenge-shaped bowl. “So the Manns and Werfels were lucky to get out when they did. And Gregor. But we’ve got to get to Tobias as soon as we can.”
“Yes. Who knows how long we’ll be able to use the Cerbère route? And in the meantime, we’re at the mercy of a thousand caprices.”
“If Tobias is game to walk a steep mile or two, we should be all right over the mountain. I’ll remember the path. I made notes.”
“You’d better memorize them and burn them before you come back to Marseille.”
“All right.”
Varian took another long drink. If it hadn’t been for Katznelson, he thought—if Grant had merely come to Marseille to work on his book—would they have ended up in bed by now? Would they, at this very moment, be tangled on the hotel floor, or pushing each other against the wall in the bathroom, the shower drumming their bare skin, their thrown-off clothes entwined on the marble tile?
“On my way back through Madrid,” Varian forced himself to say, “I hope to meet the British ambassador. H.E., as Admiral Torr calls him.”
“Well, send my regards to His Excellency.”
“I’ll do more than that. I’ll tell him about Tobias, if you’ll let me. And I hope you will. You’d better use all the advantages you’ve got. The boy could be anywhere. You need a web of contacts to catch your fly. And so far we’ve got nothing.”
“Not true,” Grant said. “There’s what Alma Werfel said.”
“About what?”
“Zilberman. Maybe he knows something. If his daughter really was, as she says, being pursued by young Tobias.”
“That’s right. But we don’t know where Zilberman is, either.”
“Then you’d better get looking as soon as you get home,” Grant said. “Particularly if the Führer plans to take the rest of the country. And I’ll see what I can learn from here. I suspect our people aren’t the only refugees in town. And perhaps Tobias has already found his own way out, and is hiding somewhere nearby.”
“Careful asking around, though, Grant. You never know who’s listening.”
“I’ll be careful,” he said, and a silence settled between them, a space that seemed to fill with electric charge. Someone had better say something else, Varian thought; but he said nothing, and Grant said nothing, and the space filled and filled. It took scarcely a movement, scarcely a tremor, for his thumb to contact Grant’s sleeve, there on the table, as Grant reached forward to tap his ash. Grant saw it and failed to remove his arm. They sat that way a long moment, Varian’s thumb against Grant’s sleeve; they had entered a kind of standoff. Then they both laughed, and Grant refilled Varian’s glass.
“What about you, Tom?” he said. “Do you really have to turn around and rush back to Marseille?”
“You saw the wire,” Varian said. It was in his pocket, the cable he’d received from Lena shortly after he’d arrived at the Métropole. BABY PASSED CRISIS B
ETTER NOW BUT OTHER CHILDREN QUARANTINED DOING OUR BEST LENA. Varian had puzzled over it for a good quarter of an hour: other children quarantined. Clients arrested, or dragged off to camps, did she mean? How many of them? And what in fact had happened to Walter Mehring, code-named Baby? Had he made it out of the camp? Gotten back to Marseille? Wouldn’t Vichy just come for him again? In any case, the urgency was clear. He’d already bought his ticket for the next morning. And he knew—more than he’d ever known in the past, more than he’d known before he’d sat down to write that letter to Eileen—that he was going back to stay for as long as it took; that in Marseille he could be of greater use to humankind than he’d ever been in his life. The fact that he’d brought the Manns and Werfels out of France only proved it was possible to do the same again with others. And then there was Grant. Of course he hadn’t said more to Eileen. She was wise to Varian and always had been. For a decade they’d enjoyed perfect honesty because there’d been nothing significant to hide. Their foibles—his encounter with a brace of college boys at a party downtown, her late nights after work with a fellow who taught history at Brearley—meant nothing at all, and they both knew it. Worthless cards were easy to lay on the table. But this. If he so much as wrote another line, she would know more than Varian himself. And what was the point, anyway? Who was to say Grant would come back to Marseille at all? He might learn, in the next few days, that Tobias Katznelson had already escaped to Lisbon. Then he would disappear as quickly as he’d appeared. Even here on the balcony, as a haze of smoke rendered him indistinct, he seemed in danger of dissipating into the gathering fog from the Rio Tejo.
Grant’s eyes rested on Varian’s as they considered the last inch of wine in the bottle; tacitly they agreed that it must be finished. That gaze: Varian remembered times when he wished he could turn it off like a light, conceal what it revealed. Having drained their glasses of wine, they stepped into the room, where blue shadows had fallen across the deeper blue expanse of the bed. Without speaking, without touching, they skirted that abyss and went out into the Lisbon night.
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