TWO
Implicatus
11
Borders and Barriers
The train back to Marseille retraced the path it had followed a few days earlier: across the plains, through a corner of Provence, past the ragged outskirts of town, and into the city, where mean-looking buildings gave way to taller and grander ones until the train reached the Gare St. Charles. On the platform, the sharp-edged mistral shot through the fabric of Varian’s jacket. The Romans had called it ventus magestralis, and marveled that a wind that blew with such brutal force and speed, sometimes for days on end, wrecking boats and flattening crops, could come out of a crisp, high, cloudless blue sky.
As he made his way down the broad bank of steps from the station toward the boulevard d’Athènes, it was a homelike relief to see the awning of the Splendide, and then, moments later, to see Lena and Hirschman and Miriam making their way from the Canebière to meet him. Hirschman clapped him on the back and congratulated him on their clients’ escape; Miriam greeted him with a kiss on both cheeks, the fragrance of her hair bringing a memory of his mother in a striped hat on the beach at Wellfleet. Lena demanded to know if he’d brought her the white cakes of soap she’d requested, refusing even to shake hands until he’d shown her the evidence. Then they all went up to his hotel room, with its sounds of the girls’ school coming through the window, its familiar green curtains, its spindly-legged furniture. None of them wanted to talk business. After a sleepless night on the train, Varian was happy just to hear the cadences of Lena’s French-Polish-English, to hear Miriam’s trumpetlike laugh, to see the intelligent glint in Hirschman’s eye. But he wanted to know first of all what had happened to the Feuchtwangers, who had left for the border a few days earlier.
“Monsieur Ball met them in Cerbère,” Lena said. “From there they went through on the train. All is splendid. They reached Lisbon this morning. Mr. Ball telegrammed as soon as they arrived.”
Varian exhaled. “And what about Mehring?”
“The clever lawyer got him out of St. Cyprien,” Hirschman said.
“Oh, thank God! Where is he now?”
“Here at the Splendide,” Miriam said. “Just down the hall. But not entirely out of danger. Bingham only barely managed to keep him out of jail. His residence permit had expired, and the police showed up yesterday morning to deport him. So he called me, and I called Bingham, and we came down here and shamed the police for trying to arrest a sick man.”
“Sick?” He looked at Miriam, then at Hirschman. “What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s perfectly fine,” Hirschman said. “The lawyer was the one who suggested that ruse. Miriam was to say that he was too weak and frail to go down to the Evêché and get his permit renewed.”
“And it’s working?”
“So far,” Miriam said. “We need to produce a doctor’s note, but then, apparently, they’ll leave him alone for a while.”
“That can be done. But what about ‘other children quarantined’? Your telegram, Lena, was marvelously cryptic.”
“I meant Madame and Monsieur Breitscheid, and Monsieur Hilferding,” Lena said. “All have been arrested and placed under the house at Arles.”
“Do you mean, Lena, placed under house arrest?”
“That is precisely what I have said, Monsieur Fry!”
Breitscheid and Hilferding: the leading lights of European social democracy. If there was a future for the continent after the war, they were the ones who would make it. Their names had been among the first to be added to his list, despite the fact that they weren’t artists; they were so deeply endangered, and so vital to the cause of freedom, that they were considered to be everyone’s responsibility. Breitscheid and Hilferding were, meanwhile, heedless of their own safety. More than once, Varian had found them at a café along the Canebière, berating various Hitlerian sympathizers and critiquing Vichy policy in broad, clear tones. They knew no conversational mode except for that of public address; no words of caution on his part had yet been able to curb them. And now they’d been arrested.
“I’ll go see Bingham,” Varian said. “He’ll know how to manage this.”
“In fact you are scheduled to visit the consulate today,” Lena said. “Not to see Monsieur Bingham, however. To meet with Monsieur Fullerton. A message arrived at our office yesterday demanding it.”
“Fullerton? Why? He can’t have anything good to say to me.”
“It seems there has been some dérangement about your actions here in Marseille,” Lena said. “Some communication from Washington.”
“What actions?” Varian said, anxiety coiling in his gut.
“Apparently you are accused of breaking French law. The consul requires an explanation. That is the effet of the message.”
“There’s nothing to explain. My actions are unimpeachable.”
“The consulate must be under severe pressure,” Hirschman said. “The situation worsens by the day. Have you not seen the news about Gibraltar?”
“What news?”
“The French bombed it yesterday for hours on end. Decimated the British installations there, and a great British warship besides—to get back at the Brits, I suppose, for their attack on Dakar. And the bombers were American-made.”
“Weren’t the Nazis supposed to have disarmed the French?”
“Ah, yes. That was the official line. Apparently they’ve just induced the French to use their armaments to the Nazis’ aims. You must know that your State Department fears the same fate for the French fleet. They won’t look favorably upon an American’s flouting of French law, not at this sensitive moment.”
“De toute façon,” Lena said, “Fullerton wants you at once.”
Hugh Fullerton, Varian knew, was overcautious and circumspect, a slave to orders from the consul-general. He got to his feet and crossed to the window, where he stood looking down into the now-empty schoolyard. Gibraltar bombed, the Brits’ installations decimated: it was the State Department’s nightmare exactly, the conversion of Allied assets to Axis control. A litter of leaves blew across the paving stones and tumbled against the courtyard wall. “Fullerton’s going to demand that I leave,” he said. “I know that much.”
“Well, you’ll have to tell him that’s impossible,” Miriam said. “You’ll have to tell him you’re your clients’ only hope.”
“And not just the clients,” Lena said. “Without you, Monsieur Fry, we go to the concentration camp, Monsieur Hirschman and myself. Vichy will not hesitate. Only your presence protects us.”
“What time’s this meeting?”
“Immédiatement,” Lena said.
“Not even a moment to catch my breath.”
“N’exagérez pas, Monsieur Fry: you’ve already taken your coffee.”
“Oh, all right, Lena,” Varian said, and lifted his hat from its hook.
* * *
________
Hugh Fullerton, narrow-shouldered and puritanical in his small bow tie and navy jacket, was garrisoned behind a gray steel desk that looked to have been crafted from the hull of a dreadnought. On its deck lay a slew of correspondence attesting to one set of facts: Varian Fry’s insistence upon carrying out illegal activities in France, and the State Department’s refusal to support him. The jewel among these papers was a recent cable from Cordell Hull, secretary of state.
INTELLIGENCE SUGGESTS VARIAN FRY IN REGULAR BREACH OF FRENCH LAW. IN LIGHT OF THE FORMER MUST REQUEST HIS RETURN STATESIDE IMMEDIATELY.
Fullerton smoothed the cable against the desk. “Mr. Hull had an understanding with you,” he said. “You were not to compromise, under any circumstances, our diplomatic mission in France. The French fleet hangs in the balance. If we lose our ties to France entirely, think how many American lives may be lost.”
“The American diplomatic mission to France is a bald farce, Hugh, and you know it
,” Varian said. “France is in bed with a fascist nation now, in case you hadn’t heard. The States’ collaboration with Vichy is a violation of our nation’s founding principles.”
“Keep your voice down, Mr. Fry.”
“I’m not afraid to speak the truth,” Varian said. “Cordell Hull had better get his allies and enemies straight.”
“And you’d better do the same. You’re losing allies by the minute.”
“And making others all the time. Ones who actually care about the fate of refugees, unlike your boss. You’ve helped us in the past, Hugh—I do appreciate your getting that visa for Katznelson, and for letting Bingham do what he can. But I’m telling you, if we play by Vichy’s rules, we’re letting people die. Sending them to French concentration camps, or inviting the Gestapo to deport them.”
“The United States government isn’t in the business of derring-do. We’re trying to stay out of a war. If we lose our relationship with France, we’ll lose a great deal more than a few artists’ lives.”
“I’d like to know what Cordell Hull thought I was going to do here in France. The State Department knew I wasn’t coming over to pass out toothbrushes and tinned beans.”
“Whatever they thought when they issued your passport—and I’ll confess, I don’t know what that could have been—there’s no mistaking what they think now. Here it is, in sum.” He took up another cable from the clutter. “This has gone out to all the consular offices in France, in reference to you.”
THIS GOVERNMENT DOES NOT REPEAT DOES NOT COUNTENANCE ANY ACTIVITIES BY AMERICAN CITIZENS DESIRING TO EVADE THE LAWS OF THE GOVERNMENTS WITH WHICH THIS COUNTRY MAINTAINS FRIENDLY RELATIONS.
“Does not repeat does not?” Varian said. “Why only two iterations? Why not a third, to make perfectly clear that the U.S. is happy to kowtow to Nazis as long as we can stay out of the war?”
Fullerton’s bow tie quivered, a neat barometer of his anger. “You will address me in a tone of respect, Mr. Fry.”
“Hugh, you’re not my elder. Quit acting like it.”
“Bear in mind, please, I can turn you over to Vichy’s mercy anytime.”
“But then they’d have to prove I’ve been in breach of French law. And I can assure you there’s no evidence to support that claim.”
“Really? I hope you’ve been doing a better job of hiding your activities from them than you have from us. We know about Bill Freier. And we know what Leon Ball’s been doing for your operation. The consul himself ran into Ball at the border—he was leading that physicist across, Meyerhof, was it?—and Ball asked him to vouch for Meyerhof at the checkpoint. He did it, but even he could see that Meyerhof was carrying false papers. We know about that too.”
“You understand my mission, Hugh. You know what I’m bound to do here—morally speaking, I mean. I understand why Washington wants me out. I understand that the situation’s worse each day. But I made a decision, coming here, and I’ve made a few more since I’ve seen what’s going on here. I can’t abandon this ship.”
“What am I supposed to tell Hull? That you’d rather just ignore his cable?”
“Tell him you’ve passed along the message, and that I heard it loud and clear. Tell him I’ve agreed to go, but that I can’t just pack up this instant. Tell him I’ve contacted the ERC about sending a replacement, and that once he gets here I’ll have to train the man. Promise that in the meantime you’ll force me to keep a low profile.”
“Just how much time are you looking to buy?”
“I don’t know. How much do you think I can get?”
“If it were up to me, none.”
“Okay, Hugh. But practically speaking, if I’m to be ejected sooner or later, I do have to make some plans. I have to let my organization know, at least.”
“I think we can get you another few weeks. Eleanor Roosevelt stands by you, even though the State Department doesn’t. But the situation’s delicate. Worse than delicate. I don’t have to tell you my job’s on the line here, too.”
“I’ll cable Cordell Hull myself. I’ll let him know I got his message.”
“No, you won’t. I’ll cable him. Now, let me get to it. And for God’s sake, no more forgeries or fake papers. I’ll be watching you.”
“Goodbye, then, Hugh,” Varian said. “And thanks. You’ve been kinder than you’d have to be. I appreciate it.”
“Don’t press your luck,” Fullerton said, and dismissed him with a flick of his hand.
* * *
________
At 60 rue Grignan, the little gatekeeper—Clotilde, she was called—gave him a censorious look as he entered; a skipping rope hung over her arm like a noose. “No bonbons all week,” she said as he passed, with a glance at the sky, as if bonbons were a meteorological phenomenon that had failed to materialize. She unlooped the rope and began to skip, the rope ticking out a brisk accusation against the pavement.
“Pardon me, my dear, I’ve been out of town,” Varian said.
“Out of town! Bah.”
“My colleagues will vouch for me.”
She skipped with increasing fury. “I’m sure.”
“My pockets are empty. I don’t even have a coin to give you.”
She stopped abruptly and turned a look on him so bitter and mature he felt he’d been caught in some clumsy romantic prevarication. Without another word, he went out again and crossed the street to the chocolatier, perused the depleted ranks of sweets behind the glass, and spent two precious ration tickets on four buttercreams that smelled as if they had been made with actual butter. He didn’t know why he felt it necessary to tithe the child, only that, strangely canny as she was, he believed she might someday either protect or betray him. She received the gift mutely. She didn’t deign to eat the buttercreams in his presence; instead she dropped the small gold box into the pocket of her dress, hooked the skipping rope onto her wrist like a fashionable bag, and slipped out through the door to go about her mysterious errands.
Having shut the courtyard door behind her, Varian climbed the stairs to the office, planning to report upon his meeting to his colleagues. No refugees waited outside the office door, and no sound of conversation or of work reached him through the glass. All right, then; he would relish a few moments of isolation. But the door opened at his touch, and he entered to find Hirschman and Lena standing silently at a window, a single shivering telegram held between them.
“What is it?” Varian said, looking from one stricken face to the other.
“Walter Benjamin is dead,” Hirschman said.
“Oh, God, no. How?”
“By his own hand, at Portbou.”
Varian dropped into a chair and closed his eyes. Walter Benjamin, the German Jewish philosopher, critic, scholar; Benjamin, whose work had burned with a quiet and persistent fire in Varian’s mind since he’d first encountered it in college; Benjamin, whose name had crowned his list, and who was rumored to be writing a new book. “Who’s that from?” he asked, indicating the telegram.
“A German refugee, Lisa Fittko,” Hirschman said. “She and her husband have been doing what Ball’s been doing, more or less. She was the one who led Benjamin’s group over the border. They made it all the way to the station at Portbou, but they were stopped at customs. The officer said they could spend the night in town but would be sent back the next day.”
“And?”
“They checked into a hotel in town. And Benjamin took morphine that night.”
The thought was intolerable. A few hours earlier, less than a single day, Walter Benjamin’s mind had existed intact; then, sometime in the night, he’d opened a bottle of pills, put one on his tongue, and another, and had swallowed, and repeated the process until he knew he’d had enough. Then the drug had gone to work, shutting down the intricate machinery of the body, breaking its fine linkages, silencing its humming wires, di
mming the electric light of the brain until it went dark. That beautiful brain ceasing to send its beacon out into the night.
“And all he would have had to do is get sent back,” Varian said. “Just get sent back and try again in a few days. Jesus.”
“He was carrying a manuscript,” Hirschman said. “Likely he didn’t want to bring it back over the border.”
“A manuscript? Not his new manuscript! Who has it now?”
“Lisa doesn’t know,” Hirschman said. “No one knows, apparently.”
“But how can that be? Who collected Benjamin’s body? Where are his things?”
Lena twisted her fingers. “They cannot locate his suitcase, Lisa says.”
He brought his hand down on the desk. “For God’s sake! Call this Lisa Fittko at once. Call Azéma, the mayor of Banyuls. Get someone to Portbou, to the prefecture or wherever the Spanish authorities are holding his stuff.”
“Ne vous dérangez pas,” Lena said. “I will telephone.”
“It’s not your fault, Varian,” Hirschman said. “He wasn’t our client.”
“Ours or somebody else’s, what does it matter? Anyway, he should have been ours. He’s on our list. And now he’s dead by his own hand!” Varian got to his feet and went to the window, where, in the street, two workmen were unloading the skeleton of an awning from the bed of a truck. They lifted it between them like an awkward boat on a portage; the wind wrestled them for it, threatening to send it through the window of the haberdashery. “The State Department washes its hands of me,” Varian said. “Did you know that? They’ve delivered an ultimatum of sorts to the consulate. Now Fullerton wants to throw me out on my ear.”
The Flight Portfolio Page 14
