Lena gave him a frown of concern. “On your ear?”
“It’s an expression, Lena. Anyway, they can make any threat they want. I’m a free man, whether they like it or not.” It wasn’t exactly true, of course, but the forces that bound him weren’t the laws of any country.
Hirschman smiled gravely. “You must protect yourself,” he said.
“From what? From my own government? Let them try to send me back. Then we’ll see who needs protecting.” But what was he threatening, exactly? Did he intend to take on Washington single-handed? Wasn’t that, in effect, what he was doing in Marseille? The U.S. didn’t want the refugees he was sending. But he wasn’t going to sit by and watch the European cultural pantheon burn. Benjamin was dead. Others would follow, unless he did his work—perhaps even if he did. Let Cordell Hull deliver his official sanction. Let Fullerton wash his hands of him. Let Eileen implore him to come home. He didn’t care what anyone said; he was staying.
12
La Fémina
Though Walter Benjamin had had nothing to do with the Centre Américain, though he hadn’t been a client, though he hadn’t died at the hands of French or Spanish police, or lost his life trying to traverse a mountain pass, his death acted as a deterrent. For a few days at first, then for more than a week, the influx of clients slackened. There were moments of quiet in the office, moments when Varian might look up from his work to see Mary Jayne gazing through the window, her eyes trained on the clouds as if to catch a glimpse of her surrendered Vega Gull. He might find Hirschman sifting through client folders for some new avenue to pursue, or Miriam examining a portfolio with a painter, not to determine the artist’s merit, but simply because she’d seen something in the work that she wanted to revisit. One quiet morning, Gussie Rosenberg arrived with a cable in hand from Paul Hagen in New York. Varian’s first thought was that the Emergency Rescue Committee was notifying him that they’d found a new director for the Centre Américain, and that this person would arrive imminently. Instead the cable contained a newspaper headline: <
Without a word to the staff, he ran to the foreign-press newsstand near the rue Fort Notre Dame and waited for the Times to arrive. As soon as the delivery van pulled up, as soon as the driver could heft the first bundle of papers to the curb, he tore a paper from the stack. And there it was, in black and white: Flight over Pyrenees Described by Feuchtwanger.
“Hey!” the newsboy shouted. “Hey! Aren’t you going to pay?”
Varian stuffed a coin into the newsboy’s jar, then took the paper down to the quai de Rive Neuve and sat at the edge of a pier. There he read the whole story: how Feuchtwanger had escaped from the concentration camp at St. Nicolas, how he’d hidden in Marseille and where, how he’d gotten out of France, and how the Manns and Werfels were currently en route to the States, having escaped via similar channels. Feuchtwanger described how some American friends had aided his escape, withholding names but giving enough detail that anyone in Marseille could recognize Varian or Mary Jayne or Harry Bingham. He went on to talk about how he’d gotten his false passport with its cleverly forged Spanish and Portuguese visas, praising the work of a talented cartoon artist. Then he gave a painstaking account of crossing the Pyrenees along a smuggler’s pass, guided by an American émigré who hailed from Montana, and aided by a German refugee who’d helped dozens of refugees herself, though she’d failed to save Walter Benjamin from suicide. If he neglected to name Leon Ball or Lisa Fittko explicitly, the omissions couldn’t have provided more than the slightest hindrance to the French or Spanish police.
Varian folded the paper, tucked it under his arm, and walked the six blocks to the office, half-expecting to find the Sûreté Nationale waiting for him already. The fact that they weren’t there yet was little reassurance; surely it was just a matter of time. In the front room he assembled Lena and Hirschman and Miriam and Mary Jayne and told them the story. There could be no mistake about it: Feuchtwanger had blown the Centre Américain’s last shreds of cover. The consulate’s patience would now come to an abrupt end. He, Varian, was likely to be expelled from France in short order, and it might be weeks before the ERC could send a replacement. The others would have to do what they could to protect themselves, and to carry on operations in the meantime. They should expect the first ripples of this process to reach the office that day.
Lena dashed away tears with the back of her hand. “Monsieur Fry,” she said, “you have proved me wrong. I argued often to Albert that you were absolument fidèle to the law of France, that you would not allow us to break it. But I am proud,” she said. “Proud to know you are braver than you appear.”
“Apparently I’m a lot more of a fool than anyone thought, too.”
“It’s hardly your fault that Feuchtwanger spoke to the press,” Miriam said.
At her side, Mary Jayne looked stricken, shoulders curled, eyes round with shock. “It’s my fault,” she said, quietly. “Feuchtwanger was my client. I should have cautioned him. Instead I talked about his escape as if it were a grand adventure. Told him to record every detail for posterity.” Her hands shaking, she drew a long cigarette from her case and lit it.
“For posterity,” Miriam said. “You didn’t tell him to give an interview to the Times the minute he hit New York!”
“I practically did. I remember exactly what I said. I said, Oh, Lion, what stories you’ll have to tell when you get to the other side!”
“I was there too, Mary Jayne,” Varian said, quietly. “I heard everything you said. I didn’t find any of it inappropriate.”
“Here is what we know,” Hirschman said, laying his hand over Mary Jayne’s. “It’s done, and we can’t undo it. The consulate never believed that the ERC was entirely aboveboard, in any case. Fullerton made that clear enough last week.”
“C’est vrai,” Lena said, in stern agreement. “And they do not extinguish us yet! On ne faut pas paniquer. We must return to work at once!” She went back to her own desk and opened a client folder, and the others soon followed, though a stunned silence persisted through the morning.
And in fact it wasn’t long before the first summons arrived from Fullerton, delivered by a crimson-cheeked bicycle messenger who looked as though he’d been plucked from an ecclesiastic ceiling mural. Under different circumstances Varian might have relished the sight of him. Now he could only take the folded communiqué from his hand and read it with dread. FRY: YOU ARE TO APPEAR AT CONSULATE AT ONCE TO DISCUSS REVELATIONS IN THIS MORNING’S PRESS. Varian tipped the boy more generously than he deserved, wrote a polite note to Fullerton declining his invitation, and sent the boy on his way. Half an hour later the same seraph returned, out of breath and carrying a more insistent note. Varian gave him the gift of a perfect apple, then neatly squashed and defenestrated the rectangle of official consulate note stock. The boy stared in alarm at the open window.
“You’ve done your job, young man,” Varian said. “Nothing to worry about.”
The messenger angel gave Varian a dread-laced glance, then went on his way. But he was back an hour later with a yet more insistent note, which Varian sent sailing after the last.
“You make a dangerous joke, monsieur,” the boy ventured to say.
“Don’t worry about me,” Varian said. And all afternoon he continued to defenestrate notes as quickly as they arrived, while messenger and staff grew more and more desperate for his safety. It was hardly a surprise when a Sûreté officer rapped his stick against the office door and pushed inside. Varian got to his feet, smoothed his hair with one hand, and refolded his peacock-colored pocket square. The policeman read out Varian’s name from one of the crushed notes.
“Yes, sir,” Varian said. “That’s me.”
“I must cite you for littering upon a public street,” the policeman said, and drew out his official pad to write a ticket. “In the
future, you are to dispose of your office correspondence in a manner that shows respect for our city’s hygiene, Monsieur Fry.”
“Absolutely,” Varian said. “Please accept my apologies.”
“The Préfecture will accept your prompt payment of the fine,” the policeman said, and, turning on his heel, removed himself from the office. Varian adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose and read the citation aloud. He was hereby found to be in breach of Marseille public decency regulation number 45 section 2, and was required to pay seven hundred and fifty francs.
“Could have been worse,” Miriam said. “I thought he was here to arrest you.”
“Me too,” Varian said.
“Maybe the police have bigger fish to fry.”
It appeared that the consulate did too. No further communiqués arrived from Hugh Fullerton. But later that afternoon, a call from Harry Bingham brought bad news: Spain had closed its borders. Vichy officials, he told Varian, had been conducting secret meetings all week with Franco’s staff in Madrid; the content of these meetings was unknown, but the immediate effect was that Spain had ceased to allow anyone to pass through its checkpoints, refugees and travelers alike.
“Do you think the Times story had anything to do with it?”
“Hard to say,” Bingham said.
“How long do you think it’ll last? I’ve got seven clients set to leave this week. Three were supposed to go down on the train to Cerbère tomorrow morning.”
“You’ll have to tell them to wait, I’m afraid.”
“God. What’ll I say? Their visas expire in two days’ time. It took months to get them, Harry. Months.”
“I know. I’ll do what I can on this end.”
“All right. Thanks.” He put down the phone and sank his head into his hands. The visas, he knew, were only part of the problem. Leon Ball and the Fittkos had been exposed; if they weren’t arrested that very afternoon, they would at least have to go into hiding for a time. When they emerged, they’d have to reconfigure their escape routes. Bill Freier, meanwhile, would surely be arrested. Either they would have to find a new forger, or all the stamps and visas would have to be real.
There was no time to consider these complications. The soon-to-depart refugees had to be located, the bad news delivered, the imminent departures stalled. New visa applications had to be submitted at once. He got up to put on his hat, dreading the calls he would have to pay. But before he could leave the office, Gussie put another telegram into his hand.
“More bad news?” Varian said.
“I don’t know, Monsieur Fry. I didn’t look.”
“All right, Gussie. Whatever it is, I won’t hold it against you.” He slit the telegram open, unfolded the paper, and learned that Grant was scheduled to return to Marseille that evening. TRAIN ARRIVING 20:30H. MEET FOR DINNER LA FÉMINA RUE DU MUSÉE. G.
He stood in silence, staring at the neat narrow capitals of the message. The air had left his lungs.
“Is it trouble?” Gussie said.
“Hard to say,” Varian said, and put on his hat.
* * *
________
Grant’s train was expected at half past eight. At seven forty-five Varian returned, exhausted and dispirited, to the Splendide. At the front desk there was no word from the office, and no further word from Grant; but there was a cable from Eileen, stamped PRESSANT. He tucked it into his pocket and ran up the stairs.
When he opened the door to his room, he found Mehring installed at the spindly-legged desk, reading Les fleurs du mal and smoking the last of a pack of cheap Reines. Mehring’s fake illness chained him to the hotel, but he couldn’t bear the monotony of his own four walls; Varian’s room, if nearly identical, at least provided a change. The window offered a better view and southern light. And Mehring didn’t like to write in the room where he slept. Varian found the smell of his cigarettes near-unbearable, but he was hardly going to protest anything that might keep Mehring from making another premature run for the border.
“Good evening, Walter,” he said. “How’s the dire illness?”
“Worse and worse,” Mehring said, with cheer.
Varian tore open the cable from Eileen, read it, and tossed it on the table. “My wife joins the general opinion,” he said. “They all say I should go home at once.”
Mehring picked up the cable and read it aloud. “ ‘PAUL INSISTS’—and who is Paul? Hagen is it, your comrade at the ERC? He insists ‘YOU ARE IN DANGER IF YOU STAY STOP.’ Indeed, we can’t argue with that, can we? ‘YOU PLACE YOUR STAFF UNDER CONSTANT RISK OF ARREST STOP.’ Your wife does not mince words, does she, Mr. Fry? ‘IN PROCESS OF SELECTING SUCCESSOR STOP.’ Successor! As though you might be replaced, like a rotten tooth, with a clever simulacrum. ‘CABLE YOUR RETURN DATE IMMEDIATELY.’ And yet I don’t see you packing your bags.” Mehring extinguished his final cigarette in the ashtray. “I don’t think you plan to leave at all, in fact.”
“You’re right,” Varian said. “Though maybe I’m a fool to stay.”
“Sometimes a fool is precisely what’s needed,” Mehring said, and turned back to his Baudelaire.
Varian stripped off his soaked shirt and dust-cuffed trousers. At the bathroom sink he filled a cup of water and prepared a lather of shaving soap. “In any case,” he said, “no one’s going anywhere at the moment. The Spanish border’s closed. No one knows when it’ll reopen. You may as well make yourself comfortable, Walter.”
“I am as comfortable as I can be, Mr. Fry, with Nazis as bedfellows. Last night, Gestapo officers spent the night in the room directly next door to mine. I could hear them saying their prayers in Boche.”
“Nazis don’t pray,” Varian said. He applied the lather, then cut neat swaths with his blade, relishing the scrape of steel against his skin.
“These did,” said Mehring.
“Well, I can assure you no one was listening besides you.”
“That’s little comfort, I’m afraid.”
“Tell me, Walter,” he said, following an impulse. “When you lived in Berlin, did you happen to know a family by the name of Katznelson? The father a professor of German literature? The boy, Tobias, a student of physics?”
Mehring smiled. “Oh, yes, I saw Katznelson often.”
“You did? Gregor Katznelson, do you mean?”
“Yes, precisely. We both favored a café on Charlottenstrasse, near the university. Sometimes he brought his son. Always with a serious look, that boy. Always working on something in his little notebooks. But he liked to play with a kind of spinning top on a string, how do you call it in English?” He mimed a yo-yo. “Katznelson was usually in a hurry, though when he stopped to talk, I liked to hear what he had to say. His thoughts did not follow the usual channels.”
The quality, obviously, that had appealed to Grant. “The boy’s gone missing somewhere in Europe,” Varian said.
“I see,” Mehring said. “You’d like me to inquire among my Berlinese friends.”
“If you can do it with utmost secrecy. We’re not the only ones looking for him.”
Mehring glanced up at Varian. “Who else is looking?”
“Wehrmacht intelligence.”
“He’s a communist, perhaps?”
“I don’t know his politics. It’s his smarts, apparently, that make him dangerous.”
“I see,” Mehring said. “Well. I’m entirely at the mercy of my friends’ desire to visit me. But when they do, I will learn what I can.”
Varian finished shaving, then pulled trousers and a freshly laundered shirt from the closet. Pinstripes, a white collar, crisp cuffs: sanity lay in these details. From a cluster of blooms in a pewter cup on the dresser, he extracted a pair of carnations. “What do you think, Walter? Red or white?”
“I have no opinion on the matter, dear Mr. Fry.”
He put the red carnation int
o his buttonhole. “I hate to rush off and leave you to your cell,” he said.
Mehring flattened and folded his empty cigarette box: crackle of paper, scent of toasted fig. “I shall look forward to your return,” he said. And then, contemplatively: “Has the ERC already found a successor for you, do you think? I would hate to lose your company.”
“My guess is no. You’d have to be crazy to want this job.”
“Well. I hope you are correct, my friend. And where are you going tonight, may I ask? Dressed so impeccably—to the nines, according to the charming English phrase?”
“To carry on some selfish business of my own.”
“Good for you, Mr. Fry. Good for you.” Mehring clapped him on the shoulder. “And now I’d better get back to my own cell. Miss Pauli promised to visit this evening.”
“Splendid, Walter. I hope you’ll do more than talk writing.”
“I share your hope,” Mehring said. “Fervently.” He went to the door and nodded to Varian; then they undertook the ritual they’d developed to ensure Mehring’s safe passage back to his room, or at least the illusion of it. Varian listened at the door, then looked out. Having ascertained that the corridor was empty, he walked the length of it to be sure there was no one waiting just around the corner. At the center of the hallway, he listened for the elevator. When he was certain that the coast was clear, he gave a signal; then Mehring ducked his sleek head and ran.
* * *
________
La Fémina, the famous Moroccan restaurant, stood in the middle of a gold-lit block on the curving rue du Musée. Varian received an elaborate greeting from the maître d’, Youssef A., who was privy to the comings and goings of a great many people of note; he had already helped Varian locate nearly a dozen clients. With a wink, he conducted Varian to one of the tiered platforms along the walls, seating him at a corner table that overlooked the service floor and offered a view of the assembled guests. Moments later he returned with an olive-adorned martini, and Varian drank as he watched the flow of traffic through the room, the diners entering and leaving, the waiters with their steaming trays of couscous, the busboys with their precipitous stacks of plates. A claw clenched his gut from the inside, giving an occasional twist: hunger laced with anxiety, desire cut with foreboding. Did he want Grant to walk through the door of this restaurant? Was that what he ached for? Or did he prefer him to have been delayed indefinitely in Lisbon or Barcelona, subsumed into the grand confusion of Europe? His delight in not knowing the answer—yes, delight, the feeling he remembered from boyhood rides on roller coasters, the thrill and fear of clicking to the top, not knowing whether the descent would bring incredible speed or a clattering, crushing death—should have been a warning, he told himself; it should have been enough to get him up from this table and out through the front door. Instead it was pure pleasure, a fine distraction from the terrible day he’d had. The feeling spread through his chest, infused with the scents of cardamom and saffron, set free to float on a sliver-thin layer of gin. He closed his eyes and took a long breath, and when he opened them again, Youssef A. was leading Grant through the honeycomb of tables.
The Flight Portfolio Page 15
