But Vera secretly feared that something would go wrong, and they would die on the open sea from an errant German torpedo. She had done this to her characters many times. Killed them off just when the long-awaited moment of hope lurched into view, but she refused such a fate, pushing away the idea that she might die before seeing Lucie again.
Perhaps now all those blighted characters would have their revenge, she thought, listening to Max and Leon make fun of various English expressions. “He’s hairy at the heels!” Leon bellowed, after which Max barked out his favorite one: “Come on, Leon, let’s keep chomping fat!”
“Let’s chew the fat,” Elsa corrected.
Max winked at Vera, his clever eyes mischievous, recapturing the boyishness he’d had when they first met and he took her to all the jazz clubs and racy cabarets in the Latin Quarter, squeezing her thigh under the table while the saxophone crested over them in dark rich waves.
“It was just announced on the wireless. Greece has entered the war,” a man called out from the other side of the deck.
The wind picked up, cutting through her.
* * *
• • •
During the last few days of the voyage, Max drank less in the evenings, his eyes gleaming, as if he could already see the New York skyscrapers towering above him, touching heaven. The expectancy in the rippling sea air, and the knowledge that soon they would greet the Atlantic coast, with Manhattan shining before them, made everyone, including Vera, slightly manic.
* * *
• • •
Vera spent the last night on board lying awake in her monastic twin bed while Max slept soundly in his. She sat up and opened the nightstand drawer, pulling out the photograph: Lucie running toward the camera in a white dress, holding Mourka out in front of her. Her unfocused smile, eyes bright and laughing, her dark hair, the morning sun streaming into the Parisian living room; in the background, coffee cups and breakfast rolls on the table.
Vera studied Lucie’s face, remembering the perfect bow of her upper lip, the cleft in her chin, how warm she felt when Vera lifted her from a long nap, her skin smelling of lavender from the scented sheets. She closed her eyes, willing sleep to come. And it did, with images that bent time, crushing it and then straightening it out again, as only dreams do. Her father sank into a velvet armchair before the fire, his face dewy from the bathhouse, and yet he still perspired while reading the newspaper. Vera watched him read, vaguely wondering about all the families fleeing to Shanghai, Odessa, or Tehran. The kitchen maid, a plump Ukrainian peasant, crossed herself and prayed for God in heaven to protect the czar.
Her body jerked in sleep as time hurtled forward to Lucie’s birth. Max walked over to her and stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. Those days were long and listless. Her only preoccupation was Lucie, with her translucent skin and milky blue eyes, ensconced in a bundle of muslin, lulling Vera into the predictable routine of changing and feeding and washing her tiny perfect body. And then, at the end of the day, the hum of the elevator rising up to the top floor was a welcome sound, signaling that Max would unlock the front door, remove his hat and gloves, and come toward her with open arms, asking after Lucie in a playful tone.
She had temporarily stopped writing to care for the baby, and so now she found herself asking him questions about what he had seen out there, in the world, while she was cloistered and padded by the baby’s soft blankets and toys, the tiny cashmere socks and satin coverlets, almost as if she herself were an infant in need of protection. When the baby fell asleep on her chest, she would rest her hand on Lucie’s downy back and time her breath to match Lucie’s breath; in the suspended calm, her eyes closed, and her mind flattened into serene blankness.
* * *
• • •
Vera woke with a start. She sat up and curved her body forward, as if to catch Lucie from falling from her chest, sensing the weight of a baby no longer there. She turned her head to the side and something jagged and unkind jangled inside of it. Cabin doors slammed shut with the particular fierceness of departure. Voices echoed in the ship’s corridors. Loud talk vibrated through the thin walls. Max’s suitcase sat open, expertly packed, on the bed opposite hers, as if reproaching her for her lateness, announcing that many important things were underway, and here she was, stunned, still in her nightgown, sleep crusting her eyes while she hugged her knees into her chest, blinking into the small bright room.
The cabin door burst open. “We’re nearly there. You can already see the Statue of Liberty. The skyscrapers. Everything!” Max beamed.
She reached for some unknown object. A hairbrush, a cigarette. She didn’t know what.
“Come quickly!” he added before closing the door.
* * *
• • •
Vera spotted Max in the crowd, pressed up against the ship’s railing, waving a little American flag along with Leon, Elsa, and some others.
Where did those magical little flags come from? She squinted up at the statue that everyone was gazing at in awe, taking off their hats to it, waving handkerchiefs in the air, as if the torch carried real fire. Of course, Vera thought, most of them probably didn’t know that the statue was a gift from France, and yet here they stood, panting and trembling before it. And the women, glossy fur coats thrown over their shoulders, hats tipped at exaggerated angles, their painted faces veiled by dotted net—ready to greet the New World, they had utterly transformed themselves to appear richer and more beautiful, and they had succeeded.
She stood next to a staircase that led to the upper deck, and she steadied herself against the banister, looking down for a moment at the wooden planks. Embarrassed by her plain woolen dress and her one hat, the peacock feathers bent, she attempted to smooth them down now, to at least look presentable. The morning sun shattered her vision. Too bright, too sharp, too many colors, languages, and perfumes. Her heart drummed as people cheered, and she focused on a little boy in a sailor suit wobbling in the middle of the deck as his mother yelled for him to stay close. He decided not to hear her. A group of older children hung over the railing for a better look at the skyline, and Vera tried to imagine people living in those impenetrable concrete structures.
Her eyes watered in the brightness. She squeezed them shut for a moment.
Was this what it meant to be American: to stare into the sun and challenge its strength?
Chapter 9
VERA
November 1940, New York, New York
She knew she should feel lucky that Agnes was watching over Lucie, hidden away in a stone farmhouse in the middle of France, but she didn’t. A piercing anxiety woke her in the middle of the night, harshly insisting that she had failed to protect her daughter and now her daughter would perish. A couple fought in the next hotel room, a radio program switched on and then off again, fireworks or maybe gunshots popped in the distance, the subway rumbled—it all coursed through her, lived in her, the city’s sharp malice jangling in her mind like pieces of mismatched cutlery.
She shook Max’s arm to wake him. “Max! Do you think Agnes knows we’re in America now?”
Max yawned. In the shadowy predawn, he appeared wholly unbothered. “If Varian managed to get her the note—”
“Even if he didn’t,” Vera hissed, “I sent her a letter the day we arrived in Manhattan, so she should know by now that we’re here.”
He sat up, rubbing his eyes. “You only sent the letter a week ago.”
She sighed, sinking back into the soft mattress. “It seems like ages ago.”
He patted her bare thigh, and then let his hand rest there. “She probably hasn’t gotten it yet, with how impossible the post has been.”
She wanted to add that the post would be even more impossible once they reached California, the distance between them and Lucie widening beyond comprehension.
They would be so far away.
So very far.
<
br /> They’d argued about it last night, before going to bed, and now she felt the pull of the argument again. She had tried to persuade him they should stay in New York, at least for a little longer, but Max said that she was being irrational; there was no reason to stay here. He couldn’t get work as easily in New York, if at all, and they had already decided on Los Angeles.
An ocean separated them, whether they were in New York or California.
The groan of the early-morning garbage trucks filtered through the window, which they had left open a crack. Max turned over onto his side, his back to her before she could say something nasty, implying that her need to stay close to Lucie was greater than his.
She felt for the gold heart pendant that always hung from her neck, but of course it wasn’t there. Max snored steadily.
She had to get out of here.
* * *
• • •
Vera pulled her coat tighter against the chilled wind and dug her chin into its collar. The city was less abrasive in the early morning, before its incessant activity unfurled. A few cabs lumbered by, off-duty lights dimly glowing in the fog, and an elderly man walked a small shaggy dog, tugging the leash whenever the dog paused to sniff the damp concrete. White-hot steam billowed out from the windows of one of the many towering brick buildings, as if a trapped dragon exhaled through the wrought iron bars, something she might have made up for Lucie, if Lucie were beside her now, but it was only a hat-steaming factory.
She stopped in front of a cafeteria window, enticed by the idea of food, but men in fedoras and overcoats crowded the place, all reading the Jewish Daily Forward, in Yiddish from what she could tell. She moved on, in search of another place, as she’d heard cafeteria food ruined the stomach.
A few blocks down, wide plate glass windows and a spacious interior bathed in amber light drew her inside. It was still a cafeteria, Dubrow’s, but less crowded. The waitress called her “honey” and directed her toward the metal trays and coffee. She hesitated in front of the pastry case, confounded by the gleaming rows of unidentifiable foods. The waitress saw her looking and said loudly, “The cherry pie is a favorite. I personally like the apple cheese strudel, but it’s up to you.” A few men glanced over their newspapers at Vera.
She ordered the cherry pie, keeping the sentence as short as possible. She didn’t like the sound of herself in English. Tentative and halting, with too many breaths and pauses between each word. And the look on the waitress’s face confirmed this.
* * *
• • •
The coffee was hot and strong. The plump syrup-coated cherries combined with the buttery thick crust tasted surprisingly good, though it sat heavily in her stomach. She began to relax into the leather booth, and the sprawling mural along the far wall comforted her. She stared at the peaceful afternoon scene: couples strolled by cypress trees, and shallow steps led up to a civic building lodged in the middle of a perfectly planned park. The scene made her feel civically inclined, as if such afternoons were possible in a country like this, allowing everyone the freedom of leisure.
She pressed the back of the fork against the roof of her mouth, savoring the last bits of pie. Of course, she knew it wasn’t true, the “liberty and justice for all,” but the promise was seductive, making her feel as if she were on the inside looking out for one fragile moment.
Men in trench coats and heavy black shoes passed by the cafeteria window, eyes trained on the sidewalk. Vera sensed the building momentum of more cars, more people, more noise as the city gained speed and tension to challenge the day, crushing those not strong enough to face it.
Every few minutes the door clanged open as the place filled up with morning commuters. The din of utensils scraping against plates and lowered voices discussing Roosevelt’s reelection and how Germany was bombing the hell out of London.
She wondered if Max was up yet. They were staying at the Wyndham Hotel, on Eighth Avenue in the Garment District. Despite its vastness, with the many ballrooms, bars, and even a barbershop, all the European refugees had been relegated to the eleventh and twelfth floors; anytime Vera and Max went anywhere, they encountered people they already knew, or vaguely knew, and others who looked strikingly familiar. Thomas Mann and Stefan Zweig held court in their rooms, nonchalantly tossing around accounts of a doomed Europe. Given that none of the world dictators had any formal academic education, they concluded that the barbarity would only worsen. In the same breath, they bemoaned the absence of coffeehouses in Manhattan. “Where does one converse, scribble down notes, play chess, and observe the people while lingering over a cup of black fire? Nowhere!” Zweig lamented.
To combat the pressing throng of refugees they encountered on every floor, in every elevator, Leon had shut himself away in his hotel room to write, while Max started drinking as soon as the sun went down. Elsa wrote endless letters, using Leon’s name, to try to secure affidavits for family still in Europe.
Vera avoided the lobby and all other places of congregation, which only left the overheated hotel room as a safe haven. As she waited for the elevator, all it took was one sympathetic smile to another refugee, and out it poured: abandoned children, demolished houses, disloyal staff, no money at all.
Vera cringed, knowing that if she were to tell her story, she would sound exactly the same.
It was better to write. Even if all these letters were lost or delayed or never delivered. Pushing aside her plate, she took out some hotel stationery, careful to tear off the embossed address at the top, and her fountain pen.
November 5, 1940
Dear L.,
We miss you terribly and think of you every day. Cold wind sweeps through the city, which is full of canary yellow taxicabs and garbage trucks and loads of glamorous lonely people, and barely any trees. There’s an ice rink that you would like, and they also serve hot chocolate there.
Vera paused, imagining Agnes reading the letter aloud, her soft voice massaging every word, trying to get the most out of it for Lucie’s sake. But she didn’t want to give too much away, about where they were, because of the censors. America would sound so distant and far away, and this might frighten Lucie, and California sounded even more foreign and unimaginable. And even now, Agnes might maintain the idea that Vera and Max were still on vacation, but because of the war, they had been delayed. Yes, it was important that Lucie not know they had gone to America. She might boast to someone about her parents in America, the way children do, and this would raise questions about why she wasn’t with them. Questions that would put her at risk.
Send my regards to Agnes and her family. And remember to listen to her. Soon we will be together again.
Love,
Mama
She drew a heart with an arrow through it on the back of the envelope.
* * *
• • •
That night, at a cocktail party at Jules Romains’s penthouse apartment on Riverside Drive, rain streaked the wide glass windows, and sinewy figures flashed before Vera as if outlined in a silvery light. Gardenias stood, freshly cut, in crystal vases. Bookcases curved around the room, undulating and wavelike. The hostess wore one of the gardenias tucked behind her ear as she welcomed them, her slender arms encased in long silk gloves that reached up to her elbows.
Men with famous names introduced themselves to Leon and Max. Vera vaguely recalled reading their work and wondered if they had read any of her essays or novels, but they didn’t seem to recognize her in the slightest, not even Paul Brasillach, with whom she had given a joint lecture five years ago, when her first novel came out. He looked the same now, with his carefully combed blond hair and imposing stance. She remembered that he was very dogmatic about rejecting realism in literature because, he had argued, surrealism was the only way to upend the oppression of bourgeois values, which were stifling society. He purposefully targeted her work, and not only her work but also her personally, knowing that she led a
comfortable domestic existence, and perhaps also knowing that she was not a communist. But he didn’t know what her family had witnessed on the eve of the Russian revolution: students rioting and attacking bystanders on the street for no good reason other than that they could get away with it. The revolutionaries proved just as violent as the White Army when they caught a whiff of power. It was human nature.
Of course, afterward, on the steps of the Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal, he smiled innocently and complimented her novel, while in the same breath admitting he hadn’t read it. He now coiled his arm around a woman in a pale lavender gown with fur-trimmed armholes. So much for upending the bourgeoisie. His wife delicately ate an olive off a toothpick.
A waiter handed Vera a glass of chilled champagne, and she felt a stab of nostalgic pleasure. She used to drink chilled champagne before the war.
Leon was explaining to someone that the severe anti-communist sentiment was difficult here, and that some people even inferred he was a communist just because he’d taken such a public stance against fascism.
“He’s depressed about it,” Elsa interjected.
Paul pompously added, “In America, everyone thinks in such literal terms. There is absolutely no opportunity for nuance. For instance, if I say I oppose Mussolini, then they all immediately assume I love Stalin!”
Those Who Are Saved Page 8
