Alex's Wake (23 page)

I have none of that, I mourn. I never saw Alex or Helmut, never heard them speak or sing or laugh, never witnessed them perform any act, profound or quotidian. I wasn't there to help them hang a picture, mow the lawn, buy the weekly groceries, or hold their hands when, at the end of a long life well lived, death came to claim them, gently and peacefully, without violence or hate.

Fighting an inexorable wave of self-pity, I lie back on the grass and gaze upward into the unsullied blue bowl of the universe. I close my eyes and within minutes I am asleep, letting my subconscious do battle with my sense of loss. I awake in better spirits and walk briskly back to
our hotel. Amy has conquered the language barrier and bought new sneakers, and I admire them happily. Life has gone on, as it does.

Later that evening, our last in Boulogne, we walk to the end of the pier and the entrance to the harbor. Because of the air raid of 1944, much has changed since Alex and Helmut's ship pulled in on June 20, 1939. This evening, accentuating the contrast, four paragliders have raced off the green cliffs extending away from the harbor to the east, and their colorful sails are soaring gracefully in the shifting air currents high above the sand.

But the entrance to the inner harbor is largely unchanged, with a narrow passageway of pilings leading from the open channel to the safety of the docks. The cliffs are still here, the long sandy beach is still here, the gulls with their melancholy calls are still here, and the sunshine and the endless waves are still here—just as they were on that solstice eve seventy-two years ago when my grandfather and uncle made their slow approach past the winking harbor lights to what must have seemed a genuinely safe mooring. I gaze out across the broad English Channel toward the beach in Dover where Matthew Arnold heard “the eternal note of sadness” in the unceasing tides and saw his “ignorant armies clash by night,” and then look back to the harbor, trying my utmost to imagine what Alex and Helmut felt as they glided to their landing here in France. As I think of them passing slowly by on that June morning long ago, I am moved to lift my right hand in greeting; anyone watching would see me waving extravagantly at nothing at all.

They had experienced such terror in Germany and then the uncertainty of their long ocean voyage and now—
voila!
—it seemed that someone had use for them after all. Germany had kicked them out; Cuba, the United States, and Canada had turned their backs; and now here was France, against whom Alex had fought twenty-five years earlier, welcoming them into this sheltered harbor with its green cliffs, peaceful sands, and the noble dome of Our Lady looming protectively over them from the ancient walled city on the hill.

Toward dusk on a quiet evening in the year 636, according to local legend, worshippers emerging from a thatched chapel on these cliffs noticed a wooden ship without sails, oars, or a rudder enter the harbor
and slowly approach land. When the people hurried down to the water's edge to investigate, they discovered that the ship was empty save for a three-foot-high carved statue of the Virgin Mary holding the child Jesus in her left arm. Over the gentle lapping of the surf, they heard a voice proclaim, “I choose your city as a sanctuary and a dwelling of grace.” Awed, the people of Boulogne-sur-Mer built a shrine to Mary that, over the coming centuries, attracted pilgrims from all over Europe, among them Geoffrey Chaucer's Wife of Bath. It became one of the most important destinations in all Christendom, the site of many miracles.

On this golden evening by the sea, I wish I could have journeyed here in time to witness another one.

7

Martigny-les-Bains

S
ATURDAY
, M
AY
21, 2011. We awake to a thick fog blanketing the harbor, as nature replicates for us the conditions experienced by Alex and Helmut on their arrival. But the sun soon burns the mist away, presiding over a splendid spring day. Our route takes us up through hills wreathed with deep green forests and garlanded with vines and poppies and down through a valley that witnessed two of humankind's bloodiest battles. It is a day of feeling the freedom and exaltation of traveling through beautiful, unfamiliar countryside and of unhappy reminders of the reasons behind the journey. When we return home and, fumbling for a word to best describe for friends the overall mood of the trip, I settle on “schizophrenic,” I think of this day as the one when I first truly began to recognize the delicate balance we're maintaining between limitless joy and inconsolable sorrow.

We drive our hardy little Meriva southeast from Boulogne past the ancient town of St. Quentin, founded by the Romans to replace an even older Celtic settlement that the Italian invaders had burned to the ground, and the holy city of Reims, the site of the coronation of the kings of France from the twelfth through the nineteenth centuries. We leave the expressway at Châlons-en-Champagne and immediately find ourselves driving through vineyards of Chardonnay, Pinot Noir, and Pinot Meunier grapes that will in time, through the sweet sorcery of the local
vignerons
, be transformed into the sparkling wine that has made
this region of France renowned throughout the world. Punctuating the rolling acres of grape-bearing vines are breathtaking fields of blood-red poppies that conjure up both Claude Monet's blooming painted hillside and the melancholy memorial flower of remembrance. Indeed, as if to make sure we do not forget, our route crosses the River Marne. In two battles fought along its banks during World War I, more than 750,000 soldiers from France, England, Germany, Italy, and the United States were either killed or grievously wounded. Today the river flows peacefully through the quiet valley, its gentle current a tranquil blue ribbon that binds together the vines and poppies, row on row.

Through a rear-view mirror darkly . . . a picture of me taking a picture of our two constant companions, Helmut and Alex
.

We stop in the town of Bar-le-Duc and purchase two fresh baguettes and a hearty portion of goat cheese at a friendly
fromagerie
. A few miles down the road, we stop at a dusty little village, its few buildings all made of stone, and enjoy our lunch in a quiet churchyard. As we eat, my thoughts turn once again to Alex and Helmut. Did they, too, partake
of crusty bread and flavorful cheese, perhaps washed down with a local vintage, on their June journey from Boulogne? Were they as transfixed by the countryside as we have been on this sunny May afternoon? Were they happy on that day so long ago? Dear God, I whisper, I hope so.

Shortly after 5 p.m., we pull into the town of Contrexéville and check into our hotel, the charming Inn of the Twelve Apostles. We are in the French
departement
, or state, known as the Vosges, which for many years has been the home of spas and health resorts, due in large measure to the region's naturally occurring thermal springs. Since 1774, when King Louis XV's doctor built the first spa here, Contrexéville water has been valued for its restorative powers. First bottled and sold in 1908, it's been owned and distributed by the international Nestlé company since 1992.

The Twelve Apostles has been here for more than a century, and its rooms reflect the fashions of a bygone era, though it does offer free Wi-Fi as an accommodation to modern desires to stay in touch. It also has a small swimming pool containing the town's warm healing waters, and Amy decides to shed the stiffness brought on by a day in the car with a vigorous swim. I, however, am anxious to see my grandfather and uncle's destination and decide to drive the eight or ten miles to Martigny-les-Bains alone.

The road to Martigny is a small country highway that meanders its pleasant, unhurried way through fields of wheat and stands of beech trees, over two bridges that cross a stream and a railway, and past the occasional farm, everything sharply illuminated by the still-brilliant sun slowly sinking toward the horizon. As I near the village, I pass a scene of utter pastoral peace and charm, a field of sheep whose newborn lambs leap and play in blissful abandon. I laugh out loud, which helps somewhat to ease the tension in my tightly held jaw and the hands that clench the steering wheel. I know that my relatives spent time in a formerly posh establishment known as the Hotel International, and as I enter the town limits of Martigny-les-Bains, I am anxious to see it and equally anxious to learn what my reaction will be.

I drive slowly down the main street, peering expectantly all around me. Then I see the outlines of the grand hotel to my left . . . and in sheer
shock slam on the brakes. Luckily, no one is behind me, or I would doubtless have been rear-ended. The engine has stalled, but I manage to coax it to life again and steer the Meriva into a parking space at the edge of what was once an expanse of green lawn leading up to the splendors of the Hotel International. My heart thumping in my chest, I manage to climb out of the car, where I stand staring up at what is now a glorious ruin.

What remains today of the luxurious Hotel International in Martigny-les-Bains. “O let not Time deceive you, you cannot conquer Time.”

My legs have been rendered weak and my mouth hangs open stupidly as I begin a slow stumble forward, my eyes staring fixedly at broken towers, crumbling walls, and shattered windows. As I draw closer to the rictus of a doorway, the nearby village church bells begin to peal the arrival of seven o'clock. The unrelenting toll of hours sounds across the clear evening air and I think of W. H. Auden: “All the clocks in the city began to whirr and chime: ‘O let not time deceive you, you cannot conquer Time.'” From a grove of trees to my left comes a loud cawing from a murder of crows, their calls a mocking accompaniment to the pitiless verdict of time and history.

For the next thirty minutes, I walk slowly and sadly through what remains of the Hotel International. Everywhere is peeling wallpaper, buckling floors, and the iron skeletons of wooden banisters. Doors have fallen into what were exquisite suites, threadbare carpets flap from once-regal stairways, the dust of decades lies thickly throughout. Retreating once more to the comfort of literature, I remember Charles Ryder and his shock upon returning to Brideshead and seeing the stately mansion fallen into decay.

I gather up a torn corner of brown wallpaper and a shard of broken glass as souvenirs and make my way slowly back to the car. I remain in a state of emotional paralysis, not quite able to comprehend the reality of what stands, all too real, right there before me. Perhaps the abandoned building echoes my own long-held fears of abandonment. But as I turn again to face the ruins of the Hotel International, I realize that this sight is a harsh reminder of what was to come for Alex and Helmut. The contrast between the smiling countryside and the unhappy story I am following keeps surprising me. Yet their time in Martigny-les-Bains could very well have been the high point of their ordeal.

“M
ARTIGNY, THE PRETTIEST
of the Spas of the Vosges, is 218 miles from Paris and five hours via the Eastern Railway, situated on a plateau of 1,257 feet; it is the highest of the watering places in the basin of the Vosges. Known as the Thermal Versailles, Martigny has no equal in the Vosges and is supplied with every modern comfort. Everywhere there is an abundance of air, light, and space, essential factors in hygiene that make Martigny-les-Bains an especially salubrious resort. At no place better than Martigny can children benefit from such a healthful cure, and take their amusements or exercise in such safety, without need of the least supervision. Moreover, the healthiness of the country children excites the admiration of our visitors; the inhabitants are robust, and the longevity of the population is well known all around.”

Those proudly forthright words appeared toward the end of the first decade of the twentieth century in a flier heralding the virtues of Martigny-les-Bains. And they weren't translated from the original
French. Martigny was such a popular destination for citizens of London, Manchester, and Liverpool that a vigorous marketing campaign was conducted in English. Within this particular flier was a full-page advertisement for the Hotel International; among its offerings, proclaimed the ad, was a formal Five O'Clock Tea served on “the fine terrace with its magnificent view” and “Electricity in all the Rooms!”