Last Train to Paris (14 page)

It was raining, and I didn't have an umbrella. I ran from the trolley to Stefan's bar. Dripping wet, I burst in, but didn't see Stefan. I felt my heart drop.

“Hi, Rosie,” I heard, and swung around.

“Leon,” I said, and threw my wet arms around him. We both laughed.

“Sorry I was so abrupt, so rigid,” he said. “This fear is crushing, and—and—” and he shrugged.

Leon looked worn down, almost shabby. His raincoat was draped over the back of his chair and I could see the frayed collar and cuffs. He was wearing a black sweater that looked too large for him; he had lost weight.

“Your hair!” His hair was almost white.

“Going gray overnight's quite the style here,” he said. “It's a badge of honor.”

The lack of hair color exaggerated the deep, almost purplish, half-moons under his eyes. But his eyes were still filled with intensity. In one way, he was more handsome than ever. In another, his face echoed the anguish of Europe.

“But, you,” he said. “You look beautiful—”

“Oh, sure. Since when!”

“You're still a very silly woman,” he said, “even though you're so smart.”

“Thank you, Leon. But are you all right? You look like you've lost weight. How are your parents?”

“Slow down, Rosie. Let's sit. Look,” he said, “you've a very good idea of what's going on. Except that while you were in Paris, the laws have gotten even more severe. The abuse gets more violent and widespread with every passing day. I can't move—I'm a prisoner in my own home. The Reich is using me to get its fancy engraving work done. And as long as I continue to do its bidding, it has agreed to leave my parents alone. You see, Rosie, the enemy needs me—and, perversely, I need them. If I stop, we'll all be sent to a concentration camp. If I escape, my parents will be sent to a concentration camp. It's horrifying. We can't win.”

“Are your parents safe?”

“They, like all their Jewish friends who used to live in the fashionable neighborhoods of Berlin, have been forced to ‘migrate.'” Leon laughed with scorn. “They've been ‘relocated' to the neighborhoods around Linienstrasse and Grenadierstrasse where working-class Jews live. My poor parents. They were once esteemed academics; now they're jammed into an apartment with three other elderly couples. They sleep on the floor. They share a bathroom. There's no hot water.”

“But why don't they live with you?”

“Think, Rosie. The Nazis won't let this happen. They're afraid their precious silver and gold will go missing. We have to get out of here, but I can't get my parents to make a decision. They simply don't believe that such evil can continue. I'm approaching old friends and colleagues, and have some plans. But everything takes time. So I steal minuscule flecks of gold and silver tailings, slowly accumulating some valuable metal. But I've a long way to go. The official who oversees my apartment counts every damn dram, every speck of metal. If only my parents had escaped when I arranged it two years ago, we'd all be in Switzerland. But I keep reminding myself that I'm fortunate.”

“I don't understand,” I said. “How you can consider yourself fortunate? It sounds terrible!”

“Well, because my parents refused to leave, I now have you in my life. And then, if it hadn't been for an old friend, we would all be in trouble. Because of him, we're still here in Berlin and not on a train to some godforsaken camp. It's a strange situation—I'm indebted to him, but I'm stuck, too. If I do anything wrong, he'll be arrested. And I've known his three children since they were born—I was even a guest at their christenings. You see,” he went on, placing his hand on my arm and leaning forward, “he was my friend and classmate in art school. Now he's a Nazi official, and he has put himself in great jeopardy to help me. I know it sounds bizarre, but it's the truth, and—”

“It doesn't make sense,” I said.

“He's a friend, Rosie, and a wonderful artist—far more talented than I am. But I agree with you. I don't understand why he became a card-carrying Nazi. They must have something on him—while at the same time they need his artistic expertise. Occasionally, he asks me for help with the propaganda posters he's illustrating. He does the sketch—I do the inking—and then he lays down the colors. It is so confusing, but without him—well—”

“So you still see him?”

“Of course, almost every day. He lives down the hall. He's my boss. His name's Gerard. No, I won't tell you his last name,” he said, reading my mind. “It's too dangerous for you to know. If they ever traced anything back to you, you'd be arrested. You have to understand that he's the one person keeping my family from being rounded up and sent away.”

“Oh, my dear, my dear,” I said. “What a terrible world this is. But I could help you, and—”

“No, no, you still don't understand,” he said, sounding exasperated. “You're almost as much at risk as I am. Everyone knows you're Jewish. Your managing editor—what's his name?”

“Ramsey.”

“Yes, Ramsey. I've heard from Stefan that he's convinced you're running away from your Orthodox family in New York.”

I had to laugh at the absurdity. “He's always suspected I'm Jewish. Now he knows I am. Anyway, I assume that he would be happy to axe me.”

“Perhaps in the flesh, because you're such a troublemaker! What my grandmother used to call a
honeypessle
.” Leon laughed.

“Oh.” I was delighted. “My Aunt Clara used to call me that too! Do you know what it means?”

“Not really,” he said, “although it was always a form of endearment. I suspect it means a ‘little pest.'”

And we both laughed.

“But back to the real world,” Leon said. “You're an excellent journalist, Rosie, already familiar with the ways of the regime. Your paper needs you. And don't forget, from what I gather—Ramsey rides high on your reputation.”

“Yes, maybe. But he's such a bastard. I hate working with him.”

“No one seems to have choices any longer,” Leon said. “Not even you Americans. And I'm sorry to hear about your cousin. Stefan told me that they found Stella's body and arrested a man.”

“Yes, and I sent her home to the family in New York. There's been so much death, Leon. So much.”

 

Oh, how I can still feel my body leaning toward him, my lips almost touching his, whispering, “But I won't lose you again, Leon. I can't bear the thought.”

We walked through the rain to my room. We were soaked.

“I'm nervous. I feel that this is our first real time together,” I said.

Leon came behind me and unclasped the barrette that was keeping back my hair.

He smiled, and while looking at me, holding on to a chair, he took off his wet shoes and socks.

While I, not taking my eyes off Leon's face, removed my wet shoes and stockings.

He took off his soaking jacket and shirt and started to chuckle.

I took off my raincoat.

He took off his trousers.

I took off my black sweater and slacks and started to giggle.

Leon took off his underwear and made a wry face.

I took off my underwear and tried to look very serious.

We stood in the jumble of our discarded clothes and looked at each other.

“This is the first time,” Leon said, still not touching me, “that I've looked at you in all your glory. You're beautiful.”

“And this,” I whispered, “is the first time I've seen you so tenderly exposed.”

And, as if we were hearing the same music, we moved together in a sensual dance of love.

 

I'm not going to describe further the intimacy of our private time together. I may be called old fashioned—but I would rather use my imagination to create the act of sex than have it described to me in blatant Technicolor and heard in stereophonic sound. Imagining is far more stimulating, even to an old lady like me!

But I can say that I've never forgotten that night. It was at that moment that I understood love. Deep love. Passionate love. Lasting love.

 

Later: “But I have to explain about being in Paris,” he said.

“No, no. You don't.”

“Just listen, Rosie. Please. Gerard is responsible for me and the other forgers and etchers—”

“I didn't know you could forge,” I said, and Leon looked at me strangely.

“Does that make a difference?” he challenged.

“No, of course not,” I said, “except that you've instantly become a prized possession!”

“Well, anyway,” he said laughing, “Gerard decided to spy on his wife.”

“Do you know her?”

“No. He's just remarried. His first wife was also with us at school. She was my girlfriend, first. But soon it became obvious that they were interested in each other. We were young, romantic—everything was tragic. I thought my heart would break. But Gerard was sensitive to my feelings and has always looked out for me. They had both made their living by illustrating for magazines and books. She died after the birth of their third child, about four years ago. This new wife lives not far from Berlin in the countryside with his mother and the children. One way or another, he became convinced that his current wife was having an affair with one of the German trade representatives to the American Embassy in Paris. This man had been a classmate of hers. Gerard came up with a plan. Ostensibly, he was sending her to Paris to buy unadorned silver plates and trays for his artisans to work on. Through a labyrinth of connections, she was to meet someone at the American Embassy who would direct her to a reliable retailer—meaning someone who was willing to sell to the Germans and not register the sale.”

“But that doesn't make sense,” I said. “What's wrong with the French bureaucracy having this information?”

“Nothing!” Leon said. “It's just that he's paranoid—convinced that some authority or another's watching him. He instructed me to forge two invitations to the Christmas party—one for his wife and one for me. I refused. He got nasty. The next day he had two of the most ominous-looking, black-leather-clad Gestapo goons pick up my parents and take them to their headquarters on Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse. Right where we met earlier today. He made me watch from the corner as they were dragged in, already handcuffed, without even a suitcase between them. ‘Do what I say,' he ordered, ‘or your parents will go away forever. I'm sorry, Leon. I really am.' The threat was clear and I knew he would carry it out. He released my parents an hour after I began the work.”

“But why didn't you contact me?”

“No, it was too risky. There was no way that I was going to jeopardize my parents' safety. Can you understand that?”

Yes, I could.

“So I watched that stupid woman make a fool of herself in front of the embassy's guests. It was amazing. I don't know if you saw her, but she was tall and insisted on wearing her fur coat, even though it was boiling inside. And she had too much to drink, spoke atrocious French, and was flirting with anyone who would pay attention to her. I followed her for three days and got back on the train for Berlin when she did. She wasn't fooling around, thank goodness. I would have hated having to report her. Actually, I wouldn't have reported her, even if she was seeing someone, but I knew Gerard would read the truth in my face unless I were absolutely certain. Thank God, I was.”

“Have you ever made fake passports?” I asked.

Leon was silent.

“Okay, okay,” I said, “I get it. But I need to ask another question. Is it dangerous for you if Gerard finds out that we're friends?”

“Yes, it's dangerous, but he already knows. That's why not one bit of information can go beyond this room. I have to be sure that nothing's traced to you. I'm aware that I provide a valuable service for him, and it behooves both Gerard and me to keep the status quo.”

 

Now I can see that there were many sides of Leon I didn't understand. A part of him was cloaked, hidden from me—protecting himself. I know this is natural during overwhelming anxiety, but I wish I had been more sympathetic, more considerate.

 

But in 1939, my life in Berlin did begin anew. Even though the prognosis for peace was grim, my relationship with Leon was filled with light. My writing changed, too. I didn't stab my words onto the page with such anger—I tried to find promise in the continuing talks that were being held between governments. Ramsey thought I was getting soft. I didn't care. I wanted my dispatches to be written with both hardcore honesty and a glimmer of hope. My style of writing became easy to identify. I had unconsciously figured out how to write like a man without losing the heart of a woman.

 

Along with covering politics in Germany, I was writing my column, “Berlin Journal.” Every few days I would search for material by exploring different neighborhoods of the city. I tried to find some promise of a better future. Each time I returned to the pressroom and to my typewriter, I was filled with depression, heavy with foreboding; rarely did I find an encouraging story. But I kept trying. One nice day I took two trams to get to Friedrichshain, an area built for the working class—now an unofficial ghetto for Jews who had been forced from their homes. I was stunned. Makeshift tables had been set up on the sidewalks. On these tables lay everything from used shoes to musical instruments to elegant china and silver to piles of old newspapers. I understood without asking. The vendors were selling their possessions, trying to collect enough money to emigrate. It was eerily quiet. The government had purposefully isolated them—no trams, no automobiles. People spoke in soft voices.

The population was being deliberately starved. The shop shelves echoed, empty. In comparison I lived like a queen and the guilt gnawed at me. And I had to ask myself how I, now a Jewish writer in Germany, could continue reporting on the Jewish condition. I knew I was taking a big chance. I could be sent home by the Gestapo or simply disappear into an SS building forever.