Two months had passed since our flight from Paris, and our cash reserves had dwindled to nearly nothing when we heard that an American was openly assisting refugees and clandestinely granting a chosen few help in leaving the country altogether. His name was Varian Fry—but we were told he winced at the feminine sound of his first name, and anyone who hoped to win his favor called him Mr. Fry. We heard about his arrival in Marseilles, with three thousand dollars taped to his leg. And we heard most of all about his list: the names of two hundred artists, musicians, and writers that he and his emergency-relief committee back in America believed were most in danger and most worth saving. My name was on that list. Al-Cerraz's was not.
Fry received visitors at his room at the Hôtel Splendide, but Al-Cerraz did not want to be seen there, lined up with the other petitioners, under the direct scrutiny of local gendarmes and Nazi informers. At present, Vichy was tolerating Fry's activities, under the guise of purely humanitarian efforts. Officially, he had permission to hear sob stories and offer minor financial support, not to forge documents or deal in foreign currencies, all of which he did. The game would end up lasting for thirteen months, until they sent him packing as an undesirable alien. I say thirteen months rather than rounding down to a year, because every month—every day—mattered. In that time, he helped some two thousand people flee to safety.
Some of the local artists were initially suspicious of the former journalist, astonished by his boldness and his youth and his apparent naïvete, to be operating so publicly when many of us, I suppose, thought aging politicos and spies should handle these things. My own first inclination was to steer clear, until Al-Cerraz asked me, "Then you're ready to pawn your bow? The Marseilles Mafia might want that sapphire, when they learn it belonged to a queen."
"You know I'd never sell it."
"Then the least you could do is play," he grumbled. Since our arrival, Al-Cerraz had performed privately here and there for well-heeled socialites, expecting the kind of instant patronage he'd found easily most of his life. But local largess was wearing thin. The night before, he'd left a party with a small white bag handed him by the hostess, a countess. He thought it held a discreet portion of cash. Instead it held scraps from dinner. The wealthy of Marseilles weren't living as well as they once had.
We knew that Fry dined with the likes of Hannah Arendt and Marc Chagall and other renowned Marseilles refugees; we knew he supported Jews and known homosexuals, so-called "degenerate" artists and other hard cases. Al-Cerraz persuaded me to wait until a September weekend when we knew Fry would be in the countryside, where he and his associates had rented a nineteenth-century villa and converted it into a hostel for select desperadoes.
We arrived at the gate of the Villa Air-Bel in September, were allowed in and guided past the fruit trees and unkempt garden and sprawling patio where one man sat with an easel and several others reclined in folding beach chairs, reading the newspapers. Later, we learned that when Fry was a boy, he had enjoyed regular visits to an orphanage run by his grandfather in Bath Beach, part of then-rural Brooklyn. This aging eighteen-bedroom chateau overlooking the Mediterranean was much like that seaside orphanage, full of just as much rambunctious mischief and bickering, though in this case there were no real orphans in residence, just creative artists who occasionally acted like children.
We nodded at the men on the patio and passed into the house. Fry's secretary showed us into a wood-paneled office and offered cigarettes and slices of pear. We accepted all of it, nervously puffing with sticky fingers as we waited to be seen. Finally Fry entered, shook our hands, and took his place behind a fussy, narrow desk. He looked like an accountant or perhaps a bookish schoolmaster, with his thick, round tortoiseshell glasses and close-buttoned pinstriped suit. We 'd heard he was fluent in several languages, and a quick study when it came to maps and money and evaluating risk. He tended to look away as he spoke, and opened and closed shallow desk drawers as he listened to us, fingers searching restlessly for the stamp or envelope or franc notes that might solve a given problem. At first, I mistook these mannerisms for social nervousness. I might have even thought he was awed by me or by my partner or both. But Fry's jumpiness had nothing to do with us. It was simply excess energy made visible; sparks escaping from a mind occupied with lists of names, locations of hotels, exchange rates, appointments.
After we'd told him about our most pressing needs, he trapped his fingers in a thoughtful steeple and angled his head toward me. "I wish I could tell you I traffic in microfilm and secret capsules, but mostly I deal with old-fashioned paper. Visas. Because of your reputation in Spain, your prominence, and your letter-writing activities, you were identified early as someone best served by emigration. We have an emergency entrance visa for you. The exit visa from France is more difficult, but we can forge one; or perhaps better, since you dare not cross into Franco's Spain, simply smuggle you onto a boat from Marseilles."
"To...?" I asked.
"America, of course."
He paused and studied a piece of paper on the desk in front of him. "As for you"—he stumbled over the pronunciation of Al-Cerraz's name—"you are not on the list. Furthermore..." he stopped again. A young woman in an hourglass-shaped tweed suit entered without knocking and whispered in Fry's ear.
"We have no ice?" he responded. "Send someone to get some. For now, anything cool. I don't suppose we can waste a piece of steak..."
Al-Cerraz's eyes grew round at the mention of steak, and he winked at me and smiled, until the lady retorted, "That's funny, Mr. Fry. And the shipment of fresh butter, cream, and coffee is waiting around back."
After she left, Fry explained, "One of our residents punched one of our lady visitors in the eye. She was just leaving, but I can't see sending her back to Marseilles with a black eye. Her ill health has attracted enough attention already." He tapped his fingers on the desk and turned back to Al-Cerraz. "The problem is not your lack of artistic reputation, but the facts of your reputation."
We waited, and he continued with evident reluctance. "Our first priorities are prominent critics of fascism. Not collaborators."
"But I'm against Franco now," Al-Cerraz sputtered. "I fled Spain years ago—in '37. Even the Spanish Republican embassy in Paris offered me some assistance. Who are you to say—"
"Come on, Justo." I reached for his arm.
"I'm not leaving. I have nowhere to go."
We stayed in our seats, Al-Cerraz huffing, Fry fingering the edge of his desk. It was a stalemate.
Finally Fry said, "What about you, Mr. Delargo?"
"I came here hoping for shelter or a temporary loan. I'm not leaving France—I never intended to. List or no list, I don't think I'm in serious danger. Frankly, I'm tired of running from place to place."
Fry exhaled. "Of course you are. Half the artists you'll meet in Marseilles say the same thing, until they're arrested or threatened. The lucky ones get a second chance. But I'm not in the business of convincing anyone."
The lady assistant cracked the door again and stage-whispered, "I'm sending Yehoshua to town for the ice. André requests that we pick up more wine for tonight; Jacqueline says he has had more than enough. Do we need anything else?"
Fry rose and straightened his jacket, looking harassed. "I hope he wasn't the one who punched our Italian violinist."
He wasn't.
Fry smiled in our direction. "We already have one artist missing an eye—that's Victor Brauner, the Rumanian surrealist, do you know him? You are welcome to stay for dinner and meet him and all the others."
While Fry and the assistant discussed the market list, Al-Cerraz and I exchanged glances.
"Mr. Fry," I interrupted, "please tell us the name of this lady violinist. We know many European musicians."
"Let's see." He scratched his head. "I'm usually good with details, but I can't recall her last name. Of course she told me, but there were six syllables at least. It seems to me that she doesn't use it publicly."
"Is she Jewish?" Al-Ce
rraz asked.
"Yes. And she is disliked for the company she has kept over the last few years, which brings out the worst in some of our other guests. You see the problem I have here? If they're not arguing about the quality of the morning pastries, they're arguing about politics."
"If she can stay until her eye heals, then I should be able to stay, too," said Al-Cerraz.
Fry exhaled again. "I can't help you leave the country, but I won't deprive you of a bed or camaraderie, at least until you've planned your next move. Some of the surrealists are planning an art showing tonight. Stay and enjoy, please—both of you."
"Don't say anything," I said to Al-Cerraz on the way out. "I just want to see her." He nodded curtly. I could feel that he was as excited and nervous as I was, both of us stifling the urge to run through the orchard, tear open doors, put our hands around the neck of the cretin who had struck her.
We found her in the kitchen, slouching on the kitchen counter while a young girl, the cook's helper, patted at her cheek with a damp towel. When Aviva spotted us, she drew back, startling the girl, who stepped away. Al-Cerraz moved forward first, and Aviva made a choking sound and threw her arms around his neck, then made room for me, looping one arm around my head so that we huddled awkwardly together. Pressed that way between us, she weighed almost nothing—a mere vibration of the past, with limp hair clinging to her damp face, and a bruise forming as we stared.
That night, the Villa Air-Bel was loud with games and frivolity. On the patio, torches glowed with fragrant light, dispersing the autumn chill. A dozen residents and Marseilles guests had gathered, and several of the painters had hung their latest works from the trees, creating a gallery in the open air.
Aviva and I kept to ourselves, withdrawn to a half-lit corner. Al-Cerraz, unable to accept exclusion, made an attempt to penetrate the society of this downtrodden estate, and he succeeded in part. Wineglass in hand, he circulated, gathered intelligence, and managed to beg or borrow personal items from the wives of several of the artists and writers gathered. He brought these and the latest news back to us, along with a dusty bottle he 'd taken from the cellar. "France will starve, but she won't go without drink," he said.
"They're gay beyond belief," I grunted back, watching a man dangle upside down from one of the trees.
"It's an act," Al-Cerraz said. "Three or four of them are making a run for the border tomorrow, with Fry. They'll take a train and then try to cross the mountains into Spain on foot." He pointed out an overweight man and his well-dressed wife, her profile hidden behind a peaked green hat festooned with dark lace. "She's had a lot to drink, but her hands are still shaking. And look at him—he has a heart condition." He cleared his throat and tried to sound buoyant. "More important, she is jettisoning some of her personal effects. She gave me this." He opened a flat leather case to reveal a set of shining silver manicure tools and a small pair of pearl-handled scissors.
Aviva glanced at the kit with little interest.
"Someday," Al-Cerraz said, trying to engage her, "you will tell your children that your hands were once manicured with implements belonging to the ex-wife of Gustav Mahler."
But the mention of children had been a gaffe. Aviva turned away, toward the shadows beyond the patio's glowing center.
After a while, I said, "Please, tell us the rest."
Aviva grasped the neck of her dress, pulling the lapels closer together, fighting a chill the rest of us couldn't feel. "Tell you what? Tell you why I'm not already dead—like that ignorant jackass wanted to know this morning before he slugged me? I suppose the fact that I am alive at all proves I'm guilty of something."
"Never mind," Al-Cerraz said. He reached for her free hand, studied it, and spread the fingers across his broad knee. "No musician can feel human with dirty nails. Then we 'll tackle your hair."
She shook her head gravely. Her lips strained to form a half-smile. "Just promise me you won't touch my elbows."
"Feliu—do you know what she's talking about?" Al-Cerraz said facetiously.
"Not a clue."
From off to one side, I watched them edge their chairs together, until their knees touched. I had found Al-Cerraz's insistence on grooming petty, but once again I soon saw the wisdom in his priorities. As he clipped and cleaned and buffed and massaged, Aviva's arms loosened, her shoulders fell. He murmured banalities as he worked, as if we 'd all been in close contact, as if she hadn't been lost inside Germany for five years, as if there was nothing important to ask or to know. I heard her breathing deepen and saw her eyes close, the swollen one still leaking an occasional irritated tear.
"I shouldn't have asked Varian for anything," she said in a low voice.
"Fry," I corrected. "Mr. Fry."
"Oh, stop," she said. "I'm tired of men deciding my fate. I'll call them by their first names if I like—Benito, Adolf, Bertolt, Varian. Do you know he decides which artists are superior enough for his services? Do you know he asked me to play for him?"
"I'm glad to hear you have your violin," I said, guessing Fry had only been attempting to be polite. Aviva's politics were her problem, not her performance abilities.
She ignored me. "I'm tired of auditioning. And I'm tired of traveling. God—I've been on the road my whole life."
"It's the style these days," Al-Cerraz said. "Half of Paris is on the road, taking an extended holiday."
Aviva's shoulders had tensed again. He massaged her lower arms and gave her fingernails a final buffing, though they already shone.
Above the hum of voices and clinking glasses and occasional laughter, I could hear the night sounds of the country around us: the two-note songs of the frogs, the chirping of crickets, the thrum of beating wings. A man ran across the grounds with something in a jar, shouting that he 'd caught a praying mantis, and everyone must come to take a look. Even this didn't open Aviva's eyes.
"Is it true you don't play the cello anymore?" she said after a while, in a drowsy voice.
"That's true."
"It makes perfect sense," she said.
Al-Cerraz muttered skeptically under his breath.
"No, I mean it," she said. "I admire Feliu tremendously. Ask any Jewish musician in the Third Reich—ask my colleagues in the Jüdischer Kulturbund. We were wrong to play..." But she couldn't go on. After she'd steadied herself, she said to me, "I'm sure you have no regrets."
"I have one."
At last she looked my way. Al-Cerraz focused more intently on her hands.
"Your son?" I asked finally. "Did you find any sign of him?" She took a deep breath. "No sign, alive or dead."
Al-Cerraz said, "Well, that's better than knowing for sure that he's dead."
I glared at him. "Not necessarily."
Aviva pulled her arms free and opened her eyes. "I've missed you both." Then she walked away, to be alone in the orchard's unlit corners.
***
Later that night, after Aviva had gone up to the room she was sharing with André Breton's young daughter, Breton joined Al-Cerraz and me on the patio with the last of the liqueur he'd pried from the fingers of the cook's assistant. Breton wore his dark hair slicked straight back from his flat, lined forehead, like a movie gangster—if gangsters spent their evenings spouting poetry. He closed his heavy-lidded eyes, savoring the weight of the glass in his hand before relinquishing it to the tabletop and said, "Your friend—she reminds me of people I met in the last war."
"Writers?"
"Nutcases. I worked in a psychiatric ward. She has the same look. The worst part was the night shift, sitting up late and listening for any sign that they were trying to slit their own throats. But the resigned ones are really quiet about it."
He stood up. "Good night, gentlemen. Sleep well."
I went up next, leaving Al-Cerraz brooding, forearms on his thighs, an ear cocked toward the frog song of the estate's dark corners.
The next morning, Fry and several of his charges left for the train that would take them within walking distance of the Spanish bo
rder. I watched them go, apparently dressed for nothing more than a weekend holiday. Alma Werfel, Mahler's ex-wife and now the wife of novelist Franz Werfel, wore a fashionable summer suit, with a close-fitting skirt and high-heeled sandals. While the men struggled to load the suitcases into Fry's car, I drew alongside him, sharing some last-minute tips on Spanish phrases and ways to differentiate between various kinds of Spanish police and military uniforms.
I gestured toward the car and said in a low voice, "I hope I'm not out of line, but those are terrible clothes for hiking the Pyrenees. Her shoes in particular. And if she's going to wear a fancy hat, at least it might have a brim, to protect her from sunstroke."
Fry locked his hands behind his back and rolled on his heels, like a parson watching fondly as his congregants left the sanctuary of church for the hazards and temptations of the outside world. "I've been here only a month or so," he said in a gentle voice. "But what I've learned so far is you have to work with the materials you've got. I can't make an elegant woman dress down. She would look suspicious in jodhpurs and flat shoes. But that's just part of it." He paused, pressing his lips together. "The other part is, you can't take away people's idea of themselves. Not at the last minute, when they're facing a dangerous situation. It makes them less stable, less predictable. Everyone clings to some silly thing or other. Everyone seems to have that one thing they can't live without."
We both looked toward the car, where Mrs. Werfel was haranguing her husband for having failed to find room for all the bags she had insisted on taking.
I said, "Just one thing?"
Fry laughed, loudly and openly, the first and last time I'd have the pleasure of seeing his face free from worry.
The Spanish Bow Page 46