The Invisible Bridge

by Julie Orringer

  They walked through a street market on their way to the docks, past men selling mackerel and sole and langoustines, boxes of myrtilles, net sacks of summer squashes, tiny yellow plums by the dozen. Families on holiday thronged the streets, so many children in sailor suits they might have formed a child navy. Self-consciously, as if the outpouring of emotion they'd just witnessed had threatened their masculinity, Andras and Paul talked of ships and of sports, and then, as they passed an English navy ship docked in one of the enormous berths, of the prospect of war. Everyone had hoped that Chamberlain's declaration of support for Poland might lead to a few weeks of calm over the Danzig question, and perhaps even a peaceable settlement in the end, but Hitler had just concluded a meeting at Berchtesgaden with the leader of Danzig's Nazi Party and had sent a warship into the Free City's port. If Germany claimed Danzig, then England and France would go to war. That week, French aircraft had staged a mock attack on London to test the readiness of England's air-defense system. Some Londoners had thought war had already broken out, and three people had been killed in a rush to the air-raid shelters.

  "What do you think America will do?" Andras asked.

  Paul shrugged. "Roosevelt will issue an ultimatum, I guess."

  "Hitler doesn't fear Roosevelt. Look what happened last April."

  "Well, I don't claim to know much about it," Paul said, raising his hands in a pantomime of self-defense. "I'm just a painter. Most days I don't even read the news."

  "Your fiancee is Jewish," Andras said. "Her family is here. The war will affect her, whether America gets involved or not."

  They stood in silence for a long moment, looking at the ship with its spiny encrustation of guns. "What kind of service would you choose, if you had to fight?" Paul asked.

  "Not the navy, that's for certain," Andras said. "The first time I saw the sea was a year ago. And nothing in a ditch. No trenches. I could learn to fly a plane, though. That's what I'd like to do."

  Paul broke into a grin. "Me too," he said. "I've always thought it would be fantastic to fly planes."

  "But I wouldn't want to have to kill anyone," Andras said.

  "Right," Paul said. "That's the problem. I wouldn't mind being a hero, though. I'd like to win medals."

  "Me too," Andras said. It felt good, if slightly shameful, to admit it.

  "See you in the air, then," Paul said, and laughed, but there was something forced about it, as if the possibility of a war and his involvement in it had suddenly become real to him.

  They'd reached the S.S. Ile de France, its bulk towering above them like the leading edge of a glacier. Its hull was glossy with new paint; each letter of its name was as tall and as broad as a man. The sea sloshed around it in its berth, sending up a rich stink of dead fish and oil and dock weed, and something briny and calciferous that must have been the smell of seawater itself. The ship rose fifteen stories from the waterline; they could count five terraces from where they stood. The decks teemed with stevedores, sailors, chambermaids with their arms full of linen. Hundreds were making the final preparations for the departure of a small town's worth of people on a seventeen-day voyage. There would be fifteen hundred passengers on board, Paul told him; there were five ballrooms, a cinema, a shooting gallery, a vast gymnasium, an indoor swimming pool, a hundred lifeboats. The ship was nearly eight hundred feet long and would travel at twenty-four knots. And on board was a surprise for Elisabet, one final extravagance: They had a stateroom with a private balcony, and he'd arranged for the delivery of three dozen white roses and a case of champagne.

  "At least you got your hat reblocked," Andras said. "Think what it would have cost to buy a new one."

  That evening they all dined together on the terrace of a restaurant overlooking the water. They ate fresh clams in tomato broth and whole fish roasted with lemons and olives, drank two bottles of wine, talked about their childhood fancies and the exotic places they wanted to see before they died: India, Japan, Morocco. It was almost like a holiday. Klara was in high spirits for the first time in weeks, as if by having found Elisabet she might still avert the long-dreaded separation. But the new arrangements remained in place: Elisabet and Paul would sail in the morning. And as the evening went on, Andras became aware of a familiar tautness inside him, a coil that had been winding itself tighter by the day: It was the fear that once Elisabet had gone, Klara would somehow vanish too, as if the tension between them were what anchored them both to the earth.

  At the hotel after dinner, he and Klara parted ways for the night. She would sleep in Elisabet's suite while Paul and Andras shared a simple room under the eaves. As Klara said bonne nuit she pressed a hand to his cheek like a promise; that night he fell asleep with the hope that the life they made together might be a balm for her grief. But when he went downstairs at dawn he found her standing alone on the veranda, her driving coat draped around her shoulders, watching as the pink light climbed the smokestacks of the Ile de France. He stood at the French doors for a long moment without approaching her.

  A tide was turning. Her daughter was leaving. There was nothing he could ever do to replace what would be taken away.

  At eight o'clock they went to the docks to say goodbye to Paul and Elisabet. The ship would sail at noon; the passengers were to board by nine. They had bought Elisabet a bouquet of violets to take on board with her, and a dozen fancy pastries, and a cylinder of yellow streamers for her to set free when the ship pulled away. She wore a straw hat with a red ribbon, and her blue eyes were feverish with the prospect of the voyage.

  Paul was anxious to get on board, anxious to show Elisabet what he'd planned for her. But he insisted on having the ship's photographer take a picture of the four of them together on the dock, the Ile de France looming in the background. Then there was a flurry about the trunks, some article of clothing that had to be removed at the last moment. Finally, at the appointed hour, a volcanic horn-blast sounded from somewhere near the summit of the ship, and the passengers who had not yet embarked began to crowd toward the gangway.

  The moment had come. Klara drew Paul aside to speak a few final words to him, and Andras and Elisabet were left looking at each other on the dock. He hadn't considered what he might say to her at this moment. He was surprised to feel as sorry as he did that she was leaving; at dinner the night before, he'd begun to see what she might be like as an adult, and he'd found her to have more of her mother in her than he had imagined.

  "I don't suppose you're sad to see me go," she said. But she was looking at him with a hint of humor at the corners of her eyes, and she'd spoken in Hungarian.

  "Yes," Andras said, and took her hand. "Get lost already, will you?"

  She smiled. "Make my mother visit us, all right?"

  "I will," Andras said. "I want to see New York."

  "I'll send you a postcard."

  "Good."

  "I haven't gotten used to the idea that you're marrying her," Elisabet said. "That'll make you my--"

  "Please don't say it."

  "All right. But listen: If I ever hear you've hurt her, I'll come kill you myself."

  "And if I hear that you've hurt that strapping husband of yours," Andras began, but Elisabet cuffed him on the shoulder, and then it was time for her to say goodbye to Klara. They stood close together, Elisabet bending her head to touch her mother's. Andras turned away and shook Paul's hand.

  "See you in the funny papers," Paul said in English. "That's what they say in the States." He translated for Andras: "Je te verrai dans les bandes dessinees."

  "Sounds better in French," Andras said, and Paul had to agree.

  The ship's horn blasted again. Klara kissed Elisabet one last time, and Paul and Elisabet climbed the gangway and disappeared into the crowd of passengers. Klara held Andras's arm, silent and dry-eyed, until Elisabet appeared at the rail of the ship. Already, hours before the ship would leave the dock, Elisabet was so far away that she was recognizable only by the red ribbon fluttering from the brim of her hat, and by the pinprick o
f deep purple that was the cone of violets in her hand. The navy blur beside her was Paul in his nautical-looking jacket. Klara took Andras's hand and gripped it. Her slender face was pale beneath the dark sweep of her hair; in her haste to get to Le Havre she'd neglected to bring a hat. She waved her handkerchief at Elisabet, who waved hers in return.

  Three hours later they watched the Ile de France slip out toward the flat blue distance of the open sea and sky. How astounding, Andras thought, that a ship that size could shrink to the size of a house, and then to the size of a car; the size of a desk, a book, a shoe, a walnut, a grain of rice, a grain of sand. How astounding that the largest thing he'd ever seen was still no match for the diminishing effect of distance. It made him aware of his own smallness in the world, his insignificance in the face of what might come, and for a moment his chest felt light with panic.

  "Are you ill?" Klara said, putting a hand to his cheek. "What's wrong?"

  But he found it impossible to put the feeling into words. In a moment it had passed, and then it was time for them to go to the car and start for home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The Hungarian Consulate

  ALL THE TIME Andras and Klara had been at Le Havre, Tibor and Ilana had been together at the apartment on the rue de Sevigne. Tibor related the story the following day as he and Andras walked along the bank of the Seine, watching the long flat barges pass beneath the bridges. Now and then they would catch a strain of Gypsy music that made Andras feel as if they were back in Budapest, as if he might look up and see the gold-traced dome of the Parliament on the right bank, Castle Hill on the left. The afternoon was humid and smelled of damp pavement and river water; in the oblique light Tibor looked haggard with joy. He told Andras that Ilana had known on the train that she was making a mistake, but had felt powerless to stop what had already been set in motion. There was guilt all around, an endless carousel of guilt: her own, Ben Yakov's, Tibor's. Each had wronged the others, each had been wronged by the others. It was a miracle that any of them had emerged from the harrowing whirl of it with faculties intact.

  But Tibor had been protected by his physical distance from Paris, and Ilana had been tended by Klara as if she were her own daughter, and Ben Yakov had talked to Andras in his room at night.

  "She'll come back to Italy with me," Tibor said. "I'll take her home to Florence and spend the rest of the summer there. I'd ask her to marry me today if I could, but I'd rather not have her parents consider me the enemy. I'd like to have their permission."

  "That's brave of you. And what if they refuse?"

  "I'll take my chances. You never know, after all. Maybe they'll like me."

  They'd crossed the Ile de la Cite and the Petit Pont into the Quartier Latin, where they found themselves walking down the rue Saint-Jacques. Jozsef's building lay just ahead; the last time Andras had been there was the night after the Yom Kippur fast. He had seen Jozsef a few times since then in passing, but hadn't crossed the threshhold of his building for months. The time was fast approaching when he and Klara would have to revisit the idea of taking him into their confidence. Now, as he reached the building, he saw that the street door had been propped open with two polished and bestickered leather traveling cases, Jozsef's name and address clearly marked on their sides. A moment later Jozsef himself appeared in a summer traveling suit.

  "Levi!" he said. He let his gaze rove over Andras, who felt himself appraised in a bemused, brotherly fashion. "I must say, old boy, you're looking well. And here's the other Levi, the future doctor, if I'm not mistaken. What a shame you've caught me just as I'm rushing off. We could have all had a drink. On the other hand, how convenient for me. You can help me get a cab."

  "Off on holiday?" Tibor asked.

  "I was supposed to be," Jozsef said, and an unaccustomed expression passed across his features--a look Andras could only have described as chagrin. "I was supposed to meet some friends at Saint-Tropez. Instead I'm off to lovely Budapest."

  "Why?" Andras said. "What's happened?"

  Jozsef raised an arm at a passing taxi. It pulled to the curb and the driver climbed out to get Jozsef's bags. "Listen," Jozsef said. "Why don't the two of you ride to the station with me? I'm going all the way to the Gare du Nord, and it'll take half an hour in this traffic. Unless you've got something better to do."

  "Better than a long hot ride in traffic?" Andras said. "I can't imagine."

  They climbed into the cab and set off down the rue Saint-Jacques in the direction from which they'd come. Jozsef settled a long arm across the back of the seat and turned toward Andras.

  "Well, Levi," he said. "It's the damnedest thing, but I think I ought to tell you."

  "What is it?" Andras asked.

  "Have you gotten your student visa renewed?"

  "Not yet. Why?"

  "Don't be surprised if you run into trouble at the Hungarian Consulate."

  Andras squinted at Jozsef; the slanting five o'clock light poured through the windows of the cab and illuminated what he hadn't seen before: the shadow of worry beneath Jozsef's eyes, the aftertraces of lost sleep. "What kind of trouble?" he said.

  "I went to get my visa renewed. I thought I still had a few weeks left. I didn't think there'd be any difficulty. But then they said they couldn't do it, not here in France."

  "But that doesn't make sense," Tibor said. "That's what the consulate does."

  "Not anymore, apparently."

  "If they won't renew your visa in France, where are they supposed to do it?"

  "Back home," Jozsef said. "That's why I'm going."

  "Couldn't you get your father to work it out for you?" Andras said. "Couldn't he use his influence to make someone do something? Or else, if you'll excuse the vulgarity, couldn't he just bribe someone?"

  "One would think," Jozsef said. "But apparently not. My father's influence isn't what it once was. He's not the president of the bank anymore. He goes to the same office, but he's got a different title now. Advisory secretary, or some such nonsense."

  "Is it to do with his being Jewish?"

  "Of course. What else would it be?"

  "And I suppose it's only Jews who have to go back to Hungary to renew their visas."

  "Does that surprise you, old man?"

  Andras pulled his papers from his jacket pocket. "My visa's still good for another three weeks."

  "That's what I thought, too. But it's no good unless you're taking summer classes.

  Next term doesn't count anymore, apparently. You'd better go to the consulate before someone asks for your papers. As far as the authorities are concerned, you're here illegally now."

  "But that's impossible. It doesn't make sense."

  Jozsef shrugged. "I wish I could tell you otherwise."

  "I can't go to Budapest now," Andras said.

  "Truth to tell, I'm almost looking forward to it," Jozsef said. "I'll have a soak at the Szecsenyi baths, take a coffee at the Gerbeaud, see a few of the boys from gimnazium. Maybe go to the house at Lake Balaton for a while. Then I'll do what I have to do at the passport office, and I'll be back by the start of fall term--if there is a fall term, of course, which depends in part on the whims of Herr Hitler."

  Andras collapsed against the cab seat, trying to take in what he'd just heard.

  Ordinarily he might have welcomed the excuse to go home for a few weeks; after all, he hadn't seen his parents or Matyas in two years. But he was supposed to get married; it was supposed to happen while Tibor was still in Paris. He was supposed to move his things to the rue de Sevigne. And then there was the problem of Hitler and Danzig. This was no time to get on a train to Budapest, no time to cross the continent, no time for his visa to be in question. In any case, how could he afford to travel? The cost of a two-way ticket would consume what he'd managed to set aside for Klara's ring and for tuition in the fall. He didn't have the savings Tibor had; he hadn't worked for six years before going to school. He felt suddenly ill, and had to roll down the cab window and turn his face toward
the breeze.

  "I should have spoken to you sooner," Jozsef said. "We might have traveled together."

  "It's my fault," Andras said. "I haven't been eager to see you since I got blind drunk in your bedroom."

  "Never feel ashamed," Jozsef said. "Not with me. Not for that reason." And then he turned to Tibor. "What about you?" he said. "How's medical school? Was it Switzerland?"

  "Italy."

  "Of course. So you're nearly a doctor now."

  "Not quite nearly."

  "And what brings you to town?"

  "That's a long story," Tibor said. "The short version is something like this: I'm courting someone who was recently married to a friend of Andras's. I'm glad you're leaving town before you can make me say more about it."

  Jozsef laughed. "That's grand," he said. "I wish I had time for the long version."