Clara lived upstairs over her button-and-lace shop on Havemeyer Street in Brooklyn. The shop was called New World Notions. “I named this,” she said, “in honor of my becoming an American citizen and being free to have my own ideas.” Running along three walls of the store were built-in cabinets with rows of drawers filled with buttons. On the front of each drawer was a white ceramic knob and around each knob were painted colors and shapes to denote the drawer’s contents. Above these cabinets, secured to both sides of the long and narrow shop, were spools of lace and ribbon displayed on dowels that were balanced over the heads of the shoppers. The shoppers would point to what they wanted, and Clara would climb a wooden ladder with a cloth measuring tape draped around her neck and cut the desired lengths. Being Clara, she always added an inch or two.
“I’ve fixed the spare room for you,” Clara said. “You can stay as long as you want.”
I had been planning to stay at a women’s boardinghouse on the Lower East Side of Manhattan until I found an apartment. Now, I wasn’t sure. It was nice to be with family—but maybe a little too nice. I would have to think about it.
One Monday night when the theaters were dark, I saw Stella at Clara’s.
“Oh, Rose, it’s unbelievable! Two months ago I played Molly the whore in Threepenny Opera! I couldn’t believe it! Now I’m rehearsing The Mask and the Face with Humphrey Bogart. It’s so exciting!”
“Stella,” Clara said, “calm down and act like a lady.”
The next Friday night the family, five people, gathered for dinner at Uncle Saul and Aunt Leah’s house. Leah sat at one end of the table, Saul at the other. Seated on either side were Clara, Stella, and me. The only Brooklyn relative who wasn’t there was David, Stella’s brother, who was on a business trip. It was the first time I had been around so much family, and I felt besieged. Questions and more questions. They couldn’t get over the idea that I knew so little of my own family’s history, while I sensed that they lived too much in the past.
When they lit candles, I asked, “Are we celebrating a special event? Is it someone’s birthday?”
They were shocked. “Didn’t your mother tell you anything about being Jewish?” Stella asked, laughing.
“Your mother,” Leah said, shaking her head, “your mother —”
“Ma,” Stella said, “let’s change the subject. Come on, let’s eat.”
And then there was a great commotion about food. “Es, es, mayn kind!” Eat, eat, my children! Clara said in Yiddish.
Leah remained quiet. I found her cold and distant and felt as if she were passing judgment any time she opened her mouth. In the middle of serving the soup, Leah stopped, the ladle suspended in the air, and said, “Miriam has always hated being Jewish. Do you have any idea why?”
“None,” I answered. “Why don’t you ask her?”
“I never dared,” Leah said. “Not with her temper!”
Well, I thought, this is indeed something we share. But I kept quiet.
“Can you answer another question?” Leah persisted. “Why did your mother leave us to marry a Catholic stranger? You know, it’s a tragedy in our family. Nothing could be worse, except marrying a Negro.”
I could see that everyone around the table was mortified.
“That’s an awful thing to say,” Clara said. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Paul’s a lovely man, and Rosie’s father, for heaven’s sake!”
And I felt like tipping the food-laden table onto Leah’s wide lap.
“Look,” I said, taking a deep breath, “you know nothing about the circumstances of my father’s and mother’s lives. Only Clara and Stella have taken the time to visit them.”
“Well,” Leah said haughtily, “they could have come here.”
“Yes, but how?” I asked. “First of all, they didn’t have the money. And second, they’re aware of your disapproval. And now,” I said to their stunned faces, “excuse me, but it’s time to go.” I had made up my mind. I would leave Brooklyn and find a cheap apartment in the city.
Clara left with me. “I’m so sorry, Rosie, you didn’t need to hear that. Leah can be so difficult—”
I cut her off midsentence. “Don’t worry, Clara. Both Leah and Miriam are difficult. But now I certainly understand why my parents never wanted to come back for a visit.” And putting my arm through hers, I said, “I wish you had been my mother.”
Stella invited me to see her in the play. But neither I nor New York would get to enjoy The Mask and the Face. The play closed. Indeed, half the theaters were dark.
Stella, near tears, was sitting in Clara’s living room. “Damn this Hitler character,” she said. “He’s making us all so nervous.”
“It’s a scary time, Stella,” I replied. “I don’t think any of us can find a context for what we’re feeling.”
“All I know,” Clara said, “is that I’m reminded of the past—of Russia—of close calls.”
* * *
For almost two years, I worked at the New York Courier’s main office on West Forty-third Street. I worked hard—did whatever I was asked, met all my deadlines, learned more about celebrities and wealthy people than I had ever wanted to know. I had a few friends, mostly colleagues who all went home to their wives and children. I went home to a five-flight walk-up, one-room apartment on Bedford Street in Greenwich Village. The bathtub was in the kitchen, the toilet in the only closet. Sometimes I had dinner with my relatives, but I stayed away from going there on Friday nights.
I was very busy—having sex, dreaming sex, and trying to stay interested in the boring job of covering social news. Many weeknights were spent in bed with lovers. I had two long affairs, concurrently, with married men I had met while covering stories. To this day, I can’t remember their names.
Then I got my break. A society-desk job opened up in Paris. By then I was a pro at composing those stories. That ability, along with my fluency in languages, cinched the deal. And I sensed from my interview that if I did a good job, they would move me to another desk—if I were lucky, a political one.
My Aunt Clara, being as sweet as she was, gave me a bon voyage gift. A fur coat. A mink coat! She had bought it from the estate of one of her clients. The edges were slightly worn. I didn’t care. It made me feel très chic! “Just look at you!” she said as I modeled the coat for her. “I’m proud of you, Rosie, I really am.”
Summer, 1933. I sailed from America with the hope that I would charm and transform the world of journalism. That was one side of my dream. The other side was more like a nightmare: I felt inadequate, terrified that I would make a fool of myself. But I couldn’t help marveling that I had set myself free—that I was no longer tethered to my native shore. Truly, but with trepidation, I was proud of myself for getting a writing job in Europe. Where I came from, the rest of the world was very far away.
Crossing the turbulent Atlantic, I shared a cabin with a young man and woman who had just been married. We were on a tramp steamer that was loaded with pecans, cotton, soy oil, and we three courageous passengers. We were all seasick. And even though I was miserable, I had a good time between the visits to the railing or the sloshing buckets. The poor newlyweds could hardly stay on deck for more than a few minutes. They were both poets and would scribble away between their battles with the sea.
* * *
The day after the argument with Stella, it was still humid and overcast. But my spirits had lifted. I had wanted to take it easy. Maybe have my hair washed, do laundry–get myself together before seeing Clara and Stella again. I was sitting at Henri’s Café, drinking coffee and reading a book. But my attention was interrupted by the awareness of an unsettled feeling. Perhaps, I said to myself, it simply had to do with the drama of slapping Stella. I was afraid that Clara was angry with me–that I had disappointed her with my violent behavior–that I was an echo of my mother. I feared that now Clara would see through me, see tha
t I was an immature, neurotic mess; see that I was a fraud, a two-bit hack, a nothing in comparison to the excitement of ‘our’ Stella.
Then, without warning, a newspaper was slapped on my knee and I was rudely forced from my reverie.
“Did you see this one, R.B.?” my colleague Pete Grogan asked, sitting beside me. Pete, a British freelancer, worked at both the Paris Courier and the London Times. He was a short man with a rotund belly that hung between his red plaid suspenders. A protruding chin, accentuated by his dark hair, which was parted in the middle, set off his face. He was one of the few writers who seemed to have a stable home life. I liked him. Actually, I envied him.
“For Christ’s sake,” I said, “I’m not working until tonight. Please. Go home to your beautiful wife.”
“Ha, I’d like nothing better,” Pete replied, “but Ramsey sent me to find you and give you this morning’s paper. It may be a sensational case,” he said, stretching out the word “sensational.”
“What does that have to do with me? I’ve been covering politics for the past two years.”
“What’s the difference?” he said.
“Oh, stop being a two-bit philosopher—leave me alone.”
“Just read the article,” he said.
“All right, all right—but I need another coffee. Give me a few minutes.”
New York Actress Kidnapped. Just to the left of it was Soviet Union Begins Great Purge. “The American actress Stella Mair is missing from her hotel in the rue du Vieux-Colombier, the Préfecture de Police announced last night.”
Oh, Stella! I thought, what have you done? With a sense of dread I rolled up the newspaper and put it in my pocket.
As soon as I was halfway up the stairs of the newsroom, I was assaulted by the awful smell of stale cigarette smoke, mixed with old food and the humidity of the summer. I wanted to turn around and go home. It was only nine in the morning and already I could feel sweat meandering down my back.
“Hey, R.B.,” one of the reporters said. “Looks like you’re our gal for the most melodramatic story of the year. Of course,” he added, laughing, “now you can be assured of a long-running serial—just like the funny papers.”
“Count me out,” I said. “I have to be in Berlin next week. The news is getting seriously grim. Yeah, I know,” I teased, “I know, it won’t sell papers. No one wants to hear the truth.”
“You might be right, R.B. But you’ll have to tell it to Ramsey. He’s in charge.” He pointed with his thumb over his shoulder toward the glass wall of the office. Ramsey was rolling a cigar in his mouth, shouting into the phone, and beckoning to me at the same time.
“So, Rosie, what do you think of the Times story?” Ramsey asked in his raspy voice.
“I told you not to call me ‘Rosie,’ Mr. Ramsey,” I said, trying to give myself some space to think.
“What’s the matter, kid?” Ramsey asked. “You look as if you’ve been hit with a baseball bat.”
“Nothing Mr. Ramsey, nothing, just thinking.”
Was Bobby Hunter the kidnapper? Would I be able to give the police a description of the guy? Was this another of Stella’s dramatic moments?
I had to be careful. I couldn’t be assigned this story. It wasn’t ethical. I had always avoided conflicts of interest, real or perceived. But then, what was more important—upholding the standards of journalism or finding my cousin? I voted for my cousin.
“Mr. Ramsey,” I said, “you know it’s not my kind of thing. Why assign this story to me?”
“For good reasons, kid. One’s that the bosses in Chicago are complaining that your Berlin stories are getting too tough on the Reich. They think you need a break. And since it’s about Jews, I thought you’d know how to approach the situation, you know what I mean?”
“No, I don’t know what you mean,” I said.
“For Christ’s sake, Rosie—excuse the pun—you look like a Jew.”
“I told you not to call me ‘Rosie,’ and anyway, you’re wrong,” I said. “I’m not a Jew.”
“C’mon, kid, calm down. If you declare you’re not a Jew, I’ll accept it, but I don’t believe you.”
“But—” I tried to interrupt.
“Anyway,” Ramsey butted in, “you have more imagination than anyone else in this newsroom.”
I sat on my hands to remind myself not to react.
“Disappearances are the best,” Ramsey said as if he were offering me a gift. “The higher-ups will be happy. Great for circulation. Perhaps you’ll find her yourself! Just don’t get fancy-dancy with your writing.
“Be careful,” Ramsey cautioned. “You have to be sure not to mention that she’s a Jew.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Don’t be stupid, kid. Our readers want news about a young, sexy, beautiful American actress, not some Yid dame.”
‘But,’ I said, ‘her name is Mair, and her aunt’s name’s Silverman. They’re both Jewish names.’
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Ramsey said, “but people won’t know the difference between a kike name and a kraut one. They all sound alike. So, this is the deal. If you refuse to cover it, I’ll post you to China. That’s what the main office wants. They say you’re our best and they want to spread you around a bit. China will give you a shot at using your high and mighty Mandarin. Lot of war going on there. You’ll love it. The Japs are fighting the Chinks and they need a hotshot correspondent. So, how ’bout it?”
I looked away from his ugliness.
“Jeez, anyway, it’s a better story than the constant whining from those Yids about what’s happening in Germany. If you ask me, they’re getting what’s coming to them from Herr Hitler.”
Oh, how I detested him.
But I wasn’t ready to lose my job—or go to China. I wanted to get back to Berlin and Leon.
“Mr. Ramsey, I can’t cover this story. Stella Mair’s my cousin.”
“Your cousin!” he yelled, and I could see all the heads turning in our direction. “Then you’re a . . . I knew it!”
“Calm down, Mr. Ramsey,” I said between clenched teeth, my hands in fists. “Whatever I am, it’s none of your goddamned business.”
Ramsey sat down at his desk. All I wanted to do was to sock him in his wine-soaked, pockmarked nose.
“I propose,” I calmly said, sitting down in front of his desk, “that Andy cover the story. I’ll feed him inside information. But when it’s over,” I emphasized, “I want my Berlin beat back.”
Ramsey leaned back in his chair with a smirk on his face.
“It’s a deal, kid.”
All these years later, I still wonder how I kept myself from punching Ramsey. I’m amazed. After all, I had slapped Stella. I guess I was afraid he would hit me back. If it happened today I would have reported him to a union official, and he, most likely, would be fired. And today, I wouldn’t have hesitated to let him know I was Jewish. But back then—well, things were different.
Clara looked godawful. Her skin had turned yellow; her eyes were rimmed with red.
“Oh, Rosie, I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to call you when Stella went missing last night but the police wouldn’t let me contact anyone associated with the newspapers. Isn’t this terrible? Do you think you can help?”
“I’ll try, Aunt Clara. Let’s sit down and you can start at the beginning. I have to take notes. The story’s been assigned to my colleague, Andy Roth, who’s a very nice man and a good reporter. But I’ll interview you. I hope you understand that it would be unethical for me to cover the story.”
“Of course I understand,” she said.
“So, what happened this time?” I asked, unable to keep the rancor out of my voice.
“Stella told me that she was going to lunch with Mr. Hunter and would be back in time for the opera. I believed her. But she didn’t come home and I could sense that this
time was different. So I called the police. I knew that she had five hundred dollars in American Express traveler’s cheques, her passport, her Exposition card, and an expensive camera. Why did she take all this with her? The police are convinced that she took everything on purpose. I don’t know anymore what’s going on. She promised me!”
A feature story had been cobbled together by ten that evening. Because Andy had been drinking, I quietly helped him write it. While we were working on it, we laughed at the idea that he was a bit inflated with the possibility of writing himself into history.
Andy reminded me of my father. He was a tall, skinny man with a very big heart and no idea what to do with it. I had met him in New York at the newspaper and liked him immediately. When he was overwhelmed by an emotional crisis, he’d take off on a long drunk—like my father. But when he wasn’t drinking, he would be reading—also like my father. Indeed, I depended on him for books. His taste in literature was sophisticated. Even the penny novels he read were well written. I liked Andy, and I liked the way we could be friends without the silly boy-girl business intruding. I didn’t like his wife, Ruby, though—and couldn’t understand her attraction to such an egghead.
‘Hey, Ros–R.B.,’ Ramsey said. ‘What’s all this literary crap?’ And he dismissively tossed our story on the desk. ‘This isn’t a goddamned publishing house. Take out the flowery adjectives, or I’ll give it to one of the copy editors to clean up.’ I wasn’t about to confront Ramsey about acceptable styles of writing. Andy had disappeared. I went to a café next door and edited.
Five hours later: “Front page, smack on the top,” Ramsey said. “It’s perfect! Right next to the news that the Fascists are bombing Madrid.”
I have to admit that I got a kick out of scooping the other newspapers. Also, it didn’t hurt that Andy’s story was the leading one—the first column on the right side, with his byline.
Last Train to Paris Page 5