But the other side of me, the side I couldn’t show to anybody, was hurting. My cousin was missing, and I felt responsible. If only I had interrupted her meeting with Hunter the first time I saw them together.
I returned to the Hôtel Espoir. Walking upstairs, I ran into Madame Pleven, who reeked of onions.
“Been cooking, Madame?” I said. “Smells like your famous stew.”
“Yes, my dear, we’re celebrating our thirty-fifth anniversary tonight. But I’ve just come from helping Andy. He’s ‘sick’ again.”
Andy was passed out on his bed. There was no rousing him.
I turned around and walked to the rue du Vieux-Colombier to see Clara. She was downstairs in the lobby speaking with a man and twisting a handkerchief on her lap. “Oh, Rosie, I’m so glad you’re here. I’d like you to meet Inspector Pascal of the Préfecture de Police. He’s in charge of the investigation.”
Pascal was a short man with a belly that looked solid. His face, with its piercing blue eyes, was framed by white hair that was so thin that you could see his pink scalp. His manner was perfect for a detective: enigmatic—hard to describe. He was wearing a rumpled brown suit with a stained, ochre-colored tie, a bit askew, and brightly polished brown shoes.
“Inspector, this is my niece, Rose Manon. She’s a reporter on the Paris Courier.”
“Good to meet you, Miss Manon. I’ve haven’t seen you around before. Are you new? No,” he answered himself. “You’re the reporter from Berlin whose columns are translated in Paris Soir, but you go by R.B.”
“Yes, sir, that’s right,” I said. “I’m researching Stella Mair’s disappearance. As you’ve most likely figured out, she’s my cousin.”
The inspector whistled. “My god,” he said. “This must be very hard for you.”
“Yes, it is,” I said.
I told Pascal about seeing Stella with Bobby Hunter. I gave him a description.
“Your description’s helpful, as was Miss Silverman’s,” the inspector said. “Now I wonder if you would do me a favor and work with our staff artist at the police station. Would that be okay with you, Miss Silverman?” he asked. “I don’t want to make you come to headquarters—anyway, you need to stay here in case there’s an attempt to contact you.”
“Of course,” she said.
“Miss Manon,” he continued, “perhaps we can get a good portrait of Hunter. If so, we’ll place it with all the newspapers in France.” I looked at him and smiled. “Okay,” the inspector said. “I’ll release it to the Courier six hours before the rest.”
We went to the police station. The task wasn’t easy. I struggled to describe Hunter. First, the artist tried drawing him straight on. That didn’t work. Then he tried drawing him in profile. That didn’t work. Then he tried drawing all the parts of his face separately. But when we assembled the pieces on an illustration board, the portrait still wasn’t right. Mr. Hunter had a deceptive face. We had to settle on a composition that I felt was inadequate.
“Listen, Mr. Ramsey,” I said when I returned to the newsroom, “Andy’s still sick, but he gave me this report.”
“Read it to me, don’t have my glasses. But, listen to me, R.B., you better tell Andy that if he doesn’t show his face here by tomorrow, I’ll assign this plum to someone else.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, and began reading aloud. “The clues have begun to pile up, as have the false leads. Once yesterday’s article was published with Stella’s description, she’s been reported as having been seen everywhere in Paris. A headwaiter at a fancy restaurant saw her lunching with a famous Italian athlete. A psychic said she saw her in a trance by the Seine. And a man, who said he was a Russian prince in exile, rang Miss Mair’s aunt five times at the hotel to announce that Stella was dead. The leads were all checked out and were found to be false.”
“Put it at the top of Andy’s story for tomorrow’s edition,” Ramsey said. “It’s a good kicker.”
A good kicker! I thought. Ramsey’s really a gossipmonger at heart. He should be managing a tabloid.
Although I thought that Ramsey was a ridiculous man, he was as treacherous as a hyena. Sometimes I would work downstairs in a corner of the Linotype room, just so I didn’t have to hear him expostulate. I was still the only female on the staff and most of the men were terribly sweet to me. Besides Ramsey, the ones who gave me the hardest time were the pup reporters. All male—all full of themselves—and all competing for a byline. I hope I wasn’t that way. But I do think that I still came across as a tough broad.
The next day Andy appeared at my door looking terrible. “Sorry, R.B., for letting you down. Let’s walk over to the office together. It’ll do me good to get some air.”
We checked in with Ramsey. “The police,” Ramsey said, “have found a badly forged American Express traveler’s cheque for a hundred bucks. The description of the check casher was a dashingly handsome man. He showed Stella Mair’s Exposition card for identification.”
“But Stella’s a woman,” Andy protested. “How did he get away with that?”
“A stupid salesgirl,” Ramsey said. “Along with this guy being so suave and good looking. Probably put his thumb over ‘Stella.’”
I had to sit down. “This means that Stella must be dead. I’ve got to go to my aunt.”
“No, R.B.,” Andy said. “There could be something else going on here—this doesn’t mean she’s dead.”
“Yeah, it probably does,” Ramsey said. “But, well—I guess she could have gone off on a toot, looking for publicity,” he added and grinned. “Naw, she’s kaput and we know it. Now the story’s got to be about the manhunt for this guy Bobby Hunter and finding Stella’s body. So get to it, Andy. And you, R.B., I want part of the story to be about your aunt’s reaction.”
“Forget it, Mr. Ramsey. Neither Andy nor I are that kind of sob-sister-story writer, and—”
“And—by the way,” he interrupted, ignoring me, “this isn’t a political story. Andy, you need to put more energy into the writing. Write to the masses, not the highbrows.”
I swallowed hard, thinking: What in the hell’s wrong with our writing, you imbecile? Before, you told us it was too flowery; now it’s not dimwitted enough.
I was so angry, so upset, that I fumbled my way onto the Métro, then got off at the wrong stop and had to walk back to the rue du Vieux-Colombier. I found Clara sitting up in bed, staring out the window.
“Aunt Clara, I have something to—”
“Yes, I know, dear, the inspector was here—he’ll be back in a little while. I think she’s dead. I can just feel it.”
“No, wait, Clara. Wait. Perhaps she’s been kidnapped? Perhaps this is a publicity stunt? Perhaps—”
“Oh, Rosie, what’s happening? I don’t understand. Why this violence against our family? We left Russia to escape this—and now look what has happened.”
I could see that Clara was too horrified even to cry. I held her hand. There was nothing to say. We had to wait to hear from Inspector Pascal.
A while later, his arrival was announced by the concierge. We went downstairs to the lobby and the three of us sat in the back near the garden.
“By any chance, Inspector,” I asked, “do you think Stella could be alive?”
The inspector sighed. ‘There’s nothing to substantiate the belief that the girl’s dead. Then again, there’s no proof that she’s still alive. Last night we rounded up questionable characters and checked their papers. About a hundred men were arrested, most for being émigrés without identity cards, some for unsolved petty crimes. It’s sad. But not a clue was found.’
“What will happen to the men you arrested?” Clara asked, looking relieved to be worrying about something else.
“They’ll be deported, probably to Switzerland. Within a few days, they’ll be back.” And the inspector turned and looked pointedly at me.
; “What’s the matter?” I said.
“Look, Miss Manon, I’m worried about all of you. I know you’re Jewish. Take caution. Especially working in Berlin—you’re playing with fire. And here in Paris, anti-Semitic pamphlets are being distributed all over the city. If you’re ever arrested here, tell them to contact me. But be vigilant. These are dangerous times.”
“I’m not worried, Inspector, but thanks for the warning. Maybe being half Jewish will let me off the hook.”
“That’s ridic—” he started to say, and then realized that Clara had a horrified look on her face.
“Sorry,” he said, looking at me. “I’ll check back with you as soon as I have more information.”
Later, Andy called from the hotel’s front desk. He had attended a news conference led by the inspector and written a good article. Watching his trembling hands, I knew what Andy’s staying sober was costing him.
“Thanks, Andy, for writing this,” I said, and I placed a hand on his.
“Another front-page, banner story,” Andy said with sarcasm. “Ramsey will be thrilled.”
After Andy returned to the office, I went back upstairs to Clara’s room and insisted that we go for dinner. We strolled along the boulevard St. Germain. The street lamps gave off a pale yellow glow, blurring the evening like a painting by Utrillo. Even the voices of the pedestrians were soft, and we found ourselves almost whispering. We turned left onto the rue de l’Ancienne Comédie, meandering past a row of small galleries and antique shops. Displayed in one of the windows were three small charcoal drawings by Giacometti.
“That’s what I feel like,” Clara said, “a line that’s disappearing into the horizon. Lost.” I took her hand and we walked.
‘Let’s go to Deux Magots,’ I said. ‘It’s late, and not so crowded, and I love to listen to that.’ And I pointed to an old tramp wearing drooping and patched trousers held up by a thick leather belt, a peasant’s shirt, originally blue, but now black with grime, and a beret. He was clasping a battered violin to his chest. ‘He’s remarkable. When you hear him play, you’ll see what I mean.’ I walked over and handed him money. For just a short time, we could forget our distress. The evening was transformed as the old man played Massenet’s ‘Meditation.’
I wish that I could rewrite this story. Go back to the beginning. Have Stella come bouncing through the door in her usual maddening fashion. But I would not be able to rewrite my anger at her—nor could I find a way to be sympathetic. I was too angry—too concerned for my aunt. And I was displeased with myself for not feeling more worried about Stella’s well-being. Perhaps my mother had been right. I didn’t care for anyone but myself.
The next morning I decided to retrace Bobby Hunter’s trail. Maybe the police had overlooked something—and it turned out that they had. I went to Lancel’s, a leather and jewelry shop on the boulevard des Italiens, where Hunter had bought a wallet with one of Stella’s American Express checks. I found the saleswoman who had waited on him.
“Yes, I remember,” she said. “A handsome man came into the shop. He spoke beautiful English.”
“Was it British English?” I asked.
“No,” she said, “an impeccable American English.”
Ah—at that moment I remembered that I had heard a small snatch of conversation between Stella and Bobby Hunter at the hotel. For all this time, I had forgotten how surprised I was to hear him speaking English with an American accent.
As soon as I was on the street, I went into a bar and called Inspector Pascal. ‘Thanks, Miss Manon,’ he said. ‘This is important.’
Three weeks of waiting. Nothing new. Clara was withering. “I’m going back to New York,” she informed me. “I’ve booked passage for next Wednesday. It’s useless. There’s nothing more I can do. Even Inspector Pascal told me that it’s over. They’ve put the case in the icebox.” And I had to control myself not to laugh. It was a fleeting moment’s reprieve.
I accompanied Clara on the boat train from the Gare du Nord to the liner Statendam at Le Havre. We had a quiet journey. Everything had been said. It was a dark night. No moon to show the way, no stars to guide the wanderers.
Once we arrived at the quay, there were indeed large numbers of wanderers. Frightened-looking people were everywhere. I could see the anxiety in their eyes. I assumed they were Jewish—and we soon learned that I was correct. Clara and I watched them warily. One by one, each of the travelers went past the customs house, handing an official their precious papers: Cartes d’identité d’étranger and passports. I knew that most had been bought on the black market–forged, new-old photos carefully pasted in place, aged with fine dirt. Some of the émigrés looked as if they were holding their breath. I heard one woman say to her husband, “Eli, they’re not going to let us on. I can feel it in my bones.”
“Hush, Sarah, hush, it’ll be all right.” And her husband took her hand to lead her to the official. She turned her face away, not able to look while he stamped her papers. I watched to see if I could see a change on Sarah’s face, but there was nothing. Her fear was too intense. Even the grandeur of the boat, decked out with its glittering strings of lights that made the moment feel like a celebration, wasn’t enough for her. She had to pass one line of passengers, who were dancing up the right side of the gangplank. The line on the left, which included Sarah and Eli, was slowly trudging, the passengers knowing they might be leaving behind their villages, their countries, their families forever.
Clara looked stunned. “They’ll never get the Jewish population of France to safety this way,” she said. “It would take years!”
And I knew she was right, but didn’t want to say anything to add to her anxiety.
I was ashamed to watch the American passengers. They were exuding cheer—carrying bottles of champagne, baskets of expensive foods, calling out to each other apparently without a care in the world.
“What are you going to do, Rosie?” Clara asked, interrupting my anger. “You know you can’t stay. There’ll be a war.”
There was no answer. I agreed with her.
“Rosie,” she persisted, “no matter how hard you try, you’ll always have the Western twang in your voice and the ancient tribes of Israel on your face. Why can’t you just accept that?”
“I’m trying, Clara. I am.”
“Good-bye, my dear,” she said. “I don’t know what I would have done without you.” And she climbed the gangplank with the refugees, not the Americans.
I waited until the ship sailed. It felt odd seeing Clara off. Should I be going with her? I honestly didn’t know who I was anymore. Was I an American? Or had I so completely transformed myself that I had lost my identity? Ever since landing on the shores of Europe I had been trying to recast myself as a Frenchwoman. Because of my looks, I fit neatly into the Parisian community. And because of my ease with the language, I had almost begun to think that I was a different person. Now, having spent time with Clara, I knew I had to drop the French pretense.
* * *
Beginning in 1936, I had worked on the Courier’s foreign desk in Berlin. Every couple of months I would have to return to Paris to check in with my paper. It was nice to take a break from the unrelenting apprehension of living in the Third Reich—but it was also difficult. Leaving Leon made me nervous. His being a member of the Communist Party put him in jeopardy. I thought that if I were in Berlin, and he were arrested, I could use my contacts to get him released and out of the country.
But being in Paris, even though it was under the same threatening sky as the rest of Europe, was like traveling to the private planet of the sun goddess. No matter what the season, I was always struck by the subtle beauty of the gardens—by the wavering lines of ancient trees—by the variations in colors of the sky. Traveling though the countryside to Paris reminded me of Proust and his imaginary Balbec. The scenery was so delicate, so graceful—it was as if it had been lovingly embroidered in
to the fabric of the land.
It was this vast piece of embroidery that I have tried to replicate here on my land in the little mountains of New York State. My garden is planted in a landscape of lines and colors and shapes and shadings. I’ve always imagined that if I went up in a balloon, my garden would remind me of a quiet Vuillard painting. And I feel that then, high up in the sky, my heart would finally, peacefully burst, and I could die in bliss.
But bliss was in Berlin. I would take the dark-blue Nord Express back to Germany. The first time I boarded the train and we chugged out of Paris, it was as if I were entering a dream. We moved through such glorious country, passing by small villages whose lanes were lined with chestnut and lime trees reflecting each other in a dizzy pattern. The French architecture was delicate, romantic. Soft pink and yellow stone pillars balanced narrative cornices; houses were colored with subtle fading pastels; the scale of the buildings was pleasant, almost dreamlike. But once I was in Belgium, I began to notice gloom. And by the time I crossed the German frontier at Aachen and passed over the Rhine River, I had entered a different world. The cottages became squat, without a touch of elegance.
That first journey took almost twenty-one hours. Finally, riding through the dismal suburbs of Berlin, I arrived at the Anhalter railway terminus and stepped down onto the platform under its grand glass roof. But I couldn’t see the sky. It was seven at night and already dark, with no moon, and dim streetlights. There was a light drizzle. I set out on foot, following written directions to the bureau’s office. Soon I heard a vague sound and thought it sounded like a gathering of people. Then the noise rose in volume and quickly became thunderous. What I saw and heard marching down a broad boulevard were legions of soldiers of the Wehrmacht, Nazi youth groups, and members of the National Socialist German Workers’ Party. The soldiers, with their steel-gray helmets matching their steel-gray uniforms, were carrying carbines on their left shoulders. Their right arms swung like metronomes in perfect cadence, while they slammed their boots against the cobblestones. The youth groups were carrying Nazi flags, hundreds of them, all drooping in the rain. The Workers’ Party was carrying the banners. The rolling cacophony of voices became clearer and clearer: Germans, awake from your nightmare! Jews have no place in our Empire!
Last Train to Paris Page 6