Last Train to Paris

by Michele Zackheim

  “It’s cold in here,” I grumbled.

  “No more coal,” Daria said, “except what I carry back from the embassy, which gets us through the evening. And, as you can feel, it’s not enough.” I noticed that they were all wearing their coats.

  “Sorry,” I said. “That was rude.” And they didn’t bother to say I was forgiven.

  Coleman was now ten, and his little sister Annelie was eight. When I visited in the past, they had been rambunctious and excited about absolutely everything. Now they sat quietly, politely, on their rolled-up mattresses, their little legs not even touching the ground. I sat next to Coleman and smiled at him. There was no response. Their mother hovered, speaking softly to the children, encouraging them to speak to me. Daria was a tiny woman with a pretty, simple face framed by bobbed blond hair. She taught German to the children of the American and British diplomatic services assigned to Berlin. It had been amusing to see Daria standing next to her husband–she was so short and he was so tall. But now, no one was smiling.

  I kissed Richard and went to embrace Daria, but she stood aside and shook her head. “Please don’t, Rose. If you do, I’ll break in two.”

  As was traditional, I had brought a bottle of schnapps for the adults and chocolate for the children. But this evening, no one seemed interested in eating or drinking. The adults sat on three mismatched chairs. “Where’s the table?” I asked, and Richard pointed to the corner of the room, where pieces of the table were neatly stacked.

  “We use it to get the coal started,” Richard said, shrugging his shoulders.

  For the first time that I could remember, I felt strange in their home. The children were so quiet. Richard kept looking quizzically at Daria, and once I caught her shaking her head no.

  I blurted, “Look here, you two. What’s going on? Do you want me to leave?”

  “No, of course not,” Richard said. “C’mon, let’s go for a walk and have a drink.”

  He and I left and silently walked down the street until we reached Savignyplatz. At the corner were two identical bronze statues of little boys facing each other, each pulling a reluctant goat.

  “Coleman and I watched these two sculptures being installed in ’31,” Richard said. “It was funny because he asked me why there were two. ‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘what do you think?’ ‘It’s in case one little boy dies and his sad parents will have another.’”

  “Something’s happened, Richard,” I said, taking his arm. “What’s going on?”

  “We can’t talk here,” he said. “It’s too cold. Let’s get a drink.”

  We walked to Grolmannstrasse, where there were a number of bars. “This one stays open late,” Richard said, and we entered the dark, somewhat dank establishment, groping our way toward two chairs in the back.

  We ordered two schnapps. “Tell me what’s happening,” I said. “I don’t understand.”

  “A fascist group,” Richard said, “thought to study the supposed purity of the white race . . .”

  “Oh, no, Richard—no,” I said.

  “Oh, yes, my friend,” Richard said. “Oh, yes.”

  “I’ve heard about this, but didn’t believe such a thing could be true.” I was stunned.

  “Yes, Rose, it’s true.” In a flat tone of voice, Richard continued. “Their goal’s to sterilize the Rhineland bastards. And they’re succeeding. They’ve already rounded up hundreds of children of mixed race and forcibly performed surgery on them. I’ve heard that some of the children were kept there, as a scientist would keep a cage of rats. They were subjected to even more suffering through merciless medical experiments. Four months ago both our children were taken from us in the middle of the night. We had no idea the fuckers were coming.”

  Richard began to cry. “They took them from their beds, still in their pajamas, keeping us away with guns and clubs. The kids were hysterical. We were hysterical. We both threw our coats over our bedclothes and ran downstairs to follow them. They were bundled into a black wagon and driven off, with the two of us chasing that fuckin’ car down the street. Of course, it was no use. They turned a corner and were gone. We ran. It took us about twenty minutes, but it felt like hours, to get to the American Embassy, and we pounded on the door. No one would let us in—they must have thought we were lunatics, which we were at that moment. Finally, after I stopped screaming in German and switched to English, they opened the door. Some embassy people were awakened and quickly arrived to hear our story. The ambassador appeared. He began calling people in the German government. Not one of them admitted knowing where the children had been taken, or why. Then he made another call, to whom I don’t know. We watched his face during each phone call. On this, the last one, he had a look of incredulousness. He said, ‘What? Say that again. I think I misheard you.’ He hadn’t misheard. Both our kids had been sterilized. It was too late. What you saw in the apartment were two formerly energetic and curious kids, now so traumatized that they barely function.”

  “How . . . why?”

  “I gather,” he said, “that it’s been going on since last year. The program depends on snitches. In every building in Berlin, the regime has appointed a Blockwart to watch and amass information about the tenants’ religion, the color of our skins, whether everyone’s legally married or not. When this new edict was announced, our Blockwart didn’t have to look far. He turned our kids in and is proud of it. The motherfucker! Rose,” Richard said, grabbing my hand, with tears welling in his eyes, “we have to get out of here. If we can get to France before war starts, maybe we can go back to the States. We’ve sold everything in the flat except for the bare necessities. We’re hoarding money. We legally have to charge our boarders rent—who, by the way, are Jewish and are also being forced to pay off the Blockwart every month. And now, not only can’t I get work, but there’s none anywhere—especially for a colored man. Anyway, I have to stay with the kids while Daria teaches. They rarely go outside. They’re scared of cars and strangers on the street. I read to them, do schoolwork with them, practice in front of them, sing to them. But they rarely respond. They hold each other’s hands, afraid to let go. We’ve got to get them out of here and get them some help. They’re zombies, Rose. I don’t even know them anymore. Can you help us?”

  “Yes, I’ll try. Of course. I promise. Let’s have another round. And please, from now on, call me Rosie.” I beckoned the bartender.

  Sitting there, hunched over my glass, it had finally dawned on me that the world I desired didn’t exist any longer. I realized that my innate sense of freedom was balancing on a pile of political debris. The German gate had slammed shut, imprisoning everyone. Not just the non-Aryans—everyone believing in the concept of free choice. It was clear. Yet here I was, sitting across from a dear friend who was in abject anguish. Not only was Richard desperate to get his family out of Germany—he was suffering such inconceivable sorrow and rage that he could barely sit still in his chair.

  “Tell me what you’ve already done,” I whispered, suspicious of the people in the bar.

  “We’ve been working with the embassy,” Richard said. “Although they’re sympathetic, nothing’s happening—and every day there’s another reminder of my kids’ misery, my wife’s anger and confusion, and my guilt. I keep thinking that if we had gotten out before, none of this would have happened.”

  “C’mon, Richard, how would you have known? Even covering the German situation, I didn’t see this coming.” But I was lying. I should have known better, too—and now I was also beginning to acknowledge it. I accused myself of being dispassionate, too self-involved. And in my gut I understood that these accusations were true.

  Richard was still crying. He didn’t try to hide his tears. “I was muleheaded. I wasn’t thinking of anybody except myself. Thought I was so fuckin’ smart. Thought I was beating Jim Crow. Thought I knew everything. I didn’t know shit, Rosie,” he yelled. “I stranded and destroyed the
only people I love—thinking I was so clever.”

  Richard stood and screamed at the customers. The heads in the dark café all turned toward him. ‘Why didn’t you just cut off my prick? Why did you make my children suffer for my being a goddamned nigger?”

  “Sit down, Richard,” I said, tugging at his jacket sleeve. “You can’t be carrying on like this in public. Sit down!”

  It was quiet as a church. Everyone was watching. I hoped no one understood English. And Richard sat.

  I didn’t know what to say. The depth of Richard’s heartache was something I had never experienced.

  The next morning, there was a loud knock at my door. I had been deeply asleep and was disoriented for a moment. It felt like the middle of the night, but the morning was dark. It was pouring rain.

  “Oh, sorry if I woke you,” Richard said, “but you said to be here early so we could get to the embassy before the lines start. Daria has taken the day off.”

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” I mumbled, trying to get my bearings. “Too much drinking. Give me a minute, I’ll splash water on my face.”

  We arrived to find the press corps office at the embassy alive with nervous activity. The embassy officers and reporters, including Pete, were huddled around the ticker tape. ‘What’s going on?’

  “We’re not sure,” Pete said. “It looks as if the Krauts are planning some kind of putsch. Our source is talking to the embassy in Paris. We’re waiting for information.”

  I didn’t care. I wasn’t interested in a putsch. I wasn’t interested in grabbing the story—I wasn’t even tempted.

  “Could you cover the story, Pete? There’s something I have to do.” And without waiting for an answer, “Let’s go, Richard,” I said.

  We went from one American official to another. Nobody seemed to know how to help, what to do. I began to sense that nothing could be done. By three o’clock, we had been in and out of six offices and had spent intolerable amounts of time waiting on hard wooden benches.

  I was afraid to acknowledge what I was seeing.

  “C’mon, Rosie, can’t you see what’s going on here?” Richard said. “Can’t you? When we walk into an office and they first see you, they have an inviting smile. Then they see me and their smile becomes a grimace—or a look of fear rolls down their face like a friggin’ window shade. And here I am among my countrymen. What a riot! You can see why I wanted to get the hell out of my own country. But now I’m stuck in another where everyone’s either afraid of me or repulsed by me. If we can’t get out of here,” Richard asked, “then how will Leon? He’s in a similar boat.”

  I spun around. “What do you mean?”

  “C’mon, don’t you know? You’re in love with him. You’re supposed to know this stuff.”

  “Goddammit, what stuff?”

  “Leon’s a Jew, for Christ’s sake, Rosie. Where’ve you been?”

  “Yes, I know he’s Jewish,” I said. “And so am I.”

  Perhaps Stefan Kluge could help. I had heard Stefan make a serious confession during a dinner after much drinking. His situation was treacherous—and no doubt if the Gestapo got word of his transgression, he’d be sent to a concentration camp and so would everyone else in his family. I had sworn absolute silence, and I meant it. But now, months later, I needed to bend my promise slightly.

  After leaving Richard, having agreed to meet him the next day with news, I found Stefan at the bar on Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse. I thought him crazy to use this joint as his hangout. Nevertheless, when I entered, there he was, sitting near a window, drinking a beer. After I ordered a whiskey, we engaged in shop talk.

  I was waiting for a good moment to ask Stefan my burning question. We chatted about our colleagues, caught up on the political gossip. I began to drone on about how awful the world had become, how my newspaper didn’t understand me. Then I caught an ever-so-slight frown on his face.

  “Why in hell do you think your life’s so interesting that anyone cares?” Stefan said. “Really, R.B., the world’s disintegrating and your life means nothing more than a bag of potatoes.”

  Stefan signaled for the check and then turned back to me.

  “You Americans, you’re so sure of yourselves. You think everyone lives in your free, big, open spaces. Well, you’re wrong. We’re suffocating, R.B.—look past your own nose, and—”

  “How’s your wife?” I interrupted.

  Stefan looked at me askance. “You know she divorced me,” he said, “and went to the States. Everyone knows that. And good riddance to her. Now I have Estelle and wonder what I saw in the other one.”

  “Come on, Stefan, I know the truth. You told me the story yourself. I need help.”

  “You mean you’re going to blackmail me? Never thought I’d see you stoop so low, R.B.”

  “No, of course I’m not going to blackmail you, Stefan, don’t be such an idiot.”

  When he was living in Paris, Stefan, a Christian German citizen, met, and eventually married, a Jewish German woman, Esther Stein. She had lived in France for many years, first as a student, then as a writer for a German-French magazine. In 1935, the Nuremberg laws were passed, prohibiting the intermarriage of Jews and Aryans. When it became obvious that the Nazis were going to be in power for a long time, the couple came up with a plan. While still in Paris, they filed for, and received, a divorce. A few months later, Stefan’s assignment in Paris ended and he was sent back to Berlin. A new passport was made for Esther. She left a month later and they reunited. Now they were living in Berlin as lovers, feigning distaste for marriage and children. Esther became Estelle. Stein became Schröder. Dark, curly, ‘Jewish’ hair became blonde hair, ironed each morning to make it straighter. The Kluges had become normal, everyday anti-Semites.

  “Wait, Stefan, please. Please hear me out. Sorry about my grousing.” And I proceeded to tell Stefan about Richard and his family, including the sterilization program.

  By the time I had finished, Stefan looked drained.

  “Oh, God,” Stefan said. “This is horrible, just horrible. We’re all in trouble. We’ve got to get out of here. Listen, R.B., this means you too. Even the Gestapo thugs at the headquarters across the street must have their eye on you. None of us is safe.”

  “I know,” I said. “I’m trying to get used to being Jewish—but I don’t have a built-in alarm system yet.”

  “But what are you going to do about Leon?” Stefan asked. “In my case, Estelle won’t leave because her family’s still in Hamburg—still convincing themselves that all will be better. And Leon’s parents feel the same way—meaning he’s stuck, too.”

  “I need a first-rate forger,” I blurted. “Can you help me?”

  “Yes, I know someone,” Stefan said. “Leon.”

  “Won’t work. I won’t put him in jeopardy. Do you know anyone else?”

  “Yes.”

  Late that evening, as arranged, I met Richard at the same bar.

  “Anything happening?” Richard said.

  “Do you have dollars?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I’ve dollars that my brother sent me. Why?”

  “Do you all have American passports?”

  “No, only me.”

  “Okay, we need to get American passports for everyone. We’ll need money. I’ll let you know how much, as soon as I know. I need photos of Daria and the children and everyone’s date and place of birth. You know, all the pertinent details.”

  “Rosie, how can I th—”

  “No, not yet, Richard. I have no idea if I can pull this off.”

  When I returned to my room, I found a note slipped under the door. I’ll be away. Back soon. L.

  I had to assume that Leon was doing another job for Gerard, and tried not to worry. A few days later, when I arrived at the pressroom, I was handed a letter from Mr. Hin.

  Dear Rosie: We miss you at the Espoi
r. I wanted to let you know that an American was here looking for you. She said she was hoping that you were back in Paris, but Madame Pleven told her that you were still in Berlin.

  Sincerely, Hin.

  My heart sank. Someone I had known in New York? I didn’t want to be bothered with renewing old friendships. But I cabled the Paris Courier to see if my colleagues had any information about the mysterious woman. Maybe she had gone to the office looking for me? There was no answer. Just my luck—the Nazis were jamming the system. I should have known better. Reporting back to Paris had become almost impossible. If I was lucky, I could convince an international operator to keep a line open for me while I dictated to the paper. Otherwise, it could take twenty-four hours to get an article onto a printed page.

  I felt as if I were being lassoed and hog-tied, just like in a roundup in Nevada.

  * * *

  A few evenings later, Nevada came to my door. There was a knock. “It’s open,” I said, and turned around to say hello. “Oh, shit, Ma, what are you doing here?”

  I was stunned.

  My mother looked stunned too. She stood at the door holding a red-leather suitcase that matched her red wool coat, and wearing a red pillbox hat with a pink rose attached to the brim.

  “May I come in?” she asked.

  And then I realized that the woman looking for me in Paris had been my mother.

  “Ma, what happened? Has something happened to Father?”

  She nodded and sat on the sofa. She didn’t bother to hug me.

  It was the winter of 1939, and I had not seen my mother for almost five years. She was now in her mid-sixties, and her thick, black, shoulder-length hair was sprinkled with very little silver. Although she had gained weight, she was still eye-catching. Even now, she smelled of the outdoors—the Western sage-smelling air was woven into her clothing.

  “Yes, he’s dead,” she said, and leaned back against the cushions, taking a handkerchief out of her pocket. She simply held it. There were no tears.