Last Train to Paris

by Michele Zackheim

  “We need to stay out in the open,” I warned. “Look like part of the crowd.”

  We were pushed and shoved and handed bricks to throw, which we both managed to avoid doing. Beer-hall thugs, schoolyard bullies, nasty, squinty-eyed men who had been recruited to the Schutzstaffel were beating Jews who had been dragged from shops and apartments identified by the Stars of David on their doors. The synagogue in front of us was burning. Jewish men were trying to shove their way in to save the Torahs. I saw two SS men who, with theatrical manners, allowed some men in—and then closed the doors and nailed them shut. The men were burned alive while trying to save their ancient texts. We watched, stunned. The smells were overwhelming—burning wood, broken bottles of everything under the sun, burning flesh—

  “ROSE!” And we turned toward the sound.

  It was my mother in her glaring, bright-red coat and her hat with the rose, now askew on her head. She was forcing her way through the throngs, seemingly impervious to their horrific screams. Then we saw an SS man grab her by the arm and start to lead her away.

  “You go straight toward her,” Pete said. “I’ll go around to the rear.”

  There was a wall of ferocious humanity blocking our way. Then I saw Pete behind her. He had my mother by one arm, and an SS officer had her by the other. I could see that she was screaming but couldn’t hear her over the roar. Finally, after pushing and shoving my way through the crowd, I was next to her.

  “Goddammit,” she was yelling in English, “let go of me.”

  “Do you want to start an international incident?” I heard Pete yelling in German. “Let go of her now.” I pulled out my press pass and showed it. The soldier was momentarily flummoxed, and let go.

  “Ma,” I yelled. “We have to get out of here!”

  “Ma?” Pete said. “What—”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  Using the mayhem as our cover, we took hold of her arms and propelled her down a quieter street. We knew where we were going.

  “Rose—” she said.

  “Be quiet, Ma. Please be quiet.”

  The American Embassy was in eerie darkness. A huge crowd of Nazi sympathizers surrounded the closed building. Rocks were being thrown. The doorway sentinels were nowhere to be seen. I banged on the side door and the peephole was opened. The undersecretary, Mr. Greenleaf, immediately recognized me. The door opened quickly and closed even faster behind us.

  “Oh, no,” my mother cried out, “my coat’s caught in the door!”

  “Take it off, Madame,” Greenleaf said. “It’s not worth taking the chance.”

  I showed her to a sofa in one of the anterooms. “You’re safe for now. Try to get some rest,” I said. “I have to go to a press conference, and then write and file my story.”

  And a terrible story it was. We reporters were herded into the Reich Ministry of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda, where we were invited to sit in the comfortable pale-blue satin-covered armchairs to listen to uncomfortable news. We sat in straight, precise rows as a German press attaché recited his information. Many of us, knowing this would be our last time having to listen to his lies in person, were very quiet. The world had just spun out of control. I didn’t know about the others, but I was stunned, numb with dread–afraid to think about Leon. We were informed of the news. Then we were escorted back to our embassies.

  Without checking in with my mother, I went to the embassy’s press office to file my story by cable. Using a telephone was out of the question—there were too many life-and-death calls to be made—and I didn’t want to engage a line.

  HITLER’S INFERNO

  By R.B. Manon

  BERLIN, November 10, 1938—Today I’ve experienced hell. I’ve seen the hideous faces of madness, heard the screams of people being burnt alive. I can attest from firsthand observation that the citizens of Germany have lost their minds.

  Then, as if this were a normal day, the government held a news conference. The news attaché boasted that in all of Germany at least seventy-five thousand Jewish businesses have been looted and burned. ‘To add to our list,’ he continued, ‘two hundred sixty-seven synagogues have been torched; at least ninety-one Jews have been killed in Berlin and its neighboring areas; and more than twenty-five thousand Jewish men have been arrested and sent to ‘relocation’ camps. We are well on our way to cleansing Germany of the Jewish filth.’ And he abruptly left the room before we could ask questions . . .

  How in the world did I ever sit there and listen to that repulsive man? Now, I wouldn’t think twice about standing up and telling him what I thought. Of course, hindsight is so much easier. But maybe we ancients should be running the world. We do care less for convention—and we do have distinct memories of good and evil. And we, the collective of octogenarians, may not remember yesterday, but fifty years ago is a breeze.

  I remember my mother saying that nothing really matters. One of her favorite responses was “Who cares?” But I need to be wary. I need to remember about the health of the world. After the horrors I’ve seen in my lifetime, I could slip into her negative shoes all too easily—and they would fit.

  Mr. Greenleaf walked into the room. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he announced, ‘we’ve just been informed that all American citizens will be evacuated. Please prepare to leave.’

  I found my mother. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me,” I heard her say, as she tried quietly to slip off the sofa she was sharing.

  “Not a problem, dear, I’m awake,” the woman next to her said. “Just trying to digest all that has happened. Have to write a report. Hi, R.B.,” she said, and turned to my mother. “You’re lucky, Mrs. Manon, that you have R.B. here to protect you. By the way, my name’s Eva Kantor, secretary to Ambassador Taylor. No, sorry,” she corrected. “In the middle of the night, the ambassador was recalled to Washington in protest for last night’s hideous rampage.” And she rose from the sofa, put on her shoes, and left.

  Pete rushed into the room. “Morning, Mrs. Manon,” he said. “R.B., I have to speak to you. Come into the press office.”

  “God, what’s all this R.B. stuff? Why don’t you just call her Rose?”

  Pete was stunned for a moment. “We call her R.B.,” he said, with ice coating his words, “because we respect her work and being a woman in this business is tough. Now, come on, R.B.,” he said, amplifying my initials.

  “Don’t worry, Rose,” my mother said. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Leon’s waiting outside,” Pete said as soon as we turned around to leave. “I’ve just caught sight of him. He must be crazy! He’s in the midst of that furious crowd. Hurry.”

  Facing me outside was the incarnation of evil. Screeching hordes of people. Snarling and howling dogs. The SS were keeping the mob from attacking the embassy. I saw Leon and signaled him to go to my left where the door was. He walked with assurance across the demarcation area and through the door, just as if he belonged there.

  He was shaking. “The world’s gone mad,” he said, and we embraced just as my mother entered the room.

  “Well, well, what do we have here?” she said.

  “Leave us alone, Ma. Go away.” She turned with a huff and left.

  “Your mother?” Leon said.

  “It’s a long story, Leon. I promise I’ll fill you in later, but now we have to make plans to get you out of here. Come. Let’s sit down. I didn’t know you were back in Berlin. Where were you? Is everything all right? How did you know I was here?”

  ‘Always the reporter,’ Leon laughed. ‘Questions. Questions.’

  His voice was extra low and I had to ask him to speak more clearly.

  “I got back last night,” he said. “Then, early this morning, hearing the noise, I opened my door and realized that the guard outside my apartment was gone. I went to your boardinghouse. All the lights were off, but I could hear people scurrying about, banging into
things, whispering anxiously. The porter told me that you’d left in the middle of the night.”

  “But how did you know I was leaving Berlin?”

  “The Reich’s radio station,” he said. “They’ve been boasting about last night and how the French and the British delegations are running from Berlin with their scraggly tails between their ugly legs. I assumed you would be evacuated too.”

  For the moment, all I could do was hold his hands and watch his face. He was so bony; his face was so drawn. Even his fingers were thinner.

  Then I snapped back to reality. “You must come with me to Paris. You can’t stay here any longer.”

  “No, I’m so sorry, but I can’t,” he said. “I can’t leave my parents. They need me, you know that.”

  “Come. Let’s try to figure this out.”

  Within minutes, the dilemma of Leon and his parents had been presented to Eva Kantor. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘we can supply the travel documents but I can’t promise that they’ll work. You may all have to go through German customs before boarding and then be vulnerable to police checks at the border, and then again upon arrival in Paris. Is the letter ‘J’ stamped in your Kennkarte?”

  “Of course not,” I said, sounding as if it were too absurd to consider.

  “Yes, it is in all of ours—since the first week of October,” Leon said.

  I looked at Eva, trying to discern her feelings. “Will their cards work?”

  “Perhaps,” Eva said. “But they’ll still need legal travel documents. I’ll do what I can, but I can’t promise. Here,” she said to Leon, handing him a scrap of paper. “Write down your names and dates and places of birth. And R.B., as we discussed, you must get your American saxophonist friend and his family here. Everyone needs to be issued the legal papers. We have about ten hours to get this all done.”

  “I don’t know if I can convince them,” Leon said after Eva left. “I just don’t know.”

  “But you’ve got to persuade them. Please, Leon, I can’t leave without you.”

  “I’ll try,” he said, “of course. Now, this is what I think we should do. If they agree, they’ll be with me at the station. We’ll wait on the platform. Don’t approach me unless you have all our papers. If you can’t get them, ignore me. I’ll know that I’ll have to try to find another way. My parents are elderly, both in age and in energy. If you don’t see two old people standing with me, it will mean I’m not coming with you. Now, I have to get going.”

  I walked him to the back entrance where the guard unlocked the door. “Good-bye,” he said. “See you on the platform. And, perhaps, as we get moving toward the border, you’ll tell me about how your mother got here. I have a feeling it will sound like one of those cowboy stories you love to tell.” With that, he slipped through the door. I watched Leon through the window as he hurried away. He didn’t look back.

  “Ma, I need to talk to you.”

  “Whatever about?” she said with a stab of irritation in her voice.

  “Ma, listen to me.”

  “All right, Rose, I’m listening. What’s wrong?”

  “We have to leave.”

  “I understand. Poor Rose,” she said, “you look as if you’ve been up all night.”

  “Have been,” I answered curtly. “Now pay attention. There’s going to be a mass exodus from Berlin tonight. We’re being officially evacuated. The German authorities will be so taken up with what happened last night that we can use this brief pause to get out of here. We need to be on the midnight train. And I’m also taking a family who are friends of mine, and—”

  ‘What about that man I saw you with–the one you didn’t even bother to introduce?’ she interrupted. ‘After all this Jewish business, I can’t believe you’ve fallen in love with a Kraut!’

  “He’s Jewish,” I blurted.

  “Oh, God, why a Jew, Rose? Haven’t they caused enough trouble in our lives?”

  “I suggest,” I said, in a very low, measured voice, “that you get out of here immediately, or—”

  I took a breath, knowing this wasn’t the time to confront my mother.

  “Forget it,” I said, trying to contain my rage. “I’ve already heard from other reporters that the first train out this morning was overflowing and there was pandemonium. Nazi troops had lined the platform—many had snarling dogs. It was obvious that there weren’t enough soldiers to keep order. Tonight will be rougher. We’ll be on the train under the auspices of the American Embassy, and with a letter of permission to travel from the German authorities. Even if people are hanging out the windows, we’ve been assured of passage. The soldiers at the American Embassy will accompany us. But we must hurry, and—”

  “Okay, I understand,” my mother said, “but can I get my suitcase? And what’s happened to my coat?”

  “I’ll try to get your things later. You must sit quietly and wait for me to return. Please, Ma.”

  “I’m not stupid, Rose,” she said, and I looked at her skeptically.

  “Yeah, but remember, you’re in foreign territory. I’m not.”

  “All right. All right,” she said. “I’ll be quiet. But what do we do if we’re challenged on the train?”

  “We may not be. But, just in case—under no circumstances are you to speak German.”

  “I don’t speak German, you know that.”

  “Well, you speak Yiddish, and that’s very close.”

  “Whoever told you that? It’s too ugly a language for me to bother with.”

  “Clara told me—why should she lie? Don’t you understand,” I said, trying to ignore her nastiness, “that we have to believe that we’re invisible? Under no circumstances are you to say anything, in any language, about my press credentials or about our being Jewish. It’s really important that you pay attention to what I’m telling you, and—”

  “Okay, Rose, okay. Stop being such a dictator. I understand. But—what about your Jewish friend? What are you going to do about him? Does he have a family he’ll be dragging behind him? If so, they’ll be feeding off you for the rest of their lives.”

  God, I thought, will I ever be free from this monster?

  What was wrong between us? Why couldn’t we find common ground? At that point, I couldn’t see my way past my anger at my mother. I was having a hard enough time clumsily finding my way toward a life of love.

  The Moses family had been included in the order to leave. I went by foot to Charlottenburg. There was no other way. The trams weren’t running, there were no taxis—the only moving cars belonged to the SS. The streets looked like the sepia photographs I had seen of the Great War. Broken glass was everywhere—indeed, the streets, perversely, sparkled. I had to sidestep smoldering timbers—hold a handkerchief over my nose and mouth—take the long way around to get through streets blocked with debris. People were moving in every direction, many with suitcases and rolls of bedding. It was eerily quiet. One street’s sidewalk was lined with dead bodies. I had never seen carnage like this before. People were averting their eyes, but moving forward. I wanted to scream for help—at least to cover their bodies—to bestow dignity upon this awful place. But I knew no one would listen. So this is what war is like, I thought, and tried to pull armor over myself. I was going to have to learn.

  I did learn. Over the years of my career, in wars between political parties, between tribes, between countries—any sort of callous killing—I was often there, covering the story.

  And today? All these years later? I wonder where my heart had been—I wonder why I had not tended my emotional garden.

  The previous night’s stars were gone. There didn’t appear to be a sky. What was above my head was a solidly painted ceiling of a dreary grayish-brown. I wondered if this was what Dante’s purgatory looked like.

  It usually took twenty minutes to get to Richard’s house; now it took more than two hours. When I arrive
d, I wasn’t surprised to see the vandalism. The elevator wasn’t working; I climbed five flights. Some of the doors on the landing were splintered, some had gaping holes, some were standing open, as if the person knocking had been invited in. And I could see that the apartments had been ransacked. Jewish families, I guessed. When I knocked on Richard’s door, I heard silence. But I sensed they were inside. “Richard, it’s me,” I yelled. “Open up! Richard, please let me in.”

  I heard one latch, then another, and the door was opened a crack.

  The family was petrified. Their bags were packed, as if for a quick escape. Good, I thought, they’re ready to go.

  “We’ve been afraid to go outside. The kids are ready for an insane asylum. Our tenants fled. What’s going on, Rosie?”

  “I’ll tell you later. We don’t have time to spare. Do you have your new American passports?”

  “Yeah, we got them from Stefan, but he wouldn’t take any money.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” I said. “Your dollars will come in handy once we get to France. Now, let’s go.”

  As if they had rehearsed, each member of the family put on a coat, picked up a bag, and walked, single file, through the door.

  “Oh, God, what has happened to our neighbors?” Daria asked.

  “They’re all Jews. God only knows,” Richard said.

  I led them out into the murky daylight, joining the exodus of people walking back the way I had come.

  “Where’s everyone going?” Richard asked.