The Muralist: A Novel

by B. A. Shapiro

  A few days later, she came home and caught the tail end of a report. Murrow was talking about a ship with almost a thousand European refugees aboard seeking political asylum in Cuba. But when the boat got to Havana, the Cuban government hadn’t let any of the passengers disembark, so it set sail for Florida hoping for a more hospitable reception. Instead, American officials refused to allow the ship dock, and now the passengers were “steaming back to Europe and an uncertain fate.”

  Long. It had to have been Long.

  She turned up the volume. “What ship?” she cried out loud. “What ship?”

  Murrow was describing the passengers. German Jews, mostly families with Cuban visas who planned to immigrate to America from there. The snakes coiled in her belly began to unwind, consuming her from within; she gagged. No. It wasn’t the St. Louis. It couldn’t be. She forced a deep breath, praying, hoping against hope. But Murrow soon confirmed that it was.

  As a commercial for laundry detergent played, she felt slightly off kilter, as if she’d been in this moment before, heard this report before, strained to grasp its meaning before. Déjà vu, but not quite déjà vu, because it was both the same and altered. The circumstances were different; that was then, this was now. And yet there were the familiar sensations: the numbness, the disbelief, the tickle of terror. Now it was Babette. Then it was Maman and Papa.

  Papa had walked her to school as usual that morning, but instead of Maman waiting for her at the end of the day, Mrs. Clouatre, her friend Colette’s mother, was there in her place. This wasn’t unusual as Mrs. C and her mother took turns walking them to the École française every Monday and Wednesday afternoon, but when they turned toward home rather than toward l’école, she and Colette both knew something was up.

  The girls’ first thought was that it was an unexpected reprieve, and they were thrilled at the prospect of a free afternoon when they thought they’d be stuck inside learning boring French. But there was something in Mrs. C’s silence that quickly silenced them, too. And there was something in the way she looked at Alizée that turned her icy cold. Alizée didn’t know it then, but what she saw in Mrs. C’s eyes was pity. She would see it on many more occasions for many more years, and it would forever turn her icy cold.

  Mrs. C may have taken them back to her house, or to Alizée’s house, or maybe even over to the still smoldering lab building. She may have told Alizée or maybe she waited for Oncle to break the news. Alizée had flashes of that day, images, sharp and cruel, but mostly what she remembered were the feelings. That and Oncle sitting on her bed when she opened her eyes one morning. After the funeral, he and Tante had bundled her up and brought her back to France, a mass of twisting misery consuming her from within.

  And here it was again. She dropped her head into her hands. All she could see was Babette’s little family. Clutching each other and the meager possessions they’d brought from home. Sophie and Gabrielle fussing and crying. Babette and Pierre trying to be strong, crying inside. Looking to America with hope, finding only disillusionment. Steaming back to Europe and an uncertain fate.

  14

  ELEANOR

  It was deathly hot in New York; dirt and sweat mingled uncomfortably every time Eleanor stepped outside. She couldn’t wait to get to the country, to swim, to ride her horse into the foothills. Over the last couple of days she’d dutifully met with the League of Women Voters, the planning group for the Roosevelt Presidential Library, among others, and now she was fulfilling her final commitment: the Good Neighbor Committee. All she could think of was Hyde Park and fresh air.

  When the meeting ended early, she had the driver take her and her friend Hick to the gallery space on Fifty-Seventh Street. She hadn’t expected to have time to stop at the opening of the July Federal Art Gallery exhibit but had wanted to. These juried shows were held monthly at a variety of venues to showcase the work of WPA artists. The judges were picky, and the work was always first rate. She and Hick would have to wait for the train anyway, so why not squeeze in the event that promised to be the most fun of the lot?

  They entered the storefront while the chauffeur waited for them on the street. To the left, empty display cases were stacked on top of one another suggesting the store’s previous life, most likely jewelry, but it now looked very much like the art gallery it was to be for the next few weeks. The artwork, hung on stark white walls, was impressive, and the room was so crowded that it might take a few minutes before anyone noticed Eleanor was there. In that short moment of anonymity, she surveyed the exhibit.

  Although the work was primarily representational, Eleanor noticed a few abstract paintings in a far corner. She’d been intrigued by the articles and photographs of modern art she’d seen after her last WPA visit, although unfortunately, she hadn’t had the time to pursue it any further. She nudged Hick. “Let’s go over there before anyone spots us.” They didn’t get far.

  “Mrs. Roosevelt!” A young man, shorter than both Eleanor and Hick by at least a head, shouldered his way through the crowd. When he reached them, he actually bowed. “We, we’re honored that you accepted our invitation. The invitation.” He pressed his hands together, forefingers to his mouth, took a deep breath. “I’m so surprised to see you. So surprised, but a swell surprise. A thrilling one. When I mailed out the invitations, I didn’t think you’d actually come, but I decided it was worth the stamp. And now you have come, you’re here, and the stamp was worth it. Please, let me take you around.”

  Eleanor suppressed a smile. “Thank you,” she said. “And you are . . . ?”

  “Oh.” The boy was completely flummoxed. “Sorry. So sorry. I’m, I’m Milton Tripp. Milton. Please call me Milton.”

  “Well, then, Milton, this is my friend Lorena Hickok, and although we don’t have much time before our train, we would love to see some of your favorite paintings. Are you an artist yourself? Working on the project?”

  Milton answered both questions in the affirmative and propelled them to the front of the store. “I guess I don’t need to tell you about all the talented artists we have on the project,” he gushed. “They wouldn’t be here if not for you. We wouldn’t be here.” He spread his arms to indicate the entire gallery. “None of this would be here without your belief in us.”

  Eleanor waved the compliment aside as he pointed out landscapes by Alexander Brook and Stuart Shirley, romantic seascapes by John Forbes and Jean Liberté, and the social scene paintings of Philip Evergood, Jack Levine, and Boris Margo. They were interrupted numerous times by well-wishers and waiters who kept offering Eleanor champagne, which she kept refusing.

  She glanced at her watch; only forty-five minutes remained before their train left from Penn Station. “This has been just delightful, Milton,” she said. “A great pleasure, but we have a train to catch and must go.” She knew the train would wait for her if need be, but she didn’t like taking unnecessary advantage of her position, especially if it inconvenienced others.

  As they turned toward the front door, Eleanor again noticed the abstract paintings she’d initially wanted to see. “Those are very compelling,” she told Milton. “Maybe we can stay an extra minute and take a look.”

  Milton bowed again, even more awkwardly this time. “I’d be happy to show them to you,” he said, but it was clear that modern art was not what he thought the First Lady should be looking at.

  “We’ll be fine,” Eleanor said, then remembering Harry Hopkins’s similar reaction, she leaned into Hick. “Why is it that men are so afraid of anything new?” she whispered.

  Hick laughed and linked her arm through Eleanor’s as they headed toward the back.

  Although there was no reason for Eleanor to expect so, she wasn’t surprised when she saw the young French girl from the warehouse standing by the artwork, but she was pleased. “I’m so sorry,” she said, her hand extended, “I’ve forgotten your name, but I’m delighted to see you again.”

  A million-dollar smile spread across the girl’s face, and she grasped Eleanor’s ha
nd. “Alizée. Alizée Benoit, Mrs. Roosevelt. I’m happy to see you, too. Very happy. I sent a letter thanking you for the mural project, but I’m sure you didn’t have time to read it.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t, my dear,” Eleanor said. “I’m sure it was lovely.” She’d also forgotten about the murals. “The project is going well, I presume? And your friend’s also?”

  “Swell,” Alizée said. “Just swell. We’re submitting our preliminary drawings to the committee soon.”

  “And these are yours?” Eleanor motioned to the three colorful abstracts behind Alizée.

  Alizée nodded and pointed to the two next to hers. “And these are Lee’s. Lee Krasner. But she’s gone out for a sandwich. She’ll be so sorry she didn’t get to see you and thank you herself.”

  Eleanor looked at Lee’s paintings. They were interesting, unusual she supposed, boxes and thick lines of red, black, white, and gray, but that was all they seemed to be: boxes and thick lines of red, black, white, and gray. Alizée’s, on the other hand, were alive, abstract yet somehow also figurative, even as Eleanor struggled to understand what the figures might be. Dancers, perhaps. Blossoms? Floating plants? The works were bursting with movement, with vivacity, but somehow were also a little melancholy.

  “Oh, Alizée,” Eleanor said. “These are wonderful.”

  “You like them?” The girl’s face was tentative, almost disbelieving. “You really mean it?”

  “I do. Very much so,” Eleanor assured her. Such a pretty child, so full of hope, and yet, Eleanor sensed, full of something not quite so cheerful. Like her paintings. Eleanor wanted to wrap her up in her arms, take her back to Hyde Park, fatten her up, pamper her, watch her relax by the pool. “I hope your parents have had a chance to come by. They must be very proud of you.”

  Alizée shook her head.

  “Oh, they live in France, don’t they?” Eleanor smiled. “Where you’re from. That would be a long way to come.”

  “It’s not that,” Alizée said.

  “I’m sorry,” Eleanor said quickly. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “They died when I was younger.”

  Now Eleanor understood all too well where Alizée’s sadness came from. And from where her connection to the girl derived. “Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry. Sorry that it happened and sorry I brought it up.”

  “It’s okay, it was a long time ago.”

  “Then that makes it even worse,” Eleanor said. “I was orphaned when I was nine.”

  Their eyes met. “You were?” Alizée asked. “Both at the same time?”

  “No, not the same time. My mother passed away first and then my father. But I was nine when he died.”

  Alizée stared at one of Lee’s paintings. “We were living in Boston, Cambridge actually, where both my parents were doing postdoctoral work, and where I was born. They were scientists, and there was an explosion, a fire, in their laboratory. They were killed along with three of their colleagues. I was twelve.” Her eyes shown with unshed tears. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Now Eleanor had the excuse to give the child a hug. “It gets easier,” she said, “but it never goes away.”

  Hick raised her watch.

  Reluctantly, Eleanor let Alizée go. “Well, I’m happy to meet you again, sorry to hear your story, but I’m thrilled to finally see some of your work.” She nodded at Hick, then turned back to Alizée. “I want to buy one—the one with the plants emerging, if that’s what they are—but I don’t have the time today. We’re running to catch a train.”

  “I once invited you to my studio,” Alizée said. “I’d be honored if you visited. Anytime. I have lots of other paintings. Many similar to this.” She pointed to the floating flowers. “I’ll save this one for you, but maybe you’ll find one you like better.”

  “Please don’t save it for me if someone else wants to buy it,” Eleanor said. “But if it’s still available, I’d be honored to own it. We’re spending the month of August in Hyde Park. It’s just too hot in Washington in the late summer, and I would like the president to get a little rest. But I have a speech to give in New York City on the third of September. May I come by that afternoon and perhaps make a purchase then?”

  15

  ALIZÉE

  For the rest of the summer, Alizée kept the Philco on, listening to news reports while she worked: FDR’s personal appeal to Hitler on Poland, Franco’s victory in Spain, Churchill’s call for a British-Russian alliance. She had no idea where Babette and her family were. If they were safe. If everyone else was. She wrote letters every week, but none came in return. It tore at her. Finally, at the end of August, after four months of silence, a letter from Tante arrived.

  2 August 1939

  Arles

  Ma douce nièce,

  The mail is getting more erratic every day, but I hope you have received word that Babette and her family have been allowed into Belgium. They are currently in Antwerp but need to leave there as soon as possible. They are working with a Jewish agency helping the St. Louis passengers, and Babette says she is hopeful they will get visas to America soon. I am not sure she is being completely truthful with me about this.

  I am grateful they are not still in Germany, but no Jew is safe anywhere in Europe. I thank God every day that they are alive. I lost ten pounds in the weeks after they were turned away from Cuba. I still have no appetite. Baby Gabby was very sick, but Babette says she is much better now. I just hope it is true. I long to hold my sweet baby girls. Soon, I pray, soon.

  You are the only one I do not tear myself apart over, although I worry about you in a different way. Please write and tell me how your school and your painting are going. Have you met any young men? Perhaps someone Jewish? I long for good news.

  The rabbi tells terrible stories not only from Germany but from Czechoslovakia and Lithuania as well. We all heard about the German police standing by while Jews were murdered in the streets, their homes and businesses burned to the ground, but now he says it is the same in Prague. And will soon be in many more places.

  Do you know that Jewish children in France are being turned away from swimming pools in the heat of August? Somehow, despite the smallness of this, the image haunts me. How does a mother explain such a thing to her child? That she is not good enough to swim? That someone hates her so much they cannot share the same water? Hitler claims the biblical pharaoh did not go far enough and that he will not make the same mistake. Do Americans know about this? Do they care?

  Even with all this, we continue to live our lives, and this is reassuring. Oncle and I are planning our fall classes, and Alain is starting to mope about the end of summer. Henri thinks he did well on his exams and is working at hospital while he waits for the official results. But I worry for us as I worry for all of mankind.

  The bank still will not release our money. They claim it is red tape, but we believe it is anti-Semitism. It has been almost five months. Although most here are pretending to live in a world where Hitler does not exist, there are also many who are so confident of a German victory that they are joining the Nazi Party and pushing for Hitler’s policies before he even takes a step into the country. There is no way to prove this is related to the bank’s refusal, so our hands are tied. Have you made any progress? Please let us know as soon as you have any news. We are prepared to leave immediately.

  I am so sorry to burden you with our troubles and want to assure you that we are fine. We would just be more fine if we were in America with you. I know you are doing everything you can and thank you for that. I only hope that soon we will all be together as a family should be.

  Oncle and I love you very much and think of you every day.

  As always, I am ta tante qui t’aime,

  Chantal

  Babette and Pierre and the girls were in Belgium, a place Hitler wasn’t. Oncle and Tante were preparing for school. Henri had taken his exams. Everyone was safe. Everything was good. In her head, she understood this was true, but her clenched stomach knew
better. Tante wasn’t the only one without an appetite.

  Breckinridge Long was the guest speaker at the October luncheon meeting of the New York chapter of the America First Committee. Gideon had arranged press credentials for her, and with these in her pocketbook, dressed in a drab skirt and the kind of cardigan sweater she thought a journalist might wear that she’d borrowed from Bertha, she sat at the back of the wainscoted room with the reporters.

  Germany had invaded Poland. France and England had declared war against Germany. FDR had proclaimed the United States neutral and unaligned in the conflict. Alizée was knotted with fear.

  She had no money for visas. Mrs. Roosevelt, who might have been able to use her influence to help with the visas, hadn’t shown up for the studio visit, which wasn’t surprising as it was scheduled for the day that the United Kingdom and France declared war on Germany, two days after the Nazis stomped across the Polish border. Hiram Bingham, Long’s ex-assistant, had canceled their meetings, and the rest of her committee was struggling to come up with anything they could use against the assistant secretary. She was here today to try to change that.

  “There are those,” Long was saying, “mostly communists, extreme radicals, Jewish professional agitators and refugee enthusiasts, who claim that we are not doing enough to help the Europeans streaming to our shores from countries now under Germany’s control. This is patently untrue. Since Adolf Hitler came to power, nearly a quarter of a million US visas have been granted to fleeing immigrants, a significant percentage to those of the Jewish race.”