CHAPTER 6
PARIS, JANUARY 1939
It was too cold to sit in the flat. Lena had used the last of the boulets in the minuscule fireplace; they didn’t give off much heat and left the room reeking of coal dust. She had a few twigs of kindling in the scuttle, but she should save these. Instead, she would walk to the library, cozy up in her favorite corner, and read all the newspapers.
A biting wind pummeled her back as she made her way down the street. On days like this, the 6th arrondissement kept its charms hidden under a thick mantle of gray. No one sauntered down the boulevards, admiring the shop windows, waving to passersby, or pausing to chat with those sipping pastis at the outdoor cafés. The city was hunkered down. Anyone who had to be out on the street scurried past, shoulders hunched against the elements. All of this exacerbated Lena’s own bleak mood.
Today, Otto was closing the bureau. He had not wanted her to come with him.
“There is no need for you to be there,” he’d said, setting his jaw in grim determination. Lena had hoped they could do this together, that she might be able to offer some solace.
Everyone was devastated over the loss in Spain: the fascists had won, the International Brigade had disbanded, the volunteer fighters had returned to their countries of origin. But Otto was taking the defeat harder than anyone. He shook his head and left without her.
Now, as she waited for the light to change, she felt a soft tap on her shoulder. “Lena! I thought it was you.”
Marguerite looked up at her with a sparkling smile. She was tiny, the top of her blue beret barely reaching Lena’s chin. Lena leaned down to receive a kiss on each cheek.
“When did you get back to Paris?” Lena asked.
“Sunday.” Marguerite slipped her arm through Lena’s as they crossed the street.
“How was it?”
Marguerite rolled her eyes and puffed out her lower lip. “Mon Dieu . . .” With her free hand, she dismissed the topic.
She had been in Toulouse, visiting her family, strictly observant Jews who disapproved of everything Parisian. Lena laughed and squeezed her arm. It was impossible not to be cheered by Marguerite’s vibrant energy. They had met the previous summer when Lena had first arrived. They had worked together in the socialist movement, in the last-ditch efforts to persuade the French government to intervene in support of Spain. They had marched in the streets, sorted through donated boxes of food, and assembled packages to send off to the brave comrades holding out in Barcelona. Marguerite was studying French literature at the Sorbonne and working part-time, but in her spare moments she offered to show Lena around. While Otto worked long hours, they explored bustling street markets or tranquil gardens tucked away in surprising corners. They admired the artists displaying their wares on the Quai des Grands-Augustins or sat on a bench in the Jardin du Luxembourg and talked for hours. Those first few months in Paris were giddy, happy times.
“Otto is closing the bureau,” Lena said now. “I have to find other work.”
“I know a family who needs a part-time nanny,” Marguerite said. “It’s all the way over by the Place de Clichy, and only one day a week, but if they like you, they might give you more hours. I can introduce you tomorrow. Sophie is an easy child. You would just have to entertain her, take her to the park, cook her lunch, that sort of thing.”
“But I’m completely useless in the kitchen,” Lena confessed. “We always had a cook at home. My mother never taught me a thing.”
“Just make noodles. She’ll be happy. Follow the directions on the packet.”
Lena laughed. “I suppose I can do that.”
“Have you heard Eva’s news?” Marguerite said. “She’s coming next week!”
“Really?” Lena felt a pang of jealousy. Eva had written the month before that she was thinking of leaving Prague, but Lena hadn’t known it was confirmed.
“I’m sure you’ll hear from her soon.”
Marguerite had been Eva’s friend first. They had met as teenagers, when Eva visited her cousin in Normandy, and had remained pen pals ever since.
“I can’t imagine how she’s persuaded her parents to let her leave,” Lena said. “They’re far more conservative than mine, and Eva’s their only child.” Lena’s mother had convinced her father that she might be in danger if things got worse, as she put it, because of Lena’s associations. But Eva was less directly involved in politics.
“Eva says everyone knows there’s nothing for young people now in Prague,” Marguerite said.
Yes, now the threat was more menacing, it could surely no longer be denied. Four months earlier, Britain and France had betrayed Czechoslovakia at Munich, tossed her aside like a piece of rotten meat. Hitler had annexed the Sudetenland, just as Otto had predicted, and had nudged closer than ever to Prague.
“Will Eva stay with you?”
“No, she’s coming with her boyfriend. A man named Heinz?” They had reached the Place du Panthéon. “I have to go,” Marguerite said, checking her watch. “I have a lecture at eleven. But I’m sure I can get you that job. Meet me tomorrow night at Les Deux Magots. Eight o’clock. I’ll take you to the Beaufils family.”
She kissed Lena again and took off—like a spark that had flared to life and then died.
Lena wished they could have spent the whole morning together, and she wanted to hear more about what Eva had written. But she felt uplifted by this potential employment. She was anxious about money, yes, but especially now, with Eva coming, she needed to reestablish her footing in Paris. She didn’t want Eva to see her like this. She wanted to be lively, to show Eva her favorite spots.
Her letters to Eva last summer had been full of exuberance. Yes, she’d met Eva’s friend Marguerite; she loved her and everything about Paris. She loved walking arm-in-arm with Otto through the streets of the Left Bank; she loved the bright cafés overflowing onto the cobbled streets, showering passersby with music and laughter; she loved the crêpe makers with their roadside carts, serving her favorite citron-sucré, sweet and sour and paper-thin crisp; she loved the days working with Otto and the evenings at Les Deux Magots with expatriates from Budapest, Berlin, Brno. She enveloped herself in the sounds of the French language, with its uvular trills and nasal diphthongs. She had never been so happy.
Of course, Lena read the newspapers. The ominous signs were on every page. But she pushed them to the back of her mind.
When Lena returned home in the early afternoon, she found Otto on the landing, struggling with a large box of papers. He smiled when he saw her.
“Thanks,” he said, as Lena opened the door. He sounded cheerful. He leaned forward to kiss her on the lips.
“Everything all right?”
“Done. I cleared everything out. And I have a great idea. I’m going to write a book. The definitive history of the Spanish Civil War.”
He seemed quite exuberant. She cleared space on the kitchen table for his box.
“It is so important to learn from the mistakes in Spain. We have to understand what happened. Oh, and here,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket. “This was downstairs in the mailbox. A letter for you. From Eva.”
Eva brought with her a firsthand account of the despair and disillusionment in Prague.
Everyone there believed war was inevitable, that the young should get out while they still could. Peter and Lotti—“Yes, they’re still together; I can’t believe it”—were making plans to go to England. Another friend of Eva’s was trying to get a visa for America. Someone from her family’s synagogue was applying to the Dominican Republic.
“How does my mother seem to you?” Lena asked. “How is Sasha? Did you see Ernst?” The questions tumbled out.
“Sasha is growing tall! She misses you. I caught only a glimpse of Ernst. He didn’t say much. Your mother looks all right, a bit tired. She insisted I give you this.”
Eva handed her a box of strawberry koláče: sweet and sticky and delicious. They ate half of them on the spot. Tucked deep into the box was
a long letter. Máma had been writing every week, but short notes, full of inconsequential gossip. Somehow, the pastry box gave her permission to admit that they were afraid. They heard horror stories coming out of Germany and Austria about life under the Nazis. Thousands of Jewish businesses looted without police intervention, Jewish cemeteries desecrated, the German streets littered with the shattered glass of hundreds of synagogues on Kristallnacht.
The violence of it is inconceivable, Máma wrote. Can you imagine? We always thought of the Germans as such a civilized people. They had decided to leave, she said, to emigrate, perhaps to South America. They would send several trunks ahead to Paris. Father was making arrangements for storage.
“What does this mean?” Lena said. “How could my father just leave his business? Would they abandon the flat?”
“It’s not easy,” Eva said. “Some people are selling everything to pay for the visas and permits they need.”
“What about your parents?”
“They can’t leave my grandmother. She’s too old to move.”
Lena wrote to her mother, seeking details, but received no answers to her questions; the weekly letters resumed their superficial tone. For her birthday the next month, Máma sent a package. Lena ripped it open, hungry for more information, but it contained only a small book of Čapek poetry and a watercolor, painted by Sasha, that brought tears to her eyes.
CHAPTER 7
PARIS, 1939
Otto spent his days on research in the library at the Sorbonne, launching himself into his new endeavor with enthusiasm. He conducted interviews, gathered testimony, and reached out to everyone he knew to find a publisher to sponsor his book. In the evenings, people still flocked to his side in the café to listen to his analysis of current developments. He and Heinz often locked horns.
“Britain and France won’t let Hitler invade Czechoslovakia,” Heinz declared.
“I can’t believe you still pin your hopes on Chamberlain and Deladier,” Otto said. “They were both cheered as heroes on their return from Munich. They want to avoid war at any cost.”
Tuesdays, Lena had her babysitting job. Marguerite was right: Sophie was a charming child, and unfazed by Lena’s lack of culinary skills. Week after week, she sat at the kitchen table, swinging her legs in delight, spooning up noodles coated with butter and grated cheese.
On a chilly March morning, Lena had agreed to work an extra day at the Beaufils’. She allowed herself five more minutes under the covers while Otto shaved at the sink. He had the wireless on high volume. Then she heard the news. She screamed, jumped out of bed, clasping her hands to her mouth. Otto startled and cut himself, and cursed.
The Nazis had invaded Prague. The clipped words of the news broadcast stung like ice.
For months, they’d talked of its being inevitable, but that didn’t lessen the impact.
Otto pulled her close, dabbing at his chin with a handkerchief. She rested her head on his chest, feeling the deep resonance of his voice as he talked, trying to calm her. They dressed and walked to the Métro and bought Le Figaro, standing outside the tabac in the bitter morning air, to read the whole story. Lena translated the parts Otto didn’t understand. Later, a sight she would never forget: the Paris-Soir paper, tossed to the floor of a train on the Porte Dauphine line, a muddy footprint soiling the image of the tanks rumbling across the Vltava. The tears rolled down her cheeks.
She returned home that evening to more bad news. Otto had been summoned to the préfecture for questioning. His reputation made him an obvious target. For the second time in a month, he had to show his papers, answer questions about his political activity and his finances.
“They threatened to deport me back to Germany,” he said.
“How could they?” Lena said. “You’d be arrested immediately.”
“I am fully aware of that,” he said.
“What are you going to do?”
“The situation in France is not good. There is mounting resentment against the refugees from Germany and Eastern Europe. And now, with the flood of migrants across the border from Spain, it’s only going to get worse. I’ve been talking to some of our former International Brigade contacts. They’re going to try to get me a visa for England.”
“What about me?” Lena said. “Would I stay here on my own?”
“Let’s see what happens with my application. I have to leave. I can’t risk the French authorities deporting me. They’re unlikely to bother you.” It was true; his notoriety did not extend to her. “If I’m successful, we’ll work out a way to get you there, too.”
Máma’s letters became even shorter, the tone terse and evasive. Lena found it impossible to read between the lines. Then, in May, Máma sent word that she was trying to get Sasha out alone. She enclosed a claim chit for a warehouse on the rue La Fayette; apparently, they had already shipped some belongings. She instructed Lena to go separate Sasha’s clothing and books to prepare for her arrival.
Lena was bemused by the eight large trunks labeled with her family name, tightly packed with winter clothes, ornaments, silver candlesticks, a complete set of fine bone china and other knickknacks, even the small Persian carpet from Father’s study—and the antique rosewood box, inlaid with an intricate pattern of brass, in which Máma kept the family photographs.
As a child, Lena hated the annual visits to the photographer’s studio to pose for those portraits: the stiff white frock she was made to wear, the ache in her cheeks from wearing a forced smile, the blinding flash. Sasha liked to look at these on occasion, giggling at the photographs of Lena when she was small. But Lena had not thought to bring any with her when she’d left.
Now, she fingered through the box. On the top, the photographs from the family holiday in Constanta, the date on the back: August 1935. Lena remembered the exhaustive preparations, the vast trunks packed for every possible contingency, the train ride down through Bucharest to the Black Sea. It was the last time they went away together as a family. She found a snapshot of Sasha squinting into the sun, carefree, innocent, fair curls framing her sweet face.
Lena picked up another photograph and chuckled. She and Máma walking across the Charles Bridge: they’d been to a bakery in the Old Town to get pastries for some special occasion and had run into their downstairs neighbor, Mr. Kopecký, out practicing with his brand-new Leica. He was so conceited and pompous with it, they thought him ridiculous. He caught them unawares, in full stride, Máma with her mouth open midsentence. The image had a natural quality that Lena much preferred to the formal portraits. They were wearing identical, calf-length woolen coats with wide lapels, pulled tight at the waist, their heads adorned with simple hats, and each clutching a white pastry box encircled with ribbon. Such a mundane errand. She had not been enthusiastic about accompanying Máma that day. Now she would have given anything to walk to the bakery with her.
Lena scooped up the photographs. She then dutifully sorted out Sasha’s belongings, repacking and relabeling everything. Sasha’s clothes seemed enormous; how she must have grown in the past year! Lena was excited at the prospect of seeing her again, holding her hand, listening to her incessant chatter. She had no idea how she would feed Sasha when she arrived, but she would manage somehow. She mentioned the plan to Mme. Beaufils, and little Sophie danced around the flat, announcing that she and Sasha would become best friends. Never mind that Sasha spoke no French and Sophie not a word of Czech, or that there was a three-year age difference between them. Sophie picked out one of her rag dolls, which, she declared, she would give to Sasha the moment she arrived.
Three weeks later, Otto announced that he had been sponsored to enter England. A wealthy widow living in the countryside south of London was willing to vouch for him, and he had received his visa. He would leave in a week.
“Come with me,” he said. “Let’s try to get you a visa, too. A visitor visa—that shouldn’t be too hard.”
“But I have to wait for Sasha,” Lena said. “Máma is sending her to Paris.”
“Mein Schätzchen,” he said. “How is she going to do that?”
“I don’t know. But I can’t leave if there’s a chance Sasha will arrive.”
He opened his mouth, as if to say more, but then just quietly shook his head.
On his last night, they walked along the Seine in the warm evening air. She hooked her arm through his. He kissed her lightly on the forehead.
“I’ll send for you as soon as I’m settled,” he said.
Lena nodded. She wasn’t going to mention Sasha again. But she couldn’t help thinking that he spoke as if she were a trunk left in storage, like those her parents had sent.
“I’ll work out a way to get you a visa.”
“I don’t see how,” she said. “No one’s going to sponsor me to write a book.”
“I’ll find people in England who can pull strings, I’m sure.”
Lena missed him terribly in the days that followed, but she busied herself moving into Marguerite’s flat in the rue Cassette. And, little by little, she discovered the joys of being on her own. She liked lying in bed in the morning, engrossed in a novel, without being criticized for her choice of reading material. She could spend hours window-shopping in the narrow streets of Montmartre, with no one tugging her to move on. For the first time in her life, she answered to no one—neither Father nor Otto telling her what to do.
She had very little money, but she made do. She sold the gray serge suit that Máma had insisted she purchase in Prague but that she’d never worn, and other superfluous items: two hats, three pairs of shoes, a brown leather handbag, an ugly gold bracelet she’d received for her sixteenth birthday. That would see her through a few weeks. Summer infused the city with a warm glow. In the evenings, she met up with Marguerite or Eva and sat in Les Deux Magots, making one drink last all night.
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