“Looking ready, Fry,” he said. “And here are all the rest. Everyone set?”
Nervous glances all around; from the elder Mann, a nod of assent. Varian checked their travel documents and distributed the rail tickets. As soon as the whistle blew, they boarded the train.
There were nine of them, divided between two compartments. Katznelson and Grant followed Varian into the first; behind them came Nelly and Heinrich and Golo. Leon Ball led the Werfels into the neighboring compartment. Varian took a seat by the window, across from Grant, and Grant met his eye again as he slid a few books into the leather pocket beneath the window. On the platform, with the aid of a porter, Alma Werfel’s flotilla of luggage invaded the baggage car piece by piece. Minutes passed. Katznelson inclined his head toward Grant’s and whispered something. Nelly Mann checked the outline of her lips in a compact mirror. Golo ate a yellow apple. At last the final whistle blew; the train gave a jolt, and they were off.
They trundled through the industrial backways of the town, past the rusting warehouses and crumbling brick workshops, the ironsmithies and loading yards, all of it cold and blue in the predawn light. Inside the first-class car they were in a different world, every surface smooth and polished, every noise muffled by velvet drapes. The smell was of seat leather and of pipe tobacco. As they rumbled through the warehouse district, Varian’s mind fell into an ancient memory of riding the train to New York with Arthur Fry, one morning when he was about nine—something had been wrong with his mother that day, and his aunt had to accompany her to the doctor. Sitting beside his father, Varian had rested his forehead against the window glass and watched the dense summer leaves of the suburbs pass in a verdant blur. He’d asked his father for a story, though his hopes were low: Arthur already had his Times open to the section that mesmerized him, the financial page. What Varian really wanted, what he was gunning for, was another installment of the Tale of the Night Prowler, the one Arthur had been telling lately at bedtime, about a rangy long-limbed long-furred wolfish bear, a creature of deep appetite, who climbed the gutterpipes of houses, entered bedroom windows, and devoured nine-year-old boys. What Varian remembered now, what had stayed with him all this time, was the moment when Arthur had laid down his Times, bent to his son’s ear, and intoned in his breath-laced baritone, On a wet and treacherous night. For that moment, and for some time afterward, Varian had understood himself to be his father’s chosen, situated at the bright core of his attention. He’d experienced a deep sense of mattering, a sensation rare in the face of his mother’s capricious illness and his father’s constant and all-consuming work. Where else had he had that feeling, who else’s attention had placed him at the center of the known world? Only one person’s. And here he was, sitting across from Varian again, though he might as well have been behind impenetrable glass.
Varian watched Grant open a tiny box of mint pastilles and offer one to Katznelson; a few minutes later, Katznelson bent toward Grant to show him a line in a book. Grant laughed, and a cord in Varian’s chest seemed to tighten to the point of intolerability. He wished himself on the other side of the partition with Leon Ball and the Werfels. But he felt incapable of moving: Grant was a magnet, and Varian’s blood oriented toward him by some law of nature. With effort, he directed his gaze out the window at the passing landscape. They had moved by now into the wide salt marshlands of the Camargue, south of Arles. Green and yellow grasses bent in the gulf wind, their seedheads heavy with birds, and flat whalelike clouds breached the broad blue plane of the sky.
* * *
________
At Nîmes, a brace of gendarmes strode through the car to check papers. The policemen, clad in brown and wearing the tricolor badge of Vichy, leaned into the compartment and demanded the travelers’ identification cards and visas. A rustling of papers ensued; the gendarmes squinted over the documents for an unnervingly long time, particularly Katznelson’s, then returned them without comment. To Varian’s relief, they hadn’t picked out Freier’s careful forgeries.
As they passed along the coastal railway route, Grant leaned toward the window and blinked into the glare. He seemed to be committing to memory the railway stations they passed, the jagged topography, the cast of platinum light from the Gulf of Lion, as if imagining how he might cover this territory with Tobias. At Sète, hometown of Paul Valéry, he gazed out at the Venice-like waterways with their profusion of boats, possible routes of escape; at Narbonne he watched the bicyclists stream over the river bridges.
At the tunnel between Collioure and Port-Vendres, when the compartment lights failed to come on, Varian heard Grant conferring quietly in German with Katznelson. Tobias’s name passed between them, and, from Grant, a note of reassurance: Ich könnte diesen Weg mit ihm reisen. But the challenges all lay ahead, Varian knew; the true test of this route would come when they reached Cerbère.
On the other side of the tunnel were the Pyrenees, a fleet of frigates for a race of giants. The train made its way through the steep hills along the coast, along the broad bilevel viaduct modeled on the ancient Roman exemplars at Marseille, and there was a general rustling, a stowing of things, an arranging of clothes, a smoothing of hair. As they pulled into Cerbère, the top level of the viaduct widened enough to accommodate the station house and switching yard. To get to Portbou they would have to change trains, then pass through another tunnel, under the peak that cast its shadow on the town. But first everyone would have to file into the station and surrender their tickets to the stationmaster. To be admitted onto the border-crossing train, they would have to pass document clearance.
Varian’s party was buoyant, almost effervescent, as they disembarked. The awareness that they’d reached the border of France had come over them like a tonic. Golo smoked a celebratory cigar, ignoring Alma’s protest. The elder Mann spoke animatedly to his wife, and Nelly Mann, released from her anxiety for the first time all day, linked her arm through his and laughed. They all made their way down the platform toward the document control hall, Varian’s back aching from the too-upright seats, his gut full of silvery fire. At his side Grant strode along, cool and correct; he looked as though he’d arrived in Cerbère merely for a stay at the old hotel and a swim at the palm-shadowed beach. But there was Katznelson keeping pace beside him, holding his slim suitcase and consulting his watch: a reminder, a corrective.
In the customs area, passengers had formed four long lines. Officers checked papers at one end, and militant-looking gendarmes strolled the queues, scanning faces and packages. Beyond them Varian could see the Portbou train on the platform, the last one out that night.
“What do you think we ought to do?” he asked Leon Ball, eyeing the lines.
Ball straightened his black beret, contemplating. “If we wait, we’ll never get on that train,” he said. “We can’t risk our people having to put up in town overnight. The town’s crawling with police.”
“What do you suggest, then?”
“Give me the passports. I know the guy in charge, he’s not a bad egg. If he’s in the right mood, maybe he’ll give us a wave-through.”
Varian considered this. “What if he doesn’t like the state of our people’s papers? What if he confiscates them?”
“He won’t. Not this guy.”
Varian glanced toward Grant, who’d been following the conversation in silence; he seemed to be waiting now to see what Varian would do.
“All right,” Varian said. “Let’s do it.”
“That’s the spirit,” Ball said. He explained the problem to the travelers in a few words, and they all handed over their papers. Then he stalked off to the stationmaster’s office, where the commissioner could be seen drinking from a glinting flask.
“Now it’s over,” Werfel said, in German. “Now it’s to the camps with all of us.”
“Nonsense,” said Heinrich Mann. “Delays are to be expected.” But his wife wasn’t comforted; her hand shoo
k as she lit a narrow cigarette, and then she dropped her smoke and cursed.
Varian suspected he was doing a poor job of hiding his own anxiety. He’d hoped they would arrive to find a sleepy border station, its gendarmes few and easily bought off. Beyond the station windows they could see the slopes of the Pyrenees, and along one hillside the pale thread of a footpath. How many had gone that way recently, and how many had reached Spain? Among their assembled company, who would be willing to try? Who would be fit enough to make it? He tried to catch Grant’s eye again, but Grant had inclined his head toward Katznelson and was now engaged in some urgent exchange. Again Varian felt a bolt of silver heat through his gut, and his skin seemed to contract painfully around his skull.
A few minutes later Ball reemerged from the stationmaster’s office, his forehead bisected by a grim crease. He displayed his empty hands as if he’d just performed an act of prestidigitation; the beautiful passports had vanished.
“Well, that’s that,” he said. “We’re staying the night.”
“What can you mean?” Katznelson said sharply. “What happened?”
“The commissioner says he’d like to hold your papers overnight. Make yourselves comfortable in town, he said. Go down to the hotel, have dinner, get some sleep. Then come back in the morning and try again.” Ball lowered his voice. “He’s not a bad guy, this commissioner. He says border control’s turning everyone back today. Vichy’s got a team of inspectors at the station now. But he expects they’ll be gone by tomorrow noon.”
The travelers looked at each other anxiously.
“What if they’re not?” Heinrich Mann asked.
“We’ll have to take the man’s word for it. We don’t really have a choice.”
Mann turned a look on Varian. Was Ball a man to be trusted? Could they be sure he wasn’t in collusion with the commissaire? He had taken their passports and made them disappear; paperless, they were trapped. But Varian, disinclined to trust anyone, did in fact trust Leon Ball. It wasn’t just that he hailed from Montana, which struck Varian as an honest state; he’d held vulnerable lives in his hands before and had delivered them to safety, at no benefit to himself. As a volunteer in the French ambulance corps, he’d gotten dozens of English soldiers out of France while he could, before the Germans had taken the Atlantic coast. And a few weeks ago he’d conducted one of Varian’s most sensitive clients, the Nobel laureate Otto Meyerhof, over the border into Spain. He had no interest but to help, no motives beyond the refugees’ motives. Varian thought of Miriam, her crowned head held high, lecturing him on calculated risk. Here was one he knew he had to take.
“We’ll go down to the hotel,” Varian said. “We’ll eat and get some sleep. It’ll be a long day tomorrow, whatever happens.”
* * *
________
Except for a few essential pieces, the luggage remained behind. Down the hill they all went, to a salt-scrubbed white hotel on the beach; it wasn’t the grandest place in town, but the owners knew of Varian’s mission from the refugees who had come that way before, and were sympathetic. The hotel, built as a summer-season playground, had a drafty outdoor restaurant overlooking the strand.
As he dressed for dinner, Varian couldn’t help but listen to the rise and fall of voices in the room next door: Grant and Katznelson engaged in an argument. He couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was clear enough. Katznelson’s basso, tightened with anxiety, climbed into a higher register, and Grant, who seemed to begin by conciliating, fell into an insistent protest. He imagined Katznelson angrily questioning Varian’s competence, and Grant defending him; he resisted the urge to put his ear to the wall. Whatever was occurring was their business alone. Hoping that he wouldn’t have to listen when they made up, he hurried through his preparations and left the room.
Downstairs, at a long table on the veranda, he found Ball and the Werfels scrutinizing the menu, Golo Mann already nursing a martini. As Varian sat down beside him, Golo reported that his uncle and his wife would take dinner in their room.
“And who could blame them?” Werfel said, dolefully. “A trip like this could make anyone sick.”
A moment later, as if to confirm that assessment, Grant came out onto the veranda alone. He took the seat beside Varian, explaining that Gregor had a headache and had already gone to bed.
“A shame,” Alma said. “I meant to ask about his son.”
In an effort at nonchalance, Grant extracted his cigarette case and took his time selecting a cigarette. “Katznelson’s son,” he said. “Do you know him?”
“For a time, he was pursuing the daughter of a friend of mine,” Alma said. “But then he disappeared.”
Grant raised his eyes to her. “You’ve heard from this girl?”
“Sara? No. She’s in the States already. But her father’s here in France. A German painter of some repute. Lev Zilberman. Do you know his work, Mr. Fry? It’s quite remarkable. You ought to help him if you can.”
“Chagall said the same thing,” Varian said, and lowered his voice. “You don’t know where he is now, do you?”
“I’m afraid not. Franz and I lost touch with him after we fled Paris.”
“And what about the boy?”
“That’s what I wanted to ask Professor Katznelson. I know he’s been looking for him for some time now.”
“Yes, so I’ve heard,” Varian said. He didn’t want any of them to speak another word about Tobias Katznelson, not there at that outdoor table, where anyone might hear. “So many are lost. It’s the hardest part of my work, not knowing where to look.”
“These are terrible days,” Alma said, turning her glass of Banyuls in a strand of light. “Everything has changed. I visited this place once before, Mr. Fry. My former husband and I spent a summer here. And now Gustav is dead, and the world is at war again.” She raised her chin and blinked bravely, her mouth pursed against trembling.
Werfel cleared his throat, as if to remind his wife that he was still there. “There’s no use crying over it, mein süsser Engel,” he said. “What’s gone is gone.”
They drank their drinks and ate calamari, avoiding the subject of what they would find over the border in Spain if they were lucky enough to get there. Varian had seen it all on the way to Marseille: the decimated buildings, roofs blown open to the sun, windows shattered; blackened fields with their smell of burnt maize; bombed bridges collapsed into mud-colored rivers; children walking near-naked in the streets, begging for bread. Life had failed to resume its ordinary shape after the Guerra Civil, and now the rest of Europe was at war. It seemed an unlikely place to escape to; it seemed, as Varian had experienced it, a place to flee with haste. He could only hope their transit to Portugal would go swiftly. The thought of it killed his appetite, and he crumpled his napkin and tried to follow the refugees’ conversation: light complaint about the day’s journey, speculation as to the next day’s weather, commentary on the wine and food, which was, despite rationing, excellent. Grant kept refilling Varian’s glass when it got low, and after a while he felt the strings of his paralytic anxiety loosening. He allowed himself to become aware, sometimes for moments on end, that Grant sat at his side without Katznelson—close enough to bend to Varian’s ear when he had some private commentary, close enough to give off a subtle but insistent heat. Grant’s proximity had not yet taken the shape of the ordinary; Varian doubted it ever could. But he was aware of following an old script as they waited everyone out at the end of dinner, drinking another drink and then another as the others finished their desserts, made their adieux, and drifted off to bed. At last, inertia delivered them unimpeachably to their goal: the two of them presiding over a landscape of crumbs and empty glasses, finally alone.
“And so,” Grant said, leaning back in his chair. “Here we are, mein süsser Engel.”
“Why is it you never called me that, back in our day?”
“You didn’t exactly deserve the name.”
“Now, that’s not true, Skiff. I was sweet.”
“Mostly on yourself, if I recall. Particularly while addressing a group of your admirers. Remember how you used to hold forth to everyone at the Pendragon?”
“If I was so full of hot air, why did you sit and listen?”
“Yes, why did I?” Grant said, and, unbearably, laid his hand over Varian’s wrist. “I can scarcely remember, myself.”
An intolerable flush rose to Varian’s neck. “In any case,” he said, removing his hand from the table, “you lent me credibility. The others stayed because you did.”
“On the contrary, you lent me credibility. You treated me as though I belonged in those rooms.”
“Which you did, of course.”
“Not according to some.” He extinguished his cigarette. “You remember Hank Worthington, the guy who owned the place? Now there was a salty old snob.”
“An exalted barkeep,” Varian said. “Anyway, he didn’t seem to mind hosting a barful of fairies.”
“Only because he was one himself.”
“Perhaps he was part Negro too.”
“I think not,” Grant said. “In any case, I wouldn’t want to claim him as a brother.” They laughed, but uncomfortably, since this was venturing close to the question of whether Grant, in fact, claimed himself; in the Pendragon days he did not. Varian had to wonder how he characterized himself now. Did Columbia University know that it employed a Negro professor? What about Katznelson? To what race did he understand Grant to belong? The question hadn’t occurred to Varian when he’d visited the Medieval Pile; he had, in fact, ceased to think about Grant’s race long ago. Grant was simply Grant; his personal characteristics were somehow incidental—to Varian, anyway, if not to Grant himself.
It wasn’t something they’d ever easily discussed, in any case, and they were not to discuss it now. An impatient waiter hovered, eager to usher them out of the restaurant. Grant and Varian stood and wandered toward the front of the hotel, where a circlet of white settees corralled a trembling palm. Grant made no move to sit, nor to climb the stairs to his room. He passed a hand over his eyes as if to clear them of liquor fog.
The Flight Portfolio Page 11