“Not many like these.”
“Life is life,” Vinciléoni said. “How can you weigh these against others?”
Varian could hardly suppress a laugh: here was Marseille’s chief gangster, trader in human capital, disposer of bodies in the Vieux Port, moralizing to him about the absolute value of human life. “Thanks, Charles,” he said. “I believe I’ll take myself home now and meditate on that.”
Vinciléoni gave a subtle cough. “I’ll still need to pay my chauffeur.”
“Of course.” Varian took an envelope from his breast pocket and pushed it across the desk: all those wasted francs. “I’m sorry to have troubled your driver for nothing.”
“And I’m sorry about your clients. But perhaps all is not lost.”
“All right, Charles. I’ll come by in the morning, and we’ll see what’s to be done.”
“You always know where to find me, Monsieur Fry.”
* * *
________
But the next morning, not ten minutes after Varian had arrived at the office on the boulevard Garibaldi, the door opened and in walked Breitscheid and Hilferding themselves, having come down on the train like anyone else—Breitscheid tall, long-nosed, silver-haired, his mustache combed and clipped, his suit pressed, his hands manicured; and Hilferding beetle-browed, round-shouldered, glowering over his bow tie. At the sight of them, a hush fell over the office; the staff got to their feet as if in the presence of royalty. Breitscheid, a man accustomed to receiving homage, acknowledged them all with a sweeping nod.
“Herr Breitscheid,” Varian said. “Herr Hilferding. I’m afraid your ship sailed a few hours ago.” He couldn’t be sure of keeping an even tone; he’d scarcely slept, hadn’t eaten anything that morning, despite Grant’s urging.
“Let us speak in private, Mr. Fry,” Breitscheid said.
“Of course,” Varian said. They all went into the high-windowed room that served as his private office. Hilferding glanced out into the street, where a clutch of gendarmes was passing. Varian motioned the men into his interview chairs.
“Suppose you begin by telling me why you refused to take the car I sent,” Varian said. “My associate, Mr. Bénédite, told me that he’d impressed upon you the importance of leaving now.”
Breitscheid opened his briefcase, removed a dossier, and threw it onto Varian’s desk. Varian opened the folder. Inside were two American affidavits in lieu of passport, stamped with official exit visas specifying that the bearers were to sail to Martinique. Safe conduct passes lay beneath. The sous-préfet of Arles had gone so far as to provide them with a letter of introduction to a steamship company on the Canebière.
“My wife is buying tickets as we speak,” Breitscheid said. “I instructed her to arrange our passage on a ship that departs next Tuesday.”
Varian squinted at the papers, held them up to the light. “Are these genuine?”
Breitscheid gave a single nod.
“Gentlemen,” Varian said, slowly replacing the papers in their dossier, “I wish I could congratulate you. But please understand. These papers don’t guarantee your safety. I know how cheaply the sous-préfet at Arles can be bought.”
“Nonsense,” Breitscheid said. “There is no cause for concern. We have been patient, and our patience has been rewarded.”
“Still, I can’t help but wonder what Vichy is about here,” Varian said. “The Gestapo aren’t known for their clemency toward famous anti-Nazis.”
“Mr. Fry, there is no doubt your work has its value,” Breitscheid said. “For a certain class of refugee, it is essential. But in our case, it’s simply unnecessary to take a risk like the one you proposed.”
“Let’s hope so, Herr Breitscheid. I couldn’t be more delighted than to think you’ll be off this continent in a few days. When you reach New York, will you do me the honor of getting in touch with Paul Hagen at the Emergency Rescue Committee? He’ll want you and Herr Hilferding to tell your story to the American people. Particularly to our wealthiest donors.”
Breitscheid’s eyes betrayed a flash of annoyance, as if Varian had brought up a subject of merely personal relevance. He cleared his throat and said, as if delivering a line from a baccalaureate speech, “We shall always be proud to serve the cause of freedom.”
The office door opened, and Lena announced Mrs. Breitscheid and Mrs. Bierman. The men got to their feet. Breitscheid took his wife’s arm. “Well, Tony?” he said. “When are we to sail?”
Tony Breitscheid, helmeted in brown curls, her eyes refracted through thick glasses, twisted the handle of her purse and blinked. “The first- and second- and third-class cabins were sold out,” she said. “All that was left were some temporary bunks in the hold. I knew that wouldn’t do for us, Rudolf.”
“Of course not,” Breitscheid said. “We’ll wait for the next sailing.”
“Pardon me, Frau Breitscheid,” Varian said. “Are you telling me you didn’t book places on that boat? When you’ve got your exit visas right here?”
Tony Breitscheid tilted her head at Varian and ventured a smile. She wore a hat decorated with a tiny stuffed bird and three red berries; the bird trembled on its wire twig. “Another ship will sail in three weeks’ time,” she said.
“Three weeks!” he said. “I implore you, Herr Breitscheid, go back at once and book those places in the hold. A passage to Martinique takes exactly ten days. You’ll be fed and housed on that ship. What can it matter where you sleep?”
“Excuse me, Mr. Fry,” Breitscheid said. “My wife’s state of health has been delicate since we left Germany. I’ll thank you to leave this decision to my judgment. Do you trust it, Rudolf?” he said, turning to Hilferding. “Do you mind the delay?”
“Not at all,” Hilferding said. “I trust your judgment in all things.”
“Well, then,” Breitscheid said, and got to his feet. “Let us not consume any more of your time, Mr. Fry. We will depart three weeks from now. You need not trouble yourself further about us.” And he turned to leave the office, Hilferding at his side.
“No!” Varian shouted. “This is idiocy. Take the places on that boat!”
The Breitscheids, Erika Bierman, and Rudolf Hilferding all continued toward the door as if Varian hadn’t spoken. They crossed the office through the little fleet of desks, and then they went through the outer door and closed it behind them, their shadows darkening the pebbled glass for a long moment before they faded.
* * *
________
By the time Breitscheid and Hilferding changed their minds, their safe conducts had expired and they’d had to return to Arles. A new set of desperate letters reached Varian’s desk on Friday morning, begging him to help them arrange passage on the ship. Furious though he still was, Varian didn’t hesitate; he ran to the steamship company’s office, housed in a white-tiled building not far from the port, and laid down the money for the passage. But the clerk only restacked the bills neatly and handed them back across the desk. Only one berth remained, he said. The others had been taken.
Could anything be done? Varian asked. Did the clerk understand that this was a matter of life or death? But the clerk couldn’t do anything himself; monsieur must wait until the company president arrived. So Varian sat in the waiting room for three hours until Monsieur Berthomieu, the president, came in to work. As soon as Berthomieu granted him a moment’s audience, Varian begged the man to open bunks for Breitscheid and Hilferding, even to displace passengers from one of the filled cabins, to accommodate two of the most prominent anti-Nazis in Europe. Berthomieu assured him that the refugees would have the best cabins available when the next ship sailed in three weeks’ time. Varian, unwilling to capitulate, paid a deposit on the single available place and sent a note to Arles imploring one of the men to take it.
The next morning he had a letter from Arles to the effect that Hilferding, tra
veling alone, would take the place on the ship. He ran to the steamship company and paid the balance of Hilferding’s passage. Then he sent off a wire to Hilferding, telling him to take the next train. He would await him in the office.
But instead of Hilferding, two letters arrived. One came from Arles, from the sous-préfet himself, with a pompous looping signature in blue-violet ink. The letter informed him that the sous-préfet had been compelled to revoke the visas of Messieurs Breitscheid and Hilferding on an order from Vichy. If Monsieur Fry desired to contact them in future, he should apply not to the sous-préfet but to the commissaire at Vichy, as the men had been transferred there to await extradition to Germany.
The other letter was from Harry Bingham at the consulate. Varian opened it with shaking hands and learned that Walter Mehring had been granted permission to enter the United States on an emergency visa.
Varian opened the safe and took out a sheaf of American dollars. He put the money into an envelope and the envelope into his pocket. Then, without a word to anyone at the office, he went to the Hôtel Splendide. He nodded to the familiar clerk at the desk, ascended the green-carpeted stairs to Mehring’s floor, and knocked on his door with all his might. Mehring opened the door in terror, wearing nothing but a towel and a pair of hotel slippers.
“Good God,” he said. “What’s happened?”
“Walter,” Varian said. “How would you like to sail for Martinique on Tuesday morning?”
Mehring’s mouth dropped open. “How can that be possible?”
“Your U.S. visa has arrived.”
Mehring took two steps backward and sat down heavily on the bed, clutching his towel around him. “I—I haven’t the money for a steamer ticket.”
“Your ticket’s paid for,” Varian said. “Courtesy of the Centre Américain.” He took the envelope of dollars from his pocket and threw them onto the bed. “And here’s a bit of bribe money, in case you need it.”
Mehring looked into the envelope, his expression darkening. “Do you mean I’m simply to show up at the port with a stack of American cash?”
“That’s right. And a stack of forged French documents. But I think you’ll make it, considering the genuine U.S. visa.”
“Will I not be begging to be arrested?”
“You could be arrested right here in this room. You’re no safer staying. The short story is, you’ve got to try. Hilferding was supposed to take that berth. He had an exit visa, a real one. But his visa was revoked, and he’s been sent to Vichy. He’ll likely be extradited to Germany next week.”
Mehring looked down in dismay. “And I’m to take his place?”
“That’s right.”
Drawing the towel tighter around his waist, Mehring went to the rolltop desk and extracted a pack of cigarettes from underneath a pile of clothes. With a trembling hand, he tried to light one, failing twice before he got the paper to catch. “Sit down, please,” he said. “Let’s discuss this with cool heads.”
Varian pulled out the desk chair and cleared it of newspapers. “You know I wouldn’t ask you to risk it, Walter, if I didn’t think you had a real chance. We’ve gotten dozens away on ships these last few weeks.”
“But why me? Why not Chagall, for God’s sake? Or Zilberman? Or young Katznelson?”
“The Chagalls don’t have their papers yet, nor does Zilberman. As for Tobias, he’s got to travel under the radar. We can’t just put him on a passenger ship. There’s no one ahead of you in line, Walter. You’re going to have to take your chances.”
Mehring went to the wardrobe and exchanged his towel for a bathrobe. Then he sat down on the bed again and let a curl of smoke encircle his face. “As a refugee,” he said, “you get used to your particular set of intolerable circumstances. Not that this room is intolerable, understand! Not that my situation compares in any way with what’s going on in the camps. I’ve just had a bath and dinner, for God’s sake. But you understand—having tried and been caught before, and having washed up here alive, I’m reluctant to try again.”
“I understand,” Varian said. “Believe me.”
The two men sat in silence for a long moment as Mehring smoked. When he looked up again, his eyes held a shadow of shame. “I know I have a reputation for cowardice,” he said. “Your colleague Mr. Allen seemed to regard me as an object of contempt for that reason, the few times we met. But is it cowardly to fear for one’s life when a nation, an alliance of nations, wants to end it?”
“No one could call you a coward. You made it here to France, and then you nearly got out. But now you’ve got to make it all the way to the States. I want you to live to write about all this.”
“There’s no need to convince me. I intend to go.”
“Do you?” Varian said. “Do you really?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, Walter. You’ve given me a gift.”
“You seem to think I was going to say no,” Mehring said, with a wry half-smile. “Perhaps you consider me a coward after all.”
“Never.”
“Send me your instructions, then. I’ll prepare.”
* * *
________
On Tuesday morning, Varian carried Mehring’s suitcase from the Hôtel Splendide to a dock on the quai de la Joliette, where a steamer called the Ipanema idled. Boats like the Ipanema had been drifting out of Marseille since the Caribbean routes had reopened, each ship so carefully policed, the passenger lists so tightly controlled, that they might as well have been carrying prisoners. And the steamers themselves looked grim enough to pass for prison ships: with all the lead paint going to warships, the commercial liners had begun to show their age. This Ipanema looked to have survived a tight squeeze through a rocky passage. Long lines of bare-scraped steel ran along its sides, trailing streamers of rust toward the lapping waves. The black triple smokestacks, gale-blasted and birdshat upon, had faded to a mottled gray. Even the lifeboats looked unseaworthy, their emergency red washed to pink, their hulls riddled with visible holes. Mehring stood beside Varian on the quay, regarding the vessel with skepticism.
“My first voyage,” he said. “I’d hoped for something better than a sieve.”
“I’m sure she’s sounder than she looks,” Varian said.
A narrow tarpapered customs office had been erected along the quay; beyond it, the gangway to the boat was guarded by two soldiers with bayoneted rifles. Passengers extended in a straggling line down the cobbled sidewalk at the edge of the water, waiting to have their papers inspected. The late January light made a glittering hash of the port, and seagulls dove and wheeled over its surface, griping about the lack of food. Mehring squinted into the glare, not making a move to take his suitcase from Varian. Against his chest he held the dossier that contained his travel documents.
“What’s the matter, Walter?”
“Listen,” Mehring said, cocking his head toward the customs office. “They’re playing Wagner.”
Varian listened. “Sure enough,” he said. “Lohengrin.”
“The Führer’s favorite. Doesn’t that strike you as a bad sign?”
“Only one more indication that you’ve got to leave at once.”
Mehring sighed. “Will you wait here until I board?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you, dear Varian. Thank you for all.” He took the suitcase at last, testing its heft. “I should have given away more books, shouldn’t I?”
“Maybe. Let’s hope you don’t sink the whole tub.”
Mehring laughed. “All right, then. Je m’en vais.” He put a hand on Varian’s shoulder for a moment, then turned away, blinking. Finally he joined the customs line, and within minutes a guard ushered him into the building. Varian leaned against a pylon to wait, his collar turned up against the mistral. If all went well, Mehring would reach New York in a month; from there he planned to take a train
to Hollywood, where he had friends who wrote for the movies. Varian fortified himself with an image of Mehring arriving in the sea-salt haze of Los Angeles, yellow light pouring down along Sunset Boulevard as a taxi conveyed him toward the white haven of the Chateau Marmont. Then a clean bright room next to a starlet’s, the nearest German officer thousands of miles away.
He waited as the light changed from morning’s blue-white glister to a flat pale yellow. How long had it been now? An hour? He checked his watch: forty-eight minutes. He ought to have gone in, posed as Mehring’s lawyer or editor. But the main thing was not to draw attention. He twisted his hands and waited, wondering what he would do if a black police car came to haul Mehring away.
At last Mehring emerged from the customs office. He split the brace of soldiers at the base of the gangway, then ascended the ramp with his book-laden suitcase in hand. He looked over his shoulder as he neared the top, flashed Varian a V for victory, and was gone.
Varian turned and walked the narrow streets toward the center of town, toward the office, where Grant would be sitting at the desk, poring over Katznelson’s file. And as he wove his way through the crustacean sellers and purveyors of Provençal soap, through the mingled scents of tea and deep-fried fish and lavender, he found himself envying his client—Walter Mehring, of all people, former enemy of the German state, who had for months been pursued, criminalized, forced to cower in a Marseille hotel room in fear of the knock at the door that would signal the end of his flight. Now, in possession of visas and a steamer ticket, Mehring could simply board a boat and travel to America, where he was welcome, at least relatively speaking, to make a life and home. Whereas he, Varian Fry, child of Ridgewood, New Jersey, spoiled son of a New York stockbroker, graduate of Harvard, recent editor of Headline Books—if he accepted what he was, and how could he fail to do that now, when all the evidence shouted it?—he could find no nation on earth, no welcoming shore, no Liberty lifting her torch in a harbor. There was no street he could walk without fear of discovery, no end to his diaspora. Grant was his only country, and would be for as long as he lived.
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