The Flight Portfolio

by Julie Orringer

  Varian reached for the phone. “How soon, do you think, is Blount to arrive in Marseille?”

  “In wartime, a consular desk cannot go unmanned,” Navarre said. “I suspect Blount arrived in town even before Monsieur Bingham was relieved of his post. But, Monsieur Fry—this business must not be conducted by phone. You must meet the new vice-consul in person. Lower your eyes before him. Humble yourself. Summon the muse. Chave Prison is a terrible place, but it is a veritable palace compared to where they would next send Monsieur Bénédite.”

  “Yes,” Varian said, replacing the receiver in its cradle. “Yes, you’re right, of course.”

  “The Gold family trusts my opinion. I hope you will trust it too.”

  “Yes. Well, I suspect I’m going to have to thank Mary Jayne for all of this.”

  “Miss Gold’s generosity extends, at times, farther than it should. I share your dislike for her young protégé. But her confidence seems well placed in you, Monsieur Fry. She tells me she feels a sort of kinship with you. I have known her since she was a child, and I know this is not a grace she extends widely.”

  “Well, thank you for that, Navarre. Tell her—if you will, if you see her—tell her she doesn’t have to hide from me. Tell her I’d prefer to see her, whatever’s happened with Killer.”

  “I shall do so, Monsieur Fry. And now I implore you to make your visit to the consulate at once.”

  * * *

  ________

  Edwin Blount, pale and tall and slope-shouldered, sat behind Harry Bingham’s newly vacated desk with an air of pachydermlike rectitude. The slow swing of his massive head, his torpid blink, the heavy drape of his arms across the desk, all seemed to suggest that he belonged where he was, had always belonged there, and would remain there as long as he chose. When he spoke at last, he spoke in a low lentissimo that made Varian’s heart palpitate with impatience.

  “And why,” said Blount, “why, precisely—why, Mr. Fry—should I come to the aid of your associate Mr. Bénédite? Danny, as you call him? He is not, as I understand, an American citizen.”

  “He’s employed by an American organization. He’s been working under my guidance for some eight months now. He was arrested in the course of that work. We owe him our protection, Mr. Blount.”

  “Bénédite broke the law. And I’m certain he’s not the first in your organization to do so. Mr. Fullerton has apprised me of your actions here in France. You’ve been a thorn in the consulate’s side for months now. A thorn.”

  “You’re right,” Varian said. “I’m the one who ought to take the blame. Danny didn’t mastermind that exchange. He’s been on the right side of the law all along, and is as morally upright as can be imagined. He’s got a wife who adores him and a son who depends on him. The boy’s already in America, under the care of an aunt. Danny can’t afford to have anything stand in the way of his own emigration.” He had a sense that the image of Danny as family man might appeal to Blount’s sensibilities, but Blount showed no sign of being moved. “I ought to be the one in jail, Mr. Blount. But it turned out otherwise. Danny’s in Chave Prison, a truly horrible place. If you intercede on his behalf, his lawyer believes you can get him out—at least on bail, while he awaits trial. And then maybe he can get off with a fine.”

  “Again, Mr. Fry, I ask you: Why should this Frenchman’s fate be any concern of mine?”

  “Because, in short, Danny’s rendered an invaluable service to the United States. His work for the Centre Américain has enriched our cultural capital immeasurably. The clients under his protection—the most politically neutral of refugees, I might add, the least controversial of applicants for our aid—possess, collectively speaking, an artistic worth that defies quantification. And he’s saved those men and women at our behest, in our employ—the employ of an American organization, one that is protected under U.S. and French law by the American Consulate.”

  Blount hoisted a single eyebrow, unimpressed.

  “If you help him,” Varian said, “I swear to God I will leave France without protest, at the soonest possible opportunity, and will shut down my operation here. I’m beat, Mr. Blount. I know the score. The Gestapo is wise to me, and Vichy is subject to their demands. If I stay, I’ll be sure to end up in a French concentration camp.”

  Blount blinked with prehistoric slowness. “Your departure. That would certainly be something, Mr. Fry. Something significant. To have you out of the consulate’s bonnet, to have your organization out of Vichy’s—that would indeed, as I say, be significant. In fact, I’ll have you know, Fullerton promised me a kind of—well, a rather extravagant bonus, I suppose you could say—if I induced you to vacate the country.” Another torpid blink. “I don’t believe he thought I could do it. I would be gratified, deeply gratified, to prove him wrong.”

  “If you help Danny,” Varian said, “I promise you, I’ll be gone in two weeks’ time. I swear to you as a former Eagle Scout. And I’ll offer any other security you might require.” He almost believed it himself; how long could he bear to stay in France, however noble his mission, if what existed between himself and Grant had been nullified, crushed to nothing? How could he bear to stay even another day?

  “Eagle Scout, were you?” Blount said, a dull light entering his eyes.

  “Oh, yes. Earned my gold and silver Palms by the age of seventeen.” Of course, it was Grant who had been the Eagle Scout, Grant who had taken out the bright gold and silver honor badges one night at Gore Hall; with some ceremony he’d pinned them to Varian’s undershorts, in recognition of services Varian had just performed.

  “Well. Well. An Eagle Scout must help an Eagle Scout,” Blount said. And, with infinite slowness, he extended his drooping and bespeckled hand across Harry Bingham’s desk.

  * * *

  ________

  A period of terrible waiting ensued. For the next forty-eight hours, Varian’s only comfort was to deliver food and blankets to Chave Prison on Danny’s behalf, and to write a series of notes to Grant in which he pleaded, with increasing desperation, for half an hour’s conference, ten minutes’, a moment’s. But no response came from the Beauvau, and the prison guards at Chave, though they accepted Varian’s offerings of paper-wrapped sandwiches and woolen blankets, were likely taking them all for themselves. Theo, camped on the office floor, found little solace in Varian’s description of the deal he’d made with Blount; she seemed to doubt that anyone could place so much value upon Varian’s doings.

  But at half past ten on Tuesday morning, the office door opened and Navarre entered, followed by the paroled prisoner himself, in a rumpled and begrimed version of his usual tweed. Danny was unshaven, the hollows beneath his eyes yellow-violet, his jaw darkened with bruises. Theo ran into his arms, her shoulders sharp beneath the thin white cotton of her shirt; they stood for a long moment while everyone else—Jean Gemähling, Lucie Heymann, and young Gussie Rosenberg, stricken—watched in silence. When Theo stepped away at last, Varian went to Danny and took him by the arm. The smell of Chave—ripe piss, ancient cabbage, dead and rotting rat—was on Danny’s skin, in his hair, in the fibers of his suit; Varian inhaled that scent like a penance.

  “Forgive me?” he said, hoarsely.

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” Danny said.

  “I left you to do that job alone.”

  “I insisted on doing it, if you’ll recall.”

  “But three days in that stinking hole! And look at you, look what they did to you.”

  Danny touched the bruises at his jaw. “I haven’t looked in a mirror, but I imagine it’s not pretty. I can’t imagine how you got me out. Navarre refuses to say.”

  “I’ll explain it over a drink, once you’ve had a chance to eat and sleep. The others will want to say hello now.” And Jean and Gussie and Lucie came forward to shake Danny’s hand and congratulate him on his parole, while Theo went to her desk and made a
rrangements for Danny to be examined by a doctor, then transported home to Air Bel in Vinciléoni’s car. Navarre, who had watched all these proceedings in silence, drew Varian aside into the private office and closed the door.

  “Well,” Varian said, seating himself at the desk. “You were right. Old Blount was a sucker for that trade.”

  “Vichy will hear of it. They will undoubtedly tighten the screws on you now.”

  “Let them do it. I’ve got resources. At worst I can hide out. Plenty of my clients have done it, sometimes for months.”

  “Your resources may prove insufficient. I hope you have an exit strategy.”

  “Please understand, Monsieur Navarre, I don’t intend to be forced to leave.”

  “Vichy may seem rather clumsy at its work, but it can be a dreadful adversary. And if you’re arrested, or thrown into a camp, you’ll not be able to direct your organization. What will happen in that case?”

  Varian sat in silence for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said.

  “I advise you to make arrangements, Monsieur Fry. With the consulate’s help, I believe I can get my client cleared of charges, or at least not sentenced to prison time. He is, I understand, your second in command. But, if I can clear him, he and Madame Bénédite must leave France at once to rejoin their son. They must not delay. The danger will not be eliminated by the closure of Monsieur Bénédite’s case.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “If you are indeed forced to leave France, someone must continue your work. This organization has a necessary role. Its fate cannot be bound only to yours.”

  “Of course not,” he said. “My colleague Jean Gemähling will take over for me if I have to go. But Danny and I must have time to train him, both of us. That’s why it’s all the more important that you get Danny cleared of those charges.” And of course he himself couldn’t leave France just now, not with Grant still refusing to see him; not with his inner life in such dread uncertainty.

  “Indeed, Monsieur Bénédite must be cleared,” Navarre said. “I believe he will be. And now, Monsieur Fry, I will leave you to your duties. Godspeed your mission.”

  36

  Lumine Tuo

  Danny insisted on going to work with Varian and Jean the next morning, and would brook no coddling; he didn’t flinch for a moment when they passed Chave Prison on the way to the boulevard Garibaldi, only thumbed his nose at it and uttered a schoolboy’s curse. At the office, he and Varian had just begun to review the day’s roster of clients when Gussie arrived in a state of speechless agitation, holding the morning newspaper. He peeled off the first section and thrust it into Varian’s hands.

  Varian scanned the headlines. “The Brits intercepted the Winnipeg,” he said. “They got her at sea before she made it to Martinique. I guess they want her for their own fleet. She’s in Trinidad now, according to this.”

  “The Winnipeg!” Jean said. “With nearly eighty of our clients on board. And Breitscheid’s wife.”

  “They’ve all been interned in Martinique, apparently. Put into a temporary camp. I suppose the Brits want to interrogate them all. They must have had some intelligence—must believe there are Gestapo agents on board.” He thought that would be the worst of it, but then he read further. “Vichy’s shut down the Martinique route altogether,” he said, quietly. “They don’t want to lose any more boats. The Wyoming, the Mont Viso, the Sinaïa—they’re all sitting in Casablanca now.”

  “God!” Jean said. “We must have had a hundred and eighty on those boats together. Maybe two hundred.”

  “Two hundred and twenty-three, to be exact,” Danny said; he’d retrieved a set of manila folders, and was scanning a list of names. “They’ll all have been thrown into concentration camps by now. And there they’ll stay, until Vichy sees fit to let those ships sail again.”

  Varian got to his feet and went to the window. In the street below, a line of refugees had already begun to gather, streaming toward the Centre Américain in panicked groups, their voices rising, all of them surely wanting to know what would become of their own escape plans, many of which relied on carefully aligned sailings that would no longer take place, and on visas that would soon expire.

  Danny put a hand on Varian’s sleeve. “You’d better go down.”

  “And say what?”

  “Tell them the truth. Tell them we’re trying to learn more. And give them some hope, Varian. We’ve had other setbacks.”

  “Not on this scale.”

  “This is the Centre Américain de Secours. What is more American than wild hope?”

  He stood for a moment in silence; Danny’s hand on his forearm, solid and insistent, infused him with courage. “All right,” he said finally. “Here we go.” He went down the stairs, opened the front doors, and shouted a greeting. At the sound of his voice, the refugees—men and women, boys and girls, their faces tight with desperation—turned toward him, their words of protest and debate falling away into expectant quiet. At his beckoning, they moved into a crowd around the door. Once they were close enough to hear him, he announced that the Centre Américain de Secours would see them one by one; that they would make new arrangements as necessary; that no one was to panic. They were to form a line, one that made its way along the length of the block and around the corner. As if he’d uttered an incantation, they followed his directions at once; they did it in near-silence, even the children. The refugee at the head of the line—a young woman whose lambent dark brown eyes and oval face seemed vaguely familiar to Varian, as if he’d seen her in a dream, or in some ancient photograph—allowed herself to be ushered into the entryway. Silently she followed Varian up the stairs.

  “Your language?” he asked as they climbed.

  “German.”

  “Name?”

  “Johanna Arendt. My friends know me as Hannah.”

  He paused on the landing and looked at her. “You’re Hannah Arendt? The scholar whose dissertation sent Walter Benjamin into raptures?”

  The young woman lowered her eyes. “Walter mentioned me to you?”

  “My friend Miriam Davenport mentioned you and your husband some months ago. She told me about Benjamin’s assessment of your work. But we’ve not known until this moment where you could be found. You’re the first piece of good luck we’ve had today.”

  Hannah Arendt gave a short, ironic laugh. “Me, good luck! I feel accursed! To think that you were looking for us, Herr Fry, while here we were in Marseille, shuffling from one miserable hotel room to another. I believe it’s made my husband ill. He’s in bed with the grippe this morning. I’ve heard you can help your clients find doctors, ones who don’t consider us—refugees, I mean—to be untouchable.”

  “Come up, Miss Arendt. Let me introduce you to our secretary. She’ll take all your information. Yes, we can find you a doctor, and we’ll talk about visas for you and your husband. We don’t have the influence we used to in that department, but we’ll do our best. Miriam was rather stern with me about your case. She made me promise to pull out all the stops for you.”

  Hannah Arendt’s eyes rested evenly on Varian’s. “Pull out all the stops?” she repeated, and for a moment he had to wonder if the idiom was different in German. But then she tilted her head quizzically and said, “Don’t you pull them out for everyone, Herr Fry?” She seemed to be asking out of open curiosity, a desire to assess who he was. And he felt himself unable to speak anything but the truth to this frank, sharp-eyed woman, her luminous face like a waxing moon.

  “Perhaps we didn’t always, in the past,” he said. “But we’ve learned the cost of that approach.”

  Another woman might have lowered her eyes; Hannah Arendt did not. “You’ve done your best, I’m sure,” she said.

  “Let us try to do our best for you,” he said. He opened the door and ushered her into the office, led her to Lucie’s desk, offered her a chair. When
she saw the newspapers lying on the desktop, she touched the topmost of them and drew a long breath.

  “They’ve tightened the screws,” she said. “And they’ll keep doing it until we’re dead, all of us.”

  “Yes, the Martinique line has been cut for now. We’ve just read about it.”

  “Not that. This, about the new legislation. Here.”

  Varian took the paper from her, glancing at the piece she indicated. Regulatory Statutes Passed was the neutral headline. But a few lines’ reading revealed the nature of the statutes: all Jewish businesses now had to be registered with the authorities; anyone who had at least three Jewish grandparents counted as a Jew; and no Jew could be employed now in any profession or trade, from banquier and professeur all the way down through exploiteur des forêts, correspondant local de journaux, and concessionnaire des jeux.

  Danny came to Varian’s side and stood at his shoulder, reading. After a moment he looked up and gave a sigh.

  “We can’t keep them waiting in the street,” he said. “We’d better open the doors.”

  “Open them,” Varian said. “Tell everyone to come up, as many as will fit.”

  Within moments, a grim crowd had filed into the room; the air vibrated with French and German, Polish and Russian. Refugees occupied every chair, every inch of floor; children crowded the windowsills. In the hall stood an unbroken line of clients and would-be clients, one that extended all the way down the curving stair. They would never allow him to be taken from this place, Varian thought; they were a vital wall, a living fortress.

  * * *

  ________