Pulling the letter from his breast pocket, Sasha reread it:
Dear Sasha,
This letter might not reach you in time, they tell me I don’t have much of that left . . .
So many times, I wanted to tell you about your father, but I didn’t want to mark you for the rest of your life. Marked because I had an affair while still married, an affair with a German soldier, no less—this made us outcasts, nearly untouchable in the old country. That is why we finally came to America, to the golden land.
I met your father at the beginning of the Great War, in the little town of Mitau, where I lived with my family. It is the town where you were born, before we moved to Riga after the war, to live with relatives, to escape the influenza that took my sister and parents from this earth.
Let me start again: I met your father under an apple tree during the month of Sukkot. He leaned against the trunk, in his field gray uniform, musing at the landscape, very unlike a soldier, very unlike anyone I had ever met. I remember noticing his long elegant hands, and thought he must be a pianist or a painter. He was so careful with them, but that was just his manner. He owned a textile-manufacturing company in Berlin, and left behind a Gentile wife and two young children there. After serving as a medic on the Eastern Front at first, he was transferred with his unit to Mitau to oversee the local population and occupy the village and surrounding areas.
This is when I met him, under that apple tree, and I knew immediately he was unusual, strange and new, someone from another world, despite the fact that he spoke Yiddish because his parents fled Russia when he was a baby. Poor shtetl Jews like us, so he didn’t look down on me. He helped me; he brought us food during the winters, and smuggled medicine for my sister from the army supply. He sang with us on Shabbat and danced at family weddings. He sat at our table, and listened to father discuss the Talmud, and nodded with encouragement when Geza, your cousin, dreamed of Palestine, while we dipped bread in salt and shared bottles of kvass. He was educated, refined, cultured . . . he knew about the world and moved through it with ease . . . he was all the things I wished for you. All the things I was not. I loved him.
When you were born, he raised you up into the air and named you Aleksander, after Alexander the Great, he said proudly, but back then, I didn’t know who Alexander the Great was. I was only happy that he held you close, and sang you those sweet German songs, and made sure we had enough firewood, enough medicine, enough bread. My family accepted the lie I told everyone: that you were my husband’s son. He had come home on leave once, a few months after I met your father, and that’s when I claimed you were conceived, but everyone sensed such falsehood. Everyone knew because with my husband, during our ten years of marriage, we could not conceive, and I believed I was cursed, unable to ever have a child. And everyone knew because you looked just like Lev, with your dark head of hair, and not the flaming red of my husband, and those round inquisitive eyes, the same eyes as Lev. And the way Lev looked at you, with wistful hope, and how he winced when you cried, he could barely stop himself from running to you, or the times he would take you into the forest on his shoulders, singing the songs from his country, hoping you would remember them. When you were teething, inconsolable for hours on end, he dipped his pinky finger into a thimble of cognac and let you suck on it; this calmed you.
Sometimes, he spoke of his life in Berlin, his blonde wife, and his two children, a girl and a boy. He missed his children terribly; he couldn’t desert them.
I loved him, even though I knew he would leave us.
The Russians were returning, the war ending, and soon, he would be shipped out to the Western Front. Instead, he deserted with a few other soldiers, in hopes of getting back to Berlin.
I remember the last time I saw him, in my mother’s kitchen. I remember every little detail, from the amber afternoon light, to the apple trees outside the window, to the wooden stairs creaking with eavesdroppers. He said he had a life to return to: a family, a business, a whole existence apart from us. His jaw tensed, his eyes filling with tears. He missed his children; he hadn’t seen them in four years, but he also didn’t want to leave us. Then he reached into his pocket and gave me the red ribbon. Our red ribbon. I used to tie it to the birch tree outside of the barn when we were waiting for him in the loft. A signal for us to meet safely, where we could talk and play with you, where he could hold you close. He would take it off the tree, and next time, a few days later, tie it up on the same branch, the wind whispering: I’m waiting for you. Please, come. And in return for the ribbon, I, devastated but smiling, gave him a loaf of bread wrapped in an embroidered cloth. Little colorful birds stitched into the white. A pattern he could run his fingers over, a pattern that meant: I love you. I’ll never forget you.
In the doorway of the house, I watched him walk away.
My mother clucked her tongue, her heavy judgment beginning. I held you close to my chest, you were nearly three, and we watched him disappear into the trees.
All I had left was the ribbon. And you.
Four years later, I sent him a letter explaining that we were leaving for America, breaking our agreement to not send letters, to not write. I didn’t know if he’d made it to Berlin. I didn’t know if he was even alive. But if he was, I wanted him to know that we were starting a new life. I also told him where and when we would change trains, in Berlin. He wrote back, saying he would be there, that he missed us greatly and he wanted to see you again.
When the train stopped in Berlin, I thought he might come for us . . . I don’t know why I thought he might come . . . perhaps because we used to fantasize about immigrating to Palestine, and starting over with you, but then he would always fall silent, consumed by what he left behind.
The hour passed, and it grew increasingly clear to me that he wasn’t coming. He would never come.
I don’t know if your father escaped Germany before this horrible war, or if he perished in a camp, as so many others did. I don’t know because I never wrote to him again, and he didn’t know where we had settled in America. Even though he left us, he continues to crowd my dreams, visiting me at unexpected moments. I see him clearly now, as I lie dying.
Maybe you will find him and the two of you will reunite.
This is my wish.
I don’t have much time left, it’s coming quickly now.
Your father’s name is Lev Perlmutter. His address was Englische Str. 6, 10587 Berlin, Germany.
Sasha: my heart, my blood, my hope.
Please forgive us.
Love,
Your mother
Sasha pulled his coat tighter, trying to block out the conductor’s drone. Perlmutter was a German Jewish name, which made Sasha half a German Jew, with a half brother and sister, if they had survived the war.
The announcement for 125th Street startled him, and he stared at his blurry reflection in the train window: naturally, his blue-black hair came from his mother. But the rest—the olive cast to his skin, his defined chin and straight Roman nose—belonged to his father. The lines from her letter reverberated in his head: Maybe you will find him and the two of you will reunite. This is my wish.
A handful of passengers filed into the car. A middle-aged woman took out a magazine, the cover showcasing an enlarged black-and-white photograph of the Eiffel Tower shrouded in thick fog with a row of statues in the foreground. The tagline read, Paris 1945, implying that it was no longer the Paris of love and light. He could see, as she turned pages, the desolate photographs of monuments and empty plazas that made it look as though the Germans had drained the city of its verve, leaving behind cold anemic stone. He thought of Vera, trying to place her there, and wondered if she’d met up with Gussie yet, and felt a pang because he wasn’t with her.
* * *
• • •
When he came into the hotel room, he lay down on the bed, feeling the satiny coverlet underneath
his body, and sleep overtook him.
In his dream, Vera smoked in front of the large glass window. She wore a silk robe, her body rippling beneath it, and then she turned around and came toward him. She was saying something in French. He didn’t understand it, inhaling the luxurious scent of her perfume, and he kissed her mouth, which tasted of salt and champagne. Then she turned back toward the window, and the window became a Russian forest. She receded into the birches, the hem of her robe lifting in the wind as she walked, the Baltic Sea visible through the trees ahead. The farther she walked, the smaller she appeared among the hundreds of trees, the wind whistling through the branches, creating a hollow, bleak sound that told him he would never see her again.
* * *
• • •
Sasha woke with a start, reaching across the bed for Vera, before realizing that he’d fallen asleep fully dressed atop the coverlet. Only an hour had passed and it was still night. Fumbling for the phone, he almost dialed her old telephone number in Los Angeles. He desperately wanted to hear her voice, to tell her that she had been right about his parents; they had loved each other, and those memories of his father were real.
He took out a sheet of hotel stationery and started to write Vera a letter, his hand trembling as he held the pen, his chest thundering at the prospect of being with her again . . . Before he had time to think, he wrote that he was coming to Paris to see her, and together, they would find Lucie. Rereading the letter, he then worried she wouldn’t want him in Paris. She’d made this clear on the beach that night. But maybe, now that she was there, she had changed her mind.
* * *
• • •
After this, he dialed room service and ordered a vodka neat, with some olives. Leaning back into the headboard, he tried to think of anyone else he knew in Paris who could help Vera. Then he scribbled down a note to himself, to send another cable to his old CO, Taylor, asking for a list of survivors from Oradour—maybe one of the survivors would remember if Lucie was still living there at the time of the massacre. Surely Taylor could finagle that from Paris.
From the nightstand, he picked up a pulp he was reading and placed it down again, remembering his mother’s disappointment when he explained The In-Between Man to her while she took dictation, her insistent voice ringing in his ears: People love romance. Don’t mess with that political stuff. It’s love they want. Well, she was right. He needed to weave in a secondary story line for Bacall, who played Bogie’s love interest, further complicating his character’s moral dilemma.
The telephone rang, the operator announcing Mr. Friedman was on the line. “Shall I put him through?”
“Yes,” Sasha said, knocking back the rest of his drink.
“Sasha?”
“Hey.”
“My condolences,” Charlie said, breathing heavily into the phone. “I’m so sorry to hear about your mother. Sounds like a real shock.”
“It was,” Sasha said, gazing out at the anonymous city lights.
“Well, I’m sorry. Really sorry.” Charlie allowed an appropriate pause to linger there.
Charlie began to tell him about the premiere. Ironically, Clementine had premiered last night, and from Charlie’s account, it was a hit. “You should have seen their faces. No one walked out, not one person. Even better, I sat two seats down from Bogie and Bacall, and he loved the thing. Stood up at the end, clapping. Everyone noticed, I can tell you.”
“Sounds great, Charlie,” Sasha remarked, spearing a toothpick through the last green olive. A few months ago, he would have been over the moon to hear this, but now nothing felt clear or simple. “Any reviews yet?”
“Dailies are gonna hit the newsstands tomorrow, but I’m expecting good things. And I ran into Abel Green.” Charlie hesitated, sensing that Sasha wasn’t entirely listening. “The editor in chief of Variety.”
“Right,” Sasha said.
“After the premiere, we bumped into each other in the lobby, and he looked pretty damn pleased.”
Charlie then started talking about The In-Between Man, and how they needed to cast Bogie’s old war buddies and the police chief. He could hear the whiskey in Charlie’s voice, and imagined him sitting behind his desk, fiddling with that monogrammed Montblanc pen. “L. B. has scheduled the start date for September 3rd.” The line went quiet for a minute and Sasha heard some papers rustling around, and then Charlie yelled at his secretary, but it was a muffled yell, as he probably had covered the receiver with his hand out of courtesy.
“So,” Charlie’s voice returned, clearer now. “How long are you going to be in New York? You sitting shiva?”
They both laughed at the thought of it, as neither one of them put much stock in religion. But then an unexpected tightness gathered in Sasha’s chest, rejecting that his mother was really gone, that he couldn’t pick up the phone and listen to her complaints, see her face, hear her laugh.
“So, back Monday?”
“Think I’ll swing by Paris first,” he managed, his voice thick with emotion.
“What?” Charlie shrieked. “For how long?”
Sasha paced the room. “I have to see Vera. I’m going to help her find Lucie.”
Charlie stopped talking, which was never a good sign.
“Listen, if I don’t, I’ll lose her. I just . . .” He hesitated, pieces of the dream returning: the skeletal birches, her tiny form swallowed up by the forest. “I don’t want to regret this for the rest of my life. That’s no way to live.”
“Sasha, this is your chance. I don’t have to tell you that. And now you’re trotting off to France? We gotta get started on locations, and Bogie has some ideas about the script . . .”
“We’ll shoot it on the backlot.”
“That’s beside the point.”
“Look, Charlie. I’ll be there in time. I have to go. For a couple of weeks.” He hesitated, knowing it would be longer than that.
“L. B.’s going to be livid when he hears this.”
“What’s there to be livid about? Pre-prep doesn’t start until the end of July.”
“I’ve never heard of a director taking off like this, right before the movie goes.” Charlie softened his tone, trying a different tack. “Listen. What if you show up, and this dame is with someone else? And you risked everything for her. Then what?”
Sasha stopped before the wide glass window. “I don’t care.”
“Listen, kid. It’ll only cause you heartbreak. And once you’re over there, you’ll be kicking yourself, wondering why you didn’t listen to me in the first place. Come back, Sasha. This movie needs you.”
“Good night, Charlie.”
Vera’s presence intensified in the room, as though she were waiting for him.
Sasha stood up, only partly drawing the curtains closed, so that the morning light would wake him.
Chapter 41
LUCIE
Mid-June 1945, St. Denis Convent, Southwestern France
While unwrapping a tiny morsel of meat parceled in newspaper, Sister Helene read from the blurred print about the death camps and what had occurred there. Another article next to it described the refugees flooding back into Western Europe from the east, and although thousands had perished in those death camps, the Allied forces were scrambling to set up new camps for the displaced persons, mainly in Germany, Austria, and Italy. She immediately thought of Lucie’s parents, and pressed Sister Ismerie to bring Lucie to Paris, where all the French deportees were being sent back.
Sister Ismerie sat behind her desk, slowly coiling a string of rosary beads into her palm. “It would only get her hopes up. And when her parents aren’t there, she’ll want to know why. What, then, will we tell her?” She sighed, her weighty bosom rising dramatically. “We must preserve her innocence,” she said, fixing Sister Helene with a steely stare. “And as you know,” she continued, getting up from her desk, “innocence is such a
fine, fragile thing. It must be protected. At all costs.”
Sister Helene’s mouth went dry at this reminder. When the war broke out, she’d arrived at the convent on the verge of giving birth, at the age of fifteen. Her mother had sent her away in a rage after finding out that her new husband had impregnated Helene, blaming Helene for seducing him, when it was he who had grabbed her and pinned her to the forest ground. She could still feel the pine cones digging into her spine, and the sound of the serin finches calling to one another from the trees, their bright yellow feathers flashing through the green.
Sister Ismerie took her in, and after the birth, all evidence of the sin was spirited away. A little boy, barely five days old. She still remembered the way he coiled his translucent fingers around her thumb, his uncertain milky eyes, his black hair matted down over his perfectly round head. He was six years old now. Somewhere else.
“It’s not right, to withhold Lucie from her parents. Even if they’re dead, she might have relatives looking for her.”
Sister Ismerie’s warm, stale breath swept over her face. She stood very close to her, something she did when she wanted to make a point. “Lucie was baptized. We must ensure her Catholic upbringing to protect her soul. She must not be entrusted to the many organizations that are now claiming hidden children. Now they want all the children back. For their own purposes.”
Sister Helene swallowed hard. “I could take her to Paris. I promise, it won’t be any trouble.” She paused, knowing that Sister Ismerie was about to say no. “I won’t involve those agencies. We’ll come straight back here if no one has come for her.”
Sister Ismerie pursed her lips.
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