Law of Return, page 17
The gentleman had been sitting in the Café Lyon for some time, and although he always nodded amicably when someone expressed a wish to share his table, he seemed to have attention for nothing but his book. He had successfully made two cups of coffee last for three hours and Louis and his colleagues were getting used to avoiding the table.
So it was something of a surprise to Louis when a dark-haired young woman headed for the reader’s table and greeted him. She could have done better, Louis thought. There were other tables available, with more agreeable clients, and she was a good-looking woman. Perhaps the eccentric gentleman noticed this. In any case, he emerged from his book long enough to begin what seemed to be a friendly chat. When Louis approached to take the young woman’s order (and inspect her more closely), she asked for coffee. Her voice held the faintest hint of an accent, but her words were too few for the waiter to be sure. He withdrew, wondering where she was from. Her clothing was not local, he was sure. Spain or Italy, he decided finally, and turned his attention to other, more demanding, clients.
When the waiter had departed, the gentleman with the reading glasses smiled. “So, Helenka,” he said, in thickly accented French. “You have grown. A foolish remark, but true.”
Elena looked embarrassed by this comment, a normal reaction for anyone over the age of sixteen. “I’m glad you recognized me,” she temporized.
“You have not changed so much. And I am glad that I have not changed so much either, so that you could recognize me.”
“It was your book,” the young woman admitted. “My father has the same edition.”
“I have always found Homer reliable.” The old man smiled again, and patted the battered hardcover fondly. “But this is unexpected, that you are alone. Were your parents unable to cross the border?”
“Actually, I came north alone,” she admitted.
The professor looked surprised. “But why?”
Elena rapidly summarized the chain of events that had led to her traveling to San Sebastián without her parents. Professor Meyer was frowning when she finished. “I am sorry,” he said. “I add to your trouble at a bad time, it seems. Forgive me.”
Elena shook her head. “It’s not your fault.”
“No.” Meyer’s face twisted briefly into a humorless grin. “And you will note that I do not offer to release you from your offer to help. I have spent several weeks here avoiding the German troops in the town. The presence of so many Germans makes me uncomfortable.”
“We’ll leave tonight,” Elena promised.
“How?” the professor demanded reasonably. “How did you come? You do not have a passport?”
“No. A pair of fishermen took me along the coast last night, and set me down on the beach at around four o’clock this morning,” Elena explained. “After that, I just had to follow the inland road as far as the town.”
“You came alone? In a fishing boat?” The professor was shocked.
Elena thought it was a little ungracious of him to exclaim at her lack of a chaperone. She smiled, but her voice was not as light as it might have been as she said, “It was nothing. But I wish you had been more specific about our meeting place.”
“Telegrams are expensive.” Meyer spoke apologetically.
“I know. Actually, I didn’t have trouble getting directions. It was knowing how to ask for you when I got there that was the challenge.” Elena’s annoyance subsided, although her experience at the Pension d’Or had not been pleasant. It had been quite awkward appearing at an unknown pension, and facing the landlady’s wary hostility as she asked hesitantly to speak to a guest she was afraid to name for fear that he was using an alias. Fortunately, her stumbling description of “a German gentleman, a colleague of my father’s” had been instantly recognized by the landlady, and she had been directed to the Café Lyon without further difficulty.
“I’m sorry.” Meyer’s regret was genuine. “But you speak French very well.”
“I wish it were true!” Elena laughed. “We’ll need it, before the day’s out.”
“Oh?” the professor asked.
“We need to make contact with our transportation out of here,” Elena explained, quickly relating what Jorge had told her on the beach that morning. “So the next thing to do is to find the Magdalene,” she finished. “Do you want to wait here, or should we meet back at the pension?”
“No!” Meyer looked aghast. “I will go, of course. You cannot enter a strange bar called the Magdalene by yourself!”
“I’m not going to drink there,” Elena pointed out.
“That does not matter.” The German was inflexible. “You will go back to the pension and I will find this Daniel and give him the password he asks for.”
For a moment, Elena was tempted to agree. She was exhausted, hungry, and frightened, and the thought of letting someone else do a little work was extremely appealing. Then certain practicalities presented themselves. “No,” she said firmly. “You can’t go. At least not alone. Daniel wouldn’t talk to you.”
“And he will talk to you? Why?” the professor retorted.
“Because . . .” Elena hesitated, unsure how to explain without hurting his feelings. “Because I’m a Spaniard, and so’s his cousin.”
“He knows this?” Meyer protested.
Elena sighed. “It’s the accent. You sound very German. And . . . well, would you talk to a mysterious stranger who sounded like a German, in Biarritz now?”
Elena had avoided the explanation merely because she did not want to seem to boast of her own mastery of French. But as she spoke, she realized that even her gentle comment had hurt Meyer more deeply than she had imagined. He looked haggard. “You are right.” His voice was humble. “I had not thought that it could ever hurt to be mistaken for a German but you are right. But I will come with you. I will not speak, I promise.”
Elena, who was in fact a bit uncomfortable with the idea of seeking out a strange fisherman in a bar of unknown reputation on her own, accepted his offer with relief. At her suggestion, she and Meyer returned to the pension where he collected his suitcases, and settled his bill. “You can leave them at the station,” Elena said. “That way you won’t have to worry about an inconspicuous departure this evening. No one will care if you redeem the claim ticket at an odd time.”
Once the professor’s luggage was safely stowed, he and Elena started up the Rue Gambetta, doing their best to look like casual strollers as they searched for the Magdalene. They spoke little. Just as well, Elena thought. If no one overhears us we might be mistaken for relatives, I suppose. She wondered if Meyer was silent because he was still brooding on her comment about his accent, and for the first time it occurred to her to puzzle over his phrase “be mistaken for a German.” Perhaps he had become a naturalized citizen. “Do you have a French passport?” she asked, when she was fairly sure they would not be overheard.
“If I did, I would not impose on your kindness.” Meyer spoke with a trace of bitterness.
“But surely Germans can enter Spain?” Elena’s puzzlement grew. “It’s a friendly country.”
“I imagine they can. But my passport is a Jewish passport. It has a . . . what is the word? . . . a stamp on it.”
Elena bit her lip, aware that discussing the subject in the street was unwise, but she was too curious to let it go. “Is it so hard for Jews in Germany, now?”
The professor cast a furtive glance around the street. His voice, when he spoke, was so low that Elena could hardly hear it. “Yes. In Germany now, I cannot walk certain streets, enter certain shops. This is by law, you understand.” He glanced around again, to make sure that they were not being overheard, and then continued. “And always there are the deportations, of course.”
“Deportations?”
“To the work camps. They will put up a notice, telling all Jews to meet at the train station on a certain day. And then they are taken to the camps. And no one hears from them again.”
Elena shuddered slightly, remembering the posters plastered across Madrid at the end of the war. “All members of the Red Army are to report to Chamartín Stadium to surrender their weapons. No reprisals will be taken against common soldiers . . .” Machine gun fire had sounded to the north of the city all day. “Was that why you left?” she asked.
“Not exactly. It is difficult to explain. They took my work from me four years ago. But I had in 1937 a student, a former student rather, who came to see me. A fine boy. He was translating Oedipus at Colonnus. After our visit, they called him a Jew-lover and beat him to death in the street. That was when I decided to leave.”
Meyer’s voice was calm as well as quiet; almost emotionless. But Elena found herself listening with the horrified fascination of a child picking at a scab to make it bleed. “What will happen if they find you?” she asked, her voice as soft as his own.
He shrugged. “I will be deported and sent to one of their work camps. I will die, probably. I am old. I will die soon anyway. But we are all like Admetus; we want to live on, even if it is only for a short while longer.”
Elena began looking for the Magdalene with renewed determination. She found herself shuddering at the sight of a German soldier, obviously off duty, strolling by on the other side of the street. Her overwhelming desire was to be safely back home. She had forgotten that she was hungry and tired. Adrenalin kept her muscles clenched, and her eyes darted from side to side in a constant quest for the bar Jorge had named. Clouds had been gathering all day, and Elena jumped, nervous as a cat, as the first drop struck her cheek.
“It’s raining,” she said, and then wondered with sudden fear if bad weather might prevent their crossing.
“Look.” Meyer ignored her comment and jerked his chin in the direction of a bar across the street. A grimy wooden sign with a woman’s profile painted on it proclaimed the single word “Magdalene.”
Elena gulped. “All right,” she said softly. “We need to talk to the owner.”
Meyer took her arm as she crossed the street and Elena was glad of the gesture. As she pushed open the door of the bar, she realized that he had been right to insist on coming with her. The Magdalene was not only a bar avoided by ladies of good reputation, it was a place completely devoid of female presence. The dim room reeked of liquor, cheap cigarettes, and unwashed bodies. Men were sprawled at tables in darkened corners she preferred not to examine too closely, and a few were hunched over the bar. Her entry attracted the same amount of attention as a small explosion.
She forced herself to run the gauntlet of eyes all the way to the counter. She wondered if Meyer’s German accent if he spoke would really be as noticeable as she had thought. He tagged behind her now, silently. The barman was staring at her with unconcealed curiosity. “Can I help you, Miss?” As soon as he spoke she knew that Meyer’s accent would have been as damaging as she had suspected. Her own would be remarked upon. She might pass, for a sentence or two, as Parisian. But there was no way that she could imitate the thick patois of the barman.
Elena swallowed, feeling gauche. “I am looking for the owner of the Magdalene.” She pronounced each word carefully and quietly, wishing that the bar had not gone dead silent at her arrival. She was convinced that her carefully lowered voice echoed in the farthest corners of the smoky room, and was certain that every man there was hanging on her words.
“You’ve found him. What do you want?”
It occurred to Elena that she had no idea whether the barman was telling the truth. But there was no alternative to trusting him. “I was told you could help me find a fisherman named Daniel,” she said.
“I don’t know any Daniel. Sorry.”
“I have a message from his cousin,” Elena said, a little desperately, wondering if there could possibly be two bars named Magdalene.
“Sorry,” the barman repeated.
“About Conchita,” Elena persisted.
The barman stooped below the counter, emerged with two shot glasses, and poured an infinitesimal amount of brandy into them. “Here you are, Miss,” he said, slightly more loudly than necessary.
Meyer took the drink gratefully, and downed it, apparently without ill effect, although a careful observer might have noticed that his eyes watered slightly. Elena sipped, choked, and hastily set the glass down again. “Thank you,” Elena said. “You’re sure you don’t—”
“Positive.” The barman’s tone was final.
“Oh. Well, then . . .” The interview had not gone as Elena expected. “How much do we owe you?”
“On the house, Miss. Good-bye.”
The farewell was too pointed to ignore. Elena escaped from the Magdalene uncertain whether to be relieved or despondent. “So, we’re leaving tonight?” Meyer said dryly.
“Look, I followed the directions,” Elena snapped, out of patience. She had passed a sleepless night, and eaten nothing in twenty-four hours, and the rain, which had changed to a light mist, was making her shiver.
Meyer shook his head. “Sorry. What do we do now?”
I don’t know! Elena wanted to cry. I want to go home, and have done with you, and war, and always being responsible for everything! I’m scared and hungry and tired and you’re not helping! She clamped her lips firmly over this reply, but she was unable to repress a little shriek of alarm as someone lurched out of an alleyway and grabbed her elbow, dragging her backward. She whirled, breaking free as she did so, and found herself looking at a tall stooping man in a dirty overcoat. He looked vaguely familiar.
“The Gestapo picked up Daniel this morning,” the man said, without preamble. “If I were you, I’d tell his cousin to lie low. And don’t go near the bar again. The place is probably watched.”
He melted into the alley again. Beside her, Elena heard the professor mutter something in German. “What?” she asked, irritated.
“Pardon.” Meyer sounded weary.
“The Gestapo are the German police?” Elena asked.
The professor nodded. “Your Daniel was perhaps of the Left.”
Elena felt a slight chill. Meyer’s voice had the resignation of one who no longer fears the worst because it has already happened. She accepted his use of the past tense calmly, wondering briefly if she would ever be able to report back to the fishermen she had met in San Sebastián. Her memories of Madrid saved her from total lethargy. Three years earlier she had been in the midst of teaching her class a lesson when a bomb hit the neighboring building. When the planes had gone and the students had emerged from under their desks, she had been faced with fifteen frightened seven-year-olds who had looked to her for cues. She had astonished herself by saying calmly, “Carolina, get the broom out of the closet and sweep up that glass. Ramón, hold the dustpan for her and be careful not to cut your fingers. Antonio, pick up the reading from where Maribel left off, please.” It’s the same thing, Elena thought. Don’t worry about making plans. Just take care of whatever seems most urgent first, and you’ll get through the day. She considered what the most urgent thing might be. “I’m hungry,” she said aloud. “And it’s starting to rain harder. Let’s find a place to eat.”
Amazingly, the technique worked. “There’s a nice little restaurant near the station where I’ve eaten once or twice,” Meyer volunteered. “It’s not too expensive, and there’s a back door that looks like it might provide a good escape route, if we need one.”
Elena enthusiastically approved the suggestion, and the restaurant turned out to be as convenient as the professor had boasted. Elena ate a large lunch on the premise that it was useless to save money now. Meyer also ate as heartily as he could. They eked out the meatless cuisine with anecdotes of obscenely huge dinners they had eaten in the past, and did their best to rival each other in description of the succulent details.
The meal was a respite and they lingered over it as long as they could. Finally, when Elena’s stomach was as full as it had been any time in the last four years, she turned her attention to the next immediate problem. “Do you want to try an overland crossing?” she asked quietly.
Meyer nodded. “It seems the only way,” he sighed. “I am sorry that I brought you here. I imagined, when I wrote, that your father would come. I thought that perhaps it would be possible for him to purchase backpacks and a tent, perhaps even a mule. I cannot, because I have no valid papers, but I thought perhaps a Spaniard . . . And I used to be something of a hiker. A pair of men, with backpacks, might be mistaken for tourists. But I am afraid that you and I make an odd pair.”
Elena blinked. “You were planning to cross the Pyrenees on foot? Without even a guide?”
“My wife and I vacationed in Austria for many years.” Meyer added, a little apologetically, “In the Tyrol. And I have bought some maps.”
Elena held the basic Castilian opinion that any land fit for human habitation was flat. “I’m not dressed for hiking,” she pointed out.
The professor looked at her with some amusement. “No, you are not,” he agreed. “Which is why I am afraid that we will not be able to pose simply as tourists. It would perhaps be better to travel by night, at least until we reach less-inhabited country. Fortunately, the weather is good.”
“It’s raining!” Elena pointed out, again with the natural distaste of a desert dweller.
“But the weather is warm.” Meyer spoke reassuringly.
Elena opened her mouth, but the professor’s next statement effectively silenced her objections. “It will not be a pleasure journey,” he said quietly. “But it is preferable to staying here and finding out if the Gestapo are in fact watching the Magdalene.”
Elena closed her mouth. When she opened it again, she spoke very carefully. “Professor, I didn’t sleep at all last night. If we are going to start a lengthy journey tonight, I would like a rest.”
