7

Vichy

The apartment was small, but large enough for them not to feel overwhelmed. There was one room with a medium-sized bed, another with two single beds, an office with a table and a sofa, and a bathroom and a combination kitchen/dining room.

Monsieur Rosent was ill. Farida feared for his life, but Marvin said that the old editor would make it through somehow. Eulogio agreed with Farida, but he didn’t want to upset his friend. They had enough problems just surviving. Vichy was not safe. They needed to leave as soon as possible.

Jean Bonner had just examined Monsieur Rosent and insisted that he drink a little bit of the soup that Farida had prepared for him.

Bonner, a doctor, was already quite old. He looked well; he was slightly overweight, but his hair was still black with very few gray hairs. He had been in love with Sara, but had never dared tell her so. Bonner’s wife had been a good friend of Sara’s, and had known her since they were both at school. They had stayed close until the day that Claudine died. He couldn’t forget that on that day, Sara had held Claudine’s hand in her own until she drew her last breath.

Claudine had asked for Sara to look after her husband, and she had put all her efforts into pulling him out of the black hole into which he sunk following the death of his wife. They had no children, and the loneliness was unbearable, so unbearable that he wanted to die. But Sara, patiently and with dedication, had helped him come back, to feel what life had to offer, until one day he found himself feeling attracted to her. He had not dared say anything. She might have stopped them from ever seeing one another again. Sara’s loyalty towards Claudine was firm, even beyond the grave.

And this loyalty, this sincere friendship that Sara had granted him, had led him to run the risk of taking Monsieur Rosent out of Paris and into the free zone.

When the Germans marched down the Champs-Elysées, he had been among the many people who had fled. His sister was married to a doctor who worked in a hospital in Vichy. She encouraged him to move in with them. He earned less money than he had in Paris, but at least he had the hope that what remained of France wouldn’t fall into the hands of the Germans. His was a vain hope, because he couldn’t deny the truth of the matter: the Government of the free zone was a puppet in Hitler’s hands.

Even so, he had not returned to the capital. He rented an apartment in the rue de Nîmes and now, he said to himself, he didn’t feel so alone, given the proximity of his sister and her four children.

“I’m worried. The woman on the first floor asked me if I had guests staying with me. I said yes, that an old friend had come to see me. She was curious because she had seen Farida coming and going with shopping bags. I said that I had a couple of friends from Paris with me, who were just passing through.”

“And why is your neighbor so curious?” Farida asked.

“I suppose because she hasn’t seen any woman coming or going at my apartment until now. I … I’m sorry, but I gave her to understand that you and I … well, I couldn’t think of anything else that would stop her being so nosy.”

“You did well,” Farida said with a smile.

“We should go as soon as possible, but Monsieur Rosent is in no condition to travel,” Marvin said.

“Of course not. It would be insane. But we have to be discreet, or else we’ll end up in a labor camp. I’m mostly worried about what might happen to Monsieur Rosent: they’ll send him to Germany, which is where they’re deporting all the Jews. As for us, I’ve already spoken to you about the Organization Todt. This man, this Nazi engineer, needs people to work in the factories in Germany. All the young Germans are at the front, and so they take anyone they find. Some of my patients have been taken to Germany by force,” Jean Bonner said.

“We’ll try not to be too visible,” Marvin said, an anguished note in his voice.

“I hope that the medicine I’ve brought will help with the pneumonia, but even if it does, he’ll take a while to get better: he’s quite an old man,” the doctor said.

It was noon by the time Bonner left. It was Sunday and he didn’t have to go to the hospital. He was going to meet a friend who he trusted that afternoon. In fact, it was his friend who had asked him to visit. Armand Martin suffered from asthma and Jean Bonner was treating him. They had formed a good friendship.

They called Armand Martin “the Spaniard.” He was a very discreet man who didn’t speak much, but they said that he was Spanish, even though he had been brought up in Vichy. Bonner didn’t know what his political views were. They had never spoken about politics: in France, this was something that people avoided in those days. People only shared confidences with people who they were sure they could trust. It was rumored that Armand Martin had helped lots of Republicans who had escaped Spain after the end of the Civil War. He had paid for people to travel to America, apparently. But rumors aside, what was certain was that Armand Martin had a large fortune, not just because he had a transport company, but because everyone knew that he collected art. Bonner didn’t think about Martin’s fortune; he was worried now that one of his neighbors would report him to the police for having foreigners in his house. This was something that happened a great deal. He didn’t worry about himself, but about Monsieur Rosent. Sara had trusted him to look after her father. If he didn’t, then he would be failing her; although he knew that she was married and that maybe they would never meet again, he still dreamed of her.

“Don’t you think that Bonner is being a little extreme in his precautions?” Marvin asked, hoping that someone would reassure him.

“We can’t blame him. He did enough getting Sara’s father out of Paris,” Eulogio replied.

“He’s very brave,” Farida said.

“I think it was crazy to come here. If the Organization Todt catches us, they’ll send us to work in Germany,” Eulogio said.

“Don’t be so negative!” Marvin said.

“You know I’m right. Bonner’s taking big risks and we are too. Benjamin Wilson knew he was sending us into the lion’s den. He’s a chess player, moving people around like pawns, and sacrificing them when he feels like he needs to,” Eulogio said.

Marvin swung to face him. He knew how much Farida liked Wilson, and how hurt she would be by Eulogio’s comments.

“Benjamin Wilson didn’t force us to come here. I decided to come, and I’m glad you came too: I asked you to, but Farida and I would have come alone if need be. I wouldn’t be a poet if it weren’t for Monsieur Rosent. The least I can do is try to help him. He helped me in the past. Just as you did.”

Eulogio saw the disappointment on the American’s face. He didn’t want to upset Marvin, but neither did he want to do him the disloyalty of not telling him what he thought.

“Marvin, I know that you want to help Monsieur Rosent, but do you think we can? We don’t know the country well enough to travel across it. Maybe Mr. Wilson could have found people who were better at these things to do it. Luckily enough, Jean Bonner is a good man and he seems to know what he’s doing.”

“Benjamin must have let us come because he didn’t have anyone who could do the job better. Don’t think that he’s unscrupulous, Eulogio, I promise you he’s an honest man,” Farida said.

“I’m not worried about his honesty, but rather about his good judgment in allowing us to come here. I don’t want you to think that I’m not going to do everything I possibly can to help us get out of this situation. I’m not afraid of risking my life,” Eulogio said.

“Of course you are! Who wouldn’t be afraid of such a thing? You’d be foolish to think otherwise. I love my life, but sometimes there’s nothing you can do apart from risk it. Marvin owes Monsieur Rosent a debt of gratitude and needs to help him in order to square things with himself,” Farida said.

“I don’t want you to be upset,” Eulogio said, worried that his friends would see his fears as a lack of loyalty.

Jean Bonner knocked at the door of the pretty house near the Parc Napoleon where Armand Martin lived. A middle-aged woman dressed in black opened the door to him. She was the housekeeper. Madame Florit smiled at him and invited him in.

“Monsieur Martin is waiting for you in his office. He seems a little better today,” she said, leading him to a little room on the ground floor whose windows opened onto a well-tended garden.

Armand Martin was working behind a huge mahogany desk whose surface was covered by all kinds of papers and folders.

The two friends shook hands and Monsieur Martin asked the housekeeper to bring some coffee. As they waited for Madame Florit to return, Armand Martin poured them both a glass of cognac.

“Napoleon himself never tasted anything like this,” he said, holding out the glass.

After sipping the brandy, Arman Martin got to the heart of the matter.

“I didn’t ask you to come here for my asthma. You can see that I’m not any worse. I’m not going to waste your time by beating about the bush either. I know that you’ve got some special guests staying at your house, and that you need to move them on as soon as possible. They’re not safe in Vichy.”

Armand Martin’s words surprised and upset Bonner. He didn’t know what to say.

“I understand your shock, Jean, but there’s no time to lose.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about …” Bonner said.

“Of course you do. You have a French Jew in your house, Monsieur Rosent, an American called Marvin Brian, a Spaniard named Eulogio Jiménez and an Egyptian citizen called Farida Rahman. Your wife Claudine was a friend of Sara’s, Monsieur Rosent’s daughter. And after your wife died, you maintained your friendship with Sara Rosent. She is now Sara Wilson, as she is married to an Englishman resident in Alexandria. Should I go on?”

Bonner felt tense. He didn’t know if he should deny everything he was hearing, or if he should admit it. He was trapped.

Madame Florit came in at that moment with a tray that held a pot of coffee and two mugs.

She served the coffee carefully and then left the two men alone.

“I’m sorry to have come out and said so much so quickly, but I wanted you to see the urgency of the situation. I have friends, Jean, a lot of friends all over the world. Friends who owe me favors, friends whom I owe favors to. I found out about your guests and the need to get them out of Vichy from one of these friends. My friend is a friend of Mr. Wilson’s, the husband of your friend Sara. I’ll help you, Jean. I’ll help you. You can’t deal with the problem by yourself. How were you thinking of getting them out of Vichy?”

Jean Bonner decided that he had no choice other than to tell the truth.

“Sara Rosent was Claudine’s best friend. I owe her a debt of gratitude. She looked after my wife right up to the end; when she died, she was holding Sara’s hand.”

“Thank you for telling the truth. I think Wilson should have been patient, and sent someone more skilled to rescue his fatherin-law. You can’t do it alone. Wilson came to you fairly urgently with the idea of saving his father-in-law, but even if you put your heart and soul into it, I think it’s too much for you.”

“I don’t know where this conversation’s going,” Bonner said, as upset as he was worried.

“Mr. Wilson knows people whom I also know. He got in touch with them and asked them to take over the task of getting his father-in-law out of France. These contacts of Monsieur Wilson’s got in touch with me; that’s why I asked you to come and visit me today.”

Jean Bonner didn’t know what to say. He looked Armand Martin straight in the eye and suddenly saw a different man than the one he thought he knew. His asthmatic patient, the man he had made friends with, was now someone else. His jaw was set, with all the determination of a man who never retreats. His eyes shone with an icy gleam that suggested it would be dangerous to oppose him. He looked at his hands. Yes, he had never noticed those strong hands before, a fighter’s hands, the hands of a man who would use force.

“I understand that you’re confused, and even why you might find it difficult to trust me. No one knows who anyone is anymore, especially not in a city like Vichy. I have to be frank with you. I am going to help you. I’ll look after Monsieur Rosent and your three friends. We’ll get them out of Vichy on one of my trucks. We could take them straight to Nice and then over the Italian border. It’s a porous border. But there’s no time for that, I don’t think, and so tomorrow we’ll take your friends to Lyon and then to Switzerland. It’s close by. It won’t be comfortable, the journey to Lyon: they’ll go in a furniture truck, but it’s not too long, three and a half or four hours, so the inconvenience won’t be that great.”

“And what are they going to do there? They don’t know anyone, and Monsieur Rosent is very ill. He’s got pneumonia. I don’t think he can cope with a journey, even a short one. As his doctor, I can’t allow it.”

“Well, he’ll have to manage. He can either sit in a truck or be deported to Germany. Do you think that Monsieur Rosent could survive a labor camp? We are at war, my dear Jean, and there are not a lot of options open to us. In most cases, it is a question of where and how to die more than how to survive.”

“I can’t abandon them in Lyon.”

“And you won’t be abandoning them. You have to trust me. They’ll stay for a few days in the home of a person I trust. Then they’ll be carried across the border.”

“Who are these people who’ll pick them up in Lyon?” Bonner asked.

“I’m not going to tell you. The less you know, the better.”

“But it’s not about me, it’s about Monsieur Rosent,” Bonner protested.

“Monsieur Rosent’s security depends on your own. He’s a Jew, don’t forget. And for the Germans, being a Jew is the worst thing it’s possible to be these days.”

“And for the French as well,” Bonner said bitterly.

“Yes, for a vast majority of the French as well, why deny it?”

But Jean Bonner didn’t understand why Armand Martin was going to take so many risks for people he didn’t even know. He waited to ask the question, and only did so because he wanted to know that Sara’s father would be in safe hands.

“Why are you doing this, Armand?”

Armand Martin filled his cognac glass once again. He didn’t want to keep drinking, but the activity gave him a chance to come up with the proper reply to his friend’s question.

“I’m not going to lie and claim that I am a good man. I don’t think I’m worse than others, but I’m not a saint. Benjamin Wilson looks for people, and we’ve worked together on cases in the past that we have brought to satisfactory conclusions. He has his business and I have mine.”

“You’re wrong. Wilson is an editor, with two prestigious bookshops, one in London and the other in Alexandria,” Bonner said with conviction.

“Of course he is, but he’s not just that. I’ve told you, he looks for people, and he hunts for information. But he doesn’t accept business from just anyone. He has his own code of ethics. And as for me … well, I’m the person you see, who you think you know, a businessman who deals with logistics. But like your friend Sara’s husband, I do other things as well … I have my own code too.”

“And what is your code?” Bonner asked.

“I decide by answering three questions: who for, why and for what purpose.”

They sat in silence for a while. Jean Bonner was disconcerted, and Armand Martin was indifferent to his friend’s unease.

“I need to speak with Sara,” Bonner said.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t call her. The only thing you’ll do is upset her. She trusts her husband and she trusts you. She’s convinced that her father is safe, and there’s no need to bother her with details.”

“But I need to know if …” Bonner fell silent.

“You need to know if you can trust me.” Armand had said out loud what the doctor was worried about.

“No … It’s not that.”

“Of course it is, and I understand. But we’re at war and the stakes are high. I can’t force you to trust me. You decide, now, before you leave. I have everything ready to help with Monsieur Rosent and your friends. Accept the deal now or there won’t be a second chance.”

Jean Bonner felt a cold sweat trickle down his back. He hadn’t felt so defenseless since the day that his wife died. He looked into the Spaniard’s eyes and felt dizzy.

“I don’t think I’ve got another choice,” Bonner muttered.

Armand Martin shrugged. He understood the trouble the doctor had in making his mind up, but he couldn’t waste any more time breaking down his resistance.

“Well, what’s the plan?” Bonner asked.

“A truck will stop at the door to your house at eight o’clock in the morning. Two men will come up to your apartment. Monsieur Rosent will lie down on your living room carpet and the men will roll him up in it and carry him down to the truck.”

“You’re crazy!” Bonner said.

“No, I’m not. I know that you took Monsieur Rosent to your house in the evening and did all you could to prevent him from being seen so that no one would know that you have a Jew in your house. Well, I know, and if I know then other people will know as well. You’ve been clever to let your neighbors see Farida Rahman, so they will think you have a lover. As for the American and the Spaniard … the best thing for them is to leave your house this evening. They can go to one of my garages and meet one of my men there. Then they can wait for the truck with the carpet to come back in the morning …”

“And Farida?”

“Farida will leave shortly after they take Monsieur Rosent. She should walk slowly. Someone will come and pick her up to take her to the garage. And then they’ll all travel to Lyon. Any questions?”

“Armand, I’m sorry, but this seems crazy to me … taking an old man out of my house rolled up in a carpet … He’s very sick …” Bonner protested.

“I know, he’s old and sick and he’s a Jew.”

Armand Martin’s plan was very nearly over before it started because Monsieur Rosent got worse.

The truck left them in the rue des Trois Maries in the heart of Vieux Lyon, near the cathedral.

No one paid Marvin and Eulogio any attention as they got out of the truck and walked, followed by two drivers carrying Monsieur Rosent wrapped in the carpet. Farida had gotten out a little earlier and was waiting for them at the door.

They went upstairs until they reached the first floor, and suddenly a door opened to reveal the figure of a man.

“Come in, come in … Don’t hang around outside,” a calm voice said.

Farida went in first, followed by Armand Martin’s two men, who left their burden on the sofa in the living room. The whole house was a large library. There wasn’t a single wall that wasn’t lined with bookshelves stuffed with books, and there were books all over the floor of what appeared to be the living room.

“I’ve got a room ready for Monsieur Rosent. I hope he’ll be comfortable. As for you … we’ll sort something out. The lady can sleep in the guest room and … Monsieur Brian can sleep with her? And as for you … I hope you don’t mind, but there’s a sofa in the room by the kitchen … My friends say it’s not too uncomfortable …”

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Farida said, holding out her hand.

“Ah, sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Anatole Lombard.”

Marvin liked the man’s firm handshake. Farida looked at Eulogio: he seemed uneasy.

Jean Bonner hadn’t told them the identity of the man who was going to put them up, nor for how long he would be doing so. He had only told them that Benjamin Wilson had arranged for them to go to Lyon because it would be easier for them to cross the Swiss border there. In spite of Monsieur Rosent’s condition, neither Marvin nor Farida argued with this. They trusted Wilson.

The house was dark. The windows were closed, and thick curtains barely let the light in.

Anatole Lombard gave them a chance to settle while he made coffee.

He must have been about forty years old. He was dressed elegantly, but informally. He was thin and pale, with straw-blond hair and very thin, almost feminine hands; his gaze was clear and his gestures were calm. Farida told Marvin and Eulogio that he was “too handsome.”

Monsieur Rosent seemed to have lost consciousness because of his fever. He was shivering. Farida prepared an injection. Jean Bonner had given them some medicine. She put a warm washcloth on the old man’s forehead and sat down at his side.

“Is he very ill?” Anatole Lombard asked.

“Yes, he’s got pneumonia, and given his age, he’s very weak.”

“I have a friend who works at the hospital. I’ll ask him to come by as soon as possible.”

They sat anxiously for a while, waiting for the old man to breathe calmly again.

They left the door to his room open and retired to the living room. Marvin and Eulogio were worried.

“I think the journey’s made things worse,” Farida said.

“But is he going to live? He has to,” Marvin said, with an air of desperation in his voice.

“I don’t know, it’s hard for him to breathe … I gave him the injection that Bonner gave me.”

“I’m sorry about what’s happening,” Anatole Lombard interrupted. “I know it’s cold comfort, but wars leave victims far from the front. I have to go. I imagine they’ll have told you I’m a teacher, that I give classes at the lycée. My students are expecting me: I’ll be back late in the afternoon. I can’t return any sooner. There’s food in the kitchen and … well, use my house as you see fit. But we have to be careful. It would be better for you not to get too close to the windows, and to try to remain unseen. I’ve told my neighbors that I’m expecting some visitors, but at times like these, you can’t be too careful. I think it would be good for you to get some rest. And, like I said, I’ll bring a doctor by this afternoon to have a look at Monsieur Rosent. And now, if you’ll excuse me …”

Eulogio offered to look after Monsieur Rosent while Farida and Marvin rested for a while. Then Farida relieved him.

They didn’t even dare eat a single apple from the heap piled in the fruit bowl. Anatole had said they should eat, but Farida thought they should wait for their host to return and to allow him to feed them. They didn’t go out into the street either. It was better to wait for Anatole to explain to them what the situation in Lyon was.

Six o’clock had passed by the time Anatole retuned with a man whom he introduced as Dr. Girard.

The doctor read the report that Bonner had prepared, and then went into Monsieur Rosent’s room to examine the patient. He was breathing with difficulty.

When he finished the examination, he came out into the hallway with Farida and said that he didn’t think the old man would survive.

“He’s running a high fever and isn’t getting enough air into his lungs. You’re giving him the right medication, but he has to go to a hospital. But even so, I don’t think he’ll last much longer.”

“He has to live!” Marvin said in distress.

Dr. Girard shrugged. Farida took Marvin’s hands between her own. Girard saw that Marvin was calmed by the simple touch of this beautiful woman.

“Do you think that it would be dangerous to take him to the hospital?” Anatole asked the doctor.

“Yes, of course … You know what’s happening with the Jews … and Monsieur Rosent fled Paris, they told me … It’s a risk, but it’s a risk if he doesn’t get the medical care he needs as well. I can come to see him every day, and bring medicine with me to add to the ones he is already taking, but it won’t be enough,” Dr. Girard said.

“Are you saying that whatever we do, Monsieur Rosent will die?” Eulogio asked.

Dr. Girard shrugged and looked curiously at the Spaniard, who had previously been relegated to the edges of his attention.

“In my opinion, there’s not a lot we can do now apart from alleviate his suffering, although I think that he would get better care at the hospital, and maybe even improve … I’ve seen everything in my career as a doctor: people who we thought would die and survived, people who we thought would survive and nevertheless died … Life is in God’s hands, and we are but men.”

Dr. Girard’s reply surprised Eulogio.

“God doesn’t have anything to do with pneumonia,” he said angrily.

“Of course not,” the doctor said calmly.

“But …”

Girard cut him off. He wasn’t there to argue with this young man, but rather to treat the old one.

“You decide if you want to take the risk of getting him to the hospital or if he stays here. In any case, I’m at your service. I will do whatever I can to help you.”

“Do you think he’s in any shape to travel?” Marvin asked.

“Travel? No, of course not. It was very reckless of you to bring him from Vichy. Where would he travel to?” the doctor asked.

Eulogio looked at Marvin and they wondered if they should answer the doctor. Anatole decided for them and replied in his calm voice:

“Switzerland. The plan is to take him to Switzerland. There’s a pass we’ve used a couple of times. It’s not entirely safe, but nowhere is nowadays.”

“I think that he’s not in any condition to be moved at the moment. We should wait a few days at least. It’s clear that if you can get him to Switzerland he’ll have proper treatment, but I don’t think he’ll survive the trip at the moment. He can’t walk, and he’s delirious with fever. No, it would be a death sentence to make him get out of bed,” the doctor said.

“We can’t keep him here very long either. We’re putting Anatole in danger,” Farida said.

“Oh, don’t worry about me! I think of myself as fighting in the war, even though I’m not at the front. Helping Monsieur Rosent is my way of contributing. You can stay as long as you need,” Anatole said.

“All right, well there’s not much more to say. I’ll come back tomorrow before I go to the hospital. If he gets any worse … Anatole, call me. I’ll be along at once.”

When Dr. Girard left, the teacher said that he would make them supper. Eulogio offered to help, although he admitted that he had never cooked anything before.

Farida and Marvin looked after Monsieur Rosent. He was sweating heavily from the fever and Farida undressed him so that they could clean him a little, wiping a warm sponge over his body. Then she changed the sheets while Marvin held him up, which was no great problem for him, as Monsieur Rosent had shrunk down as though he were turning back into a child, and he was extremely thin.

Eulogio came into the room with a mug of soup. Bonner and Dr. Girard had both insisted that Monsieur Rosent drink lots of liquids, and although he resisted, Farida insisted. And so they made him drink the soup in little sips. It had an egg yolk beaten into it.

After a little while the old man’s breathing seemed to improve, and he fell into a less painful sleep.

Meanwhile, Eulogio had laid the table according to Anatole’s instructions, and they ate scrambled eggs and a salad, as well as some more of the soup.

They did the meal justice. They hadn’t eaten for a long time and they were tired. Anatole tried to distract them from their thoughts by telling them about Lyon and his work at the lycée. He gave classes in French literature, and it was clear that he liked the process of teaching as much as the subjects that he taught. Eulogio listened to him carefully, and seemed more interested in what he had to say than Marvin or Farida. But when the meal was over, the detente ended as well. Marvin went to Monsieur Rosent’s room, and Eulogio and Farida helped Monsieur Rosent wash the dishes.

Marvin was relieved to see Rosent asleep. He was breathing slowly, but at least he appeared to be resting a little.

Anatole suggested that they drink a cup of coffee. They had to decide what to do.

“I think you’re too tired to make any decisions now. You’d do well to get some sleep,” he advised.

“Jean Bonner told us that you’d tell us about the escape route,” Marvin said.

“I don’t know the details. A friend of mine deals with it. He’ll be the one to take you to the border. Someone will meet you there and try to get you to Switzerland. It’s not far to the border. You can be there in a little more than an hour. The hard thing is crossing it.”

“Will you come?” Eulogio asked.

“No, that’s not my job,” Anatole said.

“Are you a part of a group?” Eulogio surprised him with his question.

“Well, you might say that …” The teacher did not elaborate.

“And Dr. Girard?” the Spaniard insisted.

“Dr. Girard is a Catholic.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is … Here in Lyon, it is. In France, you come across two types of people: the ones who prefer to ignore what happens, who are the majority, and a few people like me who prefer to do something. Some of us act out of moral conviction, others out of ideology, others … well … everyone has his reasons. Dr. Girard’s reasons are religious in nature,” Anatole said.

“And what are your reasons?” Eulogio asked bluntly.

“I had a friend … a friend who was very dear to me … We grew up together. He’s a Jew. They deported him to Germany, but I don’t know which camp he’s in, or if he’s even still alive. That’s one reason to fight against the Germans. A personal reason. I have other reasons, of course.”

“What do you think we should do?” Marvin asked.

“Rest for a few days. Monsieur Rosent is in no condition to go anywhere. I’ll get in touch with the person who will take you to the border. I think we’ll be able to delay your journey by a few days. If he says it’s not possible, then … well, you’ll have to go. It’s not easy to get people from one side of the border to the other, and the people who do it risk their lives. People don’t actually get to Switzerland that often. I suppose you know that.”

“Of course,” Farida said.

“Well, then, I suggest you rest this evening. I’ll meet with my contact tomorrow and as soon as I find anything out, I’ll get in touch with you. Meanwhile, the best thing would be not to leave this place. It might be a bit claustrophobic, but it’s better not to attract people’s attention.”

Farida and Marvin went to sleep. Eulogio was about to do so, but he saw that Anatole was in the kitchen cleaning, so offered to help him. They spent some time putting the kitchen in order. They didn’t need any words to feel comfortable with one another.

In the morning, Monsieur Rosent started to cough. Farida ran to his room. He had woken up and was moving from side to side in great agitation, as though he were drowning. They got another injection ready, while Marvin tried to make him drink a few sips of water.

Eulogio had woken up as well and came over worriedly. They spent a while with Monsieur Rosent until he started to fall asleep again. Marvin said that Farida and Eulogio should go back to sleep. It was still early, just five o’clock in the morning, but Farida said she would stay up.

Eulogio couldn’t get to sleep, assaulted by memories of his mother. He wondered if she still thought about him. He knew the answer. His mother would always love him, in spite of what he did, and in spite of the pain that he had inflicted on her. He missed her. He missed the tiny attic they lived in, living poorly because of Don Antonio. He felt a wave of hatred just to think about that horrible man. The shopkeeper had taken advantage of his mother, and he had not been able to protect her.

He should have killed him, just as Fernando had killed the men who killed this father. But he had fled, because he had not been brave enough to take on the shame of knowing that his mother had put herself in the hands of that man to protect him, in order to lessen the implacable vengeance of the victors.

He closed his eyes tightly to try to scare away the image of his mother, but she seemed determined not to leave him. She looked at him sadly, but undefeated. That was the difference between his mother and him. Piedad had allowed herself to be harassed by Don Antonio, but she had not been defeated, because her honor was not connected to her poor flesh.

He tried to stop thinking about his mother and instead thought about Fernando and Catalina. He couldn’t stop himself from feeling sad that his friend was so hopelessly in love with that young woman. She didn’t deserve it. He was sad that Fernando was trapped in fruitless passion.

But he also decided that he should get rid of this troubling thought. On many occasions, Fernando had told him that he didn’t understand because he himself had never been in love. His friends in the neighborhood put him into a bad mood when they asked him why he didn’t have a girlfriend. Why had he never felt interested in any woman? He felt pain and anger growling in his stomach and decided to get up. Insomnia was bringing him unwanted ghosts. He got up and went to the sitting room. He took a book down from the shelf without looking. When he opened it, he smiled. His father had translated this book – Voltaire’s Cartes philiosophiques – into Spanish, and he was an teenager when he read it for the first time. His father had never stopped him from reading any book.

He had learned French because of his father, in order to read all the treasures of French literature that his father translated. He dozed off rereading Voltaire’s book. And that’s how Anatole found him when he came into the salon just after he himself had woken up.

“Can’t you sleep?” he asked.

“Monsieur Rosent had a bad night. None of us has slept that well. I woke up.”

Anatole looked to see which book it was Eulogio was holding, and smiled.

“Do you like Voltaire? Can you read his French without any trouble?”

“Yes … my father was a translator. He worked for a publishing house. He translated the great works of French literature. He helped me improve the French they taught me at school … I think I’m not that bad when it comes to speaking … you tell me …”

“You speak my language well, and with a good accent. But speaking is one thing and reading is quite another, especially when it comes to works as dense as Voltaire’s. I’m surprised that you speak French so well. Marvin has a bit of an accent, Farida less, and you could almost pass for one of us.”

“Marvin is a poet, and he’s lived in Paris, and Farida … well, Farida is a polyglot, like all Alexandrians.”

“Don’t tell me any more. The less I know about you, the better.”

“Why?”

“Because if they arrest me I won’t be able to tell them anything.”

“You didn’t want to tell us why you do this, yesterday …”

“I did. They arrested my best friend, a man I grew up with.”

“Was he a teacher like yourself?” Eulogio asked.

“No … He didn’t like studying all that much, but he was very good with his hands … He became a mechanic.”

“Where did they take him?”

“They take Jews to labor camps in Germany … or at least that’s what they say. I haven’t heard any more about him. I tried to find him via the Red Cross, but they couldn’t tell me anything.”

“And is that what they’ll do if they arrest us, send us to a labor camp?”

“In Monsieur Rosent’s case, definitely. He’s a Jew like Saul.”

“Saul?”

“My friend …”

“Right … And what about us?”

“They’ll arrest us and torture us to find out who the members of the group are.”

“We don’t know anything,” Eulogio said.

“You know me, and Dr. Girard.”

“We won’t say anything.”

Anatole smiled wanly. He saw a certain innocence still in Eulogio’s eyes.

“Have you ever been tortured?” he asked.

“No …”

“Well, then, how can you say you’ll never say anything? No one knows how they would react to torture. And you can’t blame anyone who talks. But that’s enough talking ourselves. It’s getting late. I’ll go and make some coffee. I don’t usually have anything else for breakfast, there’s bread and biscuits.”

“I’ll have a coffee.”

They had breakfast in silence. When they had finished, Anatole left, saying that he wouldn’t be back until late afternoon.

Marvin, Farida and Eulogio spent the rest of the day worried about Monsieur Rosent. They didn’t leave his bedside, and there were times when his breathing was so shallow that they thought he had died.

Farida made some food and tried to get the old man to drink a bit of soup that was left over from the day before. But Monsieur Rosent could barely open his lips, much less swallow. They had to settle for wetting his lips with a little water.

It was past six o’clock when Anatole Lombard came back with Dr. Girard, who seemed to be even more worried than he had been the day before.

“We either take him to the hospital or he dies here, you decide.”

“We know that they’ll arrest him if we do,” Anatole said.

“I know, but he can’t carry on like this. He needs to be in a hospital.”

“You’ll have to do what you can to help him here. If we take him to a hospital, they’ll put him on one of those trains that takes the Jews to Germany, and they’ll doubtless arrest us.”

“So the question is whether Monsieur Rosent dies here or on a train, that is, if he survives his trip to the hospital.” Eulogio sounded very bitter and everyone gave a start.

Marvin was angry. He liked Eulogio very much, but sometimes he was so harsh that it upset him. Farida took charge of the situation.

“Doctor, will you come with us to the border? Anatole says that it won’t take more than two hours to get there. I think we could take the risk if you come with us and look after Monsieur Rosent on the way. He can be looked after properly in Switzerland. We can’t think about taking him to the hospital here in Lyon, and staying in Anatole’s house isn’t an option either.”

The doctor stood in silence as he weighed up Farida’s suggestion. If he went with them, he would be taking more risks than he had ever taken in his life, but he couldn’t refuse. He would do it. He would go with them to the border. He couldn’t do much more than he was doing already for the old man, but he knew that this woman and these two men would feel calmer with a doctor alongside them.

“I don’t mind, as long as it’s not in the morning or the early afternoon. It would be very difficult for me to explain my absence at the hospital.”

“Anatole, when can we be ready to leave?” Farida asked.

“Tomorrow night. That’s what we’re prepared for. The people who deal with the crossing say that Saturday night is the best time to try. It has to be tomorrow,” Anatole replied.

“Well, we’ll go tomorrow, then,” Farida said.

Anatole nodded and Marvin wrung his hands.

Once Dr. Girard had gone, Marvin insisted that he should stay the night with Monsieur Rosent, and told Farida to go and get some sleep. She let herself be ordered away, sure that if there were any problem then Marvin would come to her immediately.

Eulogio and Anatole stayed in the living room and drank a glass of wine. The murmuring of their conversation reached all the way to Farida’s room, and did not end until the morning.

The next day, time seemed to run away from them. Or at least that’s what Eulogio thought as he helped Farida wash Monsieur Rosent. Marvin looked impatiently out of the window. The last twenty-four hours he had been particularly nervous. His stomach was in knots, and for all that Farida insisted, he couldn’t eat, and only swallowed a couple of cups of coffee. She was calm, as she always was. He was in awe of her inner strength, her capacity to cope with whatever life might throw at her. She didn’t complain, she merely worked out how to deal with the situation. She placed reason above emotion, but this didn’t make her cold or calculating. She just needed to dissect how life should be lived.

Meanwhile, Marvin was asking himself fearfully if they would get over the border. He remembered what Anatole had said to them: that it was as likely that they would be able to get across the border without problems as it was that they would be arrested. And also, he had said that no one could trust anyone those days.

Suddenly he thought about Fernando. What had happened to him? Benjamin Wilson was a good man, but he was engaged in a war against the Germans. Farida had told him as much. And he wouldn’t care much for the pieces he had to sacrifice as he fought each battle. Marvin wondered if Fernando was one of those pieces, and felt sorry for him, because, although he had never been able to say that they were friends, he had always liked the Spaniard.

Monsieur Rosent’s cough woke him up. He shouldn’t fool himself anymore; Dr. Girard and Jean Bonner had both said that it was unlikely that the old man would survive. He was very weak. The months that he had lived in the damp basement owned by some friends of his in Paris had taken their toll on his health. Even so, he had survived until Bonner rescued him and took him to Vichy, where he had looked after him as though he were caring for his own father. But he had not been able to give him his health back. Things had gotten worse, and now it looked as though life itself were leaving him.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. He knew it was Fairda’s before he turned around.

“I don’t think he’s going to live,” she said in a low voice.

He turned to look at her and saw a deep sadness in her gaze.

“What can we do?” he asked.

“I’m going to give him another one of the injections that Dr. Girard gave us; they’re stronger than the ones Dr. Bonner gave us. But he’s dying. The only thing we can do is try to make sure that he goes peacefully. Nothing else.”

“I can’t accept that this is the end,” Marvin replied.

“Death is a punishment which we don’t deserve, but which we all know is inevitable, a battle we will never win. We can get out of the occasional skirmish, but the result of the battle is known in advance,” Farida said in a neutral voice.

“It’s cruel. You fight to live, but the result is always known in advance. What God could be capable of such cruelty?”

“We are matter, Marvin, and as matter we have to turn into dust to blend with the earth.”

“And where is God in all of this?”

“We can’t explain why we are, why we exist, why we die. There’s no explanation, Marvin. We have to live with this, unless we become like little children and let ourselves be calmed by fairytales that lift our spirits. And it’s not a bad choice. Sometimes we need dreams to be able to live with reality.”

Anatole arrived at six on the dot. He told them that Dr. Girard would be there at eight.

“Farida and Marvin will leave the house at eleven and walk down the rue Saint Jean as quietly as possible. A car will pick them up. Another car will stop in front of the door at the same time. Dr. Girard, Eulogio and I will bring Monsieur Rosent down and settle him in the car as best we can. We’ll meet Marvin and Farida at the border. And we’ll have to walk a good long way to get to the pass that we hope will take us to Switzerland. I wasn’t going to come with you, but as Dr. Girard is coming, I’ll have to accompany you, and bring him back in case anything happens.”

Farida had made a light supper for them all, a pasta salad. Anatole had said they should eat something before heading off to the border. Dr. Girard arrived at the agreed-upon time and examined Monsieur Rosent for a while. Then they waited for the daylight to fade and the cool night to set in.

Anatole kept on looking at the clock. He had to make sure that everything went according to plan. Eulogio made coffee and they waited, sitting down, as the hands of the clock made their slow yet inexorable journey towards eleven. It was three minutes to eleven when Farida and Marvin left the house. They went downstairs in their socks, shoes in their hands, so as to avoid making any noise. They walked down the street slowly, close to the wall, glad that the moon was behind a cloud and that there was not a single star visible in the sky to mark their passage through the night. Suddenly they heard the noise of a car, and indeed, one stopped next to them. A woman told them to get in quickly, and they did.

At that very moment, Anatole was going downstairs with Monsieur Rosent in his arms. The old man weighed little more than a baby. Eulogio and Dr. Girard cleared the way for him. A car was waiting for them by the door. The man driving it told them to hurry up. In barely two minutes they were inside. The following two hours seemed to last a lifetime.

They reached the outskirts of a village by the border. Marvin and Farida and a woman were waiting for them. She was the one who would lead them to the pass and then take Anatole and Dr. Girard back to Lyon. Marvin picked up his former editor in his arms and they started to walk among the trees until the noise of the car’s engine had faded into the distance.

They walked for a while. The woman seemed to know the route very well, but from time to time she raised her hand to indicate that they should stop. They stood still in silence while she tried to analyze the sounds of the night.

She couldn’t have been more than thirty years old. Her hair was chestnut brown. She was of medium height and had the robust appearance of someone who was accustomed to being outdoors.

Dr. Girard tripped a couple of times and Eulgio and Anatole had to help him get back to his feet. Farida didn’t seem to have any problems walking through this strange forest in the middle of the night.

Suddenly the woman stopped dead and raised her hand to indicate that they should do the same. For a few seconds, they held their breath; then they saw her smile, and a minute later found themselves face-to-face with two men who greeted them almost wordlessly.

“We can cross without any trouble,” one of them whispered. “We’ve been watching the zone for a few hours now. But don’t make any noise or talk to each other.”

“Help me!” Marvin said suddenly in a low voice as he stooped to lay Monsieur Rosent on the ground.

Dr. Girard rushed over to the old man. Everyone else surrounded him expectantly.

“Something’s up … he was breathing very hard and then … he called for his daughter … and then … I think … I think he …” Marvin was in a state.

“He’s dead,” Dr. Girard said, closing Monsieur Rosent’s eyes.

“No, it’s impossible!” Marvin’s voice broke out into the silence and startled the two men who had come to meet them.

“Shut up!” one of them said, in a cutting whisper.

Farida hugged Marvin. She felt him shuddering.

“What do we do now?” the woman who had brought them there asked.

“We do what we planned,” Anatole said. “We help them across the frontier.”

“And what will we do with the body?” one of the men asked.

“We bury it,” Anatole said.

“But not here. We’ll have to take it somewhere else. They patrol here very regularly,” the other man said.

“We’ll take him back to Lyon and give him a decent burial.” That was Dr. Girard’s idea.

“That’s not possible, Doctor,” Anatole said.

“All right, we’ll take him back to my house. There’s a vegetable garden there,” the woman said. “We’ll bury him in it. But it has to be tonight.”

“We’ll have to wait a couple of hours. His body’s still warm,” Marvin protested.

“Look, we’re at war, and there’s no time to waste on ceremonies. You have to cross the border and we’ll take care of this old man’s body, but don’t ask us to risk our lives for a corpse.” The woman’s voice did not brook any argument.

“Let’s go. Thank you, Dr. Girard. Thank you, Anatole …”

Farida held her hand out to the doctor and then to Anatole, and then she squeezed Marvin’s hand.

The guides were relieved. They weren’t ready to waste a minute more. They started to walk quickly, but they stopped when they heard murmuring behind their backs.

Eulogio was standing still, seemingly incapable of movement.

“I’m staying,” he said.

“You can’t stay here!” Marvin said, moving over to his side.

“Yes, I’m going to stay. I won’t be far from Spain, and maybe I’ll be able to go home one day,” Eulogio insisted.

“You can’t stay!” Marvin insisted.

“Of course I can!”

“I don’t mind him staying in my house for as long as he needs,” Anatole said.

“Thank you,” Eulogio murmured.

“It will be all right,” Farida said to Marvin, who didn’t want to abandon his friend.

“Thank you, Farida.” Eulogio’s voice betrayed his nervousness.

“Will you look after him?” Farida asked Anatole.

“You know I will,” he replied.

For a few seconds, Farida and Anatole looked at one another. Farida let go of Marvin’s hand and walked over to Anatole to give him a hug, during which she whispered in his ear:

“Eulogio has suffered a great deal because he can’t acknowledge who he is … You can help him.”

Anatole gave her another hug, and whispered in return:

“I can try.”

After this, no one looked back. Farida and Marvin disappeared into the darkness while Eulogio, Anatole and Dr. Girard followed the woman back to the car.

She drove them for a good distance until they reached a wooden house on the edge of a village. She said they should follow her.

Anatole carried Monsieur Rosent’s body and Eulogio walked alongside him.

In silence, they dug a grave in the woman’s vegetable garden and put the body into it. Then she invited them into her house to drink a cup of coffee.

“I need to get something warm into my stomach before I take you home.”

And so they drank coffee.