The Keeper of the Walls (67 page)

The angel was reaching a long, elegant hand toward him, to pull him up. Claude's heart felt as if it had burst, as if all inside him had combusted; and it felt good, like a release, like the ultimate orgasm shuddering through his body. And he said to the angel:
Don't
leave without me.

When his companions came to relieve them, they found both Sergeant Marcel Lepuis and Lieutenant Claude Bruisson dead, like frozen statues, behind the machine gun they had been guarding. But the Nazi colonel who commanded them had no time for an Aryan burial. He kicked them twice with his boot to unjam the wheels under the machine gun, and left them to be buried by God under fresh piles of newborn snow.

N
icolas leaned over the railing
, hailing in the New Year with a silent toast, his eyes lifted to the star sprinkled winter night. The tiny
Gonçalo Velho,
a bare fifteen hundred tons, was carrying him and twelve other passengers to the New World…to a new life. His heart felt heavy, and for a moment, fear strangled him. Perhaps he should have gone along with Pierre, to London, instead of embarking on this strange expedition. Pierre, he'd heard in Madrid, had reached his destination. And would be doing something to help his country.

He, Nicky, had received his visa just in time, before his seventeenth birthday. For the line of demarcation between the two zones had become officially closed to all men over that age. He'd taken a train to Madrid, a transit visa for Spain and Portugal safely tucked in his wallet, along with his exit visa from the Vichy government. He'd left Nice, and his studies, with hardly a regret. The
baccalauréat,
which had seemed so important to him a year ago, now mattered very little. He'd had to interrupt his last year of high school, without passing the second
bac
—but now, it looked as if, for a Jewish boy, survival alone mattered, which, in France, was risky business.

His train to Spain had been the last before Pearl Harbor. The sudden entry of the United States into the war had blocked all travel out of France, for no one knew how long. So on the one hand the late December date of his birthday, and on the other, the Japanese attack, had wedged his trip into the only possible period when he could still have departed, legally.

Nicky had paid forty pounds sterling to reach Lisbon from Spain, and then, the outrageous price of four hundred additional pounds to embark on the small Portuguese ship, the
Gonçalo Velho.
Now, leaning to smell the sharp salt of the sea, he thought how unpredictable life could be. When he'd returned from Paris to Nice, he'd found that the landlady had given his room away at the boardinghouse. In a panic, he'd wandered through the streets until he'd seen a sign in the window of a slim, badly lit building:
room to let.
He'd walked in, and asked, and been given a key. It hadn't been until three weeks later that he'd become aware that the small hotel, where pretty, made-up girls waved him their friendly greetings every day on the worn-down staircase, had been, in fact, a brothel, and the pleasant girls, prostitutes. But then, none of
them
had supposed that they'd had a real prince in their bawdy house. . . .

Nicky smiled, remembering Myriam, the thirty-year-old blonde who'd made it her business, after six months, to see to it that he became initiated to the rites of manhood. He'd only once thought of Trotti, during their encounter in the whore's narrow room. Now he wondered about his sister; war turned some timid virgins into passionate mistresses, and Kira had never been timid. But things had been more serious between her and Pierre, and Trotti had told him of a commitment between his sister and his best friend. And if he could trust anyone not to harm Kira, it had to be Pierre: kind, truthful Pierre.

Not the man Papa would want for her, he thought, suddenly bitter. Just a nice French boy, without a title. But Kira's life is in her own hands now. Misha, by leaving the country, had allowed his daughter to blossom into the giving, valorous girl he, Nicky, had always known she could become. With their father around . . . who knows? Kira might have remained the selfish, spoiled little Russian princess, her Papa's toy child.

Yesterday, they'd had a scare on board ship: they'd been stopped by a United States destroyer. But when the Americans had verified the cargo: thirteen passengers and a hold full of cork, they'd allowed the
Gonçalo Velho
to continue its journey. And so now, New York was only a few days away; they'd already been sailing for over two weeks.

The only problem was the salt cod. For the first days, the food had been delicious, but now, reality had set in. For breakfast, lunch and dinner, the passengers and crew knew what to expect: salt cod and potatoes, with only water to wash them down.

The God of the Jews knows how to save his people, Nicky thought, gratefully. If his visa had come just two days later, he would still, now, be stuck in France, held back by Pearl Harbor and his seventeen years. And if, somehow, through the help of Jeanne Dalbret, he hadn't received that extra few hundred pounds . . . he'd never have had the money for this voyage.

The Vichy man who had brought him the funds had also left him an uncensored letter. Claude had shocked the family, and joined the Legion. And old Aunt Mina, her mind already three-quarters warped, had gently passed away one Sunday morning. Nicky still felt a deep sadness whenever he thought of her; for old Papa and Mama Steiner had brightened his youth, and given him and Kira the best year of their childhood.

“Hey, young man, happy New Year!” the captain called out, his form appearing next to him, outlined by the moon. “What's that you're holding in your hand? A button?”

“My cuff link. It fell off at dinner.” And gently, Nicky caressed the sharp planes of the ruby, recalling another holiday season, four years ago, when a man had paid his last sou to redeem this family heirloom. For him, Nicky: Prince Nicolas Brasilov. He'd never live that legend, as his father had, and even his mother, and his sister. The fabled title meant nothing to him, a modern young man concerned more with his future than his ancestral escutcheon.

And yet ... could one ever escape the pull of one's blood, whether worthy or venal? Nicky only understood that within his thin form, two mighty heritages, as opposite as night and day, had found a common vessel into which to pour the elixir of life.

“Happy New Year, Captain,” he said softly, pocketing the gold and ruby piece, and breathing in the clear, new air in front of him.

B
ecause of the
lack of gasoline, the trains and subways were few and far between, and only a fraction of the peacetime taxis were running. Twice a week, on Mondays and Thursdays, Lily came to Paris, visited her parents, and purchased some of the dry goods, dairy products, and meat to which her ration cards from the Rue Lord-Byron still entitled her. But mostly, she made the trip to spend an afternoon with Mark. Usually, they were able to stay together only for an hour, for Lily wanted to be on her way home by six, in order to run no risk of being caught after the curfew of 8:00
p.m.,
after which identity cards were checked, and only proven gentiles were released in peace.

Rommel was suffering setbacks in North Africa, and Marshal Pétain had regained some support among his people by refusing any further military aid to the Reich. In Paris, the Germans were no longer behaving like civilized overlords. One heard of terrible reprisals, and the French underground, the Resistance, was manifesting itself more and more often, blowing up trains to slow down communications among the Germans. It was said that these underground groups were being directed by De Gaulle's Free French headquarters, in London.

But April, in the capital, had come with the full rush of early spring, the horse chestnut trees in bloom, the skies intermittently azure blue, or torn with storms, the Seine swollen and ripe beneath a sun that was moody, uncertain whether to dim or to brighten the ancient city. It seemed poignantly ironic that the weather was ignoring the war and the occupation.

On a certain Thursday afternoon, Lily knocked on Mark's door, and was let in by her lover himself, in his shirt sleeves. He made it a habit to let his maid off on Mondays and Thursdays, when he knew that Lily tried to come. In spite of the fact that their lovemaking had become a constant, passionate part of their lives, they both still maintained the delicacy of discretion. She did, for her daughter's sake; and he, to make her comings and goings less noticeable to an outside world that had grown increasingly more hostile. Who knew which spies De Chaynisart employed, to tail her or to watch this house? For his link to the Gestapo and the German Embassy was a well-known fact.

Mark's apartment, on the second floor of a spacious old building, was decorated unpretentiously, for comfort. Lily thought that it was the exact opposite of what Misha had wanted for Rue Molitor. Mark's furniture was modern, its tones warm and autumnal, and the paintings he had chosen for his walls were two original Chagalls and a Picasso nude, from the master's Blue Period. Lily felt her spirits rise, an enormous warmth filling her, as soon as she stepped inside this apartment, which, to her, had been more of a “home” than either the Villa Persane or the immaculate, too perfect Rue Molitor.

Avenue Montaigne was where she was accepted and loved, however she was dressed, and in whatever mood she arrived.

Now he drew her inside, and hungrily covered her throat and lips with a small flutter of kisses. The afternoon sun filtered through the mustard-colored raw silk drapes, falling with mellow generosity over the polished parquet floor. She thought, her heart reaching out through tender fingers in the tight curls of his hair, that, in spite of the war, in spite of the daily fear she experienced concerning De Chaynisart and the Gestapo, she had never felt so full, so happy, as now, in her thirty-eighth year, with this man who acted as if their lives were bound together forever, as naturally as grapes to the vine.

He took her by the hand to his low, curved Art Nouveau sofa, and, gratefully, she pushed her shoes off and curled up, taking the pins out of her hair and lying back in his arms. “Lily,” he said, his voice strangely awkward. “I don't know how to tell you this, darling . . . but . . .”

Shaking her hair loose, her muscles suddenly alive, and the warm inner glow receding, giving way to a gnawing apprehension, she asked: “You're leaving?”

De Chaynisart had said it all: Lend Lease had made Americans unpopular even before Pearl Harbor. Now, to the Germans, they were the enemy. No American was going to stay in France if he could help it. Mark's hand stayed on her shoulder, and he said, his hazel eyes intently on her: “Darling, the situation is worsening here in Paris, especially for you and Kira. If I'm out of the country, it will be easier, through my connections, to get both of you out also.”

She watched, through a film of tears, the anxious expression on his face. He cared. He really
cared:
he wanted her with him. But she felt a tremendous sense of bereavement, listening to him. “Lily,” he repeated, stroking the softness of her hair: “I want us to be together, when all this is over. I want us to live together, to be married. But right now, I can't take you with me, because we're
not
legally married. You've got to trust me to do it from Spain. Things aren't safe here . . . especially for Jews. But from Paris, there's almost nothing I can do for you, or for Kira.”

She found it impossible to reply. Not looking at her, in order to avoid facing both their heartbreak, he added, in a low voice: “And besides . . . it's a little shameful not to be making any contribution to my country, now that it, too, is at war.”

She nodded, a coldness descending like ice water from her head to the pit of her stomach. She thought, though she didn't mention it, that Mark and Claude would have been the same age, too old, really, for warfare, at forty-two. But her brother had burned a searing scar into their mother's heart, so that, when news had come of his death on the Russian front, Claire's face had remained stone cold. She'd banished him from her heart when he had left with the Legion.

And now Mark was speaking of leaving, of wanting to serve his country. She spoke hesitantly: “What are your plans?”

“Nothing too dangerous. I'm going to Spain, Lily, with the Associated Press, as war correspondent in a neutral territory. There's still a lot to be written about the Spanish; Franco's neutrality is heavily tilted toward the Axis powers, and the folks back home want to read all about it. There are spy rings in the Pyrenees, and inside the country itself. How long they'll keep me there, I don't know; they might want to send me to North Africa, after a while. And I'll go wherever they feel I'm needed.”

She didn't know what to say. Her throat hurt from trying not to let out her anguish in a great, relieving cry, and the back of her eyeballs stung from contained tears. His fingers played with hers, but she could tell how uncomfortable he was, how pained, how suddenly unsure and confused. And so, to ease it for him, she said, quietly: “It's true; you should go.”

All at once, the comfortable room began to close in, and the Picasso nude to leer at her, pressing her back against the silk nub of the sofa cushions. Her chest felt tight and hard.

Only then did she burst into sobs, a dam rupturing inside her. Mark was holding her head, playing with the soft strands of her long hair, and she could feel the warmth from his fingers, the warmth of his presence. “You still have me,” he stated. “You'll always have me, Lily, for as long as you want me in your life.”

“I'll never
stop
wanting you,” she whispered, letting her tears fall on his chest. “You're my heart, Mark ... my life.”

“And I'll get you and Kira out, just as soon as I can. We'll be a family.”

For a long time, they remained entwined on the sofa, until it was time for her to leave. They'd felt too empty, their emotions on the ragged edge, for lovemaking, content just to let the dying sun caress their limbs as they'd held each other. And when he held the front door open to let her out, she simply kissed him once, fully on the mouth, and then walked down the stairs without turning back.