The Keeper of the Walls Read online

  She raised her gloved hand, knocked—her heart beating very fast. A man’s voice said: “Come in. Who is it?” Lily turned the knob and found herself face to face with Grand Rabbi Julien Weill, spectacles on his nose, writing on long sheets of paper at his desk. She felt herself blush. “Rabbi—”

  “Liliane Brasilova—Claire’s daughter,” he said, in his measured, educated voice. “Please—sit down.”

  She sat. The small hat with its discreet feather felt tight over her pinned-up hair, and her shoes felt small. She was aware of her own awkwardness, of her height, of the way her hands were folded over her bag, as if clutching it for support. He smiled at her. He looked tired, drained. “We were reintroduced at Diane de Rothschild’s wedding, last Wednesday. Although I’d have remembered you from Maryse’s wedding, seven years ago. You’re a striking young woman. How old are you now, may I ask?”

  From anyone else, this would have seemed the epitome of rudeness. But she felt that he was reacting sympathetically, wanting to know his old friend’s child. “I’m twenty-seven,” she answered.

  “Claire and I have been friends for thirty-five years. She’s a good woman: and an unusually strong one. She reminds me of those women in the Old Testament—Ruth, Esther—who were the mainstays of their families. I suppose you know that we go back a long way—or you wouldn’t be here, would you?”

  She smiled. She remembered looking at him curiously, at the Rothschild wedding. Hanging on to Misha’s arm, but scouring the rooms for signs of Rabbi Weill. Odd how she’d been saving him for a last hope—as a last resort. Somehow she’d felt that he alone might understand—that he alone wouldn’t judge her. He hadn’t judged the mother—he wouldn’t judge the daughter.

  Diane de Rothschild came from one of the most important families of Paris. Her father, Robert, knew Misha; they had had some connections through the Bank of France. Unlike Maryse’s wedding, this event had been a business necessity to attend, to see and be seen by le tout-Paris. Her mother had come, with Jacques, and Lily had tried to spend as little time with them as possible, sensing the danger of being in the same room with people who were sure to know that Jacques—Jacob, as Claire called him when Misha and Claude weren’t there—was Jewish.

  Diane had married Anatole Muhlstein, and the gifts had been displayed on five enormous counters, the jewels in a glass-paneled showcase: a diamond pendant, a crescent of rubies, a pearl necklace, a river of diamonds and a necklace of three emeralds. Lily had examined the gems as if she’d been in a museum, and remembered when she’d asked Misha if they were rich enough “never to feel to anything.” She understood now the difference between the inexhaustible fortune of the Rothschilds, and the small, new French wealth of her husband and father-in-law.

  It was then that she’d made up her mind to come and see Rabbi Weill—as she knew that her mother had, some thirty-three years ago, when she’d found out she was pregnant. Now she said, softly: “I came here because of my trouble. I hope that you can hear me out. I know my mother’s story—she told me everything, several years ago—before she married Jacques Walter. I know how much you helped her.”

  “It was difficult to be of real help,” he said.

  “When my mother told me, I was angry. I felt that she’d kept the truth from me, and betrayed my love. And also—I was angry because I was married to a man who . . . well . . . isn’t particularly fond of the Jews. I was afraid he’d find out.”

  “And would that be so terrible, Liliane?”

  She leaned forward, her dark eyes wide with passion—fear? anger? he wasn’t quite sure—and said: “He’s a terrible man! Rabbi Weill . . . you probably think I’m overdramatizing. But, oh, God—four years ago, he did something dreadful, for which I’ve never been able to forgive him! I was pregnant, and hadn’t told him yet. A friend of mine, a man, was visiting me, and . . . well, the conversation between us was actually quite innocent, we were discussing my mother and Jacques . . . but Misha overheard some words that made him believe that this man and I had been having a love affair. And so he took me to a woman ... an abortionist . . . to force me to end my pregnancy. He was sure that I’d betrayed him and that my friend was really the father.”

  Rabbi Weill removed his spectacles, and carefully wiped the lenses with his handkerchief. Then he looked at her. “And? What did you do?”

  She didn’t look away, but whispered, with an emotion that seemed to reverberate through the room, like a sound: “I went ahead with it.” And she sat back, waiting.

  He slipped the glasses back over his ears and nose, and folded his hands together over the blotter on his desk. Still the dark eyes were on him, measuring him, testing the ground. He said: “How did you feel, Liliane?”

  “How do you suppose I felt, Rabbi? I had committed what, in my religion, was a cardinal sin. I’d done something which I condemned with all my heart—against which I rebelled with all my soul. Yet I’d let him do it, because—because I was afraid I’d lose my other children.”

  “You’re not saying that you did it because you loved him.”

  She said, hotly: “Loved him? Rabbi Weill—at that moment I hated Mikhail Brasilov. I wanted him dead—not the baby.”

  Again the eyes were glued to him. He smiled a little. “You are expecting me to be shocked. I’m not. Life—and the actions of human beings—no longer shock me, my dear. Your husband behaved the way children do when they are at their most cruel—and yet, I suppose he did it as a soul in pain. Afterward—what happened?”

  He examined the upturned face, its skin white with tension, tension lines also around her lips and eyes. “Afterward, I felt as though I’d lost my life. I was a devout Catholic until that moment—but the priest refused me absolution. I have no church anymore. My husband killed the child inside me, and took away my salvation. Now I just live out the days. And he? He’s continued as if nothing had ever happened. We’ve never discussed any part of it.”

  Rabbi Weill cleared his throat. “Well,” he stated. “That’s quite a story. You’re Claire’s daughter, all right. But if you have come here, it’s for a reason. Tell me, Liliane, why you have confided in me, a relative stranger.”

  She said, her voice shaking a little: “I told you, I am no longer a Catholic. Not because I renounced my faith, but because my church no longer wanted me. But you see, Rabbi—I need faith. I need a religion. And I could never return to Catholicism. I came to confess, with a full heart; and the priest condemned me, without trying to hear my side of the story—without even asking if there was one. I am so alone, without spiritual guidance; I can’t survive like this, in this dry desert, with no God to pray to.”

  “And so you thought that you would find out about your mother’s religion.”

  She nodded. “Mama is so full of love for the Jewish faith. Yet, I know almost nothing about it. After she told me her story, I began to feel a connection with other Jews—but in my heart, in my worship, I remained a Catholic. Now, because of what happened, I want to know more about this religion. My grandparents were Jews—all my mother’s family. I remember my grandpa: he was one of the kindest, gentlest men I ever met. Like an older, much older version of Wolf Steiner.”

  “Don’t make a grave mistake, Liliane. Judaism is a creed—a way of worship. It doesn’t make people good, or bad. That’s up to them.”

  “The confessor told me the same thing. That God gave us free choice. But why is it that you‘ve listened to me—that you haven’t thrown me out? You’re a better man, Rabbi. Maybe the Jewish religion allows people to be more human . . . less perfect.”

  “I would say that this depends on the particular rabbi whom you are addressing. I’ve known intransigent rabbis who go entirely by the book—like some of the Catholic fathers. I’ve always believed that you have to see the wonder in every human being—in every one of God’s creatures. I’m far from perfect, and I can’t expect anybody else to be, either. But I love my God, and I love my religion. If you want, Liliane, you can come here every Thursday after
noon, and I shall try to teach you something about Judaism. Then, when you know enough, you’ll be free to choose for yourself.”

  His face was now lined with a beautiful, open smile. “The Jews are not evangelists,” he said. “We are even against the conversion of those of other faiths. We simply try to hang on to our own.”

  “But in a sense, I am one of those,” she murmured.

  He nodded, slowly. “I suppose you are. In the Jewish religion, it’s the mother’s faith that counts. Claire was Jewish—and so you are, too—and your children. Even if they don’t know it.”

  She stood up, went across the room to shake his hand. He pressed hers between both of his. “Don’t be afraid,” he said softly.

  “But Rabbi—you mustn’t tell anyone.”

  He patted her gloved hand. “I know. After a while, when you know something about us, you may feel that you no longer wish to live in hiding. For Claire, this was the hardest thing in the world, and now, with Jacob, she feels a sense of release that’s made her younger and much happier.”

  In the street, a wind had started, lifting Lily’s veil above her head. She looked around her, as if to check for familiar presences in the shadows. Nobody stopped her. She walked to the bus stop, suddenly free, suddenly happy. Somehow, she knew she had made a step in the right direction. Whichever way it turned out for her, this was the first time in four years she’d had the courage to speak, to unburden herself.

  She let herself into the house, checking the time to make sure Misha hadn’t yet come home. And then she remembered: He was in the Aisne, because of some problem. She was alone with her children, with the servants. Taking off her suit in her boudoir, she thought about the Lindbergh child, gone about nine weeks, and tried to imagine his parents’ anguish. If anybody ever tried to kidnap Kira, or her beloved Nicky—she couldn’t pursue the thought. But she realized that, in spite of everything, those two live children still bound her to Misha—that neither she nor her husband would ever be willing to relinquish them.

  For the first time in months—in years—her body wasn’t quietly trembling, and her heart was beating normally. It all had to do with Misha, then —with her feelings. She’d opened the door to Rabbi Weill, and told him about the anger and the hatred. She thought: I hate my husband. For four years, I’ve been living with a man I hate.

  She slipped into a gown of soft satin, the edges trimmed with Brussels lace. She thought then of her grandfather, of the Rumanian grandmother she’d never known. All the women in our family have led tragic lives, she thought with consternation. One can’t escape one’s destiny. And she wondered about Kira’s future. Kira, whom she’d always considered more Misha’s child than hers. But she’d been wrong. This line of women was going to be carried on by Kira, not by Nicky. It would be she who, one day, would bring a new child into the tradition brought over to Western Europe by the young Rumanian girl who had married her grandfather.

  She picked up the silver frame on the vanity, and stared with strange detachment at the photograph of Prince Mikhail Ivanovitch Brasilov. Those arrogant eyes that thought they had all the answers—that cleft chin, which she’d thought vulnerable, but which, really, was just another point of vanity to him. She said, aloud, without passion: “I hate you. But I’m not going to leave you. Because my children need me—and they need my mother, and Jacques. We don’t think we’re perfect, like the Brasilovs. But we know how to love, and how to express our love. I’ll stay with you because I have to, because I don’t know what else to do. But from now on, I’ll never forget that you are the stranger—the outsider Wolf and my mother told me about. And I’ll never let you touch my heart again, or betray my soul.”

  Misha returned the night of the day that President Paul Doumer was murdered. In late afternoon, Lily opened the door to Sudarskaya, whose face was alive with an incredible excitement, and as the round little music teacher took off her jacket, she exclaimed: “They’ve shot the President!”

  Arkhippe, who had taken her coat, moved closer, disbelief on his features. “It can’t be true,’ Lily said.

  “But I swear it is! In the bus they said it was a Russian, and that they’ve lynched him.”

  Nicky was running out into the hall, his hair still wet from his bath, his sister on his tail in her bathrobe. “Mama! What happened?”

  “You children stay quiet, and Arkhippe will go to the corner stand and bring us back a newspaper. Now, Raïssa Markovna is here to give you your piano lessons.”

  Lily clasped the little woman’s arm, and pressed it. Nicky had already turned around, in the direction of the living room, but Kira, her eyes wide, had stayed at her side. Lily whispered: “Raïssa Markovna, for God’s sake, pull yourself together.”

  But she realized that she, too, was shaking. Moments later, Arkhippe came back, holding a newspaper out to her: “Madame Sudarskaya was right, Madame la Princesse. It was at the veterans’ book sale. There were three, or four, or maybe five shots.”

  “Is he dead?” she asked, feeling her voice quivering.

  “Not yet, Madame.”

  Kira pressed close to her. “Mama, what happens when a President of the Republic dies?”

  “The Chamber has to elect a new one. But we have to pray that President Doumer survives, darling.”

  “Was he a good man?”

  She looked up briefly to see her son and Sudarskaya, both seated on the piano bench, staring at her, their hands inert. Feelingly ridiculous, she answered: “I really don’t know. I didn’t know much about him. I’m sure he was a kind man, who loved his family. He was only our President for a year—and I don’t always understand much about politics. He was a man of the Right—like your Papa. He didn’t deserve to be hurt.”

  “I want Papa to come home,” Kira said, beginning to cry.

  Lily put an arm around her daughter, and sighed. “Raïssa Markovna, it’s useless to try to work today. Children—go to Zelle. You’ll have your supper, and then you can come out to be with us a while. Raïssa Markovna—you’ll stay and eat with me?”

  There was a scramble as Nicky descended from the bench, and Sudarskaya waddled over, her cheeks red. The little boy took his sister’s hand, started to pull her toward the hallway, but she resisted. “I don’t want to go to Zelle. I want to stay right here with Mama.”

  Lily pressed a handkerchief over her eyes, and went to sit down in the study. The little group followed her. She didn’t resist. The children sat beside her, huddling close to the warmth of her body. Sudarskaya said, in her wailing tone: “What’s the world coming to? Now the French will hate the Russians even more than before. We need them to protect us from the German menace. And what will this do to the Jews?”

  Lily asked: “What do you mean?”

  “I’m speaking about that man Hitler, in Germany. He gained two million votes in the last election.”

  “But he still lost to Hindenburg.”

  “Fine difference,” Sudarskaya scoffed. “A war criminal and a Nazi.”

  “But the German chancellor just dissolved Hitler’s private armies.”

  “That was a risky thing to do. At the temple, they were speaking about Hitler, and about what he stands for—this super-race idea.”

  “And you understood it?” Lily questioned gently.

  The little music teacher shook her head. “No. But I was afraid. There’s no place anywhere for the Jews. That’s one thing I do understand, Lily. In Russia, we were restricted to the Pale of Settlement, and we weren’t granted citizenship. In Germany, there’s an Austrian man who wants to get us out. And here—every day, there’s a new article coming out with talk that links us with the Communists. We can’t win for losing.”

  “What’s a Jew?” Kira asked.

  “A poor lost soul whom nobody wants,” Sudarskaya replied ironically. “And you’re lucky, my little girl, that your parents are Christian. That way, you’ll never be hurt.”

  “It sounds unfair,” Nicky said. “At the lycée, there’s a Jewish boy called Mau
rice. He’s nice. We play together sometimes.”

  “That’s ‘cause you always choose to go with kids nobody likes,” Kira taunted him.

  “But it’s not true. Everybody likes Maurice.”

  “And everybody likes my friend Maryse, and her husband. Raïssa Markovna was just teasing you right now. The Jews, Kira, were some of the first people to believe in God. They wrote the Old Testament. Jesus Christ was a Jew.”

  “And God knows, nobody liked him,” Sudarskaya cut in.

  Lily said, to change the subject: “My brother’s in Germany right now. Misha sent him there for some business reason. Somehow, with those National Socialists, I’d prefer to have him home.”

  “See? You don’t like the Nazis any more than I do,” Sudarskaya declared. “But you have no reason to be afraid. Your brother’s not a Jew.”

  Lily closed her eyes for a moment, and a mental image of Claude pressed across the inside of her eyelids. Claude, with his matte skin, and his dark eyes, and his aquiline nose. She thought, remembering Julien Weill’s nose, and Wolf Steiner’s father’s skin color: Claude is a Jew—one hundred percent a Jew. And she wondered then if this showed on her face, too. If so, had anyone else noticed it? And if they had . . . there was Nicky’s face, too, so much like hers, so much like Claire’s. Dark, Jewish faces, all of them.

  “The whole world’s a mess,’ Sudarskaya sighed. “If I could choose to be somewhere, I don’t know where that would be.”

  Hours later, with the children in bed, Lily and Sudarskaya stayed together in the study, listening to the radio. And when Misha came home, surprising them, Lily rushed to him without thinking, letting his arms go around her to protect her. He greeted Sudarskaya with unexpected warmth. “I’m glad Lily wasn’t alone,” he told her. “Thank you for staying.”

  After François had driven Sudarskaya home, Lily asked him about his trip, and for the first time, noticed how exhausted he looked, how peaked and drained. He took her hand, stroked it absently. “Things are very bad,” he murmured. “Everywhere around me, the economy is collapsing. All the good that Poincaré accomplished seems to have been washed away. We’re entering the slump that America and Great Britain felt before us.”