The Keeper of the Walls Read online

  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.

  * * *

  Because 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 o
f 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.

  But when he pulled back the drapery to see her crossing the street, her shoulders were hunched and she was holding a handkerchief to shield her face. His own grief a strangling knot, Mark MacDonald shut his eyes and pounded a fist into the palm of his other hand.

  They hadn’t said good-bye, on purpose.

  * * *

  Raïssa Markovna Sudarskaya lived in a mansard room under the eaves, on the Rue des Sablons near the suburb of Neuilly. The entire floor of her apartment house, once an enormous attic, had been divided into twenty-two tiny rooms now occupied by maids and students. In a corner stood her Bunsen burner, and an old sink, its enamel badly chipped and its iron pipe a glaring ugliness that could not be hidden.

  She led a quiet, undisturbed existence, living on her earnings as a piano teacher. By ten o’clock she was always asleep, especially now, when Jews were not allowed outside after eight o’clock. Her single luxury was the beautiful ebony piano that occupied half her room. Now that Claire lived in the Boulevard Exelmans, she sometimes visited her there, and, once in a while, Lily stopped off to see her. Otherwise, her social life was a blank. She was even afraid to go to the temple on the Rue de la Victoire, because of the Germans, who were surely keeping it under surveillance.

  She was old, almost seventy. Her brilliant life as a student at the Moscow Conservatory seemed like a hazy dream to her now, and she, the talented student, a fairy-tale princess as unlike herself as the crone is unlike the virgin. But still, her life continued.

  It was May 1942. Raïssa Markovna had washed her small plate and braided her sparse, yellow-white hair, and gone to bed. Outside, a downpour of rain clattered against her window and the pavement, lulling her to sleep. The alarm was set for seven thirty, for that gave her just enough time to prepare herself for her first lesson at nine o’clock, in Saint-Cloud.

  Sudarskaya was a light sleeper. During the Bolshevik Revolution, she’d learned to awaken at the smallest sound, in case the Reds arrived and an immediate escape was necessary. So, when she heard the raised voices at her door, in what seemed to be the middle of the night, she sat up at once, her heart flying into her throat. The alarm clock read five in the morning.

  Her janitor, whom she had known for over twenty years, was saying, loudly: “I repeat, she isn’t here!” Sudarskaya pulled the sheet and blanket over her head, her breath suddenly short.

  A metallic male voice answered: “Turn the knob.” Sudarskaya had never felt such terror in all her life; if the Bolsheviks had brought fear to all White Russians, the Nazis were worse. For the Reds could have done no worse than to kill her, while the Nazis were known to send you to places like Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen, names that were starting to mean a fate worse than death: slow torture, or ... She couldn’t think, wouldn’t think, as she saw the doorknob being moved.

  But of course it didn’t give. She’d turned the key herself, before going to bed. But the German voice persisted: “Surely there’s a passkey, or a master. Go and get it. The corporal will accompany you, and I shall wait here.”

  Raïssa Markovna lay, petrified, under the covers. For one flash of a moment, she considered tiptoeing to put the key back into the lock, and thus block the mechanism on the other side. But this would have alerted the officer on guard to her definite presence in the room. Then, they’d have kicked the door in.

  A Jewish man she knew from synagogue had been taken to Drancy, the collection camp from which sealed trains departed every few days, for parts unknown, except for their dreaded names: Bergen-Belsen, Treblinka, Auschwitz, Dachau. What did those names mean? And was it true that lampshades were being fashioned out of the skins of dead Jews there? This nice Jewish man had been seized from his house, in the early dawn . . . just like this, a few days ago.

  The little piano teacher was well over the “legal” age of fifteen to fifty-five, for deporting Jews in France. But then again, the Germans were well known for their disregard of all but their lust to kill Jews. Now heavy steps were resounding down the corridor, and she heard the janitor say, feebly: “I found the passkey.”

  She thought that for sure, her final hour had come. There could be no escape. She heard the metal key being inserted into her lock, and shut her eyes tightly. But the door did not give way.

  “See for yourself, officer,” the janitor said. “This is supposed to open any door on this floor. But it’s not working. And, I told you, Madame Sudarskaya left a few days ago.”

  “Well, if we can’t open it, then we may as well be on our way,” the German voice remarked. “It hardly seems worthwhile to expend energy on someone who’s skipped town. But we’ll return tomorrow, to make sure you haven’t lied to protect this old Jewess.”

  When the steps had stopped reverberating in the hallway, and she was sure that they had gone, Sudarskaya bounded out of bed, grabbed the same dress she had laid out the night before, and, without bothering to find her shoes or to comb her hair, dashed out like a possessed spirit toward the service staircase.

  On the third-floor landing, she found herself face-to-face with the janitor, a little old man from Brittany. “Madame Sudarskaya, you’d better leave at once,” he told her. “It was just your luck that we fumigated your floor last week. The chemical must have rusted the lock. Your small key could turn because its contours exactly fit those of the lock—but the larger passkey was stopped. Your life was saved by the cockroaches, so to speak.” She stared at him, gaping. “And . . . they’re gone?’’ With a resigned shrug, the old man made an evasive sign. “But find somewhere else to sleep from now on. Somewhere where they won’t be able to trace you. Go to a friend’s house . . . anywhere. But not near Neuilly, if I were you.”

  Sudarskaya nodded, mutely, and ran down the rest of the staircase. She wondered if the Jews had a special prayer for roaches, and didn’t begin to relax until she w
as sitting comfortably in a taxi, on its way to Boulevard Exelmans.

  * * *

  “But there’s no extra room to let,” Madame Portier said, sighing. “And Madame Dalbret told me you had no money, to pay another person’s rent. As it is, Madame, you and your daughter have raised few questions among the peaceful inhabitants of our small village. But another refugee, old and foreign, surely would.”

  “What other choice do we have?” Lily asked. She clasped and unclasped her long, slender fingers. “Our friend has no one else in the world. We can’t turn her away.”

  “If it makes any difference,” Kira interrupted, “then we’ll tell her she’s not to leave the house. Like this, no one will even know she’s here. She can sleep in the bed with Mama, and I’ll take the lounge chair for myself.”

  Madame Portier clicked her false teeth. “Well ... I wouldn’t want anyone to think I was a collabo. I guess she can come. But you yourselves will have to speak to the priest, the baker, and the butcher. It’ll be up to them.”

  On the threshold, she turned around, her small eyes like piercing rivets. “You’re all Jews, aren’t you?” she murmured, her face unreadable.

  Lily and Kira stared at her, and for a moment, a taut silence almost crackled like an electric field. Then Kira stepped forward, her chin raised defiantly. “What’s wrong with that?”she demanded.

  Madame Portier scratched a large mole. “I didn’t say there was anything wrong,” she replied, and moved toward the door.