The Invisible Bridge by Julie Orringer
Elisabet would sail at the beginning of August, and many things had to be prepared for the voyage. Her clothes were a schoolgirl's clothes; she had to assemble the wardrobe of a married woman. Paul insisted on contributing to the preparations, at first presenting Elisabet with the kind of extravagances he had only ever thought of as necessities: a linen tennis costume with a pair of rubber-soled canvas shoes; a pearl necklace with a platinum clasp; a set of traveling cases made of fawn-colored leather, her initials stamped upon them in gold. Each purchase devastated the savings he'd accumulated by practicing the small economies Andras had taught him. At last Klara suggested, as gently as one could, that Paul might ask her how the money might best be spent. Elisabet needed things like cambric slips, nightgowns, walking shoes. One of the fillings in her teeth had to be replaced. She wanted her long hair cut into a short style. All of these things cost money and took time. When Andras left in the evenings, Klara would always have her sewing basket out; he imagined her as a kind of Penelope by proxy, each night tearing out the work she'd done so that Elisabet would never have to marry. It terrified her, she'd told him, to think of Elisabet setting out across the ocean while Europe stood on the brink of war. It was not uncommon for civilian ships to be torpedoed.
Couldn't Elisabet wait another few months at least, until the situation in Poland had quieted down and the problems with the Anglo-French Mutual Assistance Agreement with Russia had been resolved? Did Paul and Elisabet really have to sail in August, that month when wars traditionally began? But Elisabet had insisted that if she waited, France might indeed go to war; then the journey would be impossible. The subject had sparked arguments that had brought Klara and Elisabet close to emotional collapse. Andras had the sense that this was their last great opportunity to demonstrate their love in the way they'd practiced most, through a struggle in which neither party would yield and neither could win, a conflict whose subject was not the matter at hand but the complicated nature of mother-and-daughterhood itself.
On the rare nights when Klara came to him at his garret during those weeks, she made love to him with an insistence that seemed to have nothing to do with him at all. He had never imagined he might be so lonely in her arms; he wanted her unfocused eyes to settle upon him. When he stopped her once and said, "Look at me," she rolled away from him and broke into tears. Then she apologized, and he held her, unable to suppress the selfish wish that this would all be over soon. On the other side of Elisabet's departure was the fulfillment of the promise they'd made last fall: They, too, would be married, and would live together at last. In her grief over the loss of her child, Klara had ceased to talk about what would happen once Elisabet was gone.
... 21 July 1939
ModenaDear Andras,
I am sorry, truly sorry, to hear that the marriage between Ilana and Ben Yakov has ended so sadly. It grieves me to consider the role I may have played in their unhappiness. If regret could mend that error, it would have been undone long ago. When I first received your letter I thought I couldn't possibly cometo Paris. How could I face Ilana, I asked myself, knowing how I had wronged her? Love insists upon its own expression; it tells us it is right simply by virtue of being love. But we are human beings and must decide what is right. My feelings for Ilana were so acute that I failed to govern them. I hardly deserve a second chance to prove myself her friend; still less to plead my case as a lover. But, Andraska--and perhaps you'll consider me a scoundrel for saying so--I find that my feelings for her are unchanged. How my pulse raced when I read that she'd asked after me! How it moved me to hear that she'd spoken of me with tenderness! You know me too well to have mentioned these things lightly; you must have known what they would mean to me. And so, finally, I am coming. I am ashamed, but I am coming. At least you'll never have reason to doubt my constancy; neither, I hope, shall Ilana. By the time you receive this letter I will have reached Paris. I will take a room at the Hotel St. Jacques, where you can find me on Friday. With love,
Your TIBOR
It was Saturday morning by the time Andras got his brother's letter. He had been at the architecture firm all night, helping Lemain complete a set of drawings for a client.
The letter was sitting on the front table, along with a handwritten note from Tibor: Andras: Came to see you this morning. Waited until 9. Can't wait longer! I must try to see her. Meet me at Klara's. T.
He knocked on the concierge's door. There was a long silence; then came an unintelligible French curse and approaching footsteps. The concierge came out in a grime-stained apron and sooty work gloves, a stripe of grease across her brow.
"Tsk!" she said. "A visitor arrives with great commotion at an inconvenient hour.
What a surprise: He's a relative of yours."
"When did my brother leave?"
"Not three minutes ago. I was cleaning the oven, as you can see."
"Three minutes ago!"
"There's no need to shout, young man."
"Excuse me," Andras said. He stuffed the note into his pocket and charged out into the street. The door slammed behind him; the concierge's muffled curse followed him down the block. He took off at a run toward the Marais. It was a bright, hot morning; the streets were already crowded with tourists and their cameras, families out for Saturday strolls, lovers walking arm in arm. At the Pont Louis-Philippe, Andras glimpsed a familiar hat in the crush of the crowd. He called his brother's name, and the man turned.
They met at the center of the bridge. Tibor seemed to have grown thinner since Andras had last seen him; the angles of his cheekbones were sharper now, the shadows beneath his eyes darker. When they embraced, he seemed made of a substance lighter than flesh.
"Are you all right?" Andras asked, studying his features.
"I haven't slept since I got your letter," Tibor said.
"When did you arrive?"
"Last night. I came to your building, but you weren't there."
"I was at work all night. I just got your note."
"So you haven't spoken to her? She doesn't know I'm in Paris?"
"No. She doesn't even know I wrote to you."
"How is she, Andras?"
"Just as before. Very sad. But I think that will change shortly."
Tibor gave his brother a bemused smile. "If you're so sure she'll be glad to see me, why did you chase me all the way here?"
"I suppose I wanted to see you first!" Andras said, and laughed.
"Well?" Tibor spread his arms.
"Hideous as ever. And me?"
"Shoes untied. Ink spots on your shirt. And you haven't shaved."
"Perfect. On our way, then." He took Tibor's arm and turned him toward the rue de Sevigne. But Tibor didn't move. He put a hand on the bridge rail and looked down into the Seine.
"I'm not sure I can do this," he said. "I'm petrified."
"Of course you are," Andras said. "But now that you're here, you have to do it."
He cocked his head toward the Marais. "Come on."
They walked together, both of them lightheaded from lack of sleep. On their way, Tibor bought a bouquet of peonies from a corner florist. By the time they reached Klara's corner, Andras had absorbed his brother's misgivings; he worried that they should have sent word that they were coming. He looked through the windowpanes into the tranquil light of the studio, still empty before the first class, and regretted their intrusion upon the quiet of Saturday morning at the Morgensterns'.
But all was already in chaos there. The front door opened at Andras's touch; from upstairs came the sounds of some disaster--Klara's voice raised in panic, Mrs. Apfel shouting. For an instant Andras thought they were too late: in her despair, Ilana di Sabato had taken her own life, and Klara had just now discovered her body. He grabbed the banister and raced up the stairs, and Tibor followed.
But Ilana was nowhere to be seen. It was Mrs. Apfel who met them at the top of the stairs. "She's gone!" she said. "The little vixen ran away!"
"Who?" Andras said. "What happened?"
"Sh
From down the hall came a great clattering of something bulky and rigid. Andras went to Klara's room to find that she had just pulled a suitcase down from the top of the wardrobe. She threw it onto the unmade bed, flung it open, and pulled her driving coat out of its brown paper.
"What are you doing?" Andras said.
She looked at him, her lovely features raked raw by grief. "Going after her," she said, and thrust a note into his hands. In her round childish script, Elisabet explained that she must go, that she couldn't wait any longer, that she was afraid the situation in Poland might push France toward war before they could sail. They had left Paris by train that morning; they would depart for New York the next day on the S.S. Ile de France, and would be married by the captain on board. She apologized--and here the letters were blurred--and the next thing he could read was might be easier for everyone if I, and then another illegible line. Will write when I arrive, the note concluded. Thanks for trousseau and everything else. Love, &c.
"When did you get this?"
"This morning. All her things are gone."
"And you're going to try to catch her?"
"I can follow her to Le Havre. If we drive, we can get there by this afternoon."
Andras sighed. The bond between Klara and Elisabet would be a difficult one to break; he could see why Elisabet might want to get a running start. But it made him furious to think of Elisabet moving her things out quietly in the night, those carefully packed crates of clothing and linen Klara had assembled for her. "Did you hire a car?" he asked.
"I had Mrs. Apfel call. It should arrive in a moment."
"Klara--"
"Yes, I know." She sat down on the bed, holding the driving coat on her lap.
"She's a grown girl. She's going to leave anyway. I ought to allow her to go off and do what she wants to do."
"Are you going to try to stop her? Do you think you can convince her not to sail?"
"No," she said, and sighed. "But since she's determined to go, I'd like to see her off. I'd like to say goodbye to my daughter."
He understood, of course. Elisabet's war of independence was over; what Klara wanted now was to negotiate the peace in person, rather than from opposite sides of the Atlantic. If there was a remnant of struggle in her capitulation, he understood that, too.
She had been fighting this battle for years, and couldn't so easily give up the habit.
"I'll come with you," he said. "Or I won't, if you'd prefer that."
"I want you to come. Please come."
"But Klara, there's something else I have to tell you," he said. "Tibor's here."
"Tibor? Your brother is here?"
"Yes. He's here right now, in the apartment."
"You didn't tell me he'd written back!"
"I didn't get the letter until this morning."
"Ilana," she said, and they went down the hall to deliver the news.
But Ilana and Tibor had already found each other. They were sitting together on the sofa in the front room. On her face was a look of disbelieving joy; on his, relief and exhaustion. They were not unhappy to learn that Andras and Klara were going to Le Havre, and that they would have to spend the day in each other's company.
"But you'll call us when you get to Le Havre," Tibor said. "Let us know if you've found her."
From downstairs came the double blast of a klaxon; the rental agency had delivered the car, and it was time to go. Mrs. Apfel handed over a basket of things she'd packed for the journey. Minutes later they were off, weaving their way through the streets of Paris, Andras white-knuckled in the passenger seat, Klara resolute and grim behind the wheel. By the time they hit the countryside, Klara's forehead had relaxed. Morning sun flooded the rippling lavender fields ahead of them, the scent of gasoline a thrilling counterpoint to that sweetness. They didn't talk above the wind and engine noise, but when they reached a stretch of open road she took his hand.
There was no secrecy to Paul and Elisabet's plans; they were staying at the very hotel they'd settled upon a month earlier when it was decided they would leave from Le Havre. Andras and Klara went into the high white lobby and inquired at the desk. They were told to wait, and then were told to follow the bellman. The couple themselves were seated on a veranda overlooking the port, where the S.S. Ile de France could be seen in her strict nautical uniform, her crimson smokestacks circumscribed in black. Klara rushed across the veranda, calling Elisabet's name, and Elisabet rose from her chair with an expression of surprise and relief. Andras had never before seen her look so happy to see her mother. And then she did a remarkable thing: She threw her arms around Klara's neck and burst into tears.
"Forgive me!" Elisabet cried. "I shouldn't have left the way I did. I didn't know what else to do!" And she wept on her mother's shoulder.
Paul watched the scene with evident embarrassment; he gave Andras a sheepish nod of greeting and then ordered a round of drinks for everyone.
"What were you thinking?" Klara said when they'd sat down together. She touched Elisabet's face. "Couldn't you have allowed me the comfort of an ordinary goodbye? Did you think I'd lock you in your room and keep you there?"
"I don't know," Elisabet said, still crying. "I'm sorry." She twisted the shorn ends of her hair self-consciously; without the long yellow braid, her head looked oddly small and bereft. The bob drew attention to her pale naked mouth. "I was frightened, too. I didn't know if I could bear to say goodbye."
"And you," Klara said, turning to Paul. "Was this how you left your mother when you came to France?"
"Ah--no,
Madame."
"Ah--no, indeed! In the future you'll treat me with the respect you'd give your own mother, if you please."
"I apologize, Madame." He looked genuinely chastened. Andras wondered if his own mother had ever spoken to him in such a tone. He tried to conjure up an image of Paul's mother, but all he could muster was a jodhpur-clad version of the Baroness Kaczynska, a sixteenth-century aristocrat whose complicated history and lineage he'd had to study at school in Debrecen.
"Do you really mean to be married by a sea captain?" Klara asked her daughter.
"Is that what you'd like?"
"It's what we've decided," Elisabet said. "I think it's exciting."
"So I'm not to see you married, then."
"You'll see me after I'm married. When we come back to visit."
"And when do you imagine that will be?" Klara said. "When do you think you'll be able to buy passage back across an ocean? Particularly if your husband's parents don't accept your union?"
"We thought maybe you'd want to come live in the States," Paul said. "To be close to the children and all, when we have children."
"And what about my own children?" Klara said. "It might not be an easy thing for me to dash across an ocean."
"What
children?"
She looked at Andras and took his hand. "Our children."
"Maman!" Elisabet said. "You can't mean you plan to have children with--!" She cocked a thumb at Andras.
"We may. We've discussed it."
"But
you're
un femme d'un certain age!"
Klara laughed. "We're all of a certain age, aren't we? You, for example, are of an age at which it's impossible to understand how thirty-two might seem like the beginning of a life, rather than the end of one."
"But
I'm your child," Elisabet said, looking as though she might cry again.
"Of course you are," Klara said, and tucked one of Elisabet's short blond locks behind her ear. "That's why I came here to you. I couldn't let you go across the ocean without saying a proper goodbye."
"Mesdames," Andras said. "Pardon me. I think Mr. Camden and I will take a walk now and leave you alone."
"That's right," Paul said. "We'll go down to see the ship."
It had all become rather o
It was a relief to them both to take leave of Klara and Elisabet and strike out on their own.