Shalimar The Clown_ A Novel Part 3

Decades had pa.s.sed since those times, but Paris lingered in the amba.s.sador's Americanized memory as a series of flickering images. It was present in the way he held a cigarette, or in the slow drift of smoke reflected in a gilded mirror. Paris was his own fist hammering on a cafe table to emphasize a political or philosophical point. It was a gla.s.s of cognac beside his morning coffee and tepid brioche. That innocent-uninnocent city was a prost.i.tute, was a gigolo, was sophisticated infidelity in the guilty-unguilty afternoons. It was too beautiful, flaunting its beauty as if begging to be scarred. It was a certain precise mixture of tenderness and violence, love and pain. Everyone in the world has two fatherlands, his own and Paris, Everyone in the world has two fatherlands, his own and Paris, a Parisian filmmaker told him back then. But he didn't trust it. It seemed . . . he struggled for the right word . . . weak. The weakness of Paris was the weakness of France, which would make possible the dark metamorphosis that was beginning, the trumping of subtlety by crudity, the shriveled victory of wretchedness over joy. a Parisian filmmaker told him back then. But he didn't trust it. It seemed . . . he struggled for the right word . . . weak. The weakness of Paris was the weakness of France, which would make possible the dark metamorphosis that was beginning, the trumping of subtlety by crudity, the shriveled victory of wretchedness over joy.

It was not only Paris that changed, obviously. His beloved Strasbourg metamorphosed too, from river jewel into cheap Rhinestone. It turned into tasteless black bread and too many rutabagas and the disappearances of friends. Also the sneer of conquest above the collar of a gray uniform, the living death of collaboration in the eyes of the beautiful showgirls, the stinking gutter finales of the dead. It became rapid capitulation and slow resistance. Strasbourg, like Paris, shape-s.h.i.+fted and was no longer itself. It was the first paradise he lost. But in his heart he blamed the capital, blamed it for its arrogant weakness, for presenting itself to the world-to him-as a vision of high civilization which it did not have the force to defend. The fall of Strasbourg was a chapter in its back-and-forth frontier history. The fall of Paris was Paris's fault.

When Boonyi Noman danced for him in the Dachigam hunting lodge in Kashmir he thought of those feathered dead-eyed showgirls wreathed in n.a.z.i cigar smoke, flaunting their gartered thighs. The clothes were different but he recognized the same hard hunger in her stare, the readiness of the survivor to suspend moral judgment in the presence of imagined opportunity. But I'm not a n.a.z.i, he thought. I'm the American amba.s.sador, the guy in the white hat. I'm for G.o.d's sake one of the Jews who lived. She swung her hips for him and he thought, And I'm also a married man. She swung her hips again and he ceased to think.

He was a Frenchman with a German name. His family's printing presses operated under the name Art & Aventure, a name they had borrowed, in French translation, from Jean Gensfleisch of Mayence, the fifteenth-century genius whose own Strasbourg workshop had been called Kunst und Aventur when, in 1440, he invented the printing press and became known to the world as Gutenberg. Max Ophuls's parents were wealthy, cultured, conservative, cosmopolitan; Max was raised speaking High German as easily as French, and believing that the great writers and thinkers of Germany belonged to him as naturally as the poets and philosophers of France. "In civilization there are no borderlines," Max senior taught him. But when barbarism came to Europe, that erased borderlines as well. The future Amba.s.sador Ophuls was twenty-nine years old when Strasbourg was evacuated. The exodus began on September 1, 1939; one hundred and twenty thousand Strasbourgeois became refugees in the Dordogne and the Indre. The Ophuls family did not leave, although their household staff disappeared overnight without giving notice, silently fleeing the exterminating angel, just as the Kashmiri palace servitors would abandon the royal Da.s.sehra banquet in the Shalimar gardens eight years later. The workers at the printing presses also began to desert their posts.

The university was moving to Clermont-Ferrand in the Zone Sud, outside the area of German occupation, and vice-chancellor Danjon urged his budding young economics genius to accompany them. But Max the younger would not leave unless he could get his parents to a place of safety as well. He tried hard to persuade them to join the evacuation. Wiry, graceful, their white hair cropped short, their hands the hands of pianists, not printers, their bodies leaning intently forward to listen to their son's absurd proposition, Max senior and his wife, Anya, looked more like identical twins than a married couple. Life had made them into each other's mirrors. Their personalities, too, had shaded into each other, creating a single, two-headed self, and so complete was their unanimity in all matters, both great and small, that it was no longer necessary for either to ask the other what they wished to eat or drink, or what their opinion might be on any subject of concern. At present they were seated side by side on carved wooden chairs in a six-hundred-year-old restaurant near the Place Kleber-an absolutely charming and historical spot-feasting heartily on choucroute au Riesling choucroute au Riesling and caramelized lamb shoulder in a beer and pine honey sauce, and gazing on their brilliant son, their onliest golden child, with a mixture of profound love and gentle, but genuine, contempt. "Max junior isn't eating," Max senior mused with an air of wonderment, and Anya replied, "The poor boy has lost his appet.i.te on account of the political situation." Their son urged them to be serious and they immediately put on their gravest expressions with every appearance (and none of the substance) of obedience. Max took a deep breath and launched into his prepared speech. The situation was desperate, he said. It was only a matter of time before the German army attacked France and if the border country should go the way of Poland the family's German name would not protect them. Theirs was a well-known Jewish household in a strongly Jewish neighborhood; the risk of informers was real and had to be faced up to. Max senior and Anya should go away to their good friends the Sauerweins' place near Cro-Magnon. He himself would go to Clermont-Ferrand and teach. They would have to lock and seal the Strasbourg house and the printing works and simply hope for the best. Was that agreed? and caramelized lamb shoulder in a beer and pine honey sauce, and gazing on their brilliant son, their onliest golden child, with a mixture of profound love and gentle, but genuine, contempt. "Max junior isn't eating," Max senior mused with an air of wonderment, and Anya replied, "The poor boy has lost his appet.i.te on account of the political situation." Their son urged them to be serious and they immediately put on their gravest expressions with every appearance (and none of the substance) of obedience. Max took a deep breath and launched into his prepared speech. The situation was desperate, he said. It was only a matter of time before the German army attacked France and if the border country should go the way of Poland the family's German name would not protect them. Theirs was a well-known Jewish household in a strongly Jewish neighborhood; the risk of informers was real and had to be faced up to. Max senior and Anya should go away to their good friends the Sauerweins' place near Cro-Magnon. He himself would go to Clermont-Ferrand and teach. They would have to lock and seal the Strasbourg house and the printing works and simply hope for the best. Was that agreed?

His parents smiled at their son the lawyer and his skillfully marshaled arguments-and these were identical smiles, c.o.c.ked up to the left a little, smiles affording no glimpses of aging teeth. They put down their utensils in unison and clasped their pianist's hands in their laps. Max senior gave a little glance at Anya and Anya gave a little glance back, offering each other the right of first reply. "Son," Max senior finally began, pursing his lips, "one never knows the answers to the questions of life until one is asked." Max was familiar with his father's circ.u.mlocutory philosophizing and waited for the point to arrive. "You know what he means, Maxi," his mother took over. "Until you have back pain you don't know your tolerance for back pain. How you're going to tolerate not being so young anymore, you won't know until you grow old. And until danger comes a person doesn't know for sure how a person's going to think about danger." Max senior picked up a breadstick and bit it in half; it broke with a loud crack. "So now this question of peril has been posed," he said, pointing the remaining half of the stick at his son and narrowing his eyes, "and so now I know my answer."

Anya Ophuls drew herself up in a rare show of disunity. "It's my answer also, Maximilian," she corrected her husband mildly. "I think this slipped your mind a moment." Max senior frowned. "Sure, sure," he said. "Her answer as well, I know her answer as well as I know my own, and my mind, excuse me, nothing slips it. My mind, excuse me, is a fist of steel." Max junior thought it was time to press a little. "And what is that answer?" he asked as delicately as possible, and his father with a loud short laugh forgot his irritation and smacked his palms together as hard as he could. "I discover that I am a stubborn b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" he cried, coughing hard. "I discover b.l.o.o.d.y-mindedness in myself, and mulishness to boot. I will not be chased from my home and my business! I will not go to Sauerwein's and be made to look at his trembling old man's paintings and eat quenelles of pike. I will stay in my house and run my factory and face the enemy down. Who do they think they are dealing with here? Some common inky-fingered ragam.u.f.fin from the streets? Maybe I'm on my last legs, young fellow, but I stand for something in this town." His wife tugged at the sleeve of his coat. "Oh, yes," he added, sinking faintly back into his seat and dabbing a napkin at his brow. "And your mother. She's a stubborn b.a.s.t.a.r.d too." Then came a series of coughs and expectorations into a silk kerchief that declared the subject closed.

"In that case, I won't raise this with you again," said Max junior, admitting defeat. "On one condition. If the day arrives when I have to come to you and say, today it's time to run, on that day I want you to run without any argument, knowing that I will never say such a thing to you unless it is the simple truth." His mother beamed with unqualified pride. "See how he drives a hard bargain, Maximilian, isn't that so," she cried. "He leaves us no honorable choice except to agree."

Professor Max Ophuls informed vice-chancellor Danjon that family responsibilities obliged him to remain in Strasbourg. "What a waste," Danjon replied. "If you should choose to stay alive before they kill you, come and see us. Although it is possible that we will not be spared, either. I fear that this will be an L=0 eclipse." In the 1920s Andre Danjon had devised a scale of luminosity, the so-called Danjon scale, to describe the relative darkness of the moon during a lunar eclipse. L=0 meant total blackness, a complete absence of the reflected earths.h.i.+ne that could give the eclipsed moon a residual color ranging from a deep grey to a bright copper-red or even orange. "If I'm right," Danjon told Max, "you and I are simply choosing to die in different towns during the general blackout."

From that day forward each of the three Ophulses kept a small bag packed in a closet, but otherwise went about their work. In the absence of domestic help, most of the Belle epoque mansion was dust-sheeted and closed up. They ate meals together in the kitchen, moved extra desks into Max senior's library to construct a three-person office, kept their own bedrooms clean and dusted, and maintained one small living room in which to receive their dwindling list of guests. As for Art & Aventure, two of the famous firm's three Strasbourg presses were closed down at once. The third, on the quai Mullenheim, a smaller art-book facility-both letterpress and photogravure-where for many generations volumes dedicated to the finest artists in Europe had been produced to the highest standards in the world, was the scene of the Ophulses' last stand. At first all three of them went in every day and manned the machines. However, contracts were being canceled constantly, so that soon enough the parents were obliged angrily to "retire," and Max junior went to the print shop alone. Every call from a grand publisher from the capital deepened Max's scorn for the weakness of Paris. He remembered his mother shouting into the telephone, "What do you mean, this is no time for art? If not now, when?"-and then staring fire-eyed at the silent receiver in her hand as if it were a traitor. "He hangs up," she said to the room at large. "After twenty years' business, without so much as good-bye." The death of courtesy appeared to distress her more than the collapse of the family business. Her coughing husband moved at once to comfort her. "Take a look on the shelves," he said. "You see that army of volumes? That army will outlast whatever iron men come clanking across our lives."

When Max junior, hiding behind a burned-out truck just over a year later, saw the treasures of Art & Aventure's backlist being tossed onto a bonfire outside the burning synagogue, his father's words came back to him. If he had been able to discuss the burning books with Max senior the old man would probably have shrugged and quoted Bulgakov. Ma.n.u.scripts don't burn. Ma.n.u.scripts don't burn. Well, maybe they do and maybe they don't, thought orphaned Max in the incandescent night; but people, of course, will blaze away nicely, given a decent chance. Well, maybe they do and maybe they don't, thought orphaned Max in the incandescent night; but people, of course, will blaze away nicely, given a decent chance.

Strasbourg had become a ghost town, its streets ragged with absences. It was still charming, naturally, with its medieval half-timberings, its covered bridges, its pleasing aspects and riverside parks. As he prowled the largely deserted alleys of the Pet.i.te France district, the future Amba.s.sador Ophuls told himself, "It's as if everyone went away for August, and any day now it will be time for la rentree la rentree and the place will be bustling again." But in order to believe that one had to ignore the broken windows, the evidence of looting, the feral dogs in the streets, many of them abandoned pets driven insane by abandonment. One had to ignore the ruination of one's own life. There were traditional, time-honored ways of doing this, and during the course of that year in which his family lost everything Max Ophuls did not ignore tradition. He frequented the few brothels and drinking dives that were still in business; they welcomed him in, glad of the trade, and offered him their best goods at bargain prices. The melancholy strain that had been lying dormant in his personality revealed itself in those months, inducing periods of Churchillian depression during which he considered ending his life more than once, and was only prevented from doing so by the knowledge that he would profoundly disgust his parents. As the year 1940 moved forward, a year in which all the news was bad, he walked the city streets and squares, alleys and embankments at high speed, hour after hour, with his head down, his hands jammed deep into the pockets of a double-breasted serge greatcoat, and a dark blue beret pulled low over his frowning brow. If he moved fast enough, like an American comic-book superhero, like the Flash, like a Jewish Superman, maybe he could create the illusion that the people of Strasbourg were still there. If he moved fast enough maybe he could save the world. If he moved fast enough maybe he could break through into another universe in which everything wasn't so full of s.h.i.+t. If he moved fast enough maybe he could outpace his own anger and fear. If he moved fast enough maybe he could stop feeling like a helpless fool. and the place will be bustling again." But in order to believe that one had to ignore the broken windows, the evidence of looting, the feral dogs in the streets, many of them abandoned pets driven insane by abandonment. One had to ignore the ruination of one's own life. There were traditional, time-honored ways of doing this, and during the course of that year in which his family lost everything Max Ophuls did not ignore tradition. He frequented the few brothels and drinking dives that were still in business; they welcomed him in, glad of the trade, and offered him their best goods at bargain prices. The melancholy strain that had been lying dormant in his personality revealed itself in those months, inducing periods of Churchillian depression during which he considered ending his life more than once, and was only prevented from doing so by the knowledge that he would profoundly disgust his parents. As the year 1940 moved forward, a year in which all the news was bad, he walked the city streets and squares, alleys and embankments at high speed, hour after hour, with his head down, his hands jammed deep into the pockets of a double-breasted serge greatcoat, and a dark blue beret pulled low over his frowning brow. If he moved fast enough, like an American comic-book superhero, like the Flash, like a Jewish Superman, maybe he could create the illusion that the people of Strasbourg were still there. If he moved fast enough maybe he could save the world. If he moved fast enough maybe he could break through into another universe in which everything wasn't so full of s.h.i.+t. If he moved fast enough maybe he could outpace his own anger and fear. If he moved fast enough maybe he could stop feeling like a helpless fool.

These thoughts were interrupted one May afternoon by a violent collision. As usual, he hadn't been looking where he was going, and on this occasion there was someone in the way, a surprisingly small woman, so small that at first he thought he had knocked over a child. A parcel wrapped in string and brown paper dropped from the small woman's hands as she fell, and the brown paper tore. Her companion, a big shambling fellow as oversized as she was tiny, helped her to her feet and hurriedly retrieved the torn parcel, carefully taking off his own raincoat and wrapping the parcel in it. He also picked up and dusted off his companion's fallen hat, with its single upright feather, placing it carefully, even lovingly, back on her head of marcelled black hair. The fallen woman had not cried out, nor did the big man seek to remonstrate with Ophuls for his clumsiness. They simply gathered themselves together and moved on. It was as if they were phantoms, ill-a.s.sorted phantoms surprised that they still possessed solidity, ma.s.s, volume, that people were still able to collide with them and knock them down, rather than pa.s.sing through their bodies with nothing more than a small icy shudder of subconscious recognition.

When they had taken a dozen steps away, however, they stopped and looked back over their shoulders without turning their bodies. They saw Max staring after them and were covered in a kind of spectral embarra.s.sment. Ghosts were probably always surprised to be seen, Max supposed. The woman was nodding furiously and the man, slowly, as if in a dream, turned and walked back toward Max. He's going to hit me after all, Max thought, and wondered whether he should take to his heels. Then the man reached him and spoke, carefully, in a low voice: "You are the printer?" With those four words he gave Max Ophuls back a sense of purpose in life.

You are the printer. Even before the fall of the Maginot Line, the first stirrings of what would become the Resistance were making themselves felt. The couple with the brown paper parcel, whom he would only know by the work-names of "Bill" and "Blandine," were his first links to that world. Their group would later start calling itself the Seventh Column of Alsace, but for the moment it was just Bill and Blandine and a few like-minded a.s.sociates, doing what they could to prepare for the coming unpleasantness. Yes, he was the printer, Max affirmed. Yes, he was a Jew. Yes, he would help. "Time is short," Bill said. "Escape routes are being built. Ident.i.ty doc.u.ments must be printed. However many possible. The need is very great. Your parents included. You included also." Max looked at the parcel. "These are adequate," Bill said, grimacing. "But not guaranteed to pa.s.s. Work of a higher standard is required." Bill's manner was always courteous and deferential. Blandine was the sharp-tongued one of the pair. "Do you actually know how to do what we need," she asked Max that first time, looking unblinking into his eyes, "or are you just a pampered milord who underpays his workers and spends the money on wh.o.r.es?" Even before the fall of the Maginot Line, the first stirrings of what would become the Resistance were making themselves felt. The couple with the brown paper parcel, whom he would only know by the work-names of "Bill" and "Blandine," were his first links to that world. Their group would later start calling itself the Seventh Column of Alsace, but for the moment it was just Bill and Blandine and a few like-minded a.s.sociates, doing what they could to prepare for the coming unpleasantness. Yes, he was the printer, Max affirmed. Yes, he was a Jew. Yes, he would help. "Time is short," Bill said. "Escape routes are being built. Ident.i.ty doc.u.ments must be printed. However many possible. The need is very great. Your parents included. You included also." Max looked at the parcel. "These are adequate," Bill said, grimacing. "But not guaranteed to pa.s.s. Work of a higher standard is required." Bill's manner was always courteous and deferential. Blandine was the sharp-tongued one of the pair. "Do you actually know how to do what we need," she asked Max that first time, looking unblinking into his eyes, "or are you just a pampered milord who underpays his workers and spends the money on wh.o.r.es?"

Her enormous lover looked discomfited and s.h.i.+fted his feet. "But no, my dearest, be good, the gentleman is going to be of a.s.sistance. Please excuse her, sir," he said to Max. "The communism burns hot in her, the cla.s.s war and autonomy and such." Ever since Gouraud's Fourth Army brought Strasbourg back under French control in November 1918, the local communists had favored the autonomy of Alsace from both France and Germany, whereas socialists had favored a rapid a.s.similation with France. How obsolete both positions looked now, how pathetic the pa.s.sions they had so recently aroused. Max glared back at Blandine. "Yes," he told her, not knowing if he was telling the truth, suddenly determined to prove himself unworthy of her scorn. "I can print any d.a.m.n thing you want me to." She spat into a gutter. "Good," she said. "Then there's work to be done."

If he moved fast enough maybe he could break through into another universe. He had been granted his wish. Julien Levy had been right. Max turned out to have a real gift for forgery, the painstaking miniaturist zeal of a monk illuminating a Bible, that enabled him to create plausible counterfeits of whatever was required and make good his boast. When the materials provided by Bill and Blandine were inadequate-when the paper had the wrong sort of coa.r.s.eness or the ink was fractionally the wrong color-he scavenged and scrounged tirelessly until he came up with the goods. On one occasion he actually broke into a deserted art-supplies store and took what he needed, promising himself that if liberation ever came he would return and repay the owner, a promise that, as he recorded in his book of wartime memoirs, he faithfully kept. As he forged and printed the doc.u.ments-one by one, at snail's pace, always by night, alone in the pressroom, with the shutters locked, and by the light of no more than a single small lantern-he felt he was also forging a new self, one that resisted, that pushed back against fate, rejecting inevitability, choosing to remake the world. He had been granted his wish. Julien Levy had been right. Max turned out to have a real gift for forgery, the painstaking miniaturist zeal of a monk illuminating a Bible, that enabled him to create plausible counterfeits of whatever was required and make good his boast. When the materials provided by Bill and Blandine were inadequate-when the paper had the wrong sort of coa.r.s.eness or the ink was fractionally the wrong color-he scavenged and scrounged tirelessly until he came up with the goods. On one occasion he actually broke into a deserted art-supplies store and took what he needed, promising himself that if liberation ever came he would return and repay the owner, a promise that, as he recorded in his book of wartime memoirs, he faithfully kept. As he forged and printed the doc.u.ments-one by one, at snail's pace, always by night, alone in the pressroom, with the shutters locked, and by the light of no more than a single small lantern-he felt he was also forging a new self, one that resisted, that pushed back against fate, rejecting inevitability, choosing to remake the world.

Often, as he labored, he had the sense of being the medium, not the creator: the sense of a higher power working through him. He had never been a religious man, and tried to rationalize this feeling away; yet it stubbornly persisted. A purpose was working itself out through him. He could not give it a name, but its boundaries were far greater than his own. When he had contact with Bill or Blandine and handed over the ident.i.ty cards and doctored pa.s.sports he spoke in effusive, optimistic words about what they were doing. Bill was monosyllabic at best in responding to such torrents, until Max learned the lesson of his silences and did his best to restrain himself. Blandine was, as ever, cuttingly to the point. "Oh, shut up," she said. "To listen to you, one would think we were on the verge of overthrowing the Third Reich, instead of just hoping to p.r.i.c.k the beast's behind here and there and maybe save a few wretched souls as well."

It was four o'clock in the morning of the fifteenth of June, 1940. Paris had fallen. The French military command had believed that tanks could not pa.s.s through the heavily wooded hill country of the Ardennes and that the German advance could therefore be resisted at the immense Maginot Line defense system in Lorraine. This was a mistake. Along the Line there was a well-dug-in force, also an extensive underground system of tunnels, railways, hospitals, kitchens and communications centers. While they waited for the German a.s.sault the French soldiers whiled away their subterranean days by painting trompe-l'oeil murals on the tunnel walls-tropical landscapes, rooms with chintz wallpaper and open windows looking out onto bucolic spring scenery, heroic crests bearing such mottoes as They shall not pa.s.s. They shall not pa.s.s. Unfortunately, they did not need to pa.s.s. Panzer divisions commanded by Rommel and others invaded through the supposedly impa.s.sable Ardennes and reached the villages of Dinant and Sedan on the Meuse on May 12. On June 13 the government of France abandoned the capital to the aggressor. Outflanked and irrelevant, the French forces at the Maginot Line surrendered a few weeks later. Four years after that the tide of history would have turned and the Normandy landings would begin, but those four years would be a century long. Unfortunately, they did not need to pa.s.s. Panzer divisions commanded by Rommel and others invaded through the supposedly impa.s.sable Ardennes and reached the villages of Dinant and Sedan on the Meuse on May 12. On June 13 the government of France abandoned the capital to the aggressor. Outflanked and irrelevant, the French forces at the Maginot Line surrendered a few weeks later. Four years after that the tide of history would have turned and the Normandy landings would begin, but those four years would be a century long.

"I have to go," Blandine said, gathering up the papers Max had for her, without a word of thanks or of appreciation for the quality of the work. This was her way. But at the back door, as he let her out, she saw the first light of dawn slinking into the sky and trembled and leaned back against him. "The dawn before the darkness," she said, and turned, and kissed him. They stumbled back through the door into the room of the printing presses and had s.e.x against one of the big dark green machines, without getting undressed. He had to lift her up to enter her and for a moment her feet in their high heels dangled awkwardly. Then she swiftly wrapped her legs around his waist and squeezed. He saw that her height was a matter of sensitivity. To compensate for it she remained almost savagely composed at all times. Even during their congress the hat with the feather remained firmly planted on her head. Four days later the n.a.z.i flag flew over the Cathedral and the darkness began.

The city's charm was no defense. It ran deep, there were subterranean tunnels of charm underground, subterranean charm hospitals and charm canteens in case of need, and so there were those who had allowed themselves to believe that nothing much would change, the Germans had been here before, after all, and this time as on previous occasions the city would bewitch them and shape them to its ways. Max senior and Anya Ophuls succ.u.mbed slowly to this fantasy of a Maginot Line of charm, and their son despaired of them. Gauleiter Wagner, he pointed out, was not a charming man. His parents put on serious expressions and nodded gravely. All of a sudden, when he hadn't been looking, they had become very old and frail, deteriorating sharply with the same simultaneity with which they had lived the greater part of their married lives. They had always belittled their difficulties, but in the past their lightness had had an undercurrent, a knowing, ironic intelligence. That undercurrent had disappeared. What remained was a sort of foolishness, a forgetting, happy sort of unwisdom. They laughed a great deal and whiled away the days playing card and board games in the shrouded house, behaving as if the times were not out of joint, as if it were an excellent idea that the house was largely shuttered up and the population had fled and the street names were being Germanized and the speaking of the French language and the Alsatian dialect had been forbidden. "Well, dear, we do all speak Hochdeutsch, don't we, so there's no difficulty, is there," Anya said when Max junior brought her the language news. And when Wagner's minions banned the wearing of the beret, calling it an insult to the Reich, old Max told his son, "I never thought it suited you anyway; wear a trilby instead, there's a sensible fellow," and returned to his game of solitaire.

Some days, Max thought his parents believed they could behave the n.a.z.is out of existence, could make them disappear by simply treating them as if they weren't there. At other times it was clear that they were losing their hold on things, slipping out of the world and into a region of dreams, sliding charmingly and uncomplainingly toward senility and death.

The university district was as deserted as the rest of the city but a couple of bars somehow managed to stay open. One of these was Le Beau Noiseur, and as the desire for resistance grew among the city's remaining residents this became one of the places where interested parties met. Bill, Blandine, Max and a few others were regulars. Afterwards the innocence and openness of those early days would strike everyone as the height of insanity. The group openly referred to itself as les noiseurs, les noiseurs, "the squabblers." Yet in spite of such foolhardiness its members managed surprising feats. After the French surrender Blandine, for example, became an ambulance driver and visited several internment camps near Metz, where French soldiers were being interrogated before being released and sent home. n.o.body paid this tiny woman in uniform much attention, with the result that as she distributed food and medicines she was able to learn a good deal about German troop and supply movements. The problem was that she didn't know who to give the information to; which did nothing to sweeten her disposition. Her irritability was greater than ever, her tongue sharper, and most of her worst barbs were aimed at Max. The clumsy, hurried episode at the print shop was never repeated, nor did she allude to it. It was evident now that she and Bill were married, though neither of them wore a ring. Max filed away the memory of the s.e.xual encounter, and eventually managed to forget it altogether. Then, twenty years later, while he was researching the period for a book, he made the chance discovery that in the vicious death-throes of the n.a.z.i phase, when the Allies were sweeping across France after the successful D-Day landings, Blandine-real name Suzette Trautmann-had been captured in a refitted garage bas.e.m.e.nt trying to send messages to the liberating army on a ham radio set, and had been executed on the spot. In the breast pocket of her s.h.i.+rt was a pa.s.sport-sized photograph of an unknown man. The photograph had not survived. "the squabblers." Yet in spite of such foolhardiness its members managed surprising feats. After the French surrender Blandine, for example, became an ambulance driver and visited several internment camps near Metz, where French soldiers were being interrogated before being released and sent home. n.o.body paid this tiny woman in uniform much attention, with the result that as she distributed food and medicines she was able to learn a good deal about German troop and supply movements. The problem was that she didn't know who to give the information to; which did nothing to sweeten her disposition. Her irritability was greater than ever, her tongue sharper, and most of her worst barbs were aimed at Max. The clumsy, hurried episode at the print shop was never repeated, nor did she allude to it. It was evident now that she and Bill were married, though neither of them wore a ring. Max filed away the memory of the s.e.xual encounter, and eventually managed to forget it altogether. Then, twenty years later, while he was researching the period for a book, he made the chance discovery that in the vicious death-throes of the n.a.z.i phase, when the Allies were sweeping across France after the successful D-Day landings, Blandine-real name Suzette Trautmann-had been captured in a refitted garage bas.e.m.e.nt trying to send messages to the liberating army on a ham radio set, and had been executed on the spot. In the breast pocket of her s.h.i.+rt was a pa.s.sport-sized photograph of an unknown man. The photograph had not survived.

Suppose it was me in that photo, Max suddenly thought. Suppose all those tongue-las.h.i.+ngs were inverted signs of love, coded pleas for me to do what she could not do herself: to tear her away from her marriage and make off with her into some impossible wartime Eden. He tried to set aside these speculations, which were only a form of vanity, he scolded himself. But the possibility of misunderstood love went on eating away at him. Blandine, Blandine, he thought. Men are fools. No wonder we made you so mad. That afternoon in the archives when he discovered Suzette Trautmann's fate he promised himself that if a woman ever sent him such signals again, if a woman were ever trying to say please, let's get out of here, please please let's run away and be together forever and to h.e.l.l with the d.a.m.nation of our souls, please, please, he would not fail to decipher the secret code. he would not fail to decipher the secret code.

He never found out what happened to Bill.

By the fall of 1940, the camps outside the city were being readied for guests, and, right on cue, the citizens of Strasbourg started returning to the city, under German instructions. Tens of thousands of young men, the so-called malgre-nous, malgre-nous, were quickly pressed into front-line service in the German army. Max Ophuls understood that, paradoxically, now that everyone was home, however temporarily, it was time for him and his family to leave. The new homes being prepared near Schirmeck at Natzweiler-Struthof, intended for h.o.m.os.e.xuals, communists and Jews, sounded like a step down in the world. (The gas chamber being constructed down the road from the Struthof facility was still a secret.) It had not been possible to go to the printing works on the quai Mullenheim for some time now, and the family's money shortage had forced Max to p.a.w.n and sell quant.i.ties of the Ophuls jewelry and silver. These would be gone soon, and with them the best chance of escape, for which substantial finances would almost certainly be required. Silver was the easiest thing to fence; melted down and anonymous, it told no tales about its provenance. Jewelry carried with it the higher risk of being cla.s.sified as a looter, a charge carrying the death penalty; so in those confused days before the underworld reestablished its systems, even spectacular pieces, offered in exchange for a pittance, might be refused by the city's ever-prudent p.a.w.nbrokers, those perpetual weatherc.o.c.ks of the winds of change. When the jewels could be fenced-jewels on whose true value the family could have lived for decades-the prices were so low that they barely paid for a week's worth of essential provisions. Possessions were the past, and the future was arriving rapidly, and n.o.body had time-or cash-for yesterdays. were quickly pressed into front-line service in the German army. Max Ophuls understood that, paradoxically, now that everyone was home, however temporarily, it was time for him and his family to leave. The new homes being prepared near Schirmeck at Natzweiler-Struthof, intended for h.o.m.os.e.xuals, communists and Jews, sounded like a step down in the world. (The gas chamber being constructed down the road from the Struthof facility was still a secret.) It had not been possible to go to the printing works on the quai Mullenheim for some time now, and the family's money shortage had forced Max to p.a.w.n and sell quant.i.ties of the Ophuls jewelry and silver. These would be gone soon, and with them the best chance of escape, for which substantial finances would almost certainly be required. Silver was the easiest thing to fence; melted down and anonymous, it told no tales about its provenance. Jewelry carried with it the higher risk of being cla.s.sified as a looter, a charge carrying the death penalty; so in those confused days before the underworld reestablished its systems, even spectacular pieces, offered in exchange for a pittance, might be refused by the city's ever-prudent p.a.w.nbrokers, those perpetual weatherc.o.c.ks of the winds of change. When the jewels could be fenced-jewels on whose true value the family could have lived for decades-the prices were so low that they barely paid for a week's worth of essential provisions. Possessions were the past, and the future was arriving rapidly, and n.o.body had time-or cash-for yesterdays.

Thus far the Art & Aventure works had not been raided or seized by the city's new authorities, but it was only a matter of time. Max did his best to conceal his forging materials from view, finding a number of ingenious hiding places both at the quai Mullenheim and at home, but a thorough search might easily uncover some d.a.m.ning cache, and after that . . . well, he preferred not to imagine what might happen after that. This increasingly uneasy and precarious state of affairs lasted until the spring of 1941. Then, one evening at Le Beau Noiseur, Bill told Max in whispers that an escape route had been readied for use, and that he and his parents had been selected to make the first run. Members of the faculty and student body of Strasbourg University-les non-jamais-had refused to return to the "Motherland," the Gross Reich, and had remained in internal exile in Clermont-Ferrand, in spite of the risk of being declared deserters by the Germans. The vice-chancellor, a certain Monsieur Dungeon, had somehow persuaded Vichy officialdom to maintain the Strasbourg University at this "external campus," and for the moment the Germans were prepared to let Petain's people have their way. A history professor named Zeller, a.s.sisted by student and teacher volunteers, and with some help from the Clermont-Ferrand military governor, had spent the summer building a large "country cottage" at Gergovie, near the well-known Gallo-Roman excavations, about which Bill knew nothing except that they were well known. "You leave tonight," Bill said, pa.s.sing him a piece of paper. "If your family can reach Gergovie, you will be contacted there and given new orders." Max Ophuls kept a poker face throughout this briefing, telling Bill nothing he did not need to know, keeping his university connections to himself. Gaston Zeller, he thought. It will be good to see his ugly mug again.

He left the cafe without looking back. At home his parents had taken the dust sheets off the grand piano in the main drawing room and Anya was playing from memory, smiling beatifically, even though the instrument was harshly out of tune. Max senior stood behind her, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders, his eyes closed, his expression distant and serene. Their son interrupted their reverie. "The day has come," he said. "It's time for us to run." The elderly couple looked as if the universe had quivered slightly; then his mother put on her sweetest smile. "Oh, but it's out of the question, dear," she said. "You know that our dear friend Dumas's son Charles receives his bachot bachot tomorrow. We'll talk about going once that's done with." tomorrow. We'll talk about going once that's done with."

This was a dreadful statement. Charles Dumas was thirty, the same age as the younger Max, and not in Strasbourg. The day of their baccalaureat baccalaureat graduations was long past. "But you promised," Max said, in great distress. "You said that if I ever came to you with this warning, you would do as I asked." His father inclined his head. "It's true we made a promise," he said. "And you rightly stress the importance of our having given our word. Thus two great principles are in conflict here: honesty and friends.h.i.+p. We prefer to be good friends to our friends, and stay here for their family's important day, even if that makes us dishonest in your eyes." "For G.o.d's sake," shouted Max the younger, "there's no such ceremony-you know perfectly well that all the schools and colleges have been closed since the evacuation, and even if they weren't, this isn't the right time of year. . . ." Anya Ophuls prepared to resume playing the piano. "Shh, shh, my darling, for goodness' sake," she admonished him. "It's just one day. The day after tomorrow we'll pick up those bags we packed and scurry off to wherever you see fit." graduations was long past. "But you promised," Max said, in great distress. "You said that if I ever came to you with this warning, you would do as I asked." His father inclined his head. "It's true we made a promise," he said. "And you rightly stress the importance of our having given our word. Thus two great principles are in conflict here: honesty and friends.h.i.+p. We prefer to be good friends to our friends, and stay here for their family's important day, even if that makes us dishonest in your eyes." "For G.o.d's sake," shouted Max the younger, "there's no such ceremony-you know perfectly well that all the schools and colleges have been closed since the evacuation, and even if they weren't, this isn't the right time of year. . . ." Anya Ophuls prepared to resume playing the piano. "Shh, shh, my darling, for goodness' sake," she admonished him. "It's just one day. The day after tomorrow we'll pick up those bags we packed and scurry off to wherever you see fit."

There was nothing for it but to acquiesce. On the piece of paper Bill had given Max at the bar was the location of the rendezvous point, a stable in a remote corner of the Bugatti estate in the village of Molsheim, and the word Finkenberger, Finkenberger, which Max had always thought of as the name of a local wine, not a particular man. He took this to be the pseudonym of the which Max had always thought of as the name of a local wine, not a particular man. He took this to be the pseudonym of the pa.s.seur, pa.s.seur, the man who would be responsible for facilitating the run and getting the Ophuls family across enemy lines. That night, a moonless night which had no doubt been selected on account of its unusual darkness, Max bicycled twenty kilometers down the so-called wine road to Molsheim to inform M. Finkenberger that there would be a twenty-four-hour delay in the plan. The choice of meeting place was risky because the Bugatti factory was now in German hands; but then again, there were no risk-free places that fall. Molsheim, a beauty spot with old-world cobbled streets and leaning Geppetto houses, was so utterly charming that you expected to see blue fairies at its windows and the new Disney movie's already famous talking cricket on its hearths. Tonight, however, the tragedy of the Bugatti family lay over the village like a shroud, darkening the unmooned darkness until it felt like a blindfold. The closer Max came to the great estate the darker it grew, until he had to dismount from his bicycle and grope his way forward like a blind man. the man who would be responsible for facilitating the run and getting the Ophuls family across enemy lines. That night, a moonless night which had no doubt been selected on account of its unusual darkness, Max bicycled twenty kilometers down the so-called wine road to Molsheim to inform M. Finkenberger that there would be a twenty-four-hour delay in the plan. The choice of meeting place was risky because the Bugatti factory was now in German hands; but then again, there were no risk-free places that fall. Molsheim, a beauty spot with old-world cobbled streets and leaning Geppetto houses, was so utterly charming that you expected to see blue fairies at its windows and the new Disney movie's already famous talking cricket on its hearths. Tonight, however, the tragedy of the Bugatti family lay over the village like a shroud, darkening the unmooned darkness until it felt like a blindfold. The closer Max came to the great estate the darker it grew, until he had to dismount from his bicycle and grope his way forward like a blind man.

Within the s.p.a.ce of a single year the legendary car designer Ettore Bugatti, "Le Patron," had suffered the loss first of his son Jean-in an automobile accident-and then his father Carlo, who died just before the German invasion, as if reluctant to be a part of that future. Ettore had been living in Paris, and although he remained the company's engineering genius, Jean had for several years been in charge of the coachwork design, the distinctive curved fenders, the futuristic body shapes. After his son's death Ettore returned to the quasi-baronial Molsheim factory-estate, where all the buildings-even the pattern shop, the body shops, the foundry, the drafting room-boasted great, polished doors of oak and bronze. The Bugattis had lived in feudal splendor. There was a sculpture museum, a carriage museum, luxurious facilities for their Thoroughbred horses, a riding school. They kept prize terriers, prime cattle, racing pigeons. They had their own distillery, and housed clients in a spectacular residence, the Hotel of the Pure Blood. The grandeur of the private world he had built served only to twist the knife in Ettore's heart, magnifying the sudden emptiness of his life. Within a few months of his return he sold out to the Germans-was forced to do so-and left Molsheim with the air of a man emerging from a tomb. He moved his manufacturing operations to Bordeaux, but no Bugatti cars were ever built again; Ettore now made crankshafts for Hispano-Suiza aircraft engines. Less well known was his work with the Resistance, into which many of his former employees followed their benevolent but dictatorial boss. One such employee, the leathery old horse trainer now known to Max Ophuls as the pa.s.seur pa.s.seur Finkenberger, was waiting at the end of a tiny wooded dead-end lane behind the stable, sitting on a fence post, smoking. Max stumbled down the lane, colliding with other fence posts and s.a.d.i.s.tic trees, trying not to cry out. The lighted tip of Finkenberger's cigarette was his beacon, and he swam toward it through the eyeless darkness like Leander in the h.e.l.lespont. When the horse man first spoke it was as if the night's curtain had been torn. Around the words, Max Ophuls began to be able to see or at least imagine a face, which to his great surprise turned out to be familiar. "f.u.c.k me," were the waiting man's first words. "I know you, don't I? Finkenberger, was waiting at the end of a tiny wooded dead-end lane behind the stable, sitting on a fence post, smoking. Max stumbled down the lane, colliding with other fence posts and s.a.d.i.s.tic trees, trying not to cry out. The lighted tip of Finkenberger's cigarette was his beacon, and he swam toward it through the eyeless darkness like Leander in the h.e.l.lespont. When the horse man first spoke it was as if the night's curtain had been torn. Around the words, Max Ophuls began to be able to see or at least imagine a face, which to his great surprise turned out to be familiar. "f.u.c.k me," were the waiting man's first words. "I know you, don't I? f.u.c.k. f.u.c.k."

Max Ophuls had been on close terms with Jean Bugatti, had learned to fly planes with him, performing daredevilry in the innocent prewar sky. They had also ridden the length and breadth of this formerly blessed countryside on golden stallions across brilliant summer afternoons. Tonight, exhausted, filled with trepidation, Max was rushed back to that happier time by the unmistakable, obscene tongue of the pa.s.seur. pa.s.seur. "Ophuls, Max," he said. "And sure, I know you, Finkenberger. Who could forget." The other offered a cigarette, which Max declined. "Everything's gone to f.u.c.k," the horse trainer confided. "n.a.z.is want to use the shop to build guns, obviously. c.u.n.ts. But they like the dogs and horses and of course they want to drive the f.u.c.king cars. I see a 57-5 with that f.u.c.king swastika flying on the hood, I want to f.u.c.king throw up. f.u.c.king gutter rats playing at being aristos. f.u.c.king pond sc.u.m. And that hotel, I always thought the name was a mistake. They f.u.c.king love that place. Hotel of the Pure Blood. It's a f.u.c.king wh.o.r.ehouse now. Why are you alone, anyway? I was told three persons." "Ophuls, Max," he said. "And sure, I know you, Finkenberger. Who could forget." The other offered a cigarette, which Max declined. "Everything's gone to f.u.c.k," the horse trainer confided. "n.a.z.is want to use the shop to build guns, obviously. c.u.n.ts. But they like the dogs and horses and of course they want to drive the f.u.c.king cars. I see a 57-5 with that f.u.c.king swastika flying on the hood, I want to f.u.c.king throw up. f.u.c.king gutter rats playing at being aristos. f.u.c.king pond sc.u.m. And that hotel, I always thought the name was a mistake. They f.u.c.king love that place. Hotel of the Pure Blood. It's a f.u.c.king wh.o.r.ehouse now. Why are you alone, anyway? I was told three persons."

Max explained the problem and there was an abrupt change of mood. The darkness itself seemed to tighten, to gather itself into a pair of clenched fists. Finkenberger threw away his cigarette and, to judge by his breathing, seemed to be making an effort to suppress his rage. Finally he spoke. "Le Patron, he left Molsheim and f.u.c.ked off to Paris because he thought the workers weren't grateful. Old school, he is. Take your f.u.c.king cap off when he comes by, touch the f.u.c.king forelock, bend the f.u.c.king knee, you catch my drift. And yeah, maybe there were those who weren't grateful for the chance to behave like f.u.c.king serfs, even if they did get houses and benefits and such. There were those who weren't too f.u.c.king grateful at all. Monsieur Jean was different. Common f.u.c.king touch. Had it in spades. Think yourself lucky you were his pal. If you weren't his pal and came to me saying what you're saying to me now I'd have told you to go f.u.c.k yourself. If you were one of Le Patron's highfalutin p.r.i.c.ks I'd have told you what you could f.u.c.king do with your twenty-four-hour delay. Do you know how f.u.c.king hard it is to set this stuff up, the danger of using the radio, the number of people waiting on you down the road that have to be stood down and stood up again tomorrow, do you know the f.u.c.king danger you're putting them in? f.u.c.king dilettante f.u.c.kers like you can't think about anyone else. But you're the lucky b.a.s.t.a.r.d, I say again, on account of Monsieur Jean, on account of his f.u.c.king beautiful f.u.c.king memory. Be here on time tomorrow the three of you or you can go f.u.c.k yourselves to death in the f.u.c.king synagogue on the f.u.c.king Sabbath day."

In Strasbourg there were fires burning, and helmeted goon squads in the street. Max Ophuls went carefully, on foot, pus.h.i.+ng his bike, hiding in shadows. When he saw the flames licking at Art & Aventure the fear began pounding in him, kneading him like dough. Long before he reached home he knew what he would find, the broken door, the wanton damage, the s.h.i.+t on the Biedermeiers, the daubed slogans, the urine in the hall. If the house had not been torched it could only be because some n.a.z.i high-up wanted it for himself. All the lights were on and n.o.body was home. He went through the rooms one by one, darkening them, returning them to the night, letting them mourn. In the library with the three desks the destruction was very great, the books scattered and torn, a mound of them burned in the middle of the rug, a great charred heap of wisdom that somebody had p.i.s.sed on to put it out. Desk drawers hung open. Gashed paintings hung askew in broken frames. He had brought his parents' false papers home with him and had made the mistake of leaving them at home when he went on the errand that had temporarily saved him. The discovery of those doc.u.ments increased his parents' peril and doomed him as well. n.o.body was home but by the end of this night of looting the house would have pa.s.sed into enemy hands, like the Hotel of the Pure Blood. n.a.z.i wh.o.r.es would loll where once his mother lay. He should leave. He should definitely leave at once. There was n.o.body home but that would change. He found a bottle of cognac that had somehow been spared. It lay unbroken in a corner next to a chaise between blowing curtains. He pulled out the cork and drank. Time pa.s.sed. No, it did not pa.s.s. Time stood still. Beauty pa.s.sed, love pa.s.sed, b.l.o.o.d.y-mindedness and mulishness pa.s.sed. Time stood still with its hands up. Stubborn b.a.s.t.a.r.ds faded away.

After the war he found out how their story had ended. He learned the numbers burned into their forearms, memorized them and never forgot. The record showed that they had been used for medical experimentation. They were old and losing their reason and good for nothing and so a use had been found for them. After lifetimes lived mainly in their now-enfeebled minds they ended up as mere bodies, bodies that reacted this way to pain, this way to greater pain, this way to the greatest pain imaginable, bodies whose response to being injected with diseases was of interest, of high scientific interest. So they were interested in learning? Very well then. They had helped the advancement of knowledge in a valuably practical way. They never made it to the gas chamber. Scholars.h.i.+p killed them first.

Drunk, close to physical collapse, Max Ophuls got back on his bicycle and made the twenty-kilometer wine road dash for the third time that night. When he got back to Molsheim he realized he had no idea how to find the pa.s.seur, pa.s.seur, no idea which of the many workers' cottages on the Bugatti estate might be his, didn't even remember his real name. The night was no longer absolute; a hint of future color softened the black. More by luck than memory he found his way back to the small stable at the estate's edge, an interim sort of place, a way station for tired riders, and wheeled his bicycle inside and pa.s.sed out on the muddy floor in one of the stalls. This was where Finkenberger found him several hours later, in broad daylight, and shook him roughly, shouting curses into the sleeper's ear. Max came awake fast and was frightened to find a horse nuzzling at him as if to determine whether he might be edible. Next to the horse's head was Finkenberger's head. Finkenberger by daylight was a jockey-sized gnome with a caustic face filled with bad and probably aching teeth. "You're one lucky f.u.c.k," he hissed at Max. "Gauleiter Wagner, the big c.u.n.t himself, was planning to ride here today, but it seems everybody wants twenty-four-hour delays right now." Then he read the look on Max's face and his manner changed. "s.h.i.+t," he said. "s.h.i.+t, I'm sorry. Oh, s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t. I s.h.i.+t on myself for my insensitivity, I s.h.i.+t on their fascist grandmothers' graves, I wish them s.h.i.+t for dinner in h.e.l.l for all eternity." He sat down in the mud and put his arm around Max, who was unable to cry. Then in a flash the no idea which of the many workers' cottages on the Bugatti estate might be his, didn't even remember his real name. The night was no longer absolute; a hint of future color softened the black. More by luck than memory he found his way back to the small stable at the estate's edge, an interim sort of place, a way station for tired riders, and wheeled his bicycle inside and pa.s.sed out on the muddy floor in one of the stalls. This was where Finkenberger found him several hours later, in broad daylight, and shook him roughly, shouting curses into the sleeper's ear. Max came awake fast and was frightened to find a horse nuzzling at him as if to determine whether he might be edible. Next to the horse's head was Finkenberger's head. Finkenberger by daylight was a jockey-sized gnome with a caustic face filled with bad and probably aching teeth. "You're one lucky f.u.c.k," he hissed at Max. "Gauleiter Wagner, the big c.u.n.t himself, was planning to ride here today, but it seems everybody wants twenty-four-hour delays right now." Then he read the look on Max's face and his manner changed. "s.h.i.+t," he said. "s.h.i.+t, I'm sorry. Oh, s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t. I s.h.i.+t on myself for my insensitivity, I s.h.i.+t on their fascist grandmothers' graves, I wish them s.h.i.+t for dinner in h.e.l.l for all eternity." He sat down in the mud and put his arm around Max, who was unable to cry. Then in a flash the pa.s.seur pa.s.seur was all business, all questions and options. The escape route to the Zone Sud had been set up again, he had done that before going to sleep, but if the big round-ups had begun the risk factor had risen, was maybe unacceptable. Yes, of course he was confident of the route, but only as confident as it was possible to be, because this would be the first time and the first time is never sure. And if the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds were in the middle of a big operation then there could be no guarantees but of course everyone would do his best. "That sounds good," Max said bitterly. "Sure, let's do that." It was at that moment that Finkenberger the was all business, all questions and options. The escape route to the Zone Sud had been set up again, he had done that before going to sleep, but if the big round-ups had begun the risk factor had risen, was maybe unacceptable. Yes, of course he was confident of the route, but only as confident as it was possible to be, because this would be the first time and the first time is never sure. And if the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds were in the middle of a big operation then there could be no guarantees but of course everyone would do his best. "That sounds good," Max said bitterly. "Sure, let's do that." It was at that moment that Finkenberger the pa.s.seur pa.s.seur had the idea that would make Max Ophuls one of the great romantic heroes of the Resistance: the Flying Jew. had the idea that would make Max Ophuls one of the great romantic heroes of the Resistance: the Flying Jew.

At the beginning of the war Ettore Bugatti, along with the well-known aeronautical engineer Louis D. de Monge, designed a plane-the so-called Model 100-to break the world speed record, which a German Messerschmitt Me209 had raised to 469.22 miles per hour on April 26, 1939. As the threat of war grew Bugatti was given a contract to build a military version of the Racer, with two guns, oxygen cylinders and self-sealing fuel tanks. The plane was built in secret on the second floor of a Parisian furniture factory, but had never had the chance to fly. As the German armies marched on Paris, Ettore Bugatti had the plane lowered to the street, loaded it onto a truck and sent it out of the city and into hiding. "The Racer," Finkenberger whispered to Max Ophuls, grinning his snaggletoothed grin. "I know where she is. If you can fly her, take her."

She was hidden right under the enemy's nose, in a hay barn on the estate. She could fly at over five hundred miles an hour, or that, at any rate, was what her designers believed. She was powered by two Bugatti T50B auto-racing engines, had forward-swept wings and a revolutionary system of variable wing geometry, a system of self-adjusting split trailing edge flaps that responded to airspeed and manifold pressure and then automatically set themselves into any of six different positions: takeoff, cruise, high-speed dash, descent, landing, rollout. She was fast, fast, fast, and painted Bugatti blue. Finkenberger brought Max to the barn after darkness made it safe to move again, and the two men worked silently for an hour and a half removing the camouflage of hay and netting and revealing the Bugatti Racer in all her glory. She was still standing on the truck that had brought her out of Paris, like a greyhound in the slips. Finkenberger said he knew a stretch of straight road nearby that would serve as a runway. Max Ophuls marveled at the Racer's streamlined bullet beauty. "She'll reach Clermont-Ferrand all right, but don't go crazy, okay? No need to go for the f.u.c.king speed record," Finkenberger said. "Now look and learn." So he was more than a horse trainer, Max realized. Finkenberger was explaining the aircraft's unorthodox engine/power arrangement, its canted engines, its counter-rotating propellers. The cooling system, the tail-fin control system: these, too, were innovations. "Nothing like her ever built," Finkenberger said. "One of a f.u.c.king kind."

"Can you authorize this?" Max Ophuls asked, his voice heavy with wonder, his thoughts already rus.h.i.+ng skywards. "Her maiden flight will be an act of resistance," Finkenberger replied, the blue language disappearing as he revealed a previously hidden streak of emotional patriotism. "Le Patron would not wish it otherwise. Just take her, okay? Take her before they find her. She needs to escape as well."

The night flight of the Bugatti Racer from Molsheim to Clermont-Ferrand would become one of the grand myths of the Resistance, and in the whispered retelling it swiftly acquired the supernatural force of a fable: the impossible super-speed of the aircraft bulleting the black sky; the low-alt.i.tude streak toward freedom that only the most skillful and fearless pilot could have pulled off; the five-hundred-miles-per-hour barrier broken through for the first time in history as the world record was unofficially but unquestionably shattered, and, more important, reclaimed for France from the Germans, thus becoming a metaphor for the Liberation; the daring takeoff from a country road and the even more dangerous dark-of-the-moon landing on the gra.s.sy plain down which Julius Caesar's legions had marched toward the oppidum of Gergovia, where Vercingetorix, the chief of the Arverni, defeated them.

Some of this was certainly true, but in later years Maximilian Ophuls himself seemed prepared to allow the myths to embellish the truth. Had he really broken the record in spite of Finkenberger's warnings about fuel? Had he really flown at or near rooftop level all the way, or had he escaped radar detection by luck, and on account of the strong element of the unexpected in his dash? In his own memoir of the war years, Max Ophuls clarified nothing, speaking instead with a hero's modesty of his great good fortune and of the many helpers without whom, and so on. "I thought of Saint-Exupery," he wrote. "In spite of the anxious situation I understood what he meant when he spoke in Vol de nuit Vol de nuit of flying as a form of meditation. of flying as a form of meditation. That profound meditation in which one tastes an inexplicable hope. That profound meditation in which one tastes an inexplicable hope. Yes, yes. It was like that." Yes, yes. It was like that."

Here, again, an ungenerous reader might perc