The Attempt (16 page)

5

H
AVING THE OCEAN NEARBY
makes everything softer. The late-afternoon light covers the flat landscape like a coating of honey.

By the time Andrei wakes up, it's dark. Squeezed into a corner of the compartment, he is nearly invisible. In his pocket he has his ticket to Brussels and the ten francs he had with him when he was arrested. The French policemen also left him the rest of a baguette, a hunk of cheese, and a half-empty bottle of wine.

He drifts off to sleep again. He is back home with his family in Vilnius, before they moved to Saint Petersburg. It is Yom Kippur and his father is taking him to temple. They lose each other in the crush outside the synagogue. He elbows his way through the crowd of men, all dressed in the same black outfits. Andrei wants to go home to his mother, but all of a sudden the streets look unfamiliar; he isn't in Vilnius anymore, but on the cramped, damp-smelling streets off the Bowery, in Manhattan. His ears buzz with the chatter of Jews on the sidewalk outside the synagogue.

He wakes up. Two men sit across from him, engaged in quiet conversation. Even in the darkness, he can make out their beards and black hats.

He closes his eyes and returns to the Bowery, no longer in
a dream, but in his memory. He climbs the stairs to the first apartment he rented in New York, with Louise and Sasha.

Sasha was his best friend. They found each other his first day in the city. Louise only joined them much later. She found her way to Manhattan by smell, with a single address in her pocket. She had run away from her husband and was just discovering anarchism. Although she was three years older than he was, in many respects he felt more mature.

Louise was his girl, but she sometimes also slept with Sasha. Andrei didn't mind too much; he took his principles seriously. He didn't own Louise. Besides which, he was genuinely fond of Sasha. While Andrei was out running around to meetings or editing at the offices of the German anarchist newspaper, Sasha, who was a painter, would sit around the kitchen at home, watching Louise cook and sew. They went through periods where all three of them lived off of the brassieres and corsets she made. The apartment was littered with padded inserts and pink ribbons. Sasha sat in the kitchen drawing or just stared dreamily at Louise with his bright blue eyes as he folded the satin cuttings into delicate roses.

The quiet conversation in Yiddish continues. The men, assuming Andrei to be asleep, are making fun of him.

“If he had a beard,” says one, “he would look a lot like Grandpa Solomon. And Grandpa Solomon was born in Będzin.”

“Look at his shoes,” argues the other. “Can you imagine anyone from Będzin being caught dead in such shoes?”

“But he has the same nose as Grandpa Solomon. And the same ears, too.”

“The world is full of such noses and ears.”

Andrei suddenly shifts in his seat and the two men stop talking. But they keep their eyes glued to him. Their expression is not one of hostility, but curiosity.

“I was born in Vilnius and grew up in Saint Petersburg,” Andrei says slowly. He remembers just enough Yiddish for a simple conversation. The men are overjoyed.

When did he leave Russia?

Is it true what they say, that the Bolsheviks are leaving the Jews alone?

Their mother's brother, Uncle Isaac, fled Ukraine with his family. The Bolsheviks there weren't murdering Jews, but they destroyed the synagogues and shut down the schools. They were teaching children to hate their fathers and not to believe in God.

“So what are you going to Antwerp for?” the two men ask.

“I'm not. I'm going to Brussels.”

The men shake their heads with a smile. “You missed your stop. We got on in Brussels and this train is going to Antwerp.”

So where was he coming from? And why?

Andrei gladly tells them everything. He always answers truthfully when people ask him questions. It's easier that way, he's found. Except for in jail. There he said nothing, no matter what they asked.

He shows them his ten francs.

“I don't know what I'll do,” he says. “Maybe write a few letters and ask my friends to send me money. I need to get back to France.”

“There is no legal way,” says one of the men. “My guess is that they won't let you stay in Belgium, either.”

“Where do you plan to sleep?” the other man asks.

“I have no idea.” Andrei shrugs. “The train station?”

“They won't let you. You'll end up in jail, one two three.”

“But you can come with us,” the second man says, and the first one nods in agreement.

“Moishe,” says the first man.

“Abel,” the second man says, introducing himself.

“Moishe and Abel Kotler. Our shop is right across from the station. Maybe you know it.”

E
LEVEN YEARS LATER,
Louise wrote this recollection of Andrei:

A grueling tug-of-war began with immigration officials after we left Russia. I resolved my status by entering into a pro forma marriage, but that was out of the question for Andrei. At one point, he was even expelled from France, and it was only through the intervention of influential friends that we succeeded in getting him back. The state apparatus knows how to get at its adversaries. Instead of Andrei writing or editing books and articles, he was filling out forms and exhausting himself standing in line at offices. I have no doubt that this humiliating struggle for a place on earth, which is the primary and inalienable right of every person, contributed to his decision to end his life prematurely.

In reality, Andrei's trail ended at the Antwerp train station, and none of the influential friends to whom Louise addressed her pleading letters offered any assistance. He was smuggled back into France by the diamond dealers Moishe and Abel Kotler.

6

H
OW EASY IT IS FOR THE STATE BUREAUCRACY
to conspire against an individual who has become inconvenient. How easily one can dictate terms to a man who, even if he has given everything up, in the end still needs some space to live. “After my death,” Andrei wrote in his will, “I wish to be cremated and have my ashes scattered. At least then I will no longer take up any space and I can escape from the cycle of applications, approvals, and rejections.”

Bureaucracy had become such an integral part of their lives that Mimi, who had been too young to travel before the war, didn't even believe Andrei when he told her that in those days you didn't need any special permission to cross the border and settle down in another country. Mimi joined him in Paris once he returned from Belgium, and together they left for the south.

That was one of the conditions of his being allowed to reside in France: He had to move away from the capital and cease all political activity. He stopped work, at least openly, gave up his position as secretary of the fund for the relief of Russian political prisoners, and published his articles overseas, often under Louise's name. Louise had become a brand unto herself. Her name sold well. She had more requests to write than she could keep up with. Andrei also drew up the outlines for her lectures, and in return she sent him a percentage of
the fees she received. He also promised to help her with her memoirs, and put off work on his own for the time being. His small household needed every franc it could get.

He and Mimi found a room with a kitchen on the ground floor of a house on rue de Gare, in Saint-Laurent-du-Var, a suburb of Nice.

Saint-Laurent was an independent commune with its own town hall and a downtown centered around the place Vieille, with streets so narrow that when you spread your arms you could easily touch the unplastered stone walls on either side. Rents were cheaper there than in the city. On Wednesday and Saturdays there was a market, and the beach was a short walk along the river Var. Not only that, but they had a yard of their own with a lemon tree and a miniature garden that Mimi was very proud of, where she grew parsley, basil, and thyme.

The only drawback compared to a larger city was that everyone in Saint-Laurent knew everyone else and they didn't like outsiders, even when they weren't nearly as suspicious as an elderly Jew with a limp, an accent, and a German mistress young enough to be his daughter.

M
IMI HAD NEVER WANTED
to get out of bed when they lived in Berlin, but here she rose at dawn, when the birds awakened her. She would creep into the kitchen and put water on for coffee. Then sweep the yard, water her herbs, and dash off to the baker's, all before Andrei opened his eyes. She loved the smell of Andrei's first cigarette, which he would smoke outdoors, with a mug of hot, sweet coffee in hand.

In summer they would walk to the beach early in the morning. Mimi would pack a basket with their breakfast, towels, a blanket, and pull on her swimsuit under her clothing. At around ten, when the sun began to get unpleasantly hot, they would go back home, close the shutters and open the windows to set up a breeze, and get down to work. Typically, Andrei would either write, edit, or translate, while Mimi looked up words in the dictionary, typed up his handwritten drafts, wrote letters, and, later, prepared lunch. After they ate, they would lie down for a bit before returning to work in the cool of the house and continuing through until the end of the afternoon. By that time there was shade in the yard and they could sit outside again. Just before sunset, they would make another trip to the sea. If they happened to be in the black, they would stop off at a bistro on their way back for a pastis, and if not, they would have some white wine at home. Their suppers were simple: bread, tomatoes, cheese, and fruit. At night they left the windows open, as well as the door that gave on to the yard. Mimi would listen to the buzzing of the cicadas and think about the stars. They seemed so incredibly close in the south, whereas in Berlin she had barely been able to see them. She bought herself a star map and learned the constellations. Everything about the seaside fascinated her: the plants, the fish, the recipes, the customs of the locals.

After the hustle and bustle of Berlin and their long separation, she finally had Andrei all to herself. They were already practically married. The only thing left was to go to town hall and make it official, but Andrei always had a reason to put it off. She had pressured him in Berlin, but now she didn't
even mind so much that they weren't married, as long as he didn't leave her again. Taking care of him, she was peaceful and happy. Here the ghosts of Berlin—friends and especially former lovers—were safely far away. All Andrei could do was write to them.