Edouard’s bedroom door was ajar. He was packing, his back to her, his bony shoulders curled forward under a shirt with the sleeves rolled up, bony hips under pants that he would not have begun to fit into that night she first met him, before the internment camps that were first French and then Vichy. He’d neatly laid out on his bed the espadrilles Varian had brought for better purchase on the rocky path over the Pyrenees, the uppers leather to keep them warmer. One pair for him and one for Luki. In small piles next to the shoes were thick wool socks and warm clothes for the climb through the mountains, and his Leica, eight film canisters full of as many negatives as he could fit, a stale baguette, and a Bibliothèque Rose book—the one with the rocking horse, which Nanée had found in Marseille and bought for the excuse of sitting alone with Luki, just the two of them reading together. Also, the letter from Luki he’d brought from Camp des Milles, and the ones he’d written to Luki but never sent.
He held a photograph.
Varian had suggested Edouard might pack some of his work, although he needed to be careful which photos to risk being caught with. “You won’t be able to carry them with you over the Pyrenees,” Varian told him, “but there’s a chance the Fittkos might find someone to ferry them for you—a small chance, but some is better than none.”
It was Nanée who had the idea to load some of Edouard’s 35 mm film canisters with negatives and hide them inside a hollowed-out baguette they could then wrap in paper and carry in Edouard’s musette bag. He could bring much of his work that way, to reprint it when he got to the US, without the higher risk of a stack of photos being found on him. Nanée wondered which he was taking. Negatives she’d brought from Sanary-sur-Mer? The shots he’d taken in the last few weeks? The ones from being confined in the évêché and on the boat?
Yes, the images from the évêché and the boat. Their publication would help open the world’s eyes to what was happening here, the lives of those frantic to escape France, refugees who could not find refuge. Perhaps he’d also take the negatives from here, their life at Villa Air-Bel—a place Edouard might love, but still a kind of confinement. He could hold those until Varian was ejected from France so he wouldn’t jeopardize protégés like André, whose status as a former Communist was holding up his American visa. If Danny could carry on their work after Varian was inevitably forced to leave, the Villa Air-Bel images might not be published for months or even years. But when that work could no longer be done, Edouard could publish them too. It was what he ought to do. What she wanted him to do.
If he were caught trying to leave France with these negatives, though, he would be arrested for crimes against Vichy and France. Treason. If he were caught just carrying them, not even trying to leave, that would be enough to sentence him to death.
Edouard bent his head forward, revealing the raggedness of his haircut and the hairs growing on his neck, above his collar.
If no one else could be found to take the suitcase over the border, Nanée could do it. She could apply for an expedited French exit visa and take them when she had it. Her luggage might be searched at the border, of course. They might find the negatives of this moment Vichy was hiding from the world. What would they do then? Would they keep the work and let her go on, or would they arrest her?
Edouard ran a hand over the back of his neck as if to rub out a tough decision, turning slightly with the gesture so that Nanée could see the photograph in his hands.
Nude, Bending. Ghost Wife. The photograph he’d printed so many times in Sanary-sur-Mer. She’d pinned all those prints back in place and left them at the cottage. He must have printed it again here, at Villa Air-Bel. Did he mean to take it with him? Would he risk his life, and perhaps Luki’s and hers too, for that single photograph? A naked woman. If found in a search, it would be considered indecent, cause for arrest no matter who he might otherwise have succeeded in pretending to be.
Saturday, December 7, 1940
VILLA AIR-BEL
Edouard stood in his bedroom, staring at Salvation, every sense awash in the grief of leaving behind the only world Elza had ever known, the only world they had ever shared. He breathed deeply, trying to gather himself. It would be for the best, for him and Luki both. To start over. To begin the new life he’d imagined they would begin in Sanary-sur-Mer, only to find himself still mired in their loss. Even now, Elza’s memory was so real that he could smell her in this photo, and with the smell of her, taste her, hear her breath.