The Postmistress of Paris(107)

The day, when it dawned, was beautifully clear, thanks to the wind still howling this morning, which Hans said was more of a blessing than it seemed. It wasn’t as cold as a tramontane often was, and as long as it blew, they wouldn’t have to worry about finding the path in the fog.

“This is the third day of the winds,” Hans said. “According to the ancients, if the tramontane blows after three days, it will blow for another three, and so on up to twelve days.” Even the howling could be a blessing if one could stand it, Hans said, as it would hide any noise they made.

The path turned left. Here was the boulder Hans had described as he drew the map. So far, Luki hadn’t slowed them much, leaning into the wind in her little espadrilles, asking Edouard at the boulder if they could stop for a rest.

“If Pemmy and Joey had ropey shoes, they could walk,” she said.

Hans subtly shook his head.

Edouard said to Luki, “We’ll stop to rest, but not yet.”

They reached the first clearing in about two hours. It was a third of the way—but the easiest third, Edouard concluded as he looked behind them, the land sloping gently down to the rooftops and the shore and the sea. Ahead were mountain peaks.

They’d left the workers behind now.

“Pemmy is tired of walking,” Luki said. “And she’s very tired of the wind noise.”

Edouard lifted her onto his shoulders.

“This will draw attention,” Hans Fittko said.

Edouard looked down to the town below them. Crawling slowly along the waterfront, like an all-seeing Surrealist beetle searching for prey, was one of the Gestapo’s dark limousines. The distance that had taken them hours on foot could be traveled in minutes on the road by those who could afford the attention an automobile brought. He swung Luki down.

Hans, reaching to help her, caught his foot on a tree root and went sprawling, holding tightly to Luki and rolling to the side to protect her from the fall. Edouard, trying to catch them both, fell with them. Luki was so surprised she didn’t even cry.

Edouard hurried to scoop her up, saying, “You’re fine, you’re fine.”

He looked around, hoping the ruckus hadn’t drawn any attention.

There was a thin line of red on Hans’s forehead.

Edouard set Luki on her feet, then turned back to Hans. “Are you okay?” he asked. “Let me give you a hand up.”

He brushed the gravel from the palms of his gloves.

Hans took a small first-aid kit from his musette bag. He cut off a length of bandage and wrapped his own already-swelling ankle, then returned the remaining bandage to the kit.

“When you get to the plateau,” he said, “you will see the seven pine trees.”

“We can’t leave you alone,” Edouard protested. “You’ll need help getting down the hill.”

“Keep those pines always on your right,” Hans insisted, handing him the medical kit, “so you won’t go too far north and lose the path.”

Nanée gathered Pemmy from several feet ahead, still with Joey sturdily pinned to her, the musical baby kangaroo sounding a single note when she picked them up.

Edouard met her gaze, knowing what she was going to say before she said it and wanting to stop her, as unforgivably selfish as that was.

“I could take Hans down,” she said. “I have an American passport. I can leave anytime.” She handed the kangaroos to Luki.

“You need to bring up the rear until you reach the border,” Hans said. “If anyone follows, you can delay them. As you say, you have an American passport.”

Luki said, “Pemmy and Joey could go with you, Monsieur Fittko.”

Hans smiled. “I’ve managed far worse than a short downhill hike on an ankle that is little more than twisted, I’m sure. Anyway, without espadrilles I’m not sure your kangaroos will be much help for me, and they’d be terribly sad to be parted from you, as will I.”

To Nanée and Edouard, he said, “Walter Benjamin told Lisa as she took him this route that it was best to pause before you become exhausted, to preserve strength.”

There is nothing which can overcome my patience, Benjamin had written in “Agesilaus Santander,” an essay about a Paul Klee oil transfer and watercolor of an angel he’d had to leave behind, which represented to him everything from which he’d had to part. But Benjamin had chosen a lethal dose of morphine rather than be returned to the Gestapo. A thing was so often nothing until it happened to you.

The sense of belonging Edouard would leave behind. A hat in which the initials that had always been his were scratched out. The hat itself now left behind too.

“Remember,” Hans said, “the path will parallel the official road over the ridge. It’s an old smuggler’s path that runs below the road, mostly concealed from it by an overhang, so again, the border patrol can’t readily see you. But if they hear you, they need do little more than peer over the edge to see you as well.”

He turned to Nanée. “Near the top of the mountain, there’s the vineyard that will lead you right to the point at which you can climb over the crest.”

“The vineyard,” Nanée repeated, and Hans assured her again that yes, even at the top of the mountains here, grapes were grown.

“Be careful. Keep on alert. There are wild bulls in these mountains, and smugglers. You don’t have provisions enough for a smuggler to bother with you, but they won’t know that when they see you.”