Thirteen

Ava

Children rolled hoops outside the large white building, their laughter filling the refreshing October air. Ava smiled to herself at their unfettered joy as she approached the dining hall where the JDC distributed food for the refugees.

She had seen too many small, solemn faces emerging from the boats and trains depositing countless numbers in Lisbon. Inside, their parents leaned against the wall, their backs touching the long blue stripe that broke up the white paint to give the starkness a more welcome appearance. They were not at ease as their children were, their faces tense and anxious as they whispered to one another their fears to keep the little ones from overhearing.

A little girl waved to Ava, a picture book in her hand and a grin lighting up her entire face. The book was one of many Ava had purchased with her own money, and it filled her with a contented warmth to see it so loved.

Ethan strolled toward her, wearing a casual button-down shirt rolled up to his forearms. "Miss Harper. Thank you so much for coming."

"Ava, please," she said, having made a similar request when she met him the week before. "It's my pleasure."

"I know you want to meet the man who can find the clandestine press papers, but I still appreciate your generosity assisting me in distributing food. We never seem to have enough hands." He gave her a tired smile, and she couldn't help but wonder at how many hours he worked per day.

"I'm glad to be an extra set of hands and plan to come more often now that I have your permission," Ava said earnestly. And truly there was no other way she'd rather spend a day off from the office.

"My permission?" He chuckled. "More like my desperate plea." Waving for her to follow, he led her into a room supported by columns at its center, the wall bearing the same long blue stripe as the building's entry. Two rows of tables ran parallel to one another, each place set with a white plate, a spoon ceremoniously resting above it, and a blue-rimmed white mug. The yeasty scent of bread lingered beneath the savory aroma of a grill and roasting meat.

"I'll introduce you to Otto once everyone has eaten, if that's all right," Ethan said.

"Of course." Ava set to work, doling out bifanas, a simple sandwich consisting of bread and meat. Though the popular spiced pork was replaced with beef instead.

Many did not appear mired in poverty, but she had been in Lisbon long enough by now to know that did not mean they had money. Gemstones and jewelry were overly prevalent and sold so often, their weight scarcely fetched enough coin to feed a family for a few days, let alone a week.

She'd also learned many refugees would rather forego a meal than miss an afternoon at a café, where they could reunite with their countrymen and forget, for one brief moment, their circumstsances. It was a marvel what community could do in such times of strife, when all else felt lost.

Organizations like the JDC fostered that community and brought brightness back to the children's faces.

Four hours scrambled by in a rush of refilling food, clearing plates, carrying items for people when their hands were full, and finding vacated seats for fresh arrivals. This was accompanied by the cacophony of countless voices engaged in various conversations amid the backdrop of clinking dishes and flatware.

In the end, there was still food remaining with not one person left hungry. Once the remnants were secured for the meal later that night and the dishes had been removed from the long tables, Ethan led Ava outside to where a group of men lingered beneath a cloud of smoke. As she neared, an older man with silver hair withdrew a pipe from his mouth and nodded.

"This is Otto," Ethan said. "He often meets with newly arrived refugees and has been able to obtain several newspapers for you, specifically from France. I believe he has something else as well." He cast a questionable look to the older man.

Otto was thin, as most refugees were, his body carved away by the mean rations in France, his face lined from worry, but oppression had not yet dulled his deep brown eyes, which regarded her with a sharp clarity.

"I may," Otto said cryptically. "If you are free to talk."

"I'm here all day," Ava replied.

He inclined his head, then led her to a wooden table in the sunshine where he gestured to a chair for her as he sat in one himself. "You are an American librarian, yes?"

"I am. My name is Ava Harper."

His teeth clicked onto his pipe as he inhaled slightly, nodding in greeting. The scent of the tobacco was sweet, reminiscent of her father as he pored over various texts late at night with a snifter at his side and a pipe pinched in his mouth. The image flashed in her mind with a pang of heartfelt fondness.

Otto blew out a stream of smoke and cradled the polished bowl of the pipe in his hand. "You are here to gather publications, as I am to understand it."

"That is correct." She sat forward. "I find value in clandestine presses. I've been reading several, especially Combat, and have found them to be most informative."

He nodded. "I am partial to Combat myself. It is for soldiers and intellectuals. I was a soldier in the Great War. And an intellectual..." His head tilted. "I'd like to think I am." He smiled at his humble statement and lifted his forefinger. "But what if I have something far greater than a newspaper?"

"What do you have?" She tried to keep her tone casual. There was always a game of patience when it came to obtaining important documents and texts, a sense that being overeager might push it from her grasp.

Dry leaves rustled overhead, and the breeze rippled Ava's skirt against her calves.

"It is something very special to me." Otto considered his pipe.

"I can ensure it is returned to you in the exact condition in which it was received," Ava said. "I need only to photograph it at the embassy."

He nodded and tucked his pipe in his mouth, puffing threads of smoke from between his lips as he reached into his breast pocket and withdrew an envelope. The cream-colored paper was dented and crumpled, dirt smeared in gritty streaks throughout. It was addressed to Otto Müller at a location somewhere in Marseille.

His gaze met hers, and he pulled the pipe free from his thin lips. "You know of the persecution of Jews, yes?"

"I do," Ava said in firm agreement. "One need only see the refugees emerging from the Nazi occupied countries to understand the truth of their oppression."

"Your country does not want to believe we are being singled out, that our people are being arrested." Color touched his cheeks. "That all around Europe, Jews are disappearing, being killed in large numbers." His fingertips tapped the battered envelope, and he regarded it with solemn reverence. "People like Petra."

A stab of patriotism demanded that Ava defend her own country, to protest that they did indeed believe. But, sadly, many did not. Newspaper accounts of the Jewish persecution were buried within the pages, the atrocities chalked up to "war rumors" that few believed.

A hoop rolled by, and a boy chased after it with a girl in a striped dress close on his heels; both wore wide grins as their hair blew back.

"We are safe here in Lisbon." Otto followed the children with his gaze and lifted a hand in a gesture like a shrug. "Well, relatively safe."

Ava knew what he meant. The PVDE kept its distance, placated by the monthly check-ins by the refugees. However, once visas expired, the secret police grew agitated, their demeanors less cordial and more contentious. As if the refugees wished to stay on Portuguese soil where Germans strode by with their ramrod straight backs and close-cropped hair, eyes hard with vile glares.

Then there was the danger of Germany making good on its threat to take Portugal...

"We all sacrificed much to be here," Otto went on. "Not only our belongings, but also ourselves." He puffed on his pipe, his teeth clicking against the stem. "To you, I am an old man." Smoke billowed from his lips as he spoke. "One who can produce these papers you seek for your country." He gave a light shrug. "I do not blame you—you are doing your job." He shifted in his seat to indicate the white building with his pipe. "To the JDC, I am another mouth to feed, a body who requires a bed for rest. To the other refugees, I am a lone person with no family." He settled back into his chair and stared at the fragrant smoke curling up from his pipe. "Here, I am no one."

"That isn't true." But even as Ava offered her protest, she was aware of the weight of his words on her conscience.

He frowned at her platitude.

He was not the only one to be disappointed. Ava understood what he meant far more than most might. There had been a time when she started over, marked with demeaning labels she did not want to identify her. An orphan, the child without parents to care for her. A new girl at a new school with no friends and a strange accent. A little sister who robbed her elder brother of the college education he should have had.

But now was not for her or her life story. Understanding and knowledge were wasted if one did not apply them to life.

Ava pushed the letter back toward him and settled her hands on the table, focusing on him and only him. "Tell me who you are, Otto Müller."

His chin lifted. "I am an engineer. I trained at Arts et Métiers ParisTech."

Ava recognized the name from a text she had recently photographed on French engineering. With so many factories in France, it had been her hope to identify weaknesses that might help the US grind Nazi operations in France to a halt.

A smile teased at his lips. "You know the school."

"It's renowned."

He nodded in gratitude. "I excelled there at industrial engineering. So, you see why I could not remain in Paris when the Nazis were coming."

A man of his experience would have immediately been put to work by the Germans to manufacture arms. At least, until all Jews were made to quit their jobs and relocate.

"I tried to convince my sister to join me," Otto continued. "But we lived in France since we were children, when our parents moved there for my father's job. He too was an engineer." He sighed. "France is home. I should have pushed harder for Petra and her family to leave as well." He shook his head, as if doing so would free him of regret.

"Even in Marseille I was not safe," he continued. "As the Germans swept over the border, the embassies were overrun as were the ticket offices. I cannot count the hours I spent waiting in an endless queue, sleeping where I stood, going without meals. But when you are a French Jew, and your other nationality is German..." He gave a cynical smirk. "I finally paid someone to forge an exit visa from France and a transit visa into Spain, then Portugal. They all worked, except Spain, who imprisoned me for two weeks before a friend could bribe my way to freedom. Once I arrived here, I fell yet again into an exhaustive wait. One of the lucky ones to have escaped..." He gave a sound somewhere between a choke and a laugh.

"The Nazis have taken everything from us." Grief lined his face and his shoulders sagged in defeat, his pipe held loosely and forgotten in his left hand. "Our families are gone, our homes commandeered and given to those who spoke against us, our jobs are nonexistent, our futures unknown and we have nothing but the belongings that will fit in a suitcase or upon our backs. We have succeeded in escaping them, but they have still succeeded in destroying us."

Ava shook her head. "No."

Otto's brows rose, his stare incredulous. "I was a man of great wealth and influence. I commanded respect wherever I went. Now I am nothing."

"You aren't," Ava said vehemently. "Not when you are here to tell your story. Not when there are those like Ethan who work miracles with limited resources to get you onto safe shores. Not when people like me are photographing your books, your correspondence, your papers, and your lives to share your heritage, to ensure Hitler can never make any of you into nothing. He will not succeed in destroying you."

Otto stared at her, and emotion sparked in his eyes. "It is the fear of every generation that the rising youths will destroy this world." He pushed the envelope toward her. "I believe you just may save it."

She hesitated as she reached for the letter.

"Let Petra's story live forever, for I believe she is no longer of this world." Otto swallowed, taking a moment before pulling another envelope free from his jacket, this one crisp and clean. "I will be able to obtain more newspapers than this, but here is what I have for now."

"Thank you for trusting me." Ava carefully accepted both items.

"Thank you for understanding." Otto nodded to Ava and pushed up from the table, leaving a cloud of sweet, gray smoke in his wake.

The temptation to remove Otto's letter from her purse and read its contents was almost unbearable. Whatever it contained was precious to Otto, and that made it precious to Ava. And so she sat back and bided her time until she was inside the large conference room of the embassy the following day.

In her time at the Library of Congress, she had handled many delicate items of note. There had been a medieval text on medicine and the power of stones from the thirteenth century with muted ink upon yellowed and brown-spotted vellum. There had been The Federalist from the eighteenth century with Eliza Hamilton's careful signature at its top from Thomas Jefferson's own private collection that he sold to the library after a fire ravaged its stock. She had even held the library's copy of the Gutenberg Bible.

It was with that same care and respect that she now extracted the letter from its envelope and laid it on the table to read.

Dearest brother—At present, I sit in Vél d'Hiv, the sports arena you once visited when you cheered on cyclists in the Olympics more than fifteen years ago. The glass ceiling has been painted blue to prevent visibility to bombers, and it leaves us all awash in a ghastly green pallor. Worse still, it draws the heat of the intense summer sun. They mean to keep us all contained within—the thousands of us whom they have captured and transported where we are penned like animals. The windows are sealed tightly shut, so there is no air entering to offer salvation and nothing foul may leave. And there is much that is foul. The lavatories are either locked or clogged, and the odor is so thick in the heat that I can scarce draw breath.

It was my intent to write only to let you know where we were, but now that I have pen to paper and nothing but an eternal wait ahead of me, I find myself compelled to share with you what exactly has transpired in these years in Paris. What brought us to where we are now...

Peggy came into the room and stopped short when she saw Ava, a lunch bag in her hand. "Oops, sorry. I didn't realize anyone was in here."

Ava waved her off. "I don't mind if you stay so long as the food doesn't go near any paper, including this."

"Thanks." Peggy sat at the opposite side of the long table and rustled in her sack. "What is that you have there?"

"A letter," Ava replied. "From a French engineer I met earlier who fled the Nazis. His sister wrote this." As she explained it, she recalled the way Otto had surmised Petra was no longer alive. "She was in the roundup at Vél d'Hiv and managed to sneak out this correspondence to him."

Peggy leaned closer. "What's it say?"

Ava regarded the paper, the slanted, messy text cast in the stark light of the microfilm set up. "Horrible things about the conditions in Paris and gratitude that her brother had gone to the Free Zone."

Ava continued to read of the injustices—the stripping of their rights to own radios, to ride bikes and cars and finally to work, all noted in the letter with painful detail. Then she came to the roundup itself:

We were not the only ones arrested in the building. Hundreds were gathered in the courtyard, each with that blazing yellow patch sewn to their clothing. Stars that were run aground, held captive by the sky they had once shone freely within. It was such a sight to behold, my brother, such a sight that I shall never forget. Frightened parents trying to soothe frightened children, people with their belongings tied into sheets instead of suitcases, friends crying out for those who were being taken away. One woman jumped from the highest floor with both her children. I will not share what I saw in that terrible moment, but I cannot erase the horror etched on the backs of my lids every time I close my eyes.

From the roundup, they were placed into the Vélodrome where they remained for four days without additional food or properly functioning lavatories and only one waterspout to share for thousands. As they suffered through their endless wait, people began to die around her, desperate and helpless.

The close of the letter struck Ava with its bleakness and left a knot in her chest as she read those resigned, ill-fated words.

We have been told we are to go to camps to labor for Germany. I do not say this aloud to Sophie, nor even to David, who is trying so very hard to be brave for us all, but I do not think we are going to a work camp.

We have many children held here with us. Not simply youths with strong limbs and boundless energy, though even this heat has made their efforts wane. No, these are littles ones who still cling to their mothers' legs and gaze about with mute fear. I do not know how they could work any more than the people who are in wheelchairs. Perhaps the Germans have opportunities for people to remain seated as they work. Or perhaps children can perform small tasks running items about. But there is a tension in my lower stomach, the same one I had when Oma died. I do not think...

No, I cannot put such fears to paper.

I do not know where we are going, but want to tell you I love you, my dear brother.

Ava explained the letter as she read it to Peggy, who had stopped eating her lunch, listening with rapt attention. "That's so terrible," Peggy said softly.

Ava swallowed at the thickness in her throat. "It's why we need to save this as well as the publications we're finding."

Peggy nodded and took a distracted bite of her sandwich before gathering up the rest of her meal and departing.

In the silence of the empty room, Ava leaned back in her chair and regarded the correspondence, the very reverence with which Otto had gazed upon it now resounding within her.

Suddenly the crush of what they were up against was too much. Rage flared in her, licking white-hot at her insides, scalding her heart. The stories could be buried in newspapers, downplayed by the government and denied by those with willing blinders over their eyes, but Ava knew the harsh truth without question.

The door opened, and Mike came in, followed by Mr. Sims and Peggy.

"Are you photographing letters now?" Mr. Sims's glare bored into her.

Ava looked to Peggy, who threw her hands up in a feeble gesture. "I told them about it. I couldn't stop thinking of that woman's story and mentioned it to them. I didn't—"

"We are only allotted a small amount of space per two weeks on that clipper," Mr. Sims bellowed. "And you're wasting it with family correspondence?" His fleshy face reddened. "Do you have any idea how hard celluloid film is to find?"

"And a German pamphlet of a fan is so much more important?" Ava shot back, referring to some of the more ridiculous things they sent to DC and refusing to be cowed by his censure.

Mr. Sims narrowed his eyes. "It could be useful in breaking down the mechanics of other items."

Ava stood up, evening out his advantage of looming over her. "This is important. People need to know about this."

"They already know. It's in the papers," he scoffed. "It's a letter and a waste of time."

Anger and irritation roiled in Ava's mind. "Mr. Sims, there's more to it than all that," she said levelly. "Today is ephemeral."

His face screwed up at her effrontery. "What the hell do you mean by that?"

She was saying the wrong thing again, muddying what she meant in her urgency to defend her stance. Drawing in a deep breath, she refocused her efforts and tried again. "I mean that this present we live in is tomorrow's history. You ask if this is important. This is the education for our future, to learn from the mistakes that have been made now and never let atrocities such as this continue or be repeated."

The room fell silent.

"She's got you there, Simsie." Mike's voice broke the spell, and Mr. Sims swiveled his glare on the younger man.

"Don't call me Simsie," he barked. "Or you'll be back on US soil before you can attempt an apology." With that, he stormed from the room.

Peggy mouthed, I'm sorry.

But Ava shook her head. This was an argument that needed to happen, one she had to win. Going forward, she would do everything possible to acquire more letters like this one, so the world would know exactly what the Jews of Europe were up against.