Last Train to Paris by Michele Zackheim Page A

around the table was mortified.
    â€œThat’s an awful thing to say,” Clara said. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Paul’s a lovely man, and Rosie’s father, for heaven’s sake!”
    And I felt like tipping the food-laden table onto Leah’s wide lap.
    â€œLook,” I said, taking a deep breath, “you know nothing about the circumstances of my father’s and mother’s lives. Only Clara and Stella have taken the time to visit them.”
    â€œWell,” Leah said haughtily, “they could have come here.”
    â€œYes, but how?” I asked. “First of all, they didn’t have the money. And second, they’re aware of your disapproval. And now,” I said to their stunned faces, “excuse me, but it’s time to go.” I had made up my mind. I would leave Brooklyn and find a cheap apartment in the city.
    Clara left with me. “I’m so sorry, Rosie, you didn’t need to hear that. Leah can be so difficult—”
    I cut her off midsentence. “Don’t worry, Clara. Both Leah and Miriam are difficult. But now I certainly understand why my parents never wanted to come back for a visit.” And putting my arm through hers, I said, “I wish you had been my mother.”
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    Stella invited me to see her in the play. But neither I nor New York would get to enjoy
The Mask and the Face
. The play closed. Indeed, half the theaters were dark.
    Stella, near tears, was sitting in Clara’s living room. “Damn this Hitler character,” she said. “He’s making us all so nervous.”
    â€œIt’s a scary time, Stella,” I replied. “I don’t think any of us can find a context for what we’re feeling.”
    â€œAll I know,” Clara said, “is that I’m reminded of the past—of Russia—of close calls.”
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    * * *
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    For almost two years, I worked at the
New York Courier’
s main office on West Forty-third Street. I worked hard—did whatever I was asked, met all my deadlines, learned more about celebrities and wealthy people than I had ever wanted to know. I had a few friends, mostly colleagues who all went home to their wives and children. I went home to a five-flight walk-up, one-room apartment on Bedford Street in Greenwich Village. The bathtub was in the kitchen, the toilet in the only closet. Sometimes I had dinner with my relatives, but I stayed away from going there on Friday nights.
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    I was very busy—having sex, dreaming sex, and trying to stay interested in the boring job of covering social news. Many weeknights were spent in bed with lovers. I had two long affairs, concurrently, with married men I had met while covering stories. To this day, I can’t remember their names.
    Then I got my break. A society-desk job opened up in Paris. By then I was a pro at composing those stories. That ability, along with my fluency in languages, cinched the deal. And I sensed from my interview that if I did a good job, they would move me to another desk—if I were lucky, a political one.
    My Aunt Clara, being as sweet as she was, gave me a bon voyage
gift. A fur coat. A mink coat! She had bought it from the estate of one of her clients. The edges were slightly worn. I didn’t care. It made me feel
très chic
! “Just look at you!” she said as I modeled the coat for her. “I’m proud of you, Rosie, I really am.”
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    Summer, 1933. I sailed from America with the hope that I would charm and transform the world of journalism. That was one side of my dream. The other side was more like a nightmare: I felt inadequate, terrified that I would make a fool of myself. But I couldn’t help marveling that I had set myself free—that I was no longer tethered to my native shore. Truly, but with trepidation, I was proud of myself for getting a writing job in Europe. Where I came from, the rest of the world was very far